Badass Boss Lady

I did something arguably cool.

My anxiety rarely let’s me speak up in the moment. If someone is doing something wrong/dick-ish/annoying, I can’t ever call them out for it in the moment. I’m annoyed and walk away. I have a panic attack thinking about confronting them about it. Spend minutes to hours building up what I’m going to say to them. Maybe approach them at a later time about what I saw or “perceived”. The PC talk is strong in me when I’m at work. Oftentimes, I just bear it in silence.

I’ve been doing a lot of Orientations this week. I have a new employee who didn’t come to her scheduled Orientation. Forgot completely, apparently. In my infinite mercy and grace, I told her she could come to the next one I was doing. She apologized. I figured everything would be fine.

There’s a part in the employee handbook that we read through about cell phones, essentially saying that they are a distraction to them and guests and should only be kept in the break room. Obvious and basic shit. Literally, not two minutes after I read this section to them, I see her on her phone texting. Now. I know Orientation is boring, but there was a grand total of three of us sitting at a table. She was a foot away from me. At least the other girl was attempting to look engaged. Like, how does she expect to make it in a customer-centric field if she can’t fake interest? Also, she missed the first Orientation, already looks bad for it, and I’m her goddamn boss. How dare she? Right?

I found myself just continuing on without mentioning it. She didn’t catch my glares, her eyes were too glued to the phone. I kept telling myself that I should say something, but that start a panic in my chest. I didn’t think I would, but then she’d think she could just do anything she wanted in front of me without being called on it.

I had a majestic FUCK IT moment. I looked over at her and said, “Hey, is that a conversation you need to go in the hall to finish so we can continue?” She almost threw her phone away from her. She apologized then and again after.

After Orientation when she apologized, I found myself trying to deflect the apology. I almost told her it was okay, but then I realized it really wasn’t okay, so instead of going, “Oh it wasn’t a big deal, no problem, it’s okay,” etc. I thanked her for apologizing, reaffirming that she’d done something not acceptable for work hours and she should apologize for it.

I felt so powerful. Ah! Can you get drunk off the feeling of personal growth? Cause that’s what’s going on. Boom.

Peace out to sit on my laurels, yo.



I Said Bro-Demon

I go to church. I believe in Jesus as my Lord and Savior. I’m developing a huge crush on John Crist. Look him up. And sometimes, I find myself in conversations with church people and think, “I’d be careful who you tell that too because people will think you’re crazy.” I admit I’m crazy, so I don’t care that I’m about to drop some fun Roonil facts on you that will make you think, “Crazy Town, Population: You.”

Sunday, I talked with a woman who believes strongly in the spiritual world, even though she doesn’t always understand it. I guess, she believes other people when they speak about the spiritual world would be a better way to put it. I worry a lot about her for it, but I don’t think it’s my place to say you’re wrong. It’s that weird place where I’m torn. She hasn’t said anything blatantly heretical, but also, everything in my upbringing says that’s crazy talk. She’s so great in so many ways, but she started talking about having people get rid of the evil spirits in her house and I had to stop completely to look at her while wondering, “Is this real life? Do Lutherans really do those sorts of things?” I was confusion.

I know to be true that God exists.

So does the devil.

So do angels.

So do demons.

I don’t think how angels, but especially the devil and demons interact with the physical world is always a scene out of The Exorcist. They’re more like, bro-demons. You hang around them, but they want you to make terrible life decisions. You go along with them more than you feel comfortable admitting. Your secret shame is that you think they’re kind of great. But then, of course, sometimes you have to look at them and think, “That’s exactly opposite of how I want to live my life.”


Bro-Demon: Don’t go to church. Sleep is god.

Me: I like your point, but I’m questioning your theology.


Bro-Demon: Oh you’ve forgiven that person? But remember how…

*ten minutes later*

Me: Screw forgiveness. I hate that bitch.


Bro-Demon: That planned crashed and burned. You made a total ass of yourself. Probably should just go hurt yourself. Maybe commit suicide.

