Tag Archives: life

Fighting with My Husband About Finding Shit

Daily, my husband and I have at least one argument about his inability to find stuff. Usually, he wanders through the house as though he’s never been there before, eyes wide, scratching his head, yelling, “Babe! BABE!” It’s about this time that I decide to take a shower or walk the dog or pretend to read because I know what’s coming.

Earlier this week, I was in the laundry room folding clothes when I hear the water in the shower turn off. “BABE? BABE!” he starts, “Where are the towels? Babe? Where do we keep the towels?” I grabbed my clean clothes and ran upstairs irritated and ready to murder him. I barged into the bathroom,

“Can you please tell me how it’s possible you can’t find shit? Like ever? HOW!? Babe, we live in the same Goddamn house!”

He tried to look helpless, all dripping wet and cold, “I don’t know. You’re better at finding stuff than me!”

I put my hand on my hip to indicate a level of seriousness, “Yes, F, that’s it. Finding stuff is my fucking superpower.” If any of you out there are thinking about marriage, this is it, guys. Bask in the glory. It seems that in every relationship there is one person who is the all-powerful finder of shit and the pitiful loser of shit.

For a second I thought, wow, I am better at finding stuff but then I realized it was a trap. He was complimenting me so I’d take pride in my seemingly magical abilities to find his shoes, socks, jock strap, cereal, and the dog’s leash on a weekly basis. I remembered the way he made his mom locate everything for him last year when we were staying at his parent’s house in Italy. Light bulb moment: He sucks at finding stuff because for his entire life he’s feigned helplessness and everyone (his mom and me) jumped to help him.

“You’re just saying that so I’ll keep helping you! I’m onto you, fuckface!”

He started laughing, “Yes, babe, it’s a big plan to enslave you into being my finder helper.”

“Exactly! Well, drip dry, buddy! I’m not helping.”

“BABE! PLEASE!”

And I caved and got him a towel, swearing I’d never do it again.

For the sake of fairness, I ask him if he’s seen my stuff, too. The difference is that it’s like once every two months and he never gets up to look. He’ll usually just get all blank faced and go, “haven’t seen it,” before he goes back to binge-watching American Idol or Ellen on his iPhone.

I’ve wondered many times why I do it. Why do I rush to find his beanie or face cream? I’ve asked my friends who are also finders why they do it. We’ve come to this conclusion:

It makes us feel like martyrs.

It makes us feel important and elite.

We are control freaks and would rather do things ourselves which turns our partners into helpless asshats.

Their mother’s or fathers broke them and we take pity on them for it.

In my case, I think it’s a little of everything above, in addition, there’s a part of me that helps because in many other areas F is by far more on top of shit than I am. I’m the one who falls down all the time while trying to pet a stranger’s dog, I’m the embarrassing one that will start singing Dolly Parton in the soup aisle of the grocery stores, and I’m the one who will “accidentally,” spend 90 dollars on Amazon for a “very cute bread box.” I give him shit, but deep down I’m also aware that relationships are given and take and while he couldn’t find his ass from a hole in the ground, he’s very good at remembering to change the oil, is an expert at yard work, and only yells hysterically for a short period of time when I internet adopt various animals in Africa for an obscene amount of money.

This is marriage, guys.

 

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19 Things I Wish I Could Go Back in Time to Tell My Younger Self

I wouldn’t say that I regret any of my adult decisions because my choices made me who I am and I’m pretty okay with myself. With that being said, things could have been a little easier and sometimes I fantasize about what I’d say to younger me if I could go back in time. I think I’d still do the same things, still have dated the same people, for example, but I’d tell younger me to move on the moment I realized that person just wasn’t right for me. I wish that the moment I realized I wanted to be a writer, I’d have sat down and wrote and sent things off for publication. Instead, I studied sociology and researched  things like human sexual fluidity and the social impact of after-school programs because just going for what I really wanted seemed somehow “irresponsible.” That’s not to say I didn’t love doing research, but I’d much rather write about that one time my dad told me that humans are born with 567 bones but when they die they only have 426 bones. Or that time I went to visit my grandma when she was dying from cancer and I walked in to find her smoking a cigarette and drinking whiskey while hooked up to an oxygen machine. I love people and storytelling.

So, if I could go back in time to have a conversation with myself, this is the advice I’d give M.E. Then I’d high-five myself and say something like, “damn girl, red lipstick does look good on you.”

