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One Year Down.

So, I started writing a post just about my sobriety and it turned into basically a mini summary of my life’s story. This is in no way every detail, but there are definitely some major insights as to what life was like for me growing up. I didn’t post this for sympathy and I’m not trying to play like I’m any kind of victim, I’m just not holding back. I told you guys I wanted to be raw with you, so here it is…

Today is November 1st, 2018. It has officially been one year since I touched alcohol for the last time. I didn’t know I would ever see this day because I never thought I would accept the fact that I was an alcoholic. My dad has been threatening me with AA since I was 16, but I always just rolled my eyes at him and told him he was being dramatic. I was no different from everyone else my age. Except, I was.

I got drunk for the very first time when I was 14. My friend had an older brother (who was still only like 16-17 at the time) who could buy beer, so he went and bought us each a six-pack of Smirnoff Green Apple. Bleh. Four drinks in and I puked. Then I walked inside and had my friend’s aunt make me a chocolate milkshake. Truly a glorious night. It wasn’t but a few months after that, that I began socially drinking with older friends on the weekend. You see, at the time I also struggled with extreme body dysmorphia. I have always been a thicker, muscular girl. I was a competitive gymnast for 6 years and then became a competitive cheerleader and also cheered in college. I had some thiccccc legs and a big booty. Always have. I was nicknamed “ghetto” in the 7th grade because according to my fellow male classmates, I was what they called a “white girl with a ghetto booty.” As flattering as they thought this was, it only pointed out the fact that I was bigger than most of the girls on my team. I can remember worrying about my body as far back as 8 years old. Yes, 8. Wondering why my belly stuck out (mind you, my stomach “stuck out” because I was an 8-year-old gymnast with six-pack abs), but other girls tummies were flat and pretty. Why did mine look like a turtle shell? Then when I got into middle school, I didn’t understand why my stomach stuck out farther than my chest did. Later, I would learn it was because I wasn’t ever going to get passed a B cup unless I surgically upgraded my chesticles. So, I did, but that was way down the road. Anyways, so yes, before I ever hit double digits, I was already noticing the difference in my body compared to other girls my age. I didn’t care that I was actually incredibly strong for a female my age, I just knew I was bigger. I was already in school all day and working out as much as I could between school and competitive cheerleading, so the only way I knew how to get smaller was to not eat as much. It didn’t take long for this to turn into complete starvation combined with guilty purging if I ate. I began buying different hard candies to suck on all day to keep my mouth occupied so I wasn’t putting actual food in it. I would lock myself in my room in the summers and avoid going into the kitchen all together as to not be tempted. I also obsessed over doing extra little tasks just to add small movements in hopes of burning more calories. When I was still in elementary school, we lived in Jenks, Oklahoma and I specifically remember the house my parents built, had the attic in my room and I would just go sit in there in the summer, sweating as much as I could. I would also do the same thing in the tanning bed. I would ask for the hottest bed, turn all of the fans off, and lay in there for the full 20 minutes. Just dripping in sweat. I was insane and little did I know, the obsession would only get worse.

Fast forward to being in high school… now I have discovered Adderall. Goddamn that was a game changer. I had a dude in my class who would just give them to me and I kissed his ass to keep getting them. I became a fein for anything I could get my hands on that suppressed my appetite. Adderall, Vyvanse, Concerta, I didn’t care, just give it to me. Let me add it to my stash. If I collected enough, I could do them back to back to back and just keep going. Hunger pains were still there, but the thought of food always sounded so unappealing, that I eventually got used to the pains. Thankfully they really only came in waves and weren’t constant, all-day pain. Usually as soon as I woke up in the morning, around lunch time, and then again later in the evening. They would last anywhere from 15 minutes to about two or three hours and would range from a a slight null to intense, sharp, shooting pains. It became a routine thing I could kind of mentally prepare for so they were manageable. I got so used to doing this that I will still catch myself, to this day, doing it without realizing it. It became so second nature to ignore, that it really did become something that gets pushed into the back of my brain and is hard for me to key into when I’m super busy and I have a lot going on. Old habits die hard. Anyways, so now I’m like a sophomore/junior in high school and pretty much out of control. Not only am I starving myself, but I had gotten caught drinking and thought my parents hated me and felt like the biggest disappointment in the world, on top of the fact that I was no longer losing weight like I had been, but my mom was starting to and was getting so tiny (my mom has a SUPER petite frame. Like she was 87 lbs when she became pregnant with me. It’s insane, but my body is not shaped like hers, nor will it ever be because I have my dad’s build, but at the time I couldn’t comprehend that and just knew that I was 16 and my mom was way hotter than me), then one of my aunts