BIGGER

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I got a phone call the other day from my incredible woman of an aunt, who has forever been a role model to me. Despite always living states away from each other, she has always seemed to understand me on a level that not many other people do. She always seems to know what is inside of my head and my heart, and connects the two. She is a voice of reason and logic. During our hour-long catch up call, she told me that she thought I had a talent for writing. She said she thought I could help people through this blog. Hearing this from her meant more than it would have meant coming from most other people. It sort of woke me up. I realized I want this thing to be bigger than just me.

I reluctantly started this blog a few months ago, thinking, “Okay, two people MAX will read this thing. Three if I include myself. So what’s the harm in putting this stuff out there? It’s not like it’s going to change anything.” I started this blog for me; I wanted it to be a place to sort through my thoughts and piece them together. Maybe I even wanted it to be a scrapbook, of sorts. But it has stirred up things in me (for lack of a less corny term…) that I didn’t know were there. I realized how much I love writing. I’ve also realized how much I love the idea of being a source of comfort and help for someone. I was afraid of this blog changing things. The last thing I wanted was for people I knew reading this and looking at me any differently, because most people don’t know I have struggled with this stuff. I didn’t want to put myself in such a vulnerable and open spot. But the more I write here, the more I realize that I want more than anything for this blog to change things. I desperately want this to help someone.

When I started thinking about what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, counseling was definitely on the table. There was always a part of me, and at times a pretty large part, that wanted to help kids like me. I thought about how cool it would have been if one of my doctors had been able to tell me that they knew what it felt like to be where I stood, that they could relate to me. Not that I didn’t have good doctors, I had a few great ones. One even changed the game for me. But no one was able to quite get on my level. People can read textbooks and look at case studies and examine patients and have an impressive degree hanging in a frame on the wall of their office, but until you struggle with it yourself, you cannot begin to imagine what it’s like. I make it sound like it’s this fancy, exclusive club with a line out the door that you need a gold card membership card to get into. But it’s not the kind of club you want access to.

After I started writing my stories down on this blog, I started thinking about how much I would have loved to have someone to talk to who knew what I was talking about. I would have been so grateful for someone who had gotten through it to show me what their life was like after they got over the hill. Someone who could tell me first hand that I wasn’t as crazy or as alone or as stupid as I felt; that things would get better. 

I think this blog may be my way of being that person for others. I think that’s the direction I want to take this thing. I want this to be a place that people can reach out, know that they aren’t alone. It’s still going to be my way of sorting through the massive amount of shit going on in my head, but I don’t want this to be just for my benefit. My hope is that someone, somewhere takes comfort in these words. That some little girl sitting in her bedroom in the middle of the night, terrified to fall sleep because that means she has to wake up and start a whole new day, will read this and get even just a sliver of hope.

Because I know what I would have done for that sliver of hope.

CATCH UP

Hello! I'm writing to you from the inside of a parked car, in the pouring rain, at 6:45 AM, watching a triathlon. Long story. But I figured this would be a wonderful time to play catch up! There has been a lot of traveling going on for this gal. And working. Traveling and working, not a bad gig. I spent the Fourth of July in the city, doing what every good American should be doing on this hallowed day: finding a body of water, grilling out, drinking beer, and watching some fireworks.

Checkin out ze boats at the harbor at Montrose Beach 

Apparently the most effective way to get the grill goin is....last year's text book?

Of course I didn't get a picture of the fireworks. Amateur move,  I know. But cool firework spot, eh? 

He's alright, I guess....

A week later, I flew out to D.C to see some family and do the sight seeing circuit. I had been to the beautiful District of Columbia once before, and it's even more impressive the second time around. That being said, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret: it gets hot there in July. I'm talking REAL hot. We walked 7 plus miles on a day with a heat index of 106 degrees...sort of brutal. But it was a blast to see family and to check out some smart people stuff ;) 

Momma and I on the plane

Kind of cool Chicago exhibit in the Transportation part of the Smithsonian 

Georgetown. Hoya Saxa

Cool quote part of the Holocaust Museum 

After that, it was back to Chicago to get a week of work in. After dinner with my boyfriend's parents, he was off for his own two weeks of travel (insert sad face here). There is an upside to it, though; I spent a week in the Northwoods at our family cabin, and now I am spending a week in my hometown. I can dig it. 

