I’m a Boston introvert, always traveling, writing, and making music. I post daily about any one of those things, or whatever’s on my mind. The Playground is a nice place to relax for a few minutes, get yourself thinking, and enjoy the company of a community of introverts just like you and me.
I have finally grown into the person I have always wanted to be. And I am angry.
When I was in Europe, and this summer which I spent in Vermont, I had the same realization. I didn’t cry.
The whole time.
Before then, there very rarely went a week where I did not cry. It was often every day. I can’t imagine living like that now, and I am angry that I used to have to.
I am angry that I was stupid. I am angry that I was sad. I am angry that I am twenty one and just now learning how to live.
At the end of the day, when I lay down, I do not cry, and I am thankful for that. But I am still angry.
Why did my family raise me in such a mess? Why didn’t I realize the hell I was in when I was in it? Why didn’t other people in my family save me? Did they not see I was suffering, or instead did they not care?
Why didn’t I realize the same hell bred in my former relationships?
Why couldn’t I purge my smoky brain of anxiety and depression for so long? I can’t imagine going back to that, now.
Why? Why have I wasted so much of my youth?
I am angry, and I take it out on myself. Or, I did. I threw myself into work. Or, I do. I overwhelm(ed) myself on purpose. I shut myself away from people who could help. Why? Before, to protect myself from sadness. Now, to protect myself from anger.
How can I release it? How can I let it go?
I blaze like fire. You know why I’m back to this blog, this record of my depression, and it’s because even though I am happy, even though I am the happiest I’ve ever been, even though I see an escape, just on the horizon, even though I am in love with my boyfriend and my life and myself, and even though I have not cried in a record amount of weeks, I am angry.
This is the blog where I post my emotions. I just haven’t had enough emotions to post in the last six months. I have been good. I have been happy. But collecting under my newfound happiness is an anger, because I know I should have been this happy my whole life.
I will learn to let it go. I deserve to be free of anger.
I have done so much to get myself where I am now. I should release the past. I will.
I am free now, am I not? I am happy, and I refuse to feel guilty for my joy.
So, has it been a year already? For a year I’ve been working on what has become my not-good-enough novella, born from the ashes of my blogging every day in April challenge. What a fun, productive time…that has led to the book being shortlisted, and subsequently denied publication, twice.
I am grateful for that. It is nice to know that I am making strides. I’ve made it at least some way. I’m improving.
I’m still hesitant to try anything creative, a lot of the time. Blank pages make me angry and sad. But I do write best with a schedule, with a word count. Maybe I should try to write at a Nanowrimo pace again…despite my abundance of work and school time spent away from my writing. Gotta make time to make art.
Maybe I’m not cut out for it. Maybe I’m having a huge gigantic crisis that’s eating at every part of my life. What is anything, anymore? What are we all here for? Why make art in the first place, if its so hard and grueling and so rarely rewarding?
Today for class my professor had us text our friends and family and ask them, “what’s your favorite story about me?” She then had us put away our phones and wait.
After awhile, we were to pick one of the responses and think about why that person remembers that story, and what it says about you. The idea was to deconstruct why we tell each other stories–to see the stories we tell at parties as a (true) mythology of ourselves. This is how we cement our personal identity in a group.
My sister told me her favorite story was the time we were playing hide and seek in my grandmothers house. It was my turn to hide, and the grown ups were telling me ideas on where to go. Now, my grandmother collects dolls. Three-foot-tall, life size dolls that live in the corner of her living room. My sister is counting down, and I decide, hey, I’ll be a doll.
So I posed in the back, smiled, and waited. My sister hunts around the house for a long time–she even makes eye contact with me and keeps looking. She actually thought I was a doll.
I thought for awhile why she remembers this and what it says, both about me and about her. It was funny, sure, and I do love making her laugh. But why does she tell other people this story? What trait of mine does it show, in disguise?
I realized that this story shows that I don’t shy away from a challenge. Yes, a “safer” hiding spot would have been under the table or in a closet. But I chose to be a doll, the more interesting and difficult path.
This class literally just ended about 10 minutes ago, but I can tell this will be something that sticks in my mind. Why d we tell stories? Funny stories, cool stories? What does it say about us and our relationships? How is it that we bond through storytelling?
Telling stories is, of course, what I plan on spending my life doing. I guess it had never crossed my mind why stories exist in the first place. It had always seemed so obvious, just an integral part of humanity. It is, I think, integral.
I don’t mind Wednesdays. They’re right in the middle of things, and once you do it you only have two days left, right?
I’ve been trying to change this mentality. I don’t want to live for the weekend, especially since I spend most weekends working on school work anyway. It’s a cultural thing, I think–ever since grade school people have been looking forward to Friday, and we loved school back then. Well, at least I did.
It’s not a good feeling to have 5/7 of your days be days you don’t want to live.
I’ve been doing better with depression and anxiety, but I’ve had a bit of a setback recently. Maybe it’s a spring thing; some people clean ther attic, I fall into depression.
