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guys, it's happened. i started writing in a paper journal again.
yeah. shit got that real.
at my first go, i scrawled out eight pages.
don't be mistaken - i journal regularly, often on my laptop because i can type at least half as quickly as i can think, whereas writing by hand really slows me down.
i was riding in a car at the time, sitting in the back seat, and my driving companions kept looking at me over their shoulders, wondering what i was doing and when i'd be done. i gave off enough of an insulated vibe that they didn't feel comfortable asking (mission accomplished), but if they had, i would've said, let me go two more pages. i need one and a half more pages. one more.

//

i think many people might think i'm a vivacious, courageous, never-ending fount of energy, chatter, and spontaneous boldness. apparently i've curated an outer shell that looks like a fearless extrovert better than i realized. i suppose there is a part of me that embodies those things. how would i say it - i register very differently than i truly am, sometimes. i have a very shiny exterior; it reflects, refracts, distracts, distorts. (this makes sense, since one of my closest friends has always said i employ my outgoing persona to deflect and direct attention, to protect myself. she is right.)

the truth is, behind that shiny shell is a girl who is often shuddering in the shadows.
i feel unlovable, unwieldy, ugly.
there are people in my life who affirm and lift me up regularly. people who know i have bottomless wells of self hate in me that keep bubbling over no matter what i do or what people say.
nonetheless, the black tar bubbles over.
geysers of self loathing explode upward, drenching everything in self doubt.
i cannot look in the mirror
i don't recognize who i see there
she is not ugly but i am ugly
she looks pretty but i am not pretty