  1. Every relationship doesn’t need to work out. Every date doesn’t need to be destined for marriage or a long-term commitment. Don’t feel bad when a relationship tanks or never gets off the ground because all that means is that person wasn’t right for you. When you meet the dude you’re supposed to marry, you’ll know. Also? He has an accent. Raaaaar.
  2. Follow the 80/20 rule, young M.E. There’s a huge difference between a bad relationship with great moments and a great relationship with bad moments. If your relationship makes you feel like crap most of the time, get out. I promise you, people always upgrade from one relationship to the next and you’ll find someone way better. At the same time, everyone is flawed. Remember that time you broke up with someone because you didn’t like how they chewed? Yeah…
  3. Be careful who you choose to invest time and energy in. Nobody’s perfect and everyone does shit that’s not ideal. But there’s a difference between shit behavior and a person who doesn’t contribute shit. It’s one thing for a friend to get too drunk and puke on your favorite shoes and say something they don’t mean. It’s another thing to have a one-sided friendship, a person who only calls when they need something, for example. Or, someone who tries to one-up you constantly or manipulate you.  Friends who are abusive or manipulative, judgemental or compulsively dishonest, you can do without. Get rid of people who consistently bring you down. You know those friends who get mad at you for studying instead of doing vodka shots with them at the local pub? Yeah, you don’t need that.
  4. It’s okay to tell people what you want or don’t want, like or don’t like. It’s okay to talk about how you feel and to set standards with people in your life, respectfully and with tact. You can do all of this while being nice as hell. You don’t need to be an asshole to be heard. Calm down.
  5. Self-care books aren’t nearly as lame as they sound. Work on yourself, grow, improve, and you’ll be so much happier. I mean, you’ll say douchey things like, “my self-care activity today is,” but you’ll be happy as hell while you do it.
  6. Black is the best choice color for all clothing and you’re on point, babe. Never change that. However, let’s discuss your excessive use of safety pins on t-shirts. You actually look like a sewing kit vomited on you. You’re going for punk rock but you actually look like Frankenstein’s monster.
  7. You don’t need to hang out with the people you’re dating 24/7. It’s a terrible idea. Go on a trip with your female friends, have a standing movie date with a bud, grab wine and sit on a friend’s couch. Don’t neglect your friends or family for your partner, ever, because you need both to be balanced and happy in the long term.
  8. Self-sabotage is a real thing and you need to stop doing it. Stop freaking out about not being good enough. Just write some shit, put it out into the world, and when it’s rejected just pick yourself up and do it again. It’s fine, you’ll survive. Which brings me to #9.
  9. Fail hard, fail often, make it a goal to fail. Failure makes you stronger and it’s the best way to learn and grow. Stop being afraid of it.
  10. You don’t need to be perfect or great. Instead, make it your goal to just show up and do your best.
  11. Stop taking yourself so seriously! Jesus, you’re 22! Laugh about it!
  12. Let go of your anger towards your dad (or anyone). Just sit him down and talk with him about how you feel. TALK ABOUT IT. Tell him you forgive him and move on. It takes a scary amount of energy to be angry with people, way too much energy, and it’s not worth it. Anger won’t protect you, it won’t stop you from getting hurt or keep you safe, it will literally just make one aspect of your life shit. Let it go.
  13. That thing you do where you replay things that happen over and over in your head? That’s called rumination and it’s an anxiety thing. Don’t let yourself do it. Tell yourself, “ah, anxiety,” and do something to distract yourself. Also, stop bottling up your emotions because later in life it causes fun little meltdowns and costs a fortune in therapy.
  14. Your siblings look up to you, a lot. No matter how annoying they are, just try to be there for them. Listen to them, give them advice, and compliment them often. You really don’t know what could happen. And in fact, you lose a brother in your late twenties. Don’t leave room for regret, it hurts too much.
  15. Learn about finances! Go to the library right now and check out a book. Learn how to budget, figure out how to invest, and for the love of the universe, invest in something amazing and open an IRA account. Saving early means the difference between retiring at 55 or 80.
  16. Exercise, you lazy asshole. Put down your Vonnegut novel and go hiking or something. When you decide you actually want to be in shape in your thirties, it’s way harder because you were so goddamn lazy in your twenties. I mean, seriously, how can you sit around so much?
  17. Move out of your hometown earlier. Your twenties will be the most flexible time of your life. You can always go back home but you won’t always have the chance to move to new places. Spend a year in New York, a year in L.A., a year in Charleston. Change is also great for writing, so do more of that. Yes,  you move out of the country at 29 and that was smart, but do it sooner.
  18. Find balance. It’s awesome to care about causes and to strive to make the world a better place, but you can’t do good if you’re depressed all the time from focusing on all the negative things in the world. Do what you can, be informed, but injustice doesn’t need to be your every waking thought. At some point, you’ll burn out. Also? Get off of your soapbox and just listen to other people. Believe what you believe but find middle ground with people who are different than you. Don’t write people off because they’re politics, ideology or worldviews are different. Ask questions and listen. I promise it won’t change who you are but it will help you grow.
  19. Stop getting in your own way, trust your intuition, and believe in yourself. Seriously, you’ve got this.

