Exposure

My blog is a lifestyle blog, meaning the content is about my life (which can be pretty interesting from time to time). However, there is still a certain degree in which I can expose my life to the internet. There are times when I want to speak out on everything that has happened in the past week and I can’t. Or maybe I can? Quite frankly, the internet (or Interweb, as I like to call it) is a scary place to expose yourself to. Naturally, being a part of the Millennial generation, thinking that you are exposing yourself to the internet is a weird notion. After all, most teenagers have at least three social media accounts (i.e Facebook, Twitter, Instagram) that all hold little pieces of information about their personal lives. If someone really wanted to, they could probably track you down in an instant! Isn’t that frightening to think of?

But no, we are a new age generation– the internet is a fun play thing that is used to show off your ‘perfect’ lives. Never is it seen as a dangerous space where anything could be manipulated and used as black mail. Perhaps I am just paranoid, or perhaps I’m right.

I was prompted to write about the experiences in my life by my lovely boyfriend yesterday. However, I am terrified that I will upset someone if I write about their experiences. And there are definitely some experiences that do not need to be shared. But maybe if I can leave enough details out then it wouldn’t be so bad?

Lately I’ve been avoiding sleeping at home. It’s a terrible mess and I tend to go through bouts of depression every now and again when I’m by myself. I hate that I need to be so dependent on socializing in order to be happy, because I don’t like people most of the time. I guess that’s how it’s going to be.

Among other things, I also hate going home by myself. This isn’t a critical thing for my mental health, it’s just a want. Walking the streets of Washington Heights by yourself is practically the same and having a sign above your head stating , “Please whistle at me like I’m a dog, it’ll make me feel so much better about myself”.

When I first moved to the city there was so much excitement that I couldn’t contain myself. Ever since I moved upstate with my parents, I have been dying to move back. Even being an hour away, everything I knew was there: friends, family, church. Every weekend we would take the car down to the city, peering out onto the hills that were along side the one we were driving down. It wasn’t the city itself that I loved, it was the expression of freedom. Public transportation was the main factor that made me want to go back so bad! Finally, there were more activities other than going to lame house parties and sitting around watching movies all day.

After I spent my first week alone in the City, I didn’t even want to go outside. All the excitement and freedom could only be reached by trekking through blocks of grown men staring and occasionally speaking Spanish in my direction about how “sexy” I looked that day. As a person who prided herself in confidence and not caring what others said upstate, I felt defeated. Slowly my wardrobe changed, the way I carried myself changed, and my snarky attitude changed along with it. Instead of the usual witty comeback and devilish grin that would follow, I found myself bowing my head and clinging to my bag.

Comments of “You’ll get use to it, give it time” only made me angry. Maybe it was because all of the anger that would usually be directed to onlookers was now bottled up and bursting at the seams. All I could think of is how I shouldn’t have to get use to it, and how I was pretty sure it was sexual assault.

But, I did get use to it. And thinking about how I promised myself I wouldn’t just makes me angry about it now. The City was suppose to be my place for freedom and self expression, instead it became my cage.

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