So today I was setting up an account at a professional networking kind of website and they asked me when did I start with Web Design. My memory obviously sucks, so I had no idea. I went to look for clues about it on the one website I used to have absolutely everything documented: deviantArt.
I posted journals there very often a few years ago, really treated it like a diary. It’s a little sad to see how active I was back then, considering the place is kind of a ghost town right now. Either way…
I start going through my old journals. I mean three, four years old. Man, I was so full of energy back then. People think I’m a spazz nowadays? It’s nothing compared to that old self of mine. There was so much joy and energy in my posts, so much optimism, so many emotes everywhere. I could sense how naive I was, how hopeful I was, how… determined I was. It hit me like a truck.
I’ve really changed so much.
I continue going through the posts. “This girl is unbelievable”, I think to myself, as if the Rosie from four years ago was a completely different person (and honestly, that’s almost what it felt like). I can’t look away now, I’m too caught up in this. I keep on reading, trying to get a taste of all that joy and energy, as if reading through the memories would let me grasp at them and never let go.
Then I get there. I honestly should have stopped reading when I had the chance. A big break up, some disappointments with “friends”, a major life change. I start seeing the first, subtle little signals of depression show up. Damn, has it really started that far back? The posts become less and less joyful, more “cold” and “mature” overall. It was so fast.
I catch myself yelling at my mind. “No, stop. Please don’t let it happen. She was so happy and joyful, please”. It was like watching a movie, a terrible thing happen, and being able to do nothing. At some point I was just hoping the journals would keep their joyful course forever, hoping that Rosie would never change; she’d still be a happy dreamy Rosie in a different universe. Maybe she could be a different person, anyway.
Nope. I read up to the point where I saw myself drift away from the journals. I know what happens next.
I guess we all grow up. My friend said, “no one is exactly the same they were when they were a teenager, that’s natural”. That’s true. We mature, I guess. Life teaches us the hard way that things are rough, and will continue being rough. It beats the joy and the hope out of you and shows you ugly, ugly things until you’re no longer surprised by them.
It’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’ve learned a lot of things about myself during the last five years, and if I’m a completely different person, this is the real me. A tougher, but also weaker; maybe colder, but definitely determined, only in a different way. Stripped off from all the promises, the lies, the expectation. The ugly, broken, grey little me.