started getting bone thin out of no where as well and was in a smaller pants size than I was, so in my head a size 7 in pants was obese. Legitimately thought I was morbidly obese. In my head, I was never EVER supposed to go past a 5. All the new Madison girls I had started hanging out with were all so beautiful and skinny, wearing double 00s in jeans when I don’t think I had ever worn a 00 in my life. Not a single blemish on their perfectly Palm Beach tanned skin either. And then there was me. I had been struggling with acne since I was 12, I had a small gap in my front teeth, flat chested, my thighs touched, my clothes didn’t look like theirs, and my nose… god my nose was so big. Rhinoplasty is one surgery I will never regret. Kids were fucking cruel. I was the new kid in 6th grade. We had just moved from Oklahoma, back to Mississippi and at my first school as the new kid, with no friends, I was given the nicknames Scooby-Doo and Snoopy by the boys in my class because my nose was so big. At the time, I was so young I don’t even think I had started to hate it yet or even really noticed it, but I did that day. I didn’t know why these boys were being so mean, I just saw someone calling me names and everyone else laughing with them and at me, but I had to be tough. I wasn’t a “prissy” girl. I couldn’t cry in front of the boys, so I just got angry and decided that from there on out, the only way to defend myself and to get people to leave me alone, was to be meaner back, that way I would hurt their feelings so bad, they would stop hurting mine. Hurt people hurt people. Those names haunted me until I was 18 and was able to have surgery. I just knew anytime someone was looking at my face, they were either looking at my zits or my nose. My best friend was beautiful. Holy fuck. She still is to this day. Both, my very best friend and just as beautiful. Flawless olive skin, beautiful straight white teeth that she never had to have braces for, blonde hair with sun kissed highlights and everyone loved her. She had the most amazing and outgoing personality and she was hilarious without even trying. She was every dude’s wet dream, and I was just her ugly friend always standing in her shadow. I saw how people looked at me compared to her. I knew what they thought about me. I will never forget being told that her boyfriend at the time was in the locker room making fun of my “beard.” I’m a fuzzy little peach, I cannot deny. I was aware that it was there, but I wanted to pretend like it wasn’t. You can’t really do that when people start talking about it, though. I tried to brush that off, but then one day I was at one of my dad’s games (he was the head baseball coach at my school) and I was sitting with some people I considered friends at the time, and one of the girl’s boyfriend’s that was sitting with us just looked directly at me and out loud said to me “Hey Ginger, are you ever going to shave your beard?” I was mortified. His girlfriend play slapped his arm and said his name in a scolding manner, but of course just tried to look at me and say “he didn’t mean that.” Unfortunately, I knew he meant it and I will never forget that moment for the rest of my life. I was already so beyond insecure with myself and then I had someone, a GUY for that matter, just confirm all of my insecurities, out loud, in front of all of my “friends.” I started shaving my face that day. Humiliation didn’t even scratch the surface. I let people walk all over me because I was so desperate to be liked by anyone, but when I had finally had enough, I went home, grabbed the Exacto knife out of my art supplies bag, and just began slicing into my left arm. High school became a blur from that point on. I would go out every single weekend to house parties, with only one goal: Drink until you puke. You see, even if you have nothing in your stomach to vomit up, your body is still going to try really hard to do so if you drink enough, and even if you only throw up the alcohol from that night and maybe a little bit of stomach bile, you’re still going to work your abs dry heaving so, it was worth a try to me and that’s what I did. Being a teenage shit show definitely had its downsides too. As anyone could have predicted, it was not just one big party. One night I was puking for so long, guys came and took turns putting their balls on my head. I had no idea until they laughed and told me about it the next day. I couldn’t even stand at the time. I was at the house I typically partied at (some rich dude’s parents would let us come get belligerent with them, so we absolutely did), and I somehow got moved from the toilet and placed in this one room with zero windows in it so, when the door was shut, it was pitch black. Thankfully, there was also one other guy sleeping in the room with me, because in the middle of the night I started throwing up while I was on my back and he found an empty cooler in the room for me to puke in because I was not making it to the bathroom. Dude probably saved my life, but that was not the rumor I heard the next day. In high school, I had a job that I worked on Sunday’s so I got up the next morning, took a shower, got dressed for work, and then left. I was so drunk the night before, I slept in these ridiculous fake blue contacts (even though my eyes are already blue) and could barely open my eyes. I had to call in sick to work that morning because I practically drove home with my eyes closed. I stayed home from school Monday because I had a bacterial infection in my eyes (I got them all the time because I would put these non-prescription, SAMPLE blue contacts over my actual, prescription contacts, with caked on eyeliner that no amount of saline solution could disinfect). What I didn’t