Under Construction, Subject to Change

A few years ago, after a gnarly break up, I pierced my nose, stock-piled the tattoos, axed my near-waist length hair to messy bed-head perfection and threw myself into activism, auto-pilot style. The aesthetic re-invention was in reaction to my ex-boyfriend's belly-aching about how I looked when we were together--he wanted my hair long because he said women with long hair were sexier. He objected to a nose piercing because I might look too butch--for him. He thought two tattoos were enough on me and more would be distasteful. I followed his direction, gave up on the hair, the piercing, the tattoos, kept quiet on issues that were bugging me and apologized for everything, even for his own failures I had no power over. I manipulated myself to fit his needs--and he still left me. The auto-pilot activism was a reaction to the complicated, ghetto feelings I couldn't break up with (I tried, it doesn't work). Like a hurtful partner, I learned to reject my feelings over and over again.

I'm sharing this because I'm taking this blog to a different direction, a decision that fits the new approach and commitment in my life. By new, I don't mean a shallow re-invention, such as the overhaul of my physical identity years and years ago; and by commitment I don't mean a relationship--except for one with myself. I hope to use my blog as a way to communicate to those where my words have failed and my want for dialogues have fallen into deaf ears, to be able to be more open and authentic about who I am. And, as my blog title suggests, I live under a construct and within that construct, I am constantly subject to change.


Building a more honest relationship with myself means not censoring or hiding the sum of my parts, practices that became sensory-numbing habits over the years. In retrospect, being a yes girl and auto-smiling all the time was easier than having to explain and clean up everyone's shattered ideals of who I was and what I should be. But this charade eventually resulted in minor spells of depression—the lonely, crying benders I'd have every couple of months since I was 19 came to the end of its slow burn in the Fall of 2005 and finally imploded in the Summer of 2006.


Recovering from depression is not just admitting there are problems, but large part of the process is sharing about it and not feeling ashamed. Recovery is an erratic and lucid dialectic and this year has been the most stable one yet: I got out of debt, quit smoking, I'm drinking more responsibly, and since the Summer, have begun work on personal creative projects I was incapable of pursuing as I convinced myself they were impossible, irresponsible and just plain selfish. This stage where I'm at right now is a lovely juncture but there's still plenty to unravel.


As I continue to unravel and embroider my patchwork life, I'm learning how to create boundaries, re-connect with my feelings and define who I am without guilt or compromising my worth for the benefit of others. I'm also learning the delicate course of letting go and accepting defeat—and knowing I am no less of a person for having to do so. Most importantly, I'm learning not to hide, least of all, from myself.