Me: Yeah. Wait. The fuck?


And then afterward, or weeks later, there’s the inevitable conversation with God about it. And, often, he’s that guy who’s trying to be kind and compassionate about approaching the topic.

God: So…

Me: I know! I know. It was not a proud moment. I’m sorry.

God: Yes. It was not. I love you. I forgive you. Let’s not do that ever again.


Which we both know it will happen again, and he’ll still love and forgive me again. It’s a vicious cycle until it turns into this conversation:

God: Hey, moron. What the hell are you doing? When did I ever say that was okay?

Me: Well you see… okay, yeah. I don’t have any excuse. I’m sorry.

God: Yes. You don’t. I love you. I forgive you. Let’s not do that ever again.


What I don’t subscribe to is that my depression and anxiety are because evil spirits are infecting my thoughts. Who knows, maybe when I finally go to heaven I’ll see that I’m wrong and it was demons all the time? But I really don’t think so, even though this nice church lady (whom I’ve grown to love dearly as a friend) would like to pray away the evil spirits when I’m anxious. *insert skeptical frown-y face*

I think illness is a sign of a sinful world. God created everything to be perfect. Humans screwed everything up. Sin is in the world and we see the repercussions of it. It’s not just people sinning. It’s illness and famine. It’s the world devolving into chaos and disorder. It’s extinction and pollution and war and everything going to hell in a handbasket.

I didn’t do anything to cause my mental illness, neither did my parents. My brain is sick, just like people get sick from colds to terminal diseases. I need medicine and a doctor. Prayer is powerful. Prayer helps. But I firmly believe God made people talented at being doctors and pharmaceuticals to also help ease the pain of this particular consequence of living in a sinful world. I don’t think it’s a demon.

I don’t deny their existence, but science is still a thing. I don’t know if this makes me a bad secular person or a bad Christian. I manage to find myself at odds with both circles of people simultaneously – like there’s a Venn diagram of things the church doesn’t agree with and things the world doesn’t agree with and I’m always standing where the circles meet.

Honestly, this is one time that I’m happy not to be talking to a real person. I never hide my faith from therapist. I find that impossible considering the setting and purpose of therapy. I do however worry about what they believe and will they react poorly to my beliefs and please don’t hate me because the Christians you tend to see in the news are bastards. Kay, thanks.

Therapy is hard when it’s being around human beings that’s the problem.



I Have That

When my sister watched Center Stage, she wanted to become a ballerina. When she watched Stick It, she wanted to become a gymnast. I’m not saying Pocahontas is at fault, but she does have a long standing belief that she is descended from Native American royalty. I don’t find anything wrong with this quirk. I think it’s precisely why movies and books are great. They allow you to see yourself in different worlds, cultures, and occupations.

I have a bit of that myself – but with illness. I don’t frequent WebMD or search out information on illnesses and symptoms. However, if someone starts describing symptoms of an illness, I have it. The worry comes and goes. The only real long standing one is that I’m certain I’m on the autism spectrum, allow some of the symptoms I think are manifestations of my social anxiety. I’ve been diagnosed with that one, so it’s not just in my head. Or rather, it very much is in my head.

Recently, I’ve been listening to the podcast “The Hilarious World of Depression”, which is probably the best podcast I’ve listened to, ever. I’m not a podcast junkie, but I’ve listened to a few I’ve really liked. This one is the best. Literally, go download it. You can thank me later. Anyway, in episode two, the guest talks about how she has OCD and it manifests in violent and/or sexual thoughts – a lesser known form of OCD, but still a form of it. I’m honestly at the point of seeing a doctor because I really think that might be me. I’m freaking out, a little.

The podcast also talks about destigmatizing depression, mental illness, and suicide. It’s not glorifying these things, but the goal is to make the topics less taboo so that people feel like they can share that part of themselves with others and, hopefully, get the help and support they need. The podcast does it under the umbrella of humor and comedians talking about their struggles. Very well done.

