1. Medication. 2. Petrichor: the aroma of damp earth, the promise of sun. 3. Dogs. Big boofers, li'l snappers, tiny puppers who mewl like kittens; ankle-biters, police heroes, arm-wrigglers, lap-hoggers. All of them. 4. Gabby's laugh (especially when she snorts). 5. Books. All the passages I have committed to memory--"all is well, and all is well, and all shall be well"--all the characters I strive to emulate, all the millions of pages I still have to read and experience for the first time. The knowledge that I'll never read them all; the decision to try anyway. 6. Fire. Candle flame. 7. Too-hot, too-long baths. Emerging wrinkled and victorious, like an elderly mermaid. 8. Harry Potter World. Memories of stepping into Hogsmeade for the first time and crying, and Cori going dead silent before finally telling me to calm down. 9. Smiling at people who pass me on the sidewalk. 10. Not smiling at people who tell me to smile. 11. Playing peek-a-boo with staring babies on the train. 12. The pull of the full moon. 14. Therapy. 15. Screaming into the void on social media. Being comfortable with the echoes. Smiling when someone shouts back. 16. Playing video games badly. Stressing Rob and Kara and Jordan out when we’d sit on the futon and play that one Mario game, in which I would inevitably push everyone off an iceberg. Being begrudgingly forgiven. 17. My mom’s hugs. The smell of her lotion. The shade of blue she’ll always wear (it matches her eyes). 18. Searing loneliness. The heat of it, like embarrassment, like fear. Recognizing it as the opportunity to take my own hand. 19. The music of good prose. 20. Music. 21. Vinegary red wines, saccharine whites. 22. Blowing bubbles, and chasing them. 23. Vivid lipsticks in unnatural hues. Wearing them, staring at them. 24. Crying so hard that I think I’ll never stop. Stopping. 25. Rachael coming over and scooping my laundry into the machine when I haven’t been able to for weeks. 26. The spa clients who come in every week. Making them laugh. 27. Making anyone laugh. 28. Making people laugh when I’ve never even seen them smile. 29. Dreaming. Creating memories of events that never really happened. 30. My high school friends posting sporadically to our private Facebook group. Their successes that I’m able to view on my computer screen. 31. Sweating glasses of iced chai tea lattes. 32. Craning my head back to marvel at the buildings stretching towards infinity. 33. Standing on stage and thinking that I’ll never be this happy, this pure, ever again. 34. Being that happy, that pure, in the next show, and the next. 35. Rage. Embracing anger that makes my heart stutter and my hands shake. Unleashing it into action that helps instead of hurts. 36. My dad figuring out how to FaceTime; his wide-eyed grin when his face flickers into view. 37. Netflix. 38. Screaming at the ceiling when I can’t force myself into movement. 39. The ocean. The thrum of the tide in my blood. Imagining sailing under a full moon until I fall asleep. 40. Shimmery signs of God, or the Universe, or something beyond us all. The sometimes reluctant quest to determine what it means to me. 41. Perfume. Warm and spicy scents that linger at the wrist. Glass bottles on my shelf refracting light. 42. Buffy the Vampire Slayer. 43. My cat stretching her paws in her sleep. 44. The people who choose to love me over and over and over again. The friends and family I see regularly, and those who I carry in my heart until we meet again. 45. Seeing my grandpas in my sleep. Asking them to stay with me a little longer. 46. Swinging at the park. Throwing my head back, kicking the sky, the rush of adrenaline and comfort and fear. 47. Creating things. Using my hands and my words and my voice and my heart. 48. Grief. Keeping it locked in the basement; every now and then, feeding it worms. 49. The uncertainty of the future. Letting fear and curiosity mingle. Resolving to stick around to watch what unfolds. 50. Knowing that everything is temporary. Cupping life in my hands like water until it slips between my fingers. And then the rain fills them once again.
