I wish I could go back in time and give my younger self a hug. That poor girl. I was so fucking horrible to myself. I couldn’t do anything right in my own eyes. Nothing was ever good enough. Because I learned the standards that my parents held me to and I held myself to them.

My dad didn’t really want to be a dad, I’m like 99.9% sure. He and his first wife lost their child; he was premature and died shortly after being born. And I think what little part of my father that was capable of being a father died with his son.

But he understood that kids tend to be part of the package in a marriage (in the 80s, at least), so he got on board with it in marriage #2. My sister was first. The first kid is exciting. She was taught about all the things that he likes… photography, baseball, chess.

Four years later, I enter the world. The second daughter of a man that didn’t really want to be a father. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to deduce that he probably didn’t pay that much attention to me. And he didn’t. Unless I did something genuinely impressive. If I won an award, or aced the hard class, or got the solo in band… if I was the best, he would pay attention to me and show an interest.

And now I am incredibly anxious 32-year-old that feels perfectionism and social anxiety so intensely that I get physically sick. I’m at a point where I can recognize, “hey, these are insane standards, I don’t need to do that,” but I can still physically feel it. I have to be the best and raise the bar/set the standard in absolutely everything I do and if I don’t I’m fucking worthless.

I’m dead serious. No wonder I’m single.

To be completely fair, my early years were also some of his worst due to other factors in his life. My father was a surgeon, and an incredibly talented one at that. He had an accident in the mid-90s that completely destroyed his shoulder mobility, and it cost him the ability to practice surgery. His entire life was turned upside down and he lost a career that he was intensely passionate about. I think it’s probably safe to say that for my entire childhood and adolescence, my father was deeply depressed.

And I understand this! I know enough about my parents’ story and about their life that I can look back now and completely understand why things happened the way that they did. Do I have moments where I think that I would have handled a situation better than they did? Absolutely. But I also think it’s really unfair to compare, because it ignores how society has really progressed when it comes to mental health (or parenting ideologies/techniques).

At least I’m self-aware and capable of understanding why I am the way I am. I can accept that. Shit happened, we keep moving. That’s practically my life motto at this point: just keep moving.

Speaking of which, my anxiety has been fucking insane lately. Everything has changed, I left my job that I’d been in for several years to do my final practicum for my MSW and my body is just like in shock at the difference. It’s so fucking weird. I keep repeating to myself, “it’s not scary, it’s just new,” because my body thinks we’re about to get mauled by a bear constantly. And I also don’t have Dallas! My entire adult life whenever new chapters have begun, I still had her. I really had a hard time around New Year’s because I realized that I already kind of hated this year because it wouldn’t have Dallas in it. I had to sit with that for awhile and just let myself cry it out.

And then I feel stupid for having so much (so. much.) grief over a dog, but it was DALLAS. And I’ve been a fucking loner for most of my life but at least I had her. I feel so alone for the first time in a very long time, and I was not in a good place the last time I felt like this.

Just. keep. moving.

It will not always be like this.

That’s all I’ve got for today.

xx.