She comes every month, but frankly, she's not invited.

The Real Me?

Who is the real me?

Is it the girl with “the broken smile” who could never figure out how to navigate small talk? The girl who, every month, would feel the burning desire to run away to another place, maybe even another world, in order to quench the unhappiness she felt?  The girl who was horny every time it rained? The girl who, during certain weeks, could sleep 14 hours a night and still feel tired? The one who slept through the ringing of the phone and the tick-tock of her schedule?  The girl who filled journals with emotional outpourings and  longings? The one that stood at the door before her class started, unable to open it to step out of her apartment  because of the anxiety that she couldn’t suppress?

Or is it the girl with the sales career who boldly strides out the door each day?  The one who handles phone calls with finesse? The one who writes essays about political subjects and whose personal journals are strangely empty? The one who only notices rain because she has to pull up her hood? The one who is in love and yet can’t seem to re-awaken the longings that were inside of her for just such a relationship? The girl who longs for stability and avoids opportunities to tempt herself to escape?

When I was first on the pill, I was amazed at the change in myself.  At first I only noticed the positive ones.  Wouldn’t you?? Suddenly, I could count on myself to show up every day to class or work, no matter the time of month.  I could commit to responsibilities and to friendships, knowing that I wouldn’t bail in a week or three.  I was far more confident, and without an overloaded, rushing river of emotions, I found that I could articulate myself far more clearly and succinctly. 

It was a few months later that I started tallying the pieces of “myself” that felt lost.  I realized one day as I sat behind a rainy window that the rain had no ellicited the usual feral feelings of sexuality and deep humanness.  I opened my journals, the pen resting in my hands, and found I had no deep, soul-searching questions I needed to work through.  I held hands with a boy and there was very little electricity. 

And so I bounced back and forth.  I would go off of the pill for a month, have a horrible period, skip everything, and dwell in my returned sensitivity.  Then I would go back on and try to start over, being responsible and downright boring.

I am still somewhere in-between when I think about who I am.  Do you take medication? How do you pick and choose the parts of yourself that are, at the core, you?

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