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Let me open with a confession: I was a selfie hater. Back in the MySpace days, and the early Facebook days (or, at least, the early days for my age group, the members of which were commanded not to join until college), selfies were first being snapped at a dizzying pace. I became well-acquainted with the various facial expressions of people I barely knew--or, in some cases, a severe lack of expressions. There were a few standbys, of course. The Duck Face. The Serious Face. The Staring-Off-Into-The-Distance Face. The I'm-Craning-My-Neck-at-an-Unnatural-Angle-and-it-Kind-of-Hurts Face. I missed when people just smiled, or were caught in candid pictures by their friends, or awkward pictures with their family. Selfies were staged, so it followed--at least to me--that people who took selfies were fake. My perception of selfies was colored by several important facts. One: I rode a high horse throughout middle school and high school. I was such a teacher's pet that my freshman year, when our teacher didn't show up to class, I demanded we go to the office and report it. My fellow classmates threatened to tie me up with the projector extension cord. I was the Piggy in our scholastic Lord of the Flies, if Piggy had also happened to be kind of a pretentious snob. My sense of moral superiority kept me away from several things that I honestly didn't need--no drinking! no sex! no drugs!--but also made me look down on more trivial things, like selfies, and enjoying a 50-minute World History class without adult supervision. Two: as we've covered in past posts, I suffered from an utter lack of self-esteem (still an issue, but instead of "utter," it's now at least leveled-up [or down, I guess] to "extreme.") Scrolling through MySpace, I thought that the majority of selfie-takers were the blonde, thin, gorgeous girls at school who I outwardly scorned and secretly envied. Just because I was an outsider didn't mean I always wanted to be. I desperately wanted to be more blonde and gorgeous, less mousey and Drama Club president. Every morning when I first woke up, I would keep my eyes shut and think, When I open my eyes, I'm going to have long black hair and piercing blue eyes and weigh 90 pounds and be an aristocrat in the 19th century and be anywhere but here and anyone but me. I would repeat it over and over, like a prayer, until I almost believed it. And then I would open my eyes, and my reality rudely remained. I hated my face. I hated my body. Why would I want to document these things for the world to see? What more fuel did I need to give the guys who followed me in the halls and laughed at me? Selfies were for pretty, fun people, and in my mind, I was neither. Three: I honestly never really had a good phone camera. If you've been on the Internet lately, you've probably noticed that selfies have resurfaced with a vengeance. There are still some duck faces and uncomfortable-looking head tilts (and like if that's your thing you go ahead and make the BEST DAMN DUCK FACE EVER), but many selfies also dazzle with genuine smiles and palpable confidence. So, my friends, let's explore: can selfies be self-care? My friend Alicia thinks so. Alicia, as you can see, takes a damn good selfie. Alicia also approached me about writing this post. She wrote, "I'd love to get your take on selfie culture and being able to publicly acknowledge that you like your own appearance. I'm happy that people (especially young women) are starting to break free from the mandate that they have to deny compliments about their appearance. Not without backlash, though, of course. And songs with lyrics like, 'You don't know you're beautiful, and that's what makes you beautiful.'" That seems to be the major argument for selfies as self-care: they allow one to recognize the beauty of their own appearance, and to invite others to notice it, as well. High school me would have found that concept selfish. Present me loves the idea of people celebrating themselves--both internally and externally. Publicly posting a picture of oneself looking fly as hell isn't a scarlet A for Arrogance; it's a declaration of self-love, self-appreciation, and, often, mind-boggling makeup skills. (For real, someone please teach me how to do winged liner on my squinty-squishy eyelids.) Conversely, I do believe that selfie-taking can be just as destructive to one's ego as it is empowering. The notion that a selfie has to be perfect remains pervasive, thanks to the Kim Kardashian West's and 15-year-old Instagram model/singer-songwriter/Internet celebrities of the world. I don't want to judge these women--I hope that their selfie-taking makes them feel confident and empowered, too. However, I can imagine that the pressure to look perfect is just as devastating for them as it is for the rest of us. As I've started taking selfies, I've sometimes spent 20 minutes in my bathroom holding the phone at various angles and smiling less and less to reduce the wrinkles around my eyes. Instead of celebrating my appearance, I instead am given free reign to note my every flaw, taking photo after photo and using filter after filter to alter my face. Just as makeup can be used for self-harm--as a way to