I kind of want to tell my family now. I’m on a roll, I guess. I told my best friend about how I used to cut. I told my boss. Maybe I’ll rent a billboard and tell the world. How do I do it, though? I feel like I need to tell all of them at once because they’re just going to talk about it behind my back – not snidely but in worried tones. “Can we let her continue to let her live alone?” “What happened to make her that way?” “Was it me?” “Yeah, it was probably you.” Just kidding on that last one. The only time we’re all together though is for major holidays. Merry Christmas, I’m in recovery for self-harm. My family is prone to fighting viciously at the holidays. I don’t want to throw a soft spot in the way of an already moving fist. I don’t want to see my mom cry, or my dad try to solve a problem he can’t fully grasp. I don’t want my sister to make it all about her, or for my other siblings to treat me differently. They’ll react out of deep love for me, but that doesn’t mean their reactions will be good or bearable.

Then I talk myself into not telling them. I’ve quit right? There’s no point in them knowing. I don’t need help. It’ll be unnecessary pain for them. Right? I can just tuck this away in my life and let them believe I’m happy and healthy and not more than a little messed up in the head. Is this what addicts say when they aren’t recovering, when they’re just festering?

I don’t know. I don’t know the right path in this case. This is probably where talking to a real person might help me. If only I had the money.



Dodged a Bus

My company helps pay for parking for employees. We don’t cover the whole thing, but there’s a decent stipend that’s given out to everyone who doesn’t have a designated parking spot. As an employee of the business, awesome. As the person in charge of it all, fuck everyone. But I won’t get into it because it’s just useless whining about how I get paid more than I should be to do highly menial jobs around a spa with all the pomp and circumstance of calling myself the Director of Operations.

Part of the scheme of this job I’m tasked with, is that people give me their empty parking passes. To make sure they are empty (Oh my God, right? They give me cards back actual money on it. Like, I gave you money. Fucking use it. Whatever). The easiest way for me to do this is to go out and check it in the meters. The closest one to my office is across the street.

I actually like getting outside during the day. I’m never really outside from 11 am – 6 pm. It’s always a startling realization, but entirely surprising. Does that make sense? I think about the sun and I burn, so it’s obvious I avoid it.

Anyway, I got the street corner. The crosswalk light was red. With nothing else to do, I looked to see what sorts of cars were coming. There was a bus approaching. And in one brief second, my brain’s natural course of thought went, “Bus is coming, step into the street now.” I took a genuine step towards the curb before I stopped myself. Whoa, what?

I should be more concerned or terrified that in that situation, my brain sees a bus and without needing to be convinced tells my body to move into the street. That’s messed up. I should be concerned for myself, but really I’m a little baffled. Maybe it hasn’t officially hit me yet? Maybe I don’t understand what went on, yet. Is it possible to talk about it without grasping what happened?

It’s hyper bizarre though. My body’s natural reaction was for self-harm. How did this become me? At what point did this happen, or have I been this person for so long that the turning part is too long ago to remember?


I should have a more emotional reaction than that. I know that. I’m super tired this week, potentially I’m in a downswing. I don’t want to think about that though. I don’t even want to end on a meaningful note. This is why I’m bad at talking to people. I don’t know how to end conversations or say bye. Literally, I tell people either, “Well, I have nothing else to say, so bye,” or “I’m going to super casually walk away now.”


I’m going to super casually walk away now.



I can’t decided who’s the stupid one.

I’m going to try to summarize my feelings on liking people real quick, which is essentially going to be as effective of a summary as saying Moby Dick is about a few guys looking for a whale. I acknowledge that a lot of details and intricacies will be missed.

So… main points?

  1. I’ve never been in love before. I’ve had crushes. I’ve lusted after guys. I’ve never been in love though.
  2. I hate liking anyone because I feel at my core that liking someone is a weakness. I feel like they hold power over me and I don’t like it. I mean, liking people is fun and so is flirting, but at the end of the day I feel icky and almost ill that I was so changed simply because of how a person fucks with my emotions.
  3. I’m a little scared to trust anyone with all of my secrets. I know all about me and I don’t like me, so I don’t know why anyone else would. I also loathe entirely the idea of sharing so much of myself and then breaking up with them. I don’t think my anxiety can handle knowing someone is out there in the world who knows me intimately yet probably doesn’t like me anymore. I’m stressed just thinking about that.

