Six

Here's what goes on in my head when posting a comment:

I type the comment

I read what I typed

Oh no, they might think I sound condesending. I want to sound supportive

I re-word and add

Oh no, now it's too long. I'm writing a comment, not a blog

I remove and condense

No no no, that's not right either. I'm not even trying to say that!

I edit once more. 

Are they going to think- "Did she even read the blog?!?" or "That's what this person said, how unoriginal"

UGHHH It should not take an hour to write a stupid comment. 

Delete delete delete, close window

I feel like a fruit loop, ya'll. Sadly, this is what being a Highly Sensitive Person is all about. This is why I have such a hard time being social with people. This is why I don't have many friends. This is why I stopped writing. It's pathetic. I am so angry with myself for being this way and yet there isn't a thing I can do about it. Which makes me even more angry for not accepting myself the way I am. 

Ya know, I spent so much time hunting up the past. I moved when I was nine and that's what triggered my depression and all this garbage I'm still trying to sort through. It was already there, mind you, it was just waiting for the right catalyst. The move did it. I was so ripped apart by that move that to this day, I'm still clutching on to every little thing that reminds me of Texas and that life. I think that's part of the reason I had such a hard time moving in all that new furniture. I felt like I was letting go of that part of me and it's scary. Just because I don't have all the stuff , doesn't mean I don't still have the memories. I'm not throwing away me, I'm just growing from it- like a nursing log. 

... I have never liked nursing.