disguise and diminish, rather than enhance and embolden--taking selfies can also morph into a self-deprecating act. But I've started taking more selfies. I've love-emoji'd so many of my friends's that it felt weird to not take some myself. I've taken them to show off new hairstyles and makeup application, sure, but sometimes, I take them just because I want to look at my face, and want others to look at it, too. I like how long my eyelashes are. I like my freckles, especially when they pop out in the sun. I like how expressive my face is, and how many expressions I can achieve with just my eyebrows. Sometimes, yes, I get wrapped up in the pursuit of perfection, and can only notice how much weight I've gained and how weird my nose is and why can't I ever make my eyebrows look #onfleek... But I figure if I love so many other bodies and faces, I suppose there is something to be loved about my own. Especially since I'm going to be looking at it for literally the rest of my life. In conclusion, I guess, you should love your face and take pictures of it because you're stuck with it for eternity. *~SOUNDOFF, Y'ALL~*
I feel guilty a lot. About everything. It's how I'm wired. Blame it on my Catholic upbringing, blame it on my anxiety and utter lack of self-esteem, blame it on the fact that I didn't start going to therapy until my sophomore year of college. Whatever. If something happens, and I am somehow involved (whether intimately or by six degrees of separation), I feel responsible, and if something goes wrong, I feel guilty. And then I feel guilty about feeling guilty, because feeling responsible means I'm narcissistic, right, because who do I think I am to think that everything revolves around me? Feeling guilty is a habit. It's addicting. My therapist Lara would insert an explanation here of neural pathways and how negative thought patterns loop around and around and around in your brain until they happen automatically. If you're like me, then if someone makes a comment about their own misfortune--"I failed my test yesterday," or "I didn't get any sleep last night," or "I feel really sad"--your brain immediately offers an explanation of how the situation is your fault. I should have helped them study! I shouldn't have stayed up so late texting them! I should be a better friend! "Shoulds" are the tinder that keep guilt burning in the pit of the stomach--and the flame is a hard one to put out. I feel guilty about a lot of things, big and small. Sometimes that guilt serves a purpose, helps me rectify a situation, or swallow my pride and apologize for a wrongdoing. Most times, though, the guilt becomes paralyzing. Instead of realizing that my guilt may be unreasonable, I allow the flames to lick away at my rationality. I made her sad so now she's going to stop being my friend. I was the only one responsible for that breakup so now I'm never going to be in a healthy relationship. I forgot to feed my cat so I will never be able to take care of a human child. The fire swells into an inferno that swallows logic, and only full-blown anxiety seems to be fireproof and emerges unscathed. If feeling guilty all the time sounds exhausting, that's because IT IS, Y'ALL. It brings the gaze so far inward that one goes cross-eyed trying to examine only their own sins. I don't mean to imply that guilt is selfish, but one's reaction to it can be. Mine certainly is. I begin to convince myself that I live in a vacuum, that no one else's decisions or actions matter other than my own. Living with endless guilt, I think, probably feels a lot like Prometheus getting his liver eaten every single day by a hugeass eagle. Even if the guilt over one situation is wrung out, a new guilt or shame will grow almost immediately, and the process will continue in an endless, painful cycle. This is a weird post. I didn't mean to wax poetic (and then attempt humor by saying Y'ALL in all caps and describing a mythical bird of prey as "hugeass"). I felt guilty over not writing a blog post for a while, which morphed into feeling guilty about not helping people, which became guilt over being a failure as a friend and writer and human being. I fanned the flames. Self-care tip for the day, my sweet ones: if it's not serving you, put the trash fire of guilt out. Or, like, try. The fire may be a little match you can pinch out; it could also be a world-consuming conflagration that might take years and years of therapy to even start to extinguish. That's okay. If you feel up to it, start the process. Fill a little watering can with some logic. It could even just be a squirt bottle, for, like, punishing a cat who's eating your plants. That may have been my fault, but I apologized, and I won't let it happen again. That wasn't my fault, so I don't need to beat myself up. That person makes their own decisions. I am allowed to forgive myself. I am not responsible. I apologize for not posting for a while. I hope to post more regularly, because I know people enjoy reading the blog (thanks, y'all are peaches). However, I also know that I've had a lot going on, and not a lot of energy or motivation to write, and that's okay. I don't need to beat myself up about it. I've got a squirt bottle, and I'm not afraid to use it.
