this is what healing looks like

alt titles: I Was the Only One in My Monster Hall of Fame; Invisible Girl, Creative Woman; I'm Not a Bad Person; Unlearning a Lifetime of Shame

I finished The Artist’s Way on Sunday. There were things within that resonated with me as well as gave me the freedom to realize that I am not alone and that I can keep creating. That I am good enough. However, there were parts of it that I could not relate to.

For example, when the author has you note down those in your “Monster Hall of Fame” I believe, the only person I could truly write down was myself. Genuinely, that was the only person who came to mind.

Not once have I been told that I am a bad writer. Not once have I been discouraged from pursuing my creativity.

That may sound kind of egotistical, but part of the reason I haven’t received criticism is because I never had the courage to share it, let alone write in the first place. Perhaps courage isn’t the right word — belief.

Belief in myself. Belief in my abilities. Belief that I am not a bad person. Belief that I am good enough as my true self.

You see, I had learned as a child that I was the problem. I was mean. She’d never had trouble with any other child before me. I was the problem, not her. See that boy over there? I took care of him, and he likes me. I would sit in the backseat of the car, invisible when we were alone and invisible when she would speak with my siblings and ignore me.

I recently learned that the anger I experienced as a child was probably due to my undiagnosed OCD and anxiety. I do not have “external” OCD, where I have rituals that can be seen and observed. I have “internal” OCD, where the rituals take place in my mind. I have “just right” OCD, which is impossible—nothing is ever perfect. This is easier for me to see and work through as an adult, but as a child? I was confused. I couldn’t properly verbalize what was wrong. My emotions got the best of me. I was angry.

And that anger was thrown back on me to prove that I was the issue. So what do you do when you are told daily for years that you are the problem? You change. You protect yourself. You hide.

I allowed that anger to protect me, encasing myself in a hard shell the moment I returned home each day. I allowed it to speak for me, lashing out to keep my soul from further pain. I hid who I truly was. I only began rediscovering my creativity in high school, actually the year she went away. Maybe that isn’t coincidence.

I started taking photos. Then I expanded my reading palette. I used coloring books while watching my shows. I went on a dream backpacking trip. I created The Sunday Reads and shared myself online—I was so scared I didn’t tell a soul for months. I thought it would be shamed by those who I love. And one day, I started to write. My mom gifted me a watercolor book to practice painting. She gifted me a necklace charm of a book with The Sunday Reads on it, which I wear everyday.

Slowly, I realized that I was never the problem. And truly I feel grief. I feel grief for my younger self and all that I potentially missed out on in my life. It has become startlingly clear to me how deeply I’ve hidden myself. How sad it is that I didn’t start writing until twenty because I quite literally did not consider it. It’s been nine years since she left. Nine years that only have started to undo the ten or so years before that of shame, invisibility, and anger.

This past year, I have been able to slowly unravel my OCD while simultaneously experience the acceptance of myself by everyone around me. My immediate family loves it; my extended family does too. My friends are always liking my things and taking photos for me. And my own brain is learning how to accept myself too.

I’m writing a short story to submit to a publication in May. I’m not doing this to get picked or become published. I’m doing this for the act of submission. It will be the proof that I do believe in myself. That I allow myself to be put out there. That I am worthy of not only being my true creative self, but that I am worthy of more.

I had finished the first draft last week and did my first read through last night. I was honestly dreading it because I assumed it would be horrific. Imagine my surprise that I thought it was rather good. I have things I need to work on such as adding details to certain scenes and making sure everything is in the proper tense, but it wasn’t something that needed to be thrown away.

I’m not quite sure how to end this. Perhaps because this hasn’t ended for me. I’m quite deep in my discovery journey, and I know there is much more for me to work through. In fact, this will be a lifetime of unlearning and relearning for me. But I am learning and I am rediscovering and I do like who I am finding when I chip away.

So, who am I? I’m an imaginer, a creative person who thrives off the ‘right’ side of her brain. I like writing and reading and photos and painting. I like creating. I am empathetic and stubborn and loyal. I am not a bad person. I am just me. And for the first time, that is genuinely, truly, completely enough.

A message to my parents who are reading this: I don’t blame you for her actions.

That’s all for today. Much love

Izzy