know, was that a rumor had been started about me, that I had actually stayed home from school because I couldn’t walk because I had lost my virginity to the guy who slept in the room with me, while we were in the shower… Mind you, I went to a private, Christian school in Madison, MS and this guy was African-American, so you can only imagine the things that were said about me. Not to mention, it wasn’t even remotely true. I couldn’t crawl 10 feet to the toilet to avoid vomiting on myself, but I somehow found the strength to hold my body up so I could get railed by a BBD in a slippery shower? It was so absurd I couldn’t even figure out how the shower got brought into it? Especially when we were already in a room, by ourselves, with no windows. Why would we have even needed to go in the shower? From what I was told by people there that night, was that he had ripped his boxers the night before while being drunk and stupid, so he left them in the bathroom when he put on a new pair and then someone supposedly heard the shower running THE NEXT MORNING while I was getting dressed to go to work and then put those two together to somehow create an elaborate story saying that we fucked in a shower. I was black out drunk, so there are very few things I remember from that night, but after I heard the rumor, I tried to start remembering bits and pieces of the night to just confirm with myself that it didn’t happen. I know for a fact it didn’t, but in that moment, I was second guessing myself, but I remembered when we first got in the room, we were both so drunk, he was on top of me, trying to kiss me and I was turning away like “no haha stop”as to not be too forceful and make him mad. I’m almost positive a girl walked in right at that time so, I’m sure her seeing that probably added to the fire, but when I finally gave him a firm “NO” and told him to stop and get off me, he did and that was it. Nothing happened. He legitimately was not forceful, just drunk. To this day there are still people who believe this rumor. My ex-husband even questioned it, KNOWING how giant of a disaster our first time was. Fun fact: I lost my virginity for-real to my ex husband, 4 months before my 19th birthday. Obviously we weren’t married, but I had made a promise to my parents that I was not going to have sex until I graduated high school and I kept that promise. This wasn’t anything they instilled either, it was 100% my idea and something I told them I wanted to do. All of my friends started losing their virginities at 13 and 14 and all I could think about was how that could lead to pregnancy. Even at 14 I was fucking terrified of the thought of having children, so I chose celibacy until I was at least out of high school. I mainly made the promise to my parents so I could say it out loud and always know in the back of my mind that I had someone to hold me accountable for my actions and I didn’t want to disappoint them or myself. Like it was a BIG deal when I finally lost my virginity. I even called my mom the next day to tell her WHILE my ex was in the car with me! Haha I had waited so long and thought I was so in love, so I couldn’t wait to tell her (we were pretty tight). Another little bit of motivation for waiting was my dad telling me some of the nasty things guys would say in the locker room about other girls I went to school with. I never wanted him to have to hear my name come out of one of their mouths when it came to anything sexual. I didn’t care as much if people talked about me, I just wanted to shield him from ever having to hear me being talked about that way. I had already been told a few stories about my dad taking matters into his own hands when it came to guys talking shit about me in front of him, and I didn’t want my dad going to jail so, I kept my pants on hahaha. Kidding, but only half kidding. Being a coach made my dad very protective of me, and I can’t say I blame him. When I think about some of the dumb shit I’ve done, it honestly blows my mind that I’m still alive. Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t completely innocent in high school. I would make out with almost any dude, and I started heading towards the bases at about 16 and started giving and receiving oral my senior year of high school, but I had never had full on penetrative intercourse until my ex-husband, and at the time this rumor had started, I honestly hadn’t even seen a dick in real life. It’s why this rumor pissed me off so much. I hadn’t even gotten to hold a real one in my hands yet, and people were claiming I had already been stuffed and CoCo Puffed (that was funny and you know it). No one wanted to believe me either. That would just make it go away, so people kept it alive. I even heard I was “untouchable” at that point because I had been with someone of color. That’s good ole Mississippi for you. And to all of the white people that complain and say I give the South a bad name when I talk about how racist people still are here, I was shown, at 16 years old, what the people I was surrounded by REALLY think about fraternizing with African-Americans, so no, I am not the problem. The problem lies with the hateful people who still think this way, and sweeping it under the rug and pretending like it isn’t THAT bad here, will not solve a thing. So yeah, I’ll keep talking about it until it no longer exists. Change doesn’t happen unless you make it happen. Anyways, back to where we left off. I felt like the world hated me. Everyone thought I was the biggest slut and I was “so disgusting” for sleeping with someone of color, when again, I was still 100% a virgin. This just made me drink more. My insecurities had taken over. I was just a numb, drunk cunt. And yes, cunt is entirely appropriate. I