Firstly, I'd like to announce that this is the End of the Third Day of my vacation, and I have not yet sustained a life-threatening sunburn. Secondly, I'd like to announce that, while sitting on the beach today, I held a sour cream and cheddar potato chip up to my mouth and apparently invited a seagull to immediately hover six inches from my face, ready to strike, prompting me to yell "I MADE A MISTAKE!!!!!!" and scare the bejeesus out of the frightened children around us until the seagull flew away. I am equally proud of each of these accomplishments. I am less proud of the fact that I'm basking in the glow of sun and surf when, back home, my poor cat is shivering in the winter wind blowing in through my cracked bedroom window. Seeing people brag about their vacations on social media is like seeing all of your friends getting engaged, or getting puppies, or winning the lottery. It feels spiteful. It feels personal. The sensation is as if they're rubbing their love and puppy snuggles and money in your face while you kneel in the ruins of your less-exciting life. If you're currently feeling attacked by my talk of sunburn and seagull encounters, I deeply apologize. I've been there. However, in an inelegant transition, I'd like to propose that you be somewhere, too. And by somewhere, I mean somewhere else. SELF-CARE METHOD: GETAWAY! MOOD RATING, PRE-(This is weird. Like, mood rating today? Or pre-vacation? I'll do pre-vacation)VACATION: like, 2 EMOTIONS: depressed, sad, stuck, angry, anxious, frazzled Now, before you get all excited, I'd like to remind everyone that this is only day four of my blog, and that I don't have the readers and sponsors necessary to give away an all-expenses paid vacation. (Maybe that's some incentive: tell your friends and grandparents and mailpeople to read this blog, and maybe someday I can give away an all-expenses paid vacation!!!! Or maybe like a $8 bottle of wine, or something.) I also am painfully aware that, for many, vacations are impossible. Work schedules are grueling. Life is unforgiving. A vacation isn't a self-care method that can be completed in 15 minutes and obtained for free. However, I do think that there are many different ways to take a vacation. I'm very lucky to be in Florida for a week and to have a flexible enough job to allow me to do that (and a roommate to take care of my cat; thanks, Cass!). For the other 358 days of the year, though, I will most likely be stuck in my city, trying desperately to earn enough money that I don't have to subsist on ramen noodles and self-deprecation. That's when some creativity's gotta be employed. If you can't take a vacation, can you curl up on your couch with a good book, stick an umbrella in your drink, and listen to the Beach Boys? Sure! If you only have a few minutes, can you close your eyes and imagine the crash of the waves, the shrieking of the seagulls, the warmth of the sand against your palms, the touch of the sun upon your face? Darn tootin', you can! I don't intend for this to sound trite; I know that actually laying on a beach beats any pale imitations. However, if you can't afford an actual vacation, a respite from your own mind may be the next best idea. To get away also might not mean leaving the state, or even your own city. On days when I can't stand the thought of staying in my apartment--when I'm about to crawl out of my skin with anxiety--I pack my purse up with a book, a notebook, and my favorite pens, and flee to a coffee shop. Or a diner. Or somewhere where I can get a really good chai latte for really cheap. Being publicly alone can be simultaneously relaxing and thrilling. It feels like a vacation to be in an unfamiliar location, even if it shares my same zipcode, and to be surrounded by unfamiliar people, even if there's a chance I'll bump into them someday on the el. But to get away--to really get away--is a luxurious form of self-care that I'm so glad to be experiencing. Even though it's hot and I'm sweaty and my skin will peel and my SPF 1,000,000 stings my eyes, I am tickled to be in a state where it's 80 degrees in January. To lull myself to sleep, I often imagine that I'm rowing a boat through the ocean, the sky and sea dark as velvet, the moon full and rippling as I disturb its reflection. Today, I stood in the actual ocean, with my arms spread wide in the actual warm salty air, and my depression and anxiety felt a little bit smaller when compared to something so beautiful and vast. Whether you get away to your room, to your favorite restaurant, to a seaside resort, to another country, or even just to a calmer headspace, I hope you get to experience that feeling, too.