What would you tell yourself if you had the chance to go back in time and give yourself advice?

Self-Care Lessons I Wish I’d Known Before my Breakdown

After suffering from chronic depression, unbearable anxiety, and panic last year that lead to an all-out mental breakdown, I’ve been on the long, hard road to recovery. I’ve had good days and bad, perfect weeks and weeks of relapse where I slip backward, but all in all, I’ve been on the mend one act of self-care at a time. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been because for the first time in my life I’ve actually learned how to take care of myself. Specifically, my mental health. I don’t mean I’ve finally got on top of the laundry because honestly, I’ll always suck at that.

I grew up in a pretty tough family. My great-grandma was institutionalized after a breakdown, my grandma suffered in abusive marriages, and my mom experienced the kind of childhood that people make movies about. The women in my family have been through some serious shit and because of that they’ve got grit to spare, but absolutely no patience for wimps. Like zero tolerance. If I fell down as a kid, my mom would lean down and say, calmly, “you’re fine, if you’re going to scream and carry on, I’ll give you something to cry about,” when we moved eleven times and I changed school after school, I understood that I wasn’t allowed to complain. Not because my mom is an asshole, but because she knew the world could be dangerous and unforgiving and above all things I needed to be strong. And even though I don’t feel strong most of the time, I’ve learned that I am. My therapist once said I’m “one of the most resilient” people she’s ever met.  But sometimes, being able to cope with horrible things can work against you, like when my brother died in 2008, and I shut down and did my very best to forget him as quickly as possible–I couldn’t even begin to process something so terrible, so I didn’t. Feelings are not a thing that I do well and after decades of numbing out and pushing forward, my body had had enough, my brain basically imploded, and I ceased to function as a normal human being. It sucked. I cried. I panicked. And luckily, I got help. The entire thing has forced me to examine myself up close and learn for the first time ever to identify feelings, toxic behavior and to use fancy words like “post-event rumination.” Which basically means, obsessing like a lunatic about things that happened and driving myself crazy in the process. Once you can identify it, you can manage it. And, most importantly, I’ve realized the true value of listening to myself and taking care of myself.

I wish I’d known these things before my breakdown.

Self-Care Lessons I’ve Learned

Knowledge is Power: Reading is it’s own act of self-care even if you’re not reading about mental health or ways to heal. Although, bonus points for reading books that help you work on yourself and, most importantly, understand yourself. My friends and I started a self-care group and we read a book every month about self-care. We talk about it, implement the things, and support each other through our wellness journey. The things I’ve learned have been so valuable. As kids, so many of us are taught how to take care of our teeth, our skin, how to do our hair and dress nicely, but very few of us are taught how to take care of our mental health. I mean especially those of us who grew up in the 80’s. I was lucky if my mom even cracked a window when she chain-smoked. AmIRight?

Stress Catches Up With You: Eventually, after years of stress, trauma, or depression, shit will catch up with you and you’ll pay the price. There’s a strong correlation between complex trauma and immune disorders, gastrointestinal problems and things like fibromyalgia. You might not have a total mental breakdown, but your body will pay the price for things you’re not dealing with. Women are especially resilient and we think, “well that horrible thing sucked but I got through it.” But the truth is that all of that pain is in your body somewhere, hiding. And when it’s the most inconvenient it’s going to resurface all, “HERE’S JOHNNY,” to fuck with your shit.

Bodies Talk: For years, my body had been sending me signals that things were not okay. I’d lost my appetite but just thought, “eating is boring! Meh!” I slept poorly but just assumed it was because my husband tossed and turned or my dog moved around a lot. I yawned constantly for years for no reason. I became super jumpy and would scream when someone would come around a corner quickly at the grocery store. And I have no idea how I didn’t find that bizarre. But the truth is that living things are shockingly adaptive. Feeling like crap felt normal because it happened so gradually. It wasn’t until I started to have full-blown panic attacks did I realize something was seriously wrong. In retrospect, I wish I’d gotten help at the very first sign I needed it. It would have saved me a lot of trouble (and money on mental health services).