was a vile human being. Fat shaming was always my go to. It was honestly the only ammo I had. That and slut shaming. I was an actual mean girl. To me they weren’t even mean words, just survival instincts at that point. It’s mortifying to think back on, but I’m not going to deny it. It’s a part of me and there is nothing I can do to change the past so, I just have to use it to fuel me to be better than I was. You couldn’t pay me to go back to high school. Those were by far the absolute worst years of my life. I didn’t care about school either and was so tired from physically overworking my body without ever refusing it properly so, I just slept in all of my classes. I knew I had average intelligence and could take tests without studying and still pass so, paying attention wasn’t something I troubled myself with. Art was the only thing I cared about. I loved my art teacher, too. She refused to let us blow up images on a projector and trace them like the other art teacher would. Everyone else hated her and would say truly awful things about her weight and appearance and even though I said some of the same things about other people, I hated hearing student say such cruel things about her because she was such an amazing woman with a heart of gold. It didn’t matter to them though, no one saw her the way I did. Even girls talked about how big of a “bitch” she was because her class was so hard. I knew she was only “hard” because she was a real artist and wanted us to appreciate art the way she did. She was the one teacher in that entire school that I ever felt any kind of connection to. She had a doctorate in visual arts. Dr. Miller. She cared about art and she wanted us to care about art. I took her every year I could, to the point that she had to go get a special certification over the summer going into my senior year, just so she could teach me and one other girl, AP Art. We couldn’t trace. We couldn’t copy. We had to create our own compositions by bringing in our own pictures to draw from. We actually explored different mediums as well. Then came her photography class. First and only photography class I’ve ever taken. I had a little point and shoot digital camera at this point, but I didn’t care, I couldn’t wait to start shooting. There was one assignment in particular where I went deep, and it got dark. I can’t remember what the assignment was exactly, but we had to have multiple pictures and I think they had to tell some kind of story. I remember asking for her approval before I executed my idea and turned in an inappropriate assignment. She was definitely taken back by it, but I told her it was all made up and I just wanted to try and tell a story that wasn’t so cookie cutter. This was almost ten years ago, so the pictures are long gone, but when I started presenting my project, the room got dead quiet. Again, I attended a private, Christian academy. I don’t remember how many pictures I had to turn in, but I know one consisted of a lipstick ring around a cigarette I was holding in between two fingers while I had the others wrapped around a liquor bottle. The next picture was a bunch of weight-loss pills and their bottles (all from my own personal stash, of course), open and spilled all over a bathroom scale. There were a few others, all touching on pretty sensitive subjects (again, I can’t remember everything I photographed), but the last picture was of me gripping a heavy punching bag with real, bloody knuckles (another form of self harm was hitting my bag without my gloves so I had an excuse for my blood) and my head hung between my elbows. Completely defeated. I reassured her it was all for creative purposes, but I don’t think she actually believed me. I felt an unspoken bond between us after that day. She took interest in me. I think she could see that I genuinely loved art and she wanted to see me succeed. She made art become something worth living for, for me. I hated middle school and high school. I moved around so much that I never had any real friends and I never felt I belonged anywhere. I was such a target for people, especially older girls, because I was always the new kid. My high school was the first school I ever attended for more than 2 consecutive years. I remember begging my parents to let me change schools for high school because girls at my other school had made an entire Facebook page dedicated to calling me a slut. I was 13. My parents finally agreed, but the girls at my new high school weren’t any better. I instantly made an enemy because I was talking to some guy in my art class and his girlfriend found out and thought I was trying to “steal” him, when in reality, he was just the only person that would talk to me. I kept to myself and didn’t really hang out with people from my school, but still somehow got wrapped up in so much drama from he said/she said nonsense. I just wanted it all to end. I wanted people to leave me alone. I wanted to get so far away from the people in my school. Even the guys picked on me. If I fell asleep in class, someone would usually turn my backpack inside out, put my books inside, zip it up, and hide it somewhere that I couldn’t reach because I was so short. I tried to play it off like it didn’t bother me, but it just got so old. I sat in the back of the room for every class with my head down. I just wanted to be left alone. I was tired. Tired of not fitting in. Tired of being a target. Tired of never being good enough. I can’t tell you how many times I thought about running my car off the road in high school. Would anyone actually care if I died? Who would actually come to my funeral? Would anyone? I doubted it. I’d keep my car between the lines so, I wouldn’t be embarrassed beyond the grave when no one did.