Also, you bet your bottom dollar that my next post is going to be a photo dump of Harry Potter World, so start getting away to somewhere that will allow you to mentally handle that. ALRIGHT Y'ALL NOW TALK TO ME
I wrote a post about being too depressed to write a post, and there was a great metaphor about surfing in it, and my prose was really purple and it suited my mood, and then I posted it, and then I realized that my post hadn't fully posted, so I deleted it, and here we are.
I'll write a better post tomorrow. There will be lots of pictures and rainbow font. See you then. It is currently six degrees in my home-sweet-home Chicago. Six. I'm a born and raised Michigander, but not even the Michigan winters could prepare me for the icy hell that is Chicago windchill. The bitter cold, I believe, comes from a combination of the wind from Lake Michigan and a bitter warlock's curse due to his inability to score tickets to Hamilton. When the wind picks up, and it's already six degrees, all a stuck-outside sucker can do is laugh-cry into the scarf that's covering their entire face until their tears freeze their eyes shut. Not that I know this from experience, or anything. Thankfully, I am not currently in Chicago, suckerrrrrrrrrrz!!!! I'm in Florida, baby, the land of primate sanctuaries and Harry Potter World, and where "cold" means 50 degrees, not five. While I left Michigan to go to Chicago, my parents opted instead to move somewhere with ocean breezes instead of lake-effect snow. Personally, I could never live here. As much as I complain about cold weather, I'm even less of a hot weather person. I'm so pale that my skin is brighter and more dangerous to stare at than the sun itself. I'll inevitably have some sort of sun poisoning by the end of the week, and will be longing again for dove-grey skies that promise snow, but at least I'll have SPF 500 sunscreen in my eyes instead of frozen tears and regret.
I couldn't decide what self-care method to talk about today, the first official day of my vacation. Vacation usually means lots of self-care. I'm spending time with my family (and with my dog, Buster Brown, the GOODEST GOOD BOY IN THE WORLD); I'm eating lots of delicious food (and by food I mean wine); I'm sleeping in a warm bed that doesn't have a permanently cracked window behind it. Any of these could have merited a post. Especially Buster Brown. However, as I tossed around ideas this morning, my dad, who would like the world to know that he was a blogger first and is ALSO writing a book, suggested that I write about morning routines. At this, I almost stood up, left the room, and went right back to bed. I hate mornings. I also hate routines. In conclusion, I hate morning routines. I am not a morning person, nor a routine person. I do not enjoy waking up and leaving my bed. I am not fond of squinting at my mortal enemy, the sun, as it vengefully pierces my retinas with its rays. I read of so many people who have elaborate morning routines--exercise followed by a fruit smoothie and tea, then a hot bath and some Kiehl's products and a full hair and makeup routine, and then planning one's entire life and afterlife in a bigass planner with a golden fountain pen and ink one created themselves from a combination of coffee grounds and bath bombs--and I always think, without exception, wow, cool, I would rather be sleeping. No matter how enticing the morning, I would always, always rather be sleeping. (Unless I was in high school and my friends wanted to go to the diner for breakfast before school. I am usually motivated by food, especially if I don't have to cook it myself and it is the house special for under $5.) But, what the hell, I'm on vacation! It was a lazy weekend morning!! I didn't have to wake up and get ready in three-and-a-half minutes because I slept in too late before work!!! So, without further ado: SELF-CARE METHOD: LAZY MORNING ROUTINE MOOD RATING (from 1 to 100, with 1 being the worst): 