In Glorious Technicolor

on growing up;

or, why i stop and start blogging

i've never been able to keep a journal. i've kept so many. from where i sit, on the floor of my small but desperately beloved apartment, my laptop resting on a pile of laundry, i face a small white bookcase filled with nothing but notebooks. a whole shelf of this bookcase contains nothing but diaries, all with five entries or less. there was a long period in high school where i was so constantly sad, so constantly in doubt and fear of myself that i filled half a journal with these rants about losing weight, losing boys, and losing faith. but the thing is, i never feel i'm the same for long enough to fill a whole journal. i feel that the moment you are different than what has been written before, you must change notebooks.

but the thing is that i'm still all of those people. or at the very least, i have been all of those people. and that needs to be ok. because people grow, people change, and that is a beautiful thing.

i found out recently that i was bipolar. i've been living with unmedicated, undiagnosed bipolar for years without knowing what was wrong with me. i knew something was wrong but it just felt like being sad and then getting it together and being productive, except 100x more so. this month i finally went to a psychiatrist, left school for a while, and am trying to get better. i need time to mourn, time to grow, and time to heal, so for a while i'm going to do nothing but work, dance, and read. and hopefully write. 

i hereby promise to try. or something.