Dear Instagram

Forever hiding from myself.

You asked me to provide a blurb of my life. In fact, you asked for “my story.”
I find it very presumptuous of you to assume my life is a black & white prologue that can be summarized in a quaint sentence or two. I suppose it would make for a nice accompaniment to my many dope dog photos. Anyways, this seemingly innocuous suggestion put me in a bit of a funk this afternoon.
Here’s why. Instagram is my ‘good side’. My pseudo-artsy photos taken with my beat-up iPhone 4 usually consist of a dog or two looking off into the distance. Super thought-provoking, yes? But I chose against posting a photo of my recent wisdom tooth extraction, which was a direct result of my embarrassing high-sugar diet. I couldn’t find a cool enough filter to justify uploading that. Or if you could've seen me two nights ago, in the midst of a minor temper tantrum because I had misplaced the $10 bill I had just set aside to spend on my coffee date with Natasha Craig. For some reason, I don’t want the world to know I’m human, therefore I come with some undesirable emotions. I can get irrationally angry and I have very childlike tendencies. But you already knew that.
I’m so exhausted of self-criticism. I’ve spent far too long comparing my life and the mistakes I’ve made to someone else’s vacation photos. The truth is, I’ve had a rough few years. And you know what else? That’s totally f*****g fine.
I’m ok. You’re ok too.
I’ve wasted countless hours (dare I say, years?) berating myself for the years I was in active addiction. These days I’m sober as a the day I was born, but that’s not what I focus on. Maybe I enjoy indulging in my misery, I don’t really know, but I can only see the hurt I caused other people, the guilt, the shame, the physical damage I endured. I just decided that I don’t particularly enjoy self-abuse, and it’s going to stop.
I got into some very bad, extremely stupid s**t when I was 22 years old. I thought I’d finally found the solution to my self-hatred, my social anxiety, and all my silly insecurities. It felt like love to me. It felt like acceptance & belonging. That was the dangerous feeling I became addicted to. The drugs were artificial love I could buy whenever the hell I needed it. Which was apparently quite often. But here I am, less than 2 weeks away from my 29th birthday, and I just flat-out refuse to spend one more minute of my precious time dehumanizing myself. I will no longer tell myself that I am unworthy of love from other people or myself. I deserve good things. We all deserve good things.
Addiction is not a moral-failing. Neither are mental-health issues. And you don’t have to suffer from either of these to be a warrior. Life can be brutal at times, but I wouldn’t change anything that’s happened in my life for any different outcome. It’s taken a long time for me to be able to say that with confidence. Eventually you find out that your friends and family love you for you. And that is all-encompassing. They don’t love you in spite of your dark side. That is part of you. They know your light and they know your dark and they choose to be a part of it. All of it.
So remember that, if you're anything like me and feel like you're constantly disappointing people and pushing people away with your capriciousness. You’re going to have to accept the fact that people are around you because you’re good. You’re worth all of it.
I don’t know your story. But I know you’ve gone through a lot to become the person you are right now. So be kind to yourself, and go eat some pie or something.
P.S. I have nothing against instagram.
LOVE Emily.