44 EMOTIONS: exhausted, depressed, unsettled, content, grateful Since I don't usually do mornings, I took plenty of examples from my parents. My mom and dad always eat breakfast; usually, I run out the door and eat about three hours into work. Today, we had cereal and fresh fruit, and my dad made some elaborate tea latte that we're all very impressed by. This also had the added bonus of making me take my meds first thing in the morning, as opposed to mid-day, when I belatedly remember to eat and chug them down with some Mountain Dew and berate myself for chasing my antidepressants with caffeinated jet fuel. Then, after we sat and watched the news for a while, my mom and I stretched for several minutes as Buster Brown judged us from the corner of the room. I tried to keep the rest of my morning as pampering as possible. When I took a shower, I listened to my favorite playlist and rapped My Shot with 94% accuracy. I took the time to put on makeup and do my hair. I got into a gentle religious debate with my father. In short, I did more enjoyable things before noon than I usually do in an entire day. POST-CARE MOOD RATING: 55 POST-CARE EMOTIONS: exhausted, depressed, silly, happy, excited What I enjoyed about this routine was that it felt like I was using my time efficiently. Even though I was moving at a snail's pace, I still accomplished multiple small tasks and felt a sense of satisfaction as a result. Therefore, I got more done than I would have had I slept in and leapt out of bed with minutes to spare before departure. I also, not surprisingly, felt far less anxious than I usually do when I first wake up. Instead of listening to the frantic thump-thump of my frazzled heart, my morning's soundtrack was the conversation of my parents, the birdsong outside, the murmur of voices on the news. I was able to practice mindfulness by focusing on small sensations: the teacup's warmth between my palms, and the gentle nudge of the mascara wand against my lashes (that's kind of a nice feeling, you know? is that just a me thing??), and the dumb dancing I did in my room with my wet hair still in a towel turban. I felt present instead of panicked, calm instead of chaotic. It was nice. The downside is that this routine isn't realistic for every day. For some people, it may not even be realistic on the weekends. I'm still young and single and childless and have no one to take care of besides myself and my raccoon-sized cat. I can focus as much or as little of my morning on myself as I want. However, for the people who have to work or feed the baby or take the dog out at 5 a.m., the luxury of a "morning routine" may seem laughable at best, and insulting at worst. I also have not magically transformed into a morning person. Even though morning routines are supposed to make waking up early more enjoyable, I still can't imagine myself ever jumping out of bed ready to do yoga and rap along to Hamilton. In reality, an evening routine seems far more preferable to me--a nice hour of winding down, music-listening and book-reading and cat-snuggling in the sleepy twilight. That way, even if I maintained the chaos of my morning, I would at least have something structured and soothing to look forward to at night, when I'm marginally less grumpy and more functional. Ultimately, I was proud of myself for taking most of the morning to be kind to myself. Tomorrow morning, however, I will inevitably sleep until three minutes before we have to be somewhere. After all, people, Rome, like good habits, wasn't built in a day. GIMME YOUR WORDS
