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Welcome to my curious mind.

It's 10:12 pm on a Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving, and I'm currently wearing sweats, nursing a giant bottle of water with a husband next to me writing a paper on the ethics of therapy. Being an adult is exciting.

If I were being utterly honest, I don't feel like an adult. I still feel seventeen, in high school, cooped up in my room under my parents roof with the door shut tight so they (God forbid) don't see me dancing in my underwear to cheesy 80's aerobic music.

But maybe that's because I am currently back living in my old room, under my parents roof, with the door shut tight, no current aerobic music playing.

The terrible misfortune of moving back in with my parents happened at the end of June after the lease to our apartment was ending and we were in that awkward in between faze of not wanting to resign for another year because we are moving to a different state and the pandemic.

California is home only for another three months.

So anyway, Christian and I are here. Living with (or attempting to) my parents, his in-laws.

I can still hear the disbelief in my therapist's voice when I broke the news.

And this is where it all seemed to unfold.

Let me explain.

A dear friend of mine, who left me for someone else (San Francisco) recommended a therapist to me (a former professor of hers) one night while at work after approaching her with that defeated look. You know the one.

Listen. When I tell you I needed therapy, I don't mean I was crazy. I wasn't seeing or imaging things and I wasn't hearing voices in my head except for one. My own. It would talk to me of doubt, of insecurities, of failure, of giving up. This voice was groomed by my upbringing to which I will explain at a later time but long story short, I was thrown down a long road, which I am still navigating, of self discovery. That was two years ago.

Who the hell am I?

I ask myself this on a regular basis. Especially now, when I am back in the very environment that crippled me. Only this time, I am seeing the inner workings of how it happened. My husband, therapy, and Dr. Defeo, have helped tremendously with that. I thought I was solid after a year and a half of psych sessions. But the truth is, the mind is so incredibly complex, that when I say, shit runs deep, I can only hope that whoever you are, reading this, you never have to feel the strain in my thoughts when I say this. Shit. Runs. Deep.

Christian has always been a cheerleader for me. (Its 2020, men can be cheerleaders) but also with him in his doctoral program, he's like a free therapist only I get to fight him on everything. Anyways, he knows I love to write. He also knows I get inside my head and go to the dark corners of my mind that have yet to be swept away. So you have him to thank for my starting a blog. To let my mind wander and run free, and to share with the world, or the few people that this will reach, the "stuff" about my life, maybe connect with some like-minded individuals but escape and find whatever it is I'm looking for. This will be the map of my journey.

Why the fuck not, right?


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