Forty-Something Years in Ninaland


Dear Diary…


Dear Diary,

I don’t usually write in a diary because I think people will read it when I am dead and assume asinine things about me. I’d rather write where everyone can read it while I’m alive, and still think asinine things about me. At least I have control over what people see.

Just a disclaimer: this is not a real diary entry. I’m editing it as we speak. Is it because I have stuff I want to hide? Hell yeah!

The question is, can I speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

Hell No!

I’m not on trial, I will lie and cover-up stuff if I have to, in order to keep my image the way I want it.

This is not real. If you want to stop reading I understand. Think of this as a fictional diary. If I were the person that I dream of being, this is what she would write in her diary:

My body image is in the toilet. I’m fat. I hate that word, I want to say curvy or curvaceous or pleasantly plump. But let’s face it, I’m fucking fat.

If I don’t do something about it, my self esteem is going to follow my body image down the drain. I still like myself enough and think I’m relatively cool, but in all honesty if you gave me the choice of a million dollars or becoming thin, I would choose thin every time.

That’s how crazy I am. Speaking of crazy, why do I still get bouts of depression? I’m on two anti-depressants and a mood stabilizer. Before you judge, please note that I do have Bipolar Disorder, so I have to be medicated. And who are you to judge anyways?

I can’t stand the superiority of those who have never taken any meds to help their brain. They will take their blood pressure and heart medication in a heart beat, but they don’t ever wonder that maybe their brain is causing these heart problems. I’m not saying everyone should be on anti-depressants, even though pretty everyone is. I’m just saying that no one should judge another for their ailments, whether psychological or physical.

Besides just taking pills will not cure you, I’ve learned that. I have to cure myself. I might be depressed sometimes because of body image issues, lack of a partner, and an unsteady career. I don’t think any of those things are the root of the problem though. The real problem is I don’t really love myself.

How does one love oneself? If I knew I might try it. I guess the question is, how do we love other people? We just do. These people that we love can be complete idiots, but we love them anyways. There are a few complete fools that I love.

If I can love a fool I guess I can love myself.

Would I want to be my own friend? I think so. I think I might really like me if I were someone else. How about I be someone else for a minute, and look at myself from that perspective? What do you think of nina?

She can be funny and she is kind. Underneath it all, I’m a nice person. There is nothing not to like about nice people. Yes, I can be a bitch with the best of them, but that’s mostly a defense mechanism I use when I’m angry. You can ask my mom what a bitch I am, she won’t tell you but she knows.

I guess if I were my own mother I would really love me. I should think of myself as my own child. “It’s going to be OK,” I would say to myself. The older me should talk to the younger me. Like when I’m eighty I will want to have reached out to this forty-year old woman and tell her it all worked out in the end. It was a good ride. Life is beautiful.

At least I hope that’s what she says. I hope she’s not bitter and unhappy. I have to make sure that the older me is at peace. How will I do that?

I guess I have to find some sort of love for myself and peace now. I don’t want to be a cranky old decrepit woman…OMG am I decrepit cranky old woman already?

Who am I?

I am not that person, I’m nice, remember? I’m good and kind and loving.

I better practice this happiness bullshit or my life is going to be a living hell. And I want Heaven.


Image courtesy of dan at

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 October 6th, 2015  
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