Last evening, I had the pleasure of going to dinner with my friend and former roommate Lyla. (Hi, Lyla! I told you I'd be mentioning you!) Lyla proceeded to blow my mind in two ways. One, she told me to order the lemon ricotta blueberry pancakes, which were even more delicious than they sound. Two, when we hung out at her apartment and I showered her cats with love, she showed me her room, which was simple, elegant, and beautifully clean. "I've been keeping the cats out of it," she said, as said cats wrestled and hissed at each other beyond her bedroom door. "I've been spending more time in my room because it's my haven." This was a big deal to me for several reasons. I would never call my bedroom my haven. For one, the window is currently permanently cracked open, which means that the wind can slither in at any moment despite the bath towel I have wadded up in the sill and the saran wrap I haphazardly taped to the glass. My portable space heater is no match for Chicago winters. Secondly, I am, without hyperbole, the messiest person alive. My room is less haven and more Bermuda triangle, where socks, cutlery, cat toys, books, and important paperwork can go mysteriously missing at any moment. As a wee lass, when my parents instructed (then demanded, then pleaded) that I clean my room, I would grin in the smug way that only a precocious, snot-nosed 11-year-old can, and retort, "But messiness is a sign of genius!" Spoiler alert, 11-year-olds of the world: it's not. Or, if it is, it's still not worth it. Now, I'm more apt to retort that the state of my room reflects the state of my mind. Whenever I get especially busy, or stressed, or depressed, or anxious, my room becomes progressively messier until, one day, I wake up to see my cat napping on my damp bath towel, every article of clothing I own on the floor, and more dishes on my bookshelf than in the kitchen cupboards. It's not endearing. It's not cute. For God's sake, the kitty litter box is in the corner of my room, and there is kitty litter in my bed. I am a monster. I like the idea of my room being a haven: a place just for me, and also for my cat, who I refuse to kick out because she's huge and sleeps on my head and keeps me warm. Therefore, for the First Day of Self-Care, I am going to CLEAN. And I have a feeling I'm not going to have a good time. SELF-CARE METHOD: CLEANING MOOD RATING (from 1 to 100, with 1 being the worst): 51 EMOTIONS: sleepy, anxious, willful, reluctant, excited The following is a picture of my room before I cleaned it. Viewer discretion is advised. THOUGHTS ON THE METHOD: I cleaned. Boy howdy, y'all, did I clean. I picked up all the clothes and dumped them in a bin, or put them away if they were clean. I threw out all the wrappers and receipts and discarded D&D character sheets. I let the Roomba loose to suck up all the kitty litter that was on the floor. (SO. MUCH. KITTY LITTER.) I cleared the empty wine bottles and socks off my bed, swept away the kitty litter and smudged sage ashes from my sheets, and resolved to do laundry... Soon. I know when to pick my battles. The process itself wasn't exactly relaxing. I felt a sense of accomplishment about 15 minutes in; after an hour, I was staring at the wall, ruminating about what a messy, unorganized piece of shit I was while chugging a Mountain Dew. I wonder if other forms of self-care can at times lead to resentment or disappointment. Maybe taking a bath, or putting on makeup, could trigger a flicker of self-consciousness; taking the time to do something enjoyable could feel like a waste of time. My therapist often tells me that negative thoughts and internal judgments are habitual, and that it takes a lot of work to "rewire" the neural pathways that feed negativity. I imagine I'll do fisticuffs with a good number of self-inflicted judgments during this self-care process. However, lo and behold, two hours after my starting time, my room looks like this: I don't feel as if my room has suddenly transformed into my private oasis, but it does feel considerably more relaxing, warm, inviting. Now that I'm not distracted by the LITERAL MOUNTAINS OF STUFF on my floor, I can focus on more important things, like the Frida Kahlo candle flickering on my makeshift altar, or the art on my wall that I did during my outpatient stay--or on my cat, who really wants me to feed her now.