I say all that, to shed better light on my struggles. I went to my alma mater on Sunday to see my brother graduate. I was really excited for him. He was really worried about going back to school to finish his degree, but he persevered and that’s impressive.

I expected that I’d see a few people I knew – professors mostly, maybe some of the people graduating would be familiar. And, of course, there’s a boy. I’m going to call him Mr. E. I imagine every so often running into him. Oddly enough, I didn’t imagine running into him on Sunday, which is probably why I did. Shit hits the fan when you aren’t watching it.

Senior year of college (five whole years ago, yikes), I liked Mr. E. A LOT. I was in deep like with him. I refuse to say love because I don’t think you can love someone you aren’t ever in a relationship with. I may have at most loved the idea of him, but really, honestly, I just liked him a lot. I wanted to be in a relationship with him, which was a first for me.

I’ve never dated, which freaks people out. It’s like, I don’t, I forgot to do it? It’s like getting to the end of the semester and thinking, “Oh, shit, I never turned in that assignment! Oh well, I’m getting an A in the class anyway.” Somehow, it never crossed my mind to actively pursue a real relationship. I’ve always been wrapped up in fictional characters and imagining wild scenarios in my head, using guys I knew but didn’t really know. The sweet spot is having a crush on someone you know only a little about because then you can fill in desirable traits in the blanks. I like it more than being in a relationship and having to acknowledge that the person in front of me is not a piece of clay I can mold into what I want rather than they are who they are and I either l have to love them for who they are because people don’t actually change.

I felt like I could be myself around him though. I was weird and messed up and falling apart most of the time, but he never treated me like I was weird or needed to pull myself together. He didn’t treat me like my weirdness was okay because I had a lot of redeemable qualities. He didn’t act like there was nothing wrong with me so that I felt a little crazy for thinking I was crazy. I don’t if I can even really describe it accurately. I was who I was and he wanted to be friends with me as I was. I never felt bad for my craziness. It’s like he embraced my whole personality and was on board with who I was as a person. Talk about addicting for someone who secretly wants everyone to love and validate me at all times.

But he’s a terrible type of person, which I knew for a solid portion of my year spent with him. He saw people and decided he wanted to be their friend, like he was collecting oddities. He had all these interesting people to do things with or talk to, but he never shared himself. He reserved that for his actual friends, a surprisingly small group of people. Thinking back, I was probably just the crown jewel of his Freak Show for that year.

The problem with this,  and why emotions suck and I wish a little bit that I was just a robot, is that rationally I know he’s a bastard. I can think about the scope of him and his behaviors. He’s not good people. I shouldn’t want anything to do with him because he’s toxic in my life.

But, I shit you not, I saw his face and my heart fluttered. My emotions are bigger bastards because part of me still really likes him. I crave, now probably more than ever, a person to be 100% real with. I feel like I’m only partially me to everyone in my life. Maybe the part is as big as 98% of me, but I never hit that 100%. I would like to be 100% with someone. It’s a terrifying thought. I think about what that all means and think, “Oh God, no, that’s terrible. That’s a terrible idea.”

On the other hand, it would be nice to be that comfortable with another human being. It would be a relief to trust someone that much.

I don’t know if any of that makes sense, which is why in person I’m all, “I don’t know why I still like him. Ugh,” to my friends. People are stupid, right? Or maybe I’m just stupid?

I’m not a fan of emotions today.



First Hurdle

I’m going to call this a hurdle. Because, even if you completely fuck up a hurdle, you still somehow move through it, crawl over it broken and bleeding, and find yourself on the other side. It’s not graceful. It may have taken you eight times longer than the other girl, but it happened, and that can’t be denied.


