Frist Post?

I haven't been reading blogs for long. Actually I just started reading them this year. I just kept thinking, "Jeez, I'd like to do that!"
Of course, being Ms. Not Together, I also wonder why anybody would read anything I would have to write.
But, ya know, I've spent too much of my life being afraid of what people would think of me. It's providence, I happened onto this while trying to get to one of my regular blogs. I love to write, even it's about nothing.


So, I guess I should introduce myself. I've now spent more of my life depressed than not. I'm on 100mg of Zoloft (formularies bite!) that I don't think is working (well not as well as Lexapro - nonformulary). My first depression was from the prerequisite traumatic event in third grade - I had a teacher who spanked me for not finishing my work (even though my mother told her the best way to teach me - I didn't learn the way everyone else did - she got the "Are you a teacher?" routine) - until I was about 20/21. Depression in itself being self-defeating, I gained weight. Yeah, fat AND SHY. No, I take that back, I went waaaay beyond just being shy (and I swear nobody understands). I had RULES (Don't speak unless spoken to...Don't look anybody in the eye, that you don't have to...if you're friendly with someone in one particular place, but you see them in an alternate place, don't acknowledge them - they might not want to talk to you...etc)! Needless to say, I kind of coasted (ghosted?) through school. I got out of elementary school knowing no math at all. Mama and Daddy didn't have a clue as to how to deal with me (this was the late '60s). And I idolized my sister - she was perfection to me. I was different. The list goes something like this:
I was fat/they were thin (Daddy wasn't really thin though)
I have green eyes/they have brown
I'm shy/they're outgoing
They're smart/I'm...not
Oh, and I'm a blond/My sister and Mama had brown hair (Daddy white)
I tried to do everything my sister did, she being my ideal. Yeah, that didn't really work out. Now there were some things I did for myself. I took piano lessons (recitals were killers). I did take ballet for a while, but Mama and Daddy couldn't afford it (it was around the time my aunt was getting divorced from her worthless-ass, abusive husband (and I'm still glad he's dead)and my Grandma was living with us, too, I think). And I read almost anything put in front of me. But the things I did for myself, it's like they didn't count. I can't really explain the things in my child's depressed mind. There's no logic to it. I hated myself.