College wasn’t any better at first. I instantly had two girls hating me because of a dude. Go figure. I had no friends in college. Not until I met my homie, Chase. He was a baseball player and lived in the dorms, so since I had my own apartment, he basically took over my spare bedroom. Purely platonic and still is to this day. He actually just got married last month, if you saw the wedding I attended. We would just bake cookies and chill or we’d go to the bar. Then I started dating my now ex husband, so that’s where I began spending all of my time. A new boyfriend on top of cheerleading my freshman year kept me a little more occupied from drinking, but we got weighed before practice, and again, I was one of the heaviest girls on my squad at a whopping 118 lbs. I remember being so happy when I got a stomach bug before one of our performances at the school. I lost 10 lbs in 24hrs because I was so dehydrated. I wanted to stay that little so bad. Maybe then the guys on my squad might actually want to work with me. I wanted to get better. I wanted to be able to do what every other girl could do. I wanted to be good. I wasn’t ready for that to be my peak, but I was too much work so, I never had the chance. I was heavy and I wasn’t someone a guy could get better with. Before then, I had only cheered on an all-girl squad. I hadn’t co-ed stunted and was pretty far behind the other girls, but I could tumble, so I made every squad I tried out for. I was just behind on everything else. I tried reaching out to guys to stunt outside of practice, but everyone typically had an excuse and I wasn’t stupid. I knew what was happening. I pretty much gave up that year. I knew I was never going to be small enough to make it anywhere, so I moved back home to be closer to my ex husband, who I was dating at the time. A year later we moved to Pennsylvania and that’s when everything with Vine started. That fueled my drinking even more because all I talked about was wine. All of my content was wine related. My poor ex though. I was not an easy drunk to handle. Every time we went somewhere he would ask the exact same question “Do you really HAVE to get alcohol every single place we go?” Everywhere we went served alcohol, so in my head, yes, I had to, and I wanted to, and I was going to. I literally could not comprehend why that was a bad thing. My brain refused to connect those dots. I actually reached out to him a few weeks ago as part of my own recovery, to apologize for my drinking when we were together and to make sure he knew that I knew what I put him through and that I was genuinely sorry. He got it in full blast and hardly ever drank because of it. He knew he couldn’t because he was going to have to take care of me. Drinking started off as a way for me to purge. Alcohol was my “phone a friend” tool in the game of “Who Wants to be Emaciated!?”, so I only knew how to go from sober to black out drunk and typically when I blacked out, I couldn’t remember a thing. I would lose HOURS of time and have absolutely no idea what happened. It was kind od the point though. I preferred being numb and I didn’t feel like anything in my life was worth remembering at that point. I never even tried to sober myself, I just let it take me under every time. I couldn’t pace myself. It doesn’t work that way with me. I will do a separate post later on of all of the dumb shit I’ve done while I was drunk because this one is already long af, but just know I was ignorant when I was drunk. Just a sloppy ass mess. My divorce was my tipping point though. Especially when I discovered my ex had started dating someone else. I went ballistic. My online presence was nonexistent. If I wasn’t crying, I was drinking. I didn’t care who I slept with either. I just needed a distraction. I had known one dick my whole life, so I was making up for lost time. At least that’s how I justified it in my head. When I moved down to Hattiesburg, I was alone. My one friend here was a dude, so we became drinking buddies. On Cinco de Mayo in 2017 me and my homie were at a bar called Brewsky’s and he was ready to go to another bar, but it was a country bar called Ropers and I can’t stand that place, so I stayed there with some other friend’s while he went to Ropers. So now at Brews, my other friend just kept handing me fire and ice shots (Fireball and Rumple Minze) and I spent the rest of the night puking in the flowerbeds by the entrance of the bar. At closing time, I was at the bar, alone, and couldn’t even stand, so all the bartenders I was friends with came to try and help me. No one knew what to do with me, and I somehow ended up with my homie’s phone in my purse, so they couldn’t call him to come get me. This led my bartender friend to call my mom. My parents live two hours away from me and it was 3AM, so they sure as hell weren’t coming to get me so, I was carried to a vehicle and thankfully one of the female bartenders let me stay with her. I was so embarrassed the next morning that I put my puke covered clothes back on, called an Uber, and tried to sneak out of her house. Unfortunately, her dog woke up when I got to the door so, I quickly scooted outside. She came outside before my Uber got there and offered to take me to my car, but I told her not to worry about it and apologized for the night before and thanked her for letting me stay with her. If I hadn’t been where I was where I knew the workers, I could have easily been left in front of that bar all night long. I cut back on drinking heavily after that, but it wasn’t until Hulaween 2017 that I had my very last mimosa while setting up camp.

