Embracing Your True Self: The Journey from Too Much to Just Right
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Chapter 1: The Struggle of Being "Too Much"
From a young age, I was often told that I was "too much." This constant feedback felt like navigating a turbulent storm, where my enthusiasm and energy were unwelcome. I was urged to tone it down, to fit into a mold that suffocated my spirit. My voice, once vibrant and loud, was gradually silenced until it was barely a whisper, as if my very essence needed to be locked away.
Their desire for me to conform to a life devoid of chaos and emotion left me feeling like a prisoner in a beige world — a place where nothing ever stirred the pot.
As a child, my mother’s voice drowned out my own. I became adept at fading into the background, speaking only when prompted. I gravitated towards the unconventional — friends like Sam, battling addiction, and Sylvia, who lived on tinned sardines. When Sylvia passed away, discovered only by the stench of her decay, I grieved for weeks.
Later, a partner would remark that I was simply too sensitive. Why did I pursue everything with such intensity? My mother advised me to seek out friends who weren't facing dire circumstances. So, I joined the kids playing carefree games, but I still felt out of place.
During those years, I found joy in the little things. I would call out to my friends from the street, and the sound of their footsteps rushing down the stairs filled me with excitement. We were young and wild, stealing hot dogs and sneaking into movie theaters for leftover snacks, relishing the cool breezes of summer as we sprawled on sidewalks.
We took up space in ways that felt right, despite the whispers from others. My friends would tease me for the fantastical tales I spun — stories of tragedy told with the same nonchalance as sharing a meal.
"You’re... a lot," they would say.
But the truth was, I spoke of realities we all recognized. Growing up in Brooklyn, the streets were filled with stories of loss and struggle, of loved ones trapped in cycles of addiction and violence. We learned to stay quiet, to keep our heads down.
What do you do when the world labels you as crazy or strange? You begin to see everything through a warped lens. Moving from a vibrant, chaotic city to a tranquil suburban town felt alien. The laughter that once surrounded me faded, and I became the odd one out.
In college, a close friend from a privileged background entered my life. She was everything I wasn’t — a beacon of normalcy. One day, upon seeing my tears, she asked what was wrong. I simply replied, “Nothing,” as I hid in the darkness of our room.
I cycled through various therapists, hearing different diagnoses — from sensitivity to creative phases. The medication I was prescribed became a double-edged sword, leaving me trapped in a cycle of dependency and despair.
I crafted stories filled with loss, only to be met with critiques about their darkness. My writing peers didn’t understand my experiences, nor did they appreciate the depth of my narratives.
There were times when I felt utterly lost, crying on busy streets and in subway cars, grappling with the weight of prescribed medications and their side effects. I learned to wear a mask, appearing composed on the outside while crumbling within.
As I approached forty, I faced a severe bout of clinical depression, which led to a reevaluation of my life. The medication stabilized me, but it also forced me to confront the realities I had long avoided. I shed the mask and began to embrace my true self, recognizing that normalcy is a fleeting concept.
At forty-eight, I finally embraced my identity — a woman passionate about words and storytelling. I learned to own my truths, my feelings, and the parts of me that others might not understand. Even in solitude, I found strength in authenticity over conformity.
Sometimes, I use humor to cope with the darkness, sharing jokes that lighten the burden of depression. I don’t seek validation from a crowd; instead, I cherish the simple joys — cooking for loved ones and exploring new places.
I navigate the complex emotions tied to my late mother, realizing that love can be both beautiful and painful. I accept that my understanding of love and home may always be a work in progress.
So if you find yourself labeled as "too much," it might just be a reflection of others' discomfort. Embrace your life fully — shout your truth and let your spirit soar.