2/24/25

Genuine struggle is a difficult thing to manifest the words to accurately explain. For the last three years, there have been only a handful of times in which the posts I've made were not accompanied by the thought of "Aw gee I hope this doesn't sound too bitchy". My blog is very important to me, and, in many ways, is my most authentic form of expression I've ever created. Writing - for me - has such a special place in my heart because of its authenticity, and the way writing disallows one to hide their genuine thoughts while dictating mind to paper - or screen. As a result, I am often stricken with the decision of how genuine I'm actually trying to make it. Whether or not I can say a certain thing, or express a specific thought, without worrying about what someone reading it will think of me has been more difficult than any of my alternative artistic outlets and their own struggles with the idea of perception. 

Within the next month, I will conclude the cumulation of the last years of my academia; my capstone show. Despite coming to a realization within those years that the study I chose leads me into an industry I am not overly enthused about the prospect of joining, I equally cannot deny the passion and enthusiasm I have for the craft itself. Fashion has shown me an aspect of life that I fear I would not have attained in any other study, and as much as it has taught me who I do not wish to be, it has also shared with me the some of the truest reflections of myself, my identity, and my made-family that I will ever attain. My capstone represents this aspect of respect, and artistic expression that I wish to present. A finale in which I can show to all those around me who I am, what I've done, and what my voice in an artistic field is. Writing varies very little from these principles. Just as one does not step into the fashion industry and garner the opportunities of John Galliano and Thom Browne, attaining true artistic expression and creativity right off the jump, one joining an industry of writers will certainly have to pay their fair share of dues before their opinion, experiences, or words in general, hold any merit more than scribbles to fill up the page adjacent to a skin-care advertisement. So, as capstone is to my perspective of the fashion industry, this blog is to writing. My one piece of art that is in its entirety unscathed by a constant onslaught of opinions and degrading remarks; a true representation of myself.

 On one hand, this leads me down the path of believing that the best thing I can do with this blog is to be the most genuine version of myself I can be, and for the most part, I have been. Though not going as in-depth as I would having a conversation with a close friend, nor nowhere near as detailed as I am in my journal, my blog gets the edited versions of the same thought processes. I write about my thoughts on mental health and friendship, dating, and style, all the things that I think about when staring out a window on a long car ride or think about so extensively at night that I end up needing to feel my heartbeat until I have to force myself to think about something else. This blog has tracked the last three years of my life, noting some of the most impactful events, and likewise, the most depressing episodes. But with that authenticity comes a significant amount of anxiety. As much as I want to be someone who doesn't care about what others think, much less what they have to say about it, I really and truly care a lot. And like all other forms of expression, this blog has seen more turmoil and second-guessing than any other outlet in my life. The downside is, unlike a garment for one of my classes, or a painting I make in my free time, I share these blogs publicly, and regularly, to the point that, three years in, I hold myself to a president that I don't in any other avenues of my life. It got to a point where I started making myself not post if I had nothing to say, because I began to notice a pattern of very un-noteworthy thoughts being shared, which neither I, nor my three friends who read them, were very proud of. 

At the forefront of my mind during every single thing I share with those around me, is whether or not I am happy with it. Despite the constant fear of ridicule, I do possess enough pride that, on the rare occurrence that I am a fan of what I've made, I can disregard most negative comments. However, unlike garment construction, painting, drawing, cooking, or any of those strange artistic mediums those without enough attention in their youth delve into, writing is something that can depend entirely on the mindset one finds oneself in when attempting to do it. One week, I can sit down in front of my laptop, coffee to the left, and vape to the right, and knock out a 2,500-word essay about nautical-themed bathrooms which I confidently post the following morning. However, let's say, for instance, between posting that blog, and the following weekend, I get a text from someone I wish I hadn't, or fall into an argument with a friend, or simply wake up feeling like my skin itself is uncomfortable to be in. By the time I once again find myself sitting at my desk ready to spare anywhere between 5-8 hours drafting, revising, writing, and posting, every thought in my head is entirely taken up by the mood I'm in, as well as how natural it came to me just one week ago, and how hair-pulling-ly difficult it feels today. My typical response to such writer's block is to sacrifice the schedule for the sake of production; I refuse to post something I feel is not good enough to post, let alone expecting anyone else to read it. But on a rare occasion, when such a mindset lasts beyond an amount of time I feel is understandable without getting any writing done, I settle for posting something that aligns with what runs through my mind on a regular basis. 

Publicly sharing feelings and opinions on mental health is not an easy feat, especially when navigating a gut-wrenching fear of being thought of as a crybaby. On rare occasions, I've written little excerpts about a certain feeling, or emotional response that I feel I tuned quite nicely, however, it becomes more difficult when trying to extrapolate how a blog will be perceived when the same thing is written but from the lens of a personal experience. For someone who set out to write a blog about my life, and the things I think about, the scarier, or rather, most nerve-racking blogs revolve almost exclusively around doing exactly that. I can be "genuine" about my thoughts on a collection, or an event that once took place, but when I involve myself in the equation, it feels too personal, as if a blog set entirely around me and self-indulgence is fine, but addressing that fact is too much ego for one person. The most frustrating aspect of this dilemma is that it is entirely, 100% my problem. I'm the one keeping myself to the schedule, the one who had the idea for a blog in the first place, the one holding myself to high standards on everything but grammar, and yet I continue to do so on a weekly basis. The only issue is, despite having a place in which detailing my headspace is perfectly fine, and when no professional help is being given, therapeutic, I know not-so-deep down that nobody wants to read a blog about struggling while it is occurring. It becomes mopey, self-deprecating, and bitchy no matter how hard I attempt to avoid doing so. And though in most instances I find myself being perfectly fine with appearing like a mopey, self-deprecating bitch, when it comes to a form of art that I want to share, and not feel embarrassed by later down the line, I can't help but know that I can - and need to - do better. 

There was little point to this blog post. I was sitting on the shuttle to Tempe the other day, quite honestly thinking of nothing other than how bad of a mood I had been in for the last few weeks, and wondering what the most rational way to get the weight of keeping that inside, something I've never been keen nor fond of doing, off my shoulders. I was considering how, in the past, I've taken to this blog, to bitch and moan about the mood I was in, the reason it was occurring, concluding in nearly nothing other than saying "And that's that" and calling it a day. But in certain spaces, expressing the complexity of "feelings" in general is an incredibly difficult thing to do without simply framing oneself as a victim of all circumstances. This blog is definitely one of those spaces, and what's more, I don't necessarily have the capacity to discuss certain emotions without becoming a double beat and conversating on things I've already discussed too extensively. At this point in my blog, I've exuded almost every conversation I can have without writing what would essentially be journal entries about my week, something I already did in 2022, and stopped doing because of the immature nature of sharing it. So as the shuttle went on, I mulled over this dilemma, attempting to remedy what my response would be, and whether or not I could make a blog out of it. I decided that, in keeping with the theme of authenticity, I would write exactly what I was thinking about the blog itself. How I'm handling the navigation of "professional" writing with not-so-professional concepts and an even less professional mind, how I don't take the blog seriously, but I hold myself to quite serious standards. And though I won't assume this was successful, or even enjoyable, I do hope that it could be entertaining.