I don’t know why it’s come back, and maybe there’s no reason. Sometimes it’s for no reason. I can’t help but think of reasons, though. I’m over stressed, as if that’s something new. I’m worried about my birthday, and the party that will have both sides of my newly divorced family in the same house for the first time in…years, wow, it’s been nearly two years. I’m worried about finding a job for the summer, one that pays but still lets me relax a bit more than I am now.
The worst thing about returning depression is that just the fact that it’s returning is another reason to get depressed.
So, in spirits of fighting away the oncoming doom, I will love Wednesday like it’s Saturday. I’ll take the day’s hardships in stride. Today shall be a day I want to experience, and I’ll stay mindful and present and as happy as I can be.
Wow! Pow! Kazam! One of my good friends is engaged. Wasn’t I just on here like, yesterday saying I felt old? Well. I continue to feel old.
Here’s the thing. Weddings are in the air, I’ve been saying it for weeks now. My aunt is getting married, and as a bridesmaid (and my mother is the maid of honor) I’ve been pretty involved, doing all the necessary swooning and dress testing that is required of me. Thinking about weddings so much had inspired my boyfriend and I to start speculating seriously, for the first time, getting married ourselves. In a few years, of course, after we graduate and live together for a bit.
But now–now! My 21-year-old friend is engaged, and has set a date–for June!!! He’s getting married in three months. She’s not even pregnant. This is just what they want to do, and the thing is, we all support him. He’s not even being so crazy. He’s graduating in May, why not, right?
Marriage doesn’t mean much nowadays, so why not just do it for the benefits? If you’re planning on long term anyway, and love each other anyway, and are living together anyway, and own a cat together (like they do) anyway…
How am I so old that getting married seems like a normal thing to do? A bit early, sure, but nothing crazy. What!?
I’m happy for him. I really am. How surreal. How surreal.
I’ve been thinking a lot about “allowed feelings.” Meaning, what am I allowed to feel? This may sound ridiculous, but let me give you a personal example. I’m turning 21 in 1 week, and I’m having a bit of a crisis over it. I’ve had a crisis about my birthday since my 18th birthday, and I doubt I’ll stop soon, but this one is particularly bad.
I will be able to do nearly everything at 21. There are no more restrictions for me. And that’s scary. It’s scary also because it’s the last birthday I’ll celebrate while still in college, since I graduate in December. Who knows what I’ll be doing a year from now? What job I’ll be working? Where I’ll be living? Definitely not in this apartment, since I move out permanently in 1 month. Probably not Boston. Maybe not even Massachusetts.
But to tie all this back, I don’t feel like I’m “allowed” to feel crisisy about my age yet. I know I’m young. I know my life is just beginning, I have no agency to be sad about being so-called old. But I do.
There’s a social tendency recently to quantify emotions like this. It’s sort of like when your mom used to make you finish dinner because there’s “starving kids in Africa,” even though finishing dinner did absolutely nothing for starving kids anywhere. It’s good, of course, to put things in perspective. But just because someone may have it worse does not mean that your experiences don’t matter.
So, I suppose just because someone is older than me doesn’t mean I can’t be mindful of getting older. The whole idea of “mindfulness” is taking note of one’s feelings and not judging oneself because of them. It’s hard not to judge yourself. It’s hard not to call yourself names. I’ve called myself stupid probably 1000x more than anyone else has ever called me stupid. We are so cruel to ourselves.
This is a lot to dump on this blog all at once, but I don’t write so much anymore so I guess that’s okay. I’ve been feeling down lately and this blog is helpful when I’m feeling down. Maybe that’s partly why my birthday is a bit scary, too. I’m turning 21! I should be happy!
“Should” be happy. “Allowed” to feel. I wish I didn’t feel the need to fulfill expectations so much.
How are you guys today? Does anyone else freak out over birthdays? Sometimes it feels good to forget about perspective and just wallow in your own experiences. Maybe it’s not the most healthy thing to do, but I believe some days of unhealthiness are vital to a healthy life. It’s like a diet cheat day, but for your mental well being. Is that an insane idea? Probably. I allowed myself to have a “bad day” like I used to have when I was deep in my depression. I skipped work and just spent the afternoon in my bed. Ever since I’ve een feeling gloomy. Maybe this whole paragraph is a bad idea. Whatever, I know for a fact it’s good to write down feelings now and then, and this is how I feel, so whatever.
A year ago, I felt so much worse than I do now. I have that to be thankful for. My 21st year will be happier than my 20th, and that is an undeniably good thing.
I am a firm believer that the more time you have, the less gets done. I have seen this proven dozens of times–I can rush out a ten page paper if it’s due tomorrow, but if it’s due in a week it’ll take me forever, or I’ll procrastinate, or whatever.
I am moving back to Boston tomorrow. Allston, actually. Usually I’d be super prepared, but between all the hours of doing nothing I hadn’t had the time.
Since I’ve gotten back from the Netherlands, nearly a whole month has passed. What do I have to show for it? …nothing. I feel like a lump. I haven’t accomplished a single thing except binge-watching seven seasons of Archer, taking care of the dog, and reading one book. I’ve barely written, and certainly haven’t packed. I’ve been putting off so many things, just because I can.