Logically, I knew a strong downward trend would happen. I’m not the person to switch to a different lifestyle and say, “This is who I am now. Flawless.” And I kind of wanted to say, “I failed. I’m done,” when I sat down to write this.

Here’s what I know: My diet’s one awry. I’m trying to eat all of the good food that I researched. It’s difficult. I hate walnuts. So much. I’m trying to revisit the salad at lunch. I’m thinking that maybe I can make a lunch smoothie with some/most of the ingredients I used in the salad, minus the walnuts and add a banana. I can also eat the carrots on the side. I don’t know if blenders can survive carrots. If they can, I’m not at that culinary level.

I haven’t slept well in the past three nights. I’m a vivid dreamer. It’s really cool when you spend the dream fighting with Harry against Lord Voldemort and we win and the dream ends with Liza Minnelli and Julie Andrews doing the Broadway musical version of Black Swan. You want to tell everyone those dreams. When they dreams are nightmares though, it’s all levels of exhausting and disruptive to life. Because I’m tired, I lash out. At things I’m angry at? Me, life, that I’m depressed and anxious — no. I lash out at dumb things that are slightly more tangible: people parking in my space, the employee who’s a constant minor inconvenience, guest’s feedback that is 100% kissing our ass. I can feel everyone talking about it and thinking I’m crazy for being angry. I want to grab them by the shoulders and say, “You have even seen the tip of this iceberg. You know not what you’re dealing with. You are back in England thinking your loved ones arrived safely in America because you haven’t gotten the news yet.” But, also, I feel so fucking stupid because trapped deep inside me is this rational person that sees that I’m completely out of control, and that I really am looking like an idiot.

My car engine light came on. I’m going to have to get that checked out. Every time I drive my car, I’m worried that my engine is going to instantaneously give out and I’m going to die in a fiery wreck. I also have to battle the idea of, “Would that be so bad?” I also have to deal with the fact that I don’t have the money to fix a car engine. It could feasibly be $2000 – $3000 dollars. I know for a fact that it would take me two to three years to save that money. That’s my budget for my trip to London. I can’t handle that. I won’t know until it’s looked at. So basically, my brain is a constant stream of worse case scenarios that’s eating me up from the inside.

I told my best friend that I’ve been a year clean from cutting myself. She’s super supportive and hasn’t been treating me weirdly, which was my fear. She still loves me and I’m still her best friend. That was a blessing. I’ve had a few moments this week of being able to state who I am and where I’m at. The were refreshing moments of honesty that didn’t blow up entirely in my face.

I’ve gotten really good at interviews. I’m kind of killing it as far as they go. That’s been a delightful development. Although, I’ve felt a little dead inside and gave zero fucks about the interviews, so maybe that’s been the driving cause of my success. I’m slowly reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck by Mark Manson and it’s brilliant. I hope it gets under my skin and changes me in some way.

And, finally, I hit the 100 page mark in the story I’m writing. That means probably jack diddly to real writers and maybe some less than official writers. It means everything to me. I’m writing a heaping pile of shit that might win over Twilight as the worse thing ever, BUT this is the longest I’ve ever spent writing something. Honestly, I never wrote more than five pages on anything. I’m twenty times better than I’ve ever been before.

So, to summarize(?): My hands haven’t stopped shaking in two days. I have a headache from sleep deprivation. I have that feeling like I could cry at any moment. I don’t feel happy doing any of my hobbies, in fact, I’ve starting mentally berating myself for even liking to do them. When I think about my behavior throughout this past week, the anxiety ball that’s ever present in my chest has solar flares and I have the instant urge to self destruct, but I’m trying to remember that things ebb and flow. Maybe the ebb more than they flow or flow more than they ebb, but this won’t be a constant feeling. In two days, two weeks, or three months, I’m going to be writing a post saying stupid shit like, “I don’t really think I even have depression! I’m so happy and life is tangible magic.” I just have to keep that in mind.

*slow inhale, slow exhale*



The Prodigal Daughter Returns

I skipped last week’s session. I didn’t skip on purpose. It just sort of happened. I swear.