POST-CARE MOOD RATING: 55 EMOTIONS: satisfied, accomplished, relieved, proud, anxious Tell me, sweet ones:
day 1: self-care should not just be for rich white women who laugh and eat salad in stock photos1/3/2017 Guess what? Life is hard! If you didn't know that, congratulations, you're living under a rock and I would much rather be there face-down in the dirt than out here in this hard-life-place (otherwise known as, you know, The World). However, no matter how much I try to pretend we're not--by sleeping, or drinking way too much $8 wine, or putting my head under my pillow and screaming into the void--I am here, in the hard-life-place, and so are you. Welcome. I've spent an inordinate amount of time pretending that life is not hard. When I was a kid, people asked me why I smiled all the time, and I replied that it was because I was ALWAYS HAPPY. My peers called me Teacher's Pet and Miss Perfect and Why Does that Girl Never Shut Up, and I simply called myself an ~optimist~. Don't get me wrong--I was often very happy. I loved to read and act and sing and ride horses; I was an only child with two loving parents and plenty of equally nerdy, silly friends. I had a warm, safe home, and never had to worry about going hungry. School came easily to me, even when I got to college. I was, and am, very lucky, and very privileged. However, I wasn't always happy. No one is always happy, even if one is supremely fortunate, or lives under a rock. (It's probably cold and dark under there. There are probably a variety of wriggling insects.) I am a Cancer, a raging maelstrom of emotion hidden beneath a shiny shell; I'm an actor, a reader, a writer, a dreamer, a person who feels so intensely that the sadness of strangers brings me to tears. However, all the way from youth to college, I feared that if I projected any other emotion beyond happiness, I would be labeled a fraud. My identity was Miss Perfect, Little Miss Sunshine, ALWAYS HAPPY. People liked me--admired me, maybe envied me--for my indefatigable positivity. If I wasn't happy, who would I be? Who would want to be around me? Who would like me for me? It turns out that this cocktail of supressing emotion, ignoring reality, family history, and obsessing over perfection does not result in positive mental health. I'll spare you the gory details. Just rest assured that, these days, I'm on a lot of meds and in a lot of therapy. It was in therapy, in fact, that I was first properly introduced to the concept of self-care. Before that, my understanding of the term had been hazy at best. I was not a Self-Carer, I was a Carer of Others. I convinced myself that I didn't need to secure my own oxygen mask before helping others--I could put on her oxygen mask, dammit, and his, and that flight attendant's, AND the pilot's, all before I eventually passed out and died. Besides, self-care was for selfish people, right? After all, when I looked in the self-help section at Borders (RIP) or Googled "how to self-care," it appeared that self-care was to involve taking daily bubble baths, spending my entire paycheck on champagne, ingesting large quantities of cake, and covering every inch of my body in glitter. Self-care seemed lavish, exorbitant, silly, like "TREAT YO'SELF" all day, every day. Worse, it seemed like an exclusive luxury for rich white women who had time and money to burn. You know, the women who laugh while eating salad in stock photos. Instead, I learned that the true definition of self-care is as simple as the name itself. To perform self-care is to take care of oneself. Yes, taking care of myself can sometimes manifest as a scalding-hot bath with coconut oil and Epsom salts, approximately eighteen candles flickering in my tiny bathroom and my cat howling outside as I pretend to be a Celtic mermaid. However, taking care of myself also means knowing when to eat a vegetable and drink a glass of water when all I want to eat is fast food for every meal. It means not sleeping all day. It means paying my bills on time. It means taking a shower for the first time in three days, forcing myself to interact with other human beings, telling my depression to pipe down and let me enjoy two peaceful seconds of my depressing anxious hard-place life.
Self-care can be--should be--just as practical as it is pampering. Instead of being a luxury for the wealthy and lazy, I believe self-care should be a necessity for us all. Self-care can be practiced regardless of one's age, race, sex, gender, ability, mental or physical health, sexual orientation, income, or workload. The definition can be tailored; the means and methods, personally selected. My self-care may not look like your self-care, or her self-care, or his. The only universal is this: everyone deserves self-care, and self-care is for everyone. I'm great at starting projects, and not great at finishing them. I infamously get Big Ideas of the Week, where I attempt a momentous and exciting feat for about three days before I give up and go back to binging Buffy the Vampire Slayer. However, my Big Idea of the Year is this: I will very scientifically and scrupulously research different methods of self-care (i.e., Google it and ask randomn people on social media) and attempt them myself. Every other day, ON THIS VERY BLOG!, I'll record my mood, the self-care method I tried, and what I thought about it. Some tips might be great and helpful. Some might work for you and not for me, or vice-versa. Some days, my depression, anxiety, bad moods, and general distaste for humanity may persevere despite my most valiant efforts. That's okay. I don't want my self-care to be about perfection. I tried that for a while; it didn't work out. In conclusion (yes, I did work at a collegiate Writing Center, thanks very much), I'm excited to learn more about self-care, and hope you'll join me on the journey. Because you deserve it. And maybe--maybe!--I do, too. |
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