Uh-oh!

Nobody’s life is so obvious that it can be summed up by other people in a few sentences.  This past week has been a very timid acting week for me.  It’s in my mind always, what are people thinking of my hair, and preparing myself for the inevitable compliments, whether they are sincere or prying.  Yes there are different types of compliments.  Sincere ones, and ones that pry and think something is fishy.  For the prying compliments.. there are types for them too.  Some people pry out of ignorance, not realizing something traumatic is at stake, some pry out of curiousity, and being observing knowing that my hair obviously cant sprout luscious auburn curls overnight.  And me, being a very bad liar, usually have to tell these people a little tiny iceberg version of what is going on.  As if to just hit myself in the gut again and agin, telling people and telling them.. because they know something is wrong whaen you don’t tell them.  You get this awkward silence, the silence that you are supposed to say, “Yes I just got it dyed and cut!” but somehow the dishonesty cant find its way out.  Because I feel different, I can’t always believe it’s my hair.  This hair has been flown over an ocean. I haven’t even been over the ocean.  This hair has been through it’s own stories, and to call it mine seems unjust. As if I am not honouring the person who grew it.  It’s as if you adopt a baby and forget about thanking the people who made that child.  I don’t know. Then there are all these other factors. Like if somebody gets an organ donation, everyone gives them tons of love, and they don’t question them, it’s seen as such a medial thing. But with a “hair donation” it’s so aesthetic, that nobody notices that its medical, and so the annoying questions come.  

            And when they come, you are already so insecure and sensitive that you cant be your normal self and answer them well.  Instead you blow them off, redirect the conversation or tell the real story.  It’s as if I’m giving away so much of my personal life that there is none of it left for myself.  I am giving, giving, giving, and the nourishment I receive from other people don’t feed me properly.  Instead it only naws away at what I have left to give.  It’s difficult to analyze yourself.  It’s easy for an outside person to view the changes in you.  But since you are living and breathing these changes, they come as natural to you and sometimes you don’t feel as if they are harmful.  Like for instance, I know I need to seek professional help.  But the part in me that is all “I’m Shauna Yarnell, I do things best on my own, and I always get honours, I exercise, I eat well, I am nice to everybody” screams at me and say, “since I am this self sufficient individual why do I need to go unload myself on a therapist.  Therapists are for real problems”.  What part of me cannot justify this as a real problem?  What part of me cant deal with the fact that maybe, for once, my own self doesn’t have what it takes.  Maybe, I need that extra voice.  That extra sounding board. If not for me, then for my friends.  My friends, who sit through hours of me talking and talking, and them, probably feeling this emotion of torture because they have a strong love for me, yet their feelings don’t do anything for the issue.  If anything, this therapist would be so I no longer have to rant and rave to my loved ones.  But I also have this time management issue.  I suck at fitting this therapist into my day.  I keep putting off the call to that therapist office because that part in me says it is not important.  That part in me says that my theory assignments, singing practicing, essay writing, Italian homework, rehearsals, lessons, and classes are far more superior than my lack of hair and its emotional affect.  Well to that part of my self that believes that, I would like to say “GO AWAY!”  Why should I have any feeling that I don’t deserve peace of mind.  Why do I not eat properly anymore?  Why does food not taste good anymore?  Depression is why.  I feel like I am at the beginning stages of becoming a bit depressed.  And who wouldn’t.  But, I also am so angry with myself that I cant stop it.  That I cant press pause on my life, make the call, and then press play and continue on.  That I cannot make the two minutes for myself.  Why do I not matter to myself.  Back to the food issue.  I do not like food that much anymore.  And if I am reading this journal out to anyone who cares about me, I hope they aren’t worried.  I take that back.  They probably should be worried.  But then I go back to the therapist thing.  I burden my issues on so many people.  I only want one person to be messed up because of this issue and that person is me.  The fact that I tell the freaking world gets me nowhere.  Now only more people are upset, bothered, confused, maybe disgusted by this issue.  I wish I didn’t blab.  But I do.  I have to because I’m like a piece of dry ice in a half full bottle of water that it tightly sealed.  Sooner or later I will pop, and we don’t know the consequences of that pop.  If I am depressed, hopefully it is just for tonight.