Embroidered Floral Sweater (similar): Thrifted.
White Blouse (similar to mine with the crochet!): Forever21.
Black Skinny Jeans: Target.
Silver Oxfords (nearly identical + I need these next!: Thrifted.
Often times I'll sit for a good while contemplating what to write about in a blog post to go along with an outfit. It's been hard for me to come up with anything of substance lately to write about, and I think that's partly the reason that I've avoided blogging for this past month.
In my personal journals I've found it incredibly easy to write about various thoughts and happenings occurring in my life. It used to be the opposite. I found I could write on my blog what I could not seem to find the words for on paper. Something about the way my finger tips could fly over the keys to keep up with my thoughts versus painstakingly forcing my cramped hand to write faster...All of those years writing for 'an audience' though has made me much more bashful about the things I write about. I would "lash out" in my writing because I felt like it was the only way I could get others to understand me, but now that I understand myself so much better I find there's no need to do that.
It was interesting the other day. I've been cleaning out my room to prep for my graduation this spring and my eventual move out of my parent's home. I came across some journals I wrote when I was much younger. My sister thought they'd be hilariously entertaining to read, so she read them out loud to me as I sorted through forgotten treasures of my childhood. Even though she seemed to smirk and laugh at what I had written as a confused 12,13, and 14 year old it struck me as very powerful. I didn't realize or remember at such a young age that I had been so....discontented with myself. I realized early on about the oddities of my personality that set me a part from other kids. Extreme emotionalness, intense need to be alone, and a mind with too many thoughts to sort out one direction from another. I thought these aspects of my personality hadn't formed until my high school years (where I vividly remember suffering through dealing with these issues), but hadn't realized they stemmed so far back in my childhood. I'm sure they go back even further, I just don't have documentation of it.
There was something so comforting in this. Sometimes I think my personality has been a mixture of learned habits and societal shapings along the way, but I don't believe that so much now. I think innately I was born to be a very independent, emotionally led, empathetic, thoughtful, and well, strange person. Although comforting to recognize the innately consistent fundamentals of my personality, it brings about a sadness in me. Well, a sort of sadness for my younger self. I'm very thankful that at 22 I've learned to accept and cope with the various facets of my personality, but I'm reminded of the many, many years I didn't know how. I felt so strange and alone, and even as a child I think that sometimes as a child I may have been depressed because there's no explanations like, "well Lauren, you're a highly sensitive person," or "actually Lauren, you act the way you do because you're an infj." There's no answers as a child why you don't feel normal and being too young to understand your own self, you cant even compromise that there may be others like you possibly out there, too.
Just wish I could go back to 13 year old Laur and tell her to write more and not be afraid to feel what she feels. It's her strength; not her weakness.
With much love, Lauren.