Tiki bar stop on the boat

Three generations of Murphy men. Good lookin fellas

My brother, the stud 

The terrifying picture I sent Rose as I was waiting for her, in an attempt to get her to hurry up. No success.

Best friend picture. Cheese alert

Rose's mom makes the most incredible pizza on the grill. She even makes the dough from scratch. She's like Wonder Woman. 

I guess this is more of a picture post, because you know how much I like my pictures. Sorry....except I'm not really all that sorry ;)

RISKY BUSINESS

You know something I have recently realized I hate more than a lot of other things? Risks. I detest taking risks. Ever since I was little, I avoided them at all costs. I never talked out of turn in class. I never strayed from the strict uniform code growing up in private schools, no matter how badly I wanted to wear socks that didn't come above my ankles. When my friends and I used to make prank phone calls, I was never the one to talk to the poor innocent soul we were harassing. And when I was, I always hung up the phone as soon as the person on the other end answered. Except for the time in eighth grade when my friends and I sang Britney Spears to our principal, and I was the one that had to go into the police station for questioning when she filed a complaint (story for another time...I'm still scarred). Bottom line, I was never a trouble maker. I liked to know what was expected of me, and stick to it. Part of this was because I'm an insane people pleaser, which I'm working on, but the other part was just because I really didn't want to risk getting in trouble.

Even as I got older, when the risks were different than getting in trouble, I still opted out whenever I could. So many times in high school, my anxiety would get the best of me because I didn't want to risk getting stuck in a situation I was uncomfortable in. I wouldn't go to parties or dances because I didn't want to risk it. I didn't go on vacation with friends because "What if something happens?" was as far as my brain would think. I had my safe little bubble, and I liked it in there. Only, come to find out, I hated it in that bubble. I just didn't know it yet.



In all honesty, college was probably the first big risk I took. My parents didn't think I was going to go away. And with good right. Leaving home and going to school in a city of nearly three million people shouldn't have even been on the table. There should have been no way. But I was determined to do it. Up to that point, everything people said I couldn't do, I couldn't do. They weren't being pessimistic, just realistic. But something was telling me I could do this; that, as terrifying and impossible as it seemed, it was manageable. And so, one day after school, I told my mom where I was going to school. No more looking, no more talking, I had decided on DePaul University. She said okay, and we made plans for me to attend in the fall. But from that day until the day I left for school, maybe even a few weeks after I started, I think my parents still had doubts. I never did. I still don't know why I didn't. I have no idea what made me so confident that I wouldn't fail, but I knew I wouldn't. And I didn't. College is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I grew in ways that I couldn't have even dreamed of. The person I was before I left for my freshman year is a shadow of who I am now. I sometimes don't even recognize her.

Except sometimes I do recognize her. Even after such a positive outcome of such an enormous risk, I still HATE taking them. I hate jumping off that cliff. When I get to the bottom, I'm almost always glad I stepped off. But it's the whole free fall down that scares me shitless. The risks are different in this stage of the game, though. School, career, friends, love. The funny thing I've noticed lately is that some of the risks I'm afraid to take are because things seem too good to be true. I feel like I need to run because there is just no way I can possibly be this happy. So I should get out now, before things get really messy and I get hurt. Who thinks like that? I want to get out of an incredible situation because I'm afraid to risk getting hurt? That would be screwing myself over in the largest way possible. Yes, things could go horribly wrong. And friendships could be ruined, or my heart could be broken. But I can't live my life half-assed in order to prevent the possible negative outcomes. Because what if those things don't happen? And things turn out perfectly? How would I ever know that if I didn't take the risk? So I'm going to just start taking those risks. Jumping off that damn cliff, even if I scream the whole way down.