It was easy in the beginning. I felt like I was on top of the world. I never actually went to meetings, because I know I don’t do well in those types of environments. I needed to completely separate myself from it. Full detox, so I locked myself in my house for months, only leaving for festivals and Bassnectar events. Around the 9-10 month mark, things started not being as easy. I was driving home one day and started thinking about the taste of wine and trying to remember what a good Sauvignon Blanc smelled and tasted like and to this day, I don’t know how to feel about what happened next. As I was remembering what wine tasted like, just the THOUGHT of the taste of wine made my body have legitimate, physical reactions. My heart started racing, my body was tingling from my head to my toes, and my mouth started watering. I was getting aroused just by the thought of that first sip. I would instantly feel different the second it touched my lips. It was a comfort. Warmth with a little bite. Citrus and grass. I could feel it traveling down my throat then all throughout my body. It was, in a way, almost sexual for me. That’s what being an addict is like for me. My mind telling myself I don’t want to do something, and my body ignoring it. Urges and cravings are powerful. Especially when they go without being sated. I even preferred having sex with my ex-husband when he had been drinking so, I could actually smell and taste the alcohol on him. Alcoholics run in my family. I knew my parents worried about me from day 1. I was next in line for addiction. I tried to convince myself and my dad that he was just super strict and overreacting about my drinking and that he didn’t know what he was talking about, but he knew. He knew the signs. He’d seen it his whole life. I was just in denial. I’m not sure why the last blackout had the impact it did. Probably because of my social media presence and the fact that I could have been blasted all over the internet for being a sloppy, drunk mess. I had tried to stop drinking at least 2-3 times prior to then, but it never lasted longer than a few weeks. I hated who I was when I was drunk. I always embarrassed myself. Maybe I just finally started smoking enough weed to realize I preferred being a little tingly instead of completely disassociating. Maybe it was because, for the first time in my life, I was on the road to being genuinely happy and didn’t want to need alcohol as a coping mechanism. Maybe it was being introduced to the EDM community where I saw how happy and kind and accepting people were and their love and respect for the art community gave me hope for my future. More than likely it was a combination of all of those and more. The thought of blacking out terrifies me now. I never want to experience that kind of memory loss ever again, but even that doesn’t stop the urges. Outrunning addiction can get exhausting. I know there are people who have it WAYYYY worse than me, I don’t deny that at all. I don’t even consider myself an extreme case, I just knew I wasn’t okay.

I am now, though.

That’s a damn good feeling, too. Finally knowing true happiness. Finally being able to let go of my past. Finally not caring what any one human being thinks about me. I used to worry so much about what people thought of me because I knew I wasn’t a good person, but I didn’t want anyone else to really know who I was because I still wanted people to like me. As long as people THOUGHT I was a good person, then I could sleep better at night. Now I’ve changed. I don’t care what someone who hasn’t spoken to me in 5 years says about me. I know me. I know my heart. I know I am an honest person. A little too honest at times, now. That’s something I have to work on as well. But I know when I hear some crazy rumor about myself now (yeahhhhh I’m 26 and still hear “rumors” about myself from grown adults. It’s pathetic), I don’t care who it’s spread to because I know it’s not true and no matter how hard someone tries, they will never be able to speak something into existence that never happened. If someone believes something I know not to be true, even after I tell them it’s not true, then that person is nobody to me because my actual friends know I would never lie about something like that. I don’t like secrets, so I don’t like to have them. I’ve had to confess some of my darkest secrets to people over this last year and that really sucked, but I did it. Ohhhh I did not want to admit some of the things I have said and done, but I did. It’s all part of the healing process. Being able to fully move on. So now I’m moving on….

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