My boss had words with me about my schedule. Apparently, she only lets salaried people not make up for holidays (days when the spa is closed) if they are also willing to work overtime in non holiday weeks. So, I had Easter Sunday off, but I had to work on one of my days off to make up the hours. I think she’s worried about where money is going and wanting to get price changes in immediately but realizing she made that decision right before i was going to go on my weekend. I’m not a fan of how things went down. I feel like she doesn’t always divulge her expectations of me to me until it’s more of a disciplinary conversation rather than a “This is what the job is so you know for future reference.”

She also made it seem like I didn’t want to work extra hours because I wouldn’t be getting paid anymore. Again, she’s dealing with a lot of money concerns for the business, so everything’s about money. I was offended though. I’ve only been in the workforce for four years. I’ve already spent time working ninety hour weeks. That has traumatized me. I’m neurotic about only working forty hours a week because I value my time and sanity. There’s a certain point where throwing money at me for my time and sanity isn’t worth the toll working long hours takes on me.

So, that’s why I missed.

It kind of messed with my scheduling plan. In fact, even though I went into this determined to be flexible and acknowledge how life is unpredictable, I’ve been thrown a lot of different things that have rendered my daily planning useless, in mostly good ways. Still, I found myself binge watching videos of the Korean boy band EXO and panicked a little. That’s what I was trying to get away from, listless binging of Korean things.

I mucked up my Instagram and Pinterest. I’m following A LOT of Korean celebrities. Bless them for their posting restraint. I’ve also started a K-shame board on Pinterest. I don’t think it’s shameful to find Asian men attractive. What I think is shameful is that I’ve become obsessed and let it dominate my life. So, yeah, that board is secret from the world.

Overall, I think I’m doing good. I’m almost to 100 pages on my story. I spent the past two days dedicating a lot of time to writing. I’ve really enjoyed that. I think next week I’m going to go home to do laundry, but I’m also going to try to schedule in some much needed cleaning. I haven’t been practicing Korean or listening to the Bible this past week. Still, I feel like I’m doing something, which is what the real solution to the original problem was supposed to be. I felt like I had no purpose and that I was wasting my life. The feeling is bound to come back, but right now it’s not present.

I’m hoping the dietary change is helping. It’s only been three weeks, and I don’t know when that sort of thing is really supposed to show results. I hate walnuts. I really and truly dislike oatmeal. I power through though because it’s not just eating food to enjoy food. I see this as medicine. These foods have properties that are supposed to help alleviate my depression and anxiety, so I plug my nose and swallow. It’s like taking pills and syrups that taste like shit. You just gotta do it and wash the taste out of your mouth later.

I have enjoyed eating the yogurt and the homemade trail mix. I also enjoy eating a little bit every three hours. I don’t each much, but for the most part I feel full throughout the day. It costs a bit more to buy all the fresh fruit and such, but if I wasn’t doing this, I’d be paying much more for doctor’s visits and medication. We’ll see how it goes moving forward.




End of Week One

It’s almost the end of week one, at least. I’ve been following my scheduling. It’s gotten creative with cancelling events and scheduling new ones. I can’t say that I’ve followed it to a T, but I have followed it. I’m regularly doing my Korean lessons, exercising, writing, and listening to the Bible.

I’m super tired though, even though I’ve been getting eight to nine hours of sleep a night. I’ve actually scheduled myself a bed time. So, I don’t know what my problem is. I have a suspicion that its formal name is Depression, which is infuriating. I’m exercising. I’ve stopped drinking caffeinated beverages after four. I’m drinking sparkling flavored water-which-isn’t-water-but-blow-me-at-least-it’s-not-pop. I feel like I’m taking proper steps towards being a healthier person, but it’s still lurking in the background.

I know that I’ve only been at it a week. I need to see how things continue to go. Maybe my body is just getting used to the activity. I don’t know. Every thing seems sort of like a bullshit answer everyone always says.


