I am… not you.

I came across an exercise on Kelli Owen’s blog that I wanted to do, so I did it.  Actually someone else had been talking about it on Facebook.  I read his and really liked it. Each sentence should start with “I”—I am, I like, I hate, I want—and to dig inside to find yourself.  There was talk of writing five pages about yourself, I may have skimped out on that a little but I’m happy with it.😀

So here’s mine.

——

I am Mandy.

I have a past, like we all do.

I don’t remember being born to a young woman that gave me up and a man that didn’t know of me.  I have no memory of the day I was adopted by the DeGeit’s, but they celebrate that day every year.  I knew all along my adopted parents loved and wanted me. I knew I belonged to them.  I was raised in love and understanding, education and discipline.  I had a family.  I should have been happy.  I was supposed to have been content.  I wasn’t.

I didn’t fit into school.  I was weird, I wasn’t really pretty, I was smart.  I was in extra classes, learning more, when I should have been free.  I didn’t make friends well, I tried, I failed.  I wasn’t popular, that’s what you need in school. I didn’t have that.  I just wanted to fit in but I didn’t.  I trudged miserably through elementary, intermediate and high school…

I hated high school the most.  I still wasn’t popular.  I didn’t grow into that.  I got worse.  I was in the school band and library club.  I didn’t know of anyone else in the library club.  I think was the only one.  I don’t remember much of high school.  I think we block out the bad.

I always had “problems” when I was young.  I wasn’t right in the head.  I was in counselling from early on.  I couldn’t be happy.  I tried, I failed.

I was fifteen when I met him, (the first of many bad  boyfriend choices), he was 18 and said he loved me. I believed him, I needed him.   I dropped out of school at 16.  I moved out and I left my family behind, not for myself but for him…  I know now I was wrong.

I was too proud to go home.  I thought I was in love.  I was 16, what the fuck did I know?  I still stayed with him.  I shunned my family.  I shouldn’t have, but you can’t change the past.

I lost it.   I was hospitalized.  I was labelled with disorders.  I was medicated.  I have been both uncontrollable and catatonic.  I was constantly miserable.   I wasn’t the person you know now, back then.  I never though I would change.  I didn’t think I could live.

I’d hit rockbottom, the scars on my wrist pushing me to leave Timmins.  I had to start new. I knew I had to start fresh.  I left my family and all that I’ve known… I had no choice.

I walked away from everything I always was, a daughter, a student, a lover and lost soul.

I survived.  I forced myself to change.  I had to.

I could start with my move to Ottawa.  I could go into how I got a job, moved up and continued the chain of work.  I was a retail manager.  I payed off my bills, I got myself “stuff” and things.  I did that.

I could tell you how I worked at a sex store for three years, selling vibrators and renting porn.  I really like that job.  I did that.

I could tell you about  the boyfriend photographer, part-time modelling, Bermuda, endless money… and the drugs.   I did that.

I could tell you about how I lost everything dating a musician and but found my love and passion for music.  I learned to play better. I play the flute. I have for a long time.  I risked it all, and lost it all, but I don’t regret it.  I did that.

I could talk about being a gypsy, just doing what makes my heart feel right.  I’m doing that now.

I could talk about how I grew into my looks.  I became pretty.  I formed an attitude, my attitude.  I got louder, unfortunately for those around me. I wanted to be centre of attention, I still do.  I became a little more me.

I could also tell you how I STILL struggled through all of that, searching to find who I am.  I am still doing that.  I want to tell you about how I am still not sure of what I’m supposed to do. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.   I want to be a writer, I want to be famous, I want to be a chef, I don’t want to be a mom, but I want someone to grow old with…  I’m 33 years old and I’m still working on that.

I still don’t have it all figured out, maybe I never will.

I do know one thing however, after everything I’ve said…

I am Mandy, Now With 100% More Tattoos.

—–

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