Soon, it will all change. I’ve excited for the tonal whiplash to encompass my life. I’m ready to be working my ass off again. I’m ready for class, internship, work, homework–work hard, play hard, right?
…I just need to find the motivation to actually do these things. I gotta stop being so lazy!
I started 2016 by shouting “Happy New Year” in a small room with my friends from high school. I’ve always liked how the first word I say of every year is “happy,” even if I don’t feel happy at all.
The first six months of 2016 I spent (as my readers know) working for the Boston Globe as an intern. While it was stressful adjusting to a 40-hour work week all while still going to college, I enjoyed my job generally.
In March, I turned 20 and had a crisis. I was spending all my time in work or school. I had stayed on campus alone over spring break. I had been going to therapy for anxiety and depression, but it didn’t seem to be helping and I was thinking about quitting. My dog had died, and my family was ripping at the seams. My article was on the front page of my section but it had been edited so thoroughly it barely felt like my own work…and my boyfriend, the only one I felt like seeing in my lonely, plastic life, was studying abroad in Mexico. I couldn’t remember the last day I hadn’t cried. My dad told me he wanted to see me pull out of the darkness. I did too.
In April, things picked up externally. On April 4th an article of mine was on the first page of Metro, gaining me my first fan main (and, almost more exciting, my first hate mail). I was writing a novel daily, piece by piece on my blog, which was growing in popularity. It felt good to be writing again. On April 16th, a date I had been looking forward to for months, my boyfriend came home for what I thought would be a short lived reunion. I met him at the airport with coffee, had dinner, and he was gone again. I moved back home to an angry house. I felt like April was toying with me, holding a carrot just out of my reach.
June. On June 9 we found out that one of our fellow interns and one of my best friends at work had committed suicide. On June 24, After two months of driving into Boston, spending 3 hours daily in rush hour traffic, my internship was finally over. What should have been a bittersweet goodbye to the company I had enjoyed working for was nothing but relief. No more driving, no more long work days…and no more walking past his desk where his handwritten notes still hung to the corkboard.
July and August were when I tried to grow. I learned how to cook more. I spend time editing my novel. I prepared myself for study abroad. I worried myself over making friends. I saved money, writing about farmers markets for the local papers. I dreaded leaving my boyfriend again. I was scared.
In September, October, and November, I went to the Netherlands, Berlin, London, Norway, Denmark, Austria, Hungary, Czech Republic, Spain, France, and Switzerland. I made friends I know I will have for life, friends I am closer with than I ever imagined possible. I have done things I never dreamed I would get to do. I grew. I found inner peace. I found independence. I found courage (which I was sorely lacking). I cried exactly once–when my flight was cancelled back from Berlin–a great improvement over “every single day.” I was happy. I liked my life.
In December, I was glad to come home for awhile. I got a puppy, Lacey, who I already love. I discovered a healthier and deeper relationship with my boyfriend which has left us both with less stress and more joy. I patched things up a bit with my sister. I met up with some friends I hadn’t seen in awhile. I got a new internship with easier hours at a creative literary magazine. I secured housing for all of 2017. I was still happy, even though I wasn’t in some amazing place anymore.
On January 1, 2017, my first word was, once again, “Happy.” Only this time, I meant it.
I don’t know what will happen in 2017. I don’t have a plan anymore, and that’s good for me. I want to write more. I want to read more. I want to discover more about myself and the world. I want to be a better friend. I want to lead a healthy life. I want to stop thinking about myself so much. But most of all, I want to continue the positive path I am on. I no longer feel anxious or depressed most of the time, and for 2017 I want to keep that trend going no matter what happens.
But here, on my introvert-y blog, is where I tell you about how to be an introvert in this city full of life.
First of all, do the typical introvert stuff during the day when you have tons of energy. Go to the Rijksmuseum and wander around in quietness. Then enjoy a peaceful coffee–but not in a coffee shop. Those sell drugs. Try a “cafe” instead.
A paddleboat may sound nice and calm, but there are many speedy boats that might give you anxiety. Oh, and speaking of speed, watch out for the bikes. Follow the traffic laws to a T, and don’t cross the street without looking both ways for silent bikes and motorcycles that come out of nowhere. Keep in mind, sometimes the lanes go onto the sidewalk as well. Really, nowhere is safe from bikes.
Looking for a quiet experience that will blow you away? Two words: Anne Frank.
Finally, I suggest steering clear of the red light district. Even on a guided tour, the area is loud, bustling, bright, and overall not made for an introvert.
While Amsterdam has quite the nightlife for extroverts, there is also plenty for introverts as well, from the high-culture shows like ballet to the more niche shows like The Amsterdam Dungeon, there is something for everybody.
Enjoy a nice, quiet, lovely, amazing time in this beautiful city:)
Read Full Article
Read for later
Articles marked as Favorite are saved for later viewing.
Scroll to Top
Separate tags by commas
To access this feature, please upgrade your account.