I can’t take medicine. I don’t have the money for a therapist. I definitely don’t have money for a psychologist. I could probably get average behavioral medicine from my general practitioner, but how much would they know? How much would they be able to work with me on dosage? I need uppers and downers, and when that’s your need, there’s a lot of subtle shifting to get the perfect blend for your brain.

I guess I just need this scheduling/exercising/being active thing to work because I don’t really have anything else right now.


I’m going to go then.



I Call Bullshit

Dear Therapist,

Let’s be honest. Outside of my frustrations with myself – feeling like I don’t talk about the things I need to talk about with a therapist, feeling like I’m lying, feeling like the majority of therapists I’ve talked to end up talking about their own lives rather than listening to me talk about mine – I need a real human being to say words out loud too.

I almost gave up on this blog to get a real therapist. April marks a year since I last cut myself. I’ve spent the last two weeks nearly breaking my streak. At the same time I feel all of this pain and then I feel dead inside. I can’t level out because every small thing sends me into a new tail spin. It’s bad. I know it’s bad, so I did the smart thing. I called my new insurance to see what it covered as far as mental health.

Turns out, even with health insurance, I can’t afford to see a therapist. Welcome to America, where you pay a lot to not see a doctor. It was a scary moment. Before, I was just being a stupid, lazy, asshole who just needed to go see a doctor. Now, I’m just straight up alone and helpless. That’s how it felt for an hour.

I can’t just do nothing. The likelihood of me committing suicide is already much higher than the average human. I can’t be Anastasia riding the train and instead of jumping off and hoping not to die upon impact of the snow drift, ride the train straight over the edge of the cliff towards certain death. I have to find something, try anything, and survive somehow.

So, I’m scheduling myself. I’m not allowing free time, not that I’ll do something harmful if I’m not entertained at all times. It’s that I let myself fall into this stupor where I’m on the couch watching Korean dramas for hours while mindlessly scrolling through social media on my phone. That could kill a person, depression and anxiety aside. I’m scheduling out my day so I have time for social media and K-dramas, but I also have time every day to start working out, to write on my story that’s shit but maybe I’ll still finish it, to listen to the Bible from Audible, and to practice learning Korean 30 minutes a day. I’m giving myself time to do things that better me and make me happy when I do them regularly. I’m breaking everything up into smaller chunks so that I feel more fulfilled.

I’m also really going to try to stick with working out. Not to loose weight. I mean, I wish someone science-y would come along and ask me to be a part of their experiment which ends in my being thin with straighter teeth and thicker hair. Also, in these fantasies they make it so I can speak eight foreign languages, I can do ballet, and play piano, plus I’m just ridiculously smart and maybe can do some form of martial arts. I want it all. A girl can dream, you know? So, obviously, if I lose weight, awesome. I’m more interested in the endorphins. I’ve seen that through my many bouts of exercise, quitting, new exercise, quitting that my depression doesn’t fall so low. I can’t tell you how aggravating it is that exercising really does help because I don’t want to sound like that person who’s trying to tout this healthy lifestyle that solves everything. But, alas, working out keeps my depression from drooping too low and I don’t lose it at every little thing.

I’m also going to start researching good foods and vitamins to help endure what’s happening in my brain. This is not where I feel comfortable. I have no issues popping pills and finding the correct dosage to make me feel somewhat normal. Intrinsically, I’m anti-holistic. However, I’ve realized I gotta do what I gotta do to survive.

So that’s my goal. It’s only Day Two. I’ve hit a few bumps, but I promised myself that I’d remember to be flexible because life laughs at timetables. I take it as good practice for the long haul. I’m choosing to have good thoughts and hope about this plan.

Catch ya next session.



The Chicken or the Egg?

Dear Therapist,

Someone at church gave me a book, which is stressful. As much as I like to read, I really hate when people give me books because there’s this perceived deadline of reading it quickly and returning the book and thanking them so much for giving you this opportunity to read an amazing book I never would have had the chance to read otherwise. The truth is, maybe I don’t like the book. Maybe I need this book five years from now to really appreciate it. Maybe I don’t have time to read this month. Maybe I’m in a reading slump and you giving me a book just drags sandpaper across an already festering wound.

