My writing projects begin with fear. I am fearful of the words I use. I am scared of the editing process. I am most fearful of putting myself into a world, which values aesthetically beautiful art. I think I have something to say; I just don’t know how to rally massive amounts of people to make my work go viral. But I love to write and I healed deep wounds by reading other people’s stories. I hope someday these stories can heal others.

I found these journal entries. I was a junior in college.

November 23, 2015:
So, today is an interesting day. I was able to get a prescription for my depression and anxiety. It’s so weird to think about all these things that I’m doing. It’s so scary to think about what I’m going to do when I get on this medication. Hopefully, it will get better. I hope that things end up working out.

My life has vital messy parts. My mess lives in my brain. Anxiety and depression medication made my brain less of a mess. Using medication was a cute bandaid on a third-degree burn; medication was not enough to cure my illness. I simply became a stable, somber person.

November 24, 2015:
Today is an interesting day. Today will be the first day that I start my medication. I haven’t told anyone about my illness. I also joined Facebook again. I sort of disconnected myself from friends and what not. I need to have a better support network. I don’t know. I feel really sad all the time. It’s kind of crazy that I feel sad all the time. I hope that this medication can help keep my emotions in check.

I go through periods of canceling all of my social media profiles. I envy friends and strangers on Instagram with their expensive trips to Europe or thirst-trap pics of voluminous body parts. Most of all, relationships with online friends was not enough to fill a deep ache in my heart: I craved meaningful relationships where I could authentically be myself. Most of all, I wanted to share how trapped I felt with all of my sinful behaviors.

My therapist knew the true story of how compulsive sexual encounters satiated my thirst for deep love. Ultimately, I never let myself get to close to people because it was easier to friend people from afar instead of deal with the betrayal or disappointment in any relationship. This unhealthy view of relationships formed when I was a child.

I don’t know how to describe life as a young Navajo child. I want to dig deep inside my memory box and find all of the times I cried, laughed, or escaped. There are too many painful images locked away in my mind’s library. In this midst of my pain, I became self-absorbed. My self-centered nature conceived little defense mechanisms to alleviate my psychological aches: I developed few friendships and hoped adulthood would be better. Oh how I was wrong and right about being an adult.

“It’s funny: I always imagined when I was a kid that adults had some kind of inner toolbox full of shiny tools: the saw of discernment, the hammer of wisdom, the sandpaper of patience. But then when I grew up I found that life handed you these rusty bent old tools - friendships, prayer, conscience, honesty - and said ‘do the best you can with these, they will have to do’. And mostly, against all odds, they do.”
― Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith

Where do we go to heal ourselves? Where do we go to find peace? Where do we go to find chaos?

My memories from life’s beginning to the current cruel reality overwhelmed me. I want to heal, but feel like I only moved 2 steps forward over a 10-year timeframe. I want to remember the past but something blocks me from remembering key moments. Most of all, I remember moments from my past, but I often fail to see the beauty in painfully slow growth. I wish my younger self knew earlier the powerlessness everyone feels, but hides.

Control is not part of a childhood’s life. It is bumpy road with zits, poopy pants, and buck teeth. What has itched inside my brain are the gatherings with family. Rides to school with mom. Drives to Burger King or McDonalds with grandma. Walks to the video store to rent princess movies and buy spicy Dill pickles. All of these memories are the last remnants of a sacred and profane childhood on a Native American reservation.

This is my truth: I have control issues. I am stubborn. I am impatient. I am obnoxiously proud. I repeat behaviors. I am an addict.

Isolation killed the child in me, and I’m turning to the Supreme Creator for help. I need help. I try to pray when I remember. I’m slowly building relationships, even if it’s still painful.

“Prayer is talking to something or anything with which we seek union, even if we are bitter or insane or broken. (In fact, these are probably the best possible conditions under which to pray.) Prayer is taking a chance that against all odds and past history, we are loved and chosen, and do not have to get it together before we show up. The opposite may be true: We may not be able to get it together until after we show up in such miserable shape.”
― Anne Lamott, Help Thanks Wow: Three Essential Prayers