It was February 2012. And my roommate just evicted me. I had 24 hours to get the fuck out. What was I going to do? There was only one thing. I'd have to beg my sister to let me stay with her. At least until I figured out a more permanent solution. Because I couldn't live with her, in the state I was in, for too long. I could keep up appearances but only for a little while. I mean, she knew what I looked like at my best. And I was anything but that this time around. Like when I first moved to Boca, I stayed with her. But that was when I was functioning. You know —like a functioning addict. It's just now, I was a GOD damn mess. I didn't even recognize myself anymore. I wasn't the happy girl I used to be. I hadn't been in years. My skin, pale. Face, sunken. Eyes, blank. The mere thought of who I had become filled my insides with terror. But no one knew that. I made sure of it. Because whenever I'd get high, which was most of the time, I was on top of the world. I could do anything I wanted. I certainly didn't need anyone either. These drugs became my best friend (my only friend) and my worst enemy. It's confusing, I know. Because if I wasn't fucked up, I couldn't do anything at all. Or, at least that's how it felt. Because once that feeling faded (it always does), I'd feel more alone than ever, which is why I became willing to do just about anything to make sure that didn't happen. And that's how I found myself at rock bottom for the very first time.
It was nearly 3 a.m. and I couldn’t sleep. I’d toss and turn and remanence. Unwillingly. I had gotten pretty good at this whole insomniac thing. For once though, I didn’t want to be good. But I was trying. I was trying a lot of things. I was trying to forget, trying to forgive, and trying my best to move on. It’s just, sometimes, your best isn’t enough. I know I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. But like I said, I was trying. So yeah. I wish I could tell you after I escaped things went back to normal. I wish I could tell you I woke up every morning with a new found motivation to get things right. And I wish I could say that I wasn’t still reeling the loss of everything in between. Because that would be a lie. I mean, I was free. That was true. I was living with my dad and his roommate’s family in Naples, Florida. I was safe. I was sober. But it was far from over. This is how it goes.
Hope. I finally had some. Freedom. I was free. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to wake up in my own bed —to wake up feeling safe. It's just, the air I was breathing felt strange. It was a good feeling but unfamiliar at best. I mean, I was still reeling the lost of my ex-boyfriend, Aiden. And I was still trying to wrap my head around what had happened over the last month —make that the last five years. Because yeah. I was still alive. I always had been. Except, the type of living I was doing isn't something you want. It wasn't even what I wanted. But there I was. And now, it was all behind me. As if it never happened. And that's just it. All of it did, in fact, go down. I couldn't help but think —what now? Seriously. What now? How do you get over something like that? The truth is, you don't. But you can recover. So, that's what I was trying to do.
I've always been a sensitive person. And I've always been told that it's a bad thing —as if being sensitive makes me weak. Turns out, that's just not true. I get it though. Because a highly sensitive person (HSP), experiences the world differently than others. And I think it's because only 15 to 20 percent of the population are HSPs; so we're often misunderstood. I just wish I knew about this earlier. Because for the longest time, I was told there was something wrong with me. Friends of mine couldn't understand why I acted the way I acted. Heck. I didn't even know why. Until now. Because I recently found out that I have a personality trait called HSP (I'm a highly sensitive person). It's not a disease or a disorder. And it's not something learned; it's something I was born with —like in my DNA. And when I understood that, things finally made sense. Like when I first read a description about what it means to be an HSP, it was like looking at myself in the mirror. I never realized there was a specific term to describe my way of perceiving the world. It brought incredible relief to know I wasn’t the only one. So if you can relate to any of this, here are 13 signs you're a highly sensitive person (just like me).
I've always wondered what it would be like to look at myself and see what's actually there. When I stare back at my reflection in the full-length mirror that hangs from my bathroom wall, I don't see what you see. The eating disorder community calls this body dysmorphic disorder. I call it my every day. I've also wondered what it would be like to not compulsively obsess about my appearance. Because I'm not vain but my eating disorder would tell you otherwise. Even though I'm not "active" in it anymore, I find that it still creeps up. Because when I wake up each morning, I run to the scale. Depending on what reads back will, in fact, tell me how good of a day I will have. Slowly though, I'm learning that my value and self-worth doesn't change when or if my weight does. If anything, you become smarter when you finally see all of the lies about body size equaling happiness. But to me when I'm in the thick of it, it takes over. It's no longer about facts. It's not rational. Because most of us know it sounds crazy. Hell, it is crazy. But it's real and we simply can't help it. We can, however, control it or at least attempt too. Because I'm not lying when I say I don't see what you see. I never have. And for some reason, I still fear getting fat even though I've never been overweight a day in my life. So here are three reasons why I shouldn't fear any of that. And for the record, neither should you.