This book extra stressful, though. She gave it to me so that I can talk better about myself. I am at my core self-deprecating. I fully acknowledge that when I talk about myself to others, I drag myself through the mud. I know. I know that people don’t understand it or like. She’s the first to actively try to prevent me. Part of me really and truly appreciates her for that. It must be the same part that looks at the book and thinks maybe it will solve my problems. Maybe if I learned how to think nicely about myself, all of my problems really would go away. I’ll be able to cure my own depression and anxiety.

Sometimes the mean thoughts do weigh me down. They do. It feels like they sit on my chest for days while I slowly suffocate. Only, I have to ask what comes first, the chicken or the egg? Giving me this book and saying it will help assumes that I have bad thoughts about myself and that’s what causes the abyss of depression and terror and wildness of anxiety. It seems logical. If you pour negativity into your mind then it’s going to make you feel icky. I don’t think that’s my problem.

I don’t feel like my ticker tape of thought is as negative as my speech is. A lot of me talking to other people is thfear-fueledled attempt to make people love me and think I’m funny without coming across as too arrogant and annoying. I often say a lot of shit I don’t actually mean. I model my speech and behavior to match the person I’m with. I intrinsically put myself on their level so they’ll like me more because we like people who are like us.

The speech doesn’t explain away the real issues I have. It doesn’t explain the gnawing questions of “What am I doing?” “Why am I alive?” “What’s my purpose?” that genuinely haunt me. Those questions don’t make me think mean thoughts against myself. It’s not like my immediate answer is “You’re stupid. You’re untalented. You’re worthless.” Instead, I feel like I contain this foreign currency of intelligence, talent, and worth that isn’t spendable in the world. I don’t know how to convert it into usable currency in life. And, then, there are moments where I simply can’t answer why I’m alive. It’s not that I’m good or bad, I just can’t see why I’m here or why I’m putting in so much work to stay around. Why I’m I not just giving up, you know?

Any articulated thought about my depression and anxiety are not my biggest problems. It’s actually a bit of a relief to put words to the feelings. At least a fraction of the mess inside my head is definable. I’m comforted by that small fact. What scares me is the pure emotion. Today, I’m stressed. I have so much to do. It feels like I don’t have enough time in the day to finish everything. (It is, of course, unhelpful that I chose this exact moment to write a blogpost, but I thought I’d have a break down if I didn’t.) I wish I could define or explain what I’m feeling to you or anyone. The feeling is crescendo-ing though, and I really feel like I might hurt myself.

It’s an energy build up and my brain is screaming that something has to happen or change. I have to jump onto a new track or I’m going to crash and explode. I’m riffling between music stations, playlists, Korean dramas, Netflix shows, all in the attempt to find something that levels me out or feels like enough of a change to direct this energy away from pain or destruction. I’m also fighting the surprisingly large voice inside me that says “Cut yourself.” Somewhere along the way I’ve trained myself to think that cutting releases that energy build up. It forces a climax and causes me to crash, but in that crash I’m able to level out or deaden myself enough to continue moving forward.

I’m ashamed of it. I hate that my brain works that way. There is some rational part of me that knows I’m not solving anything. I’m just hurting myself. It’s rational enough that I haven’t actually cut myself for the past year. April marks a year since the last time I cut myself. I’m going to treat myself. I think I’m going to buy myself a pair of real Converse shoes. But also, cutting is shockingly close to what I hear people in AA say. When they talk about always being an alcoholic, or that they’ll be an alcoholic for life. I get it. I get that realization that I will be battling this for the rest of my life. I’ll always have the urge. Now it’s just whether I succumb to it or not.

Writing you has made me feel better. I’m also snapping a rubber band against my wrist. Is that low-level harming myself? I feel like I see it on too many sitcoms for it to really feel like self-harm to me. The writing has been most helpful. I can take a deep breath again. But also, I should get back to work so I don’t crumble under my task list.

Thanks for listening.