You Can Fix a Wounded Brain with a Little TLC: There is no such thing as a broken brain. Suffering from depression or anxiety is scary and I was terrified of being told I had a problem because the last thing I wanted was to be told that I had a disorder. But diagnosis doesn’t mean you’ll have it for your entire life, in fact, a good healthcare professional should reevaluate you annually to see if your diagnosis has changed. I was diagnosed with a panic disorder, chronic depression, and anxiety. Now? No formal diagnosis. My Dr. changed it.That being said, if your diagnosis is lifelong, that’s okay, too. The stigma that used to exist around mental health is lifting and people are coming out in droves to talk about their own mental health challenges. Self-care can help you manage and treat even the most complex issues. Anxiety, depression, panic, irritability, stress, migraines, fatigue, and pretty much any and all physical and mental issues can be improved through self-care. But most importantly, it can prevent issues from forming in the first place.

Prevention is Better: It’s so much better to learn how to manage stress and prevent larger issues from forming than to wait until your body and brain freak out on you. What’s that saying? Prevention is worth a pound of cure? I wish that I’d learned growing up how to pay better attention to my body and my needs. Seriously, self-care and mental health should be taught in school alongside sex ed. For decades we’ve known so little about the way the brain works and only now are we starting to really understand it at a basic level. We need more education so that we can take action sooner and prevent ourselves from slipping into something worse.

Any mental health lessons of your own? Put it in the comments below. And please share if you liked the post.

 

 

 

 

It’s Amazing I can Walk Anywhere

There are two basic skills that I’m inexplicably terrible at: walking and swallowing. Nine times out of ten, if I’m drinking something, I choke on it. And I fall down no less than 9 times on any given day.

The other morning, I took Oliver for a walk. I crossed the street and started down the road when I heard, “hello Misty,” in the bushes. I jumped and screamed. Turns out the bushes were not calling my name, rather, my neighbor was from his steps. “Sorry about that,” I said, “it’s like I’ve never been in public before.” He laughed, “no big deal,” he said, “I’m just out here clipping my nails.” And I thought, why can’t more men go outside to clip their nails? My husband does it in the bathroom and it’s like he on purpose misses the garbage can and for a month I keep stepping on his nasty little nails. My co-worker regularly clips his nails at his desk, which is on my list of the top five grosses things anyone has ever done in an office. I joked on Twitter, “Since my co-worker is clipping his nails at his desk, I guess I don’t need to go to the bathroom to change my tampon anymore.” Fair is fair, buddy. So, I’m thinking to myself that guys should go outside to clip their nails more often when Oliver jerks my hand to pee on a rock and I stumble and catch myself on the fence, spraining my wrist a little. “Sonofabitch!” I screamed and then immediately bent down to randomly pet Oliver, self-conscious that someone might have thought I was yelling at him like a Goddamn monster.

The walk continued. Oliver stopped to poop in some weeds and I realized right then that I didn’t actually have a bag with me. I rummaged in my pockets and managed to find a small square of tissue. I bent down and tried to clean up three turds with one tiny tissue square, holding my breath and feeling faint, while Oliver is yanking on the leash to go look at something. I manage to get it all cleaned up and am walking as quickly as I can towards my house when my boot hits the edge of a crack in the cement and my ankle snaps. In slow motion, the turds fly out of my hand, my legs buckle, and I land on my tailbone. I somehow managed to keep a hold of Oliver though, who is still pulling, now more than before because he wants to get away from me because either I’ve embarrassed him or he’s decided I’m a danger to his personal safety.

I limped back home and somehow got myself to work with only my pride slightly wounded.

He Shit The Bed

If our poodle, Oliver, was a human child, he’d be the one with the big bottle glasses, standing in the lunch line listing off his allergies to the exhausted lunch ladies.

He’s adorable. But, his hair is tangled even though we brush it and take him to the groomer, he kind of smells like pee because can’t aim worth shit, and he’s always sick.

Oliver eats grain free food because he’s allergic to rice. He can’t have most treats unless they’re basically 100% unicorn meat and if he eats something he’s not supposed to, he shits his brains out for days.

This week, I made F, my husband, some homemade chicken noodle soup because he had a fever (he’s also always sick).  It was delicious even though I cooked it because I’m getting better at stuff with age. And since it was delicious, I tried to shove all of it in my mouth at once while watching Girlfriend’s Guide to Divorce. While eating like a goblin, I dropped a single noodle on the floor. And, in slow motion, I watched Hoover puppy eat it before I could grab it.

The next day, F and I came home from work to find him slouched over, trembling on the couch, his eyes barely open and glossed over. I tried to touch him and he growled and shot me some mean side eye.

F shook his head, “he’s just being dramatic.”

If I heard someone else say that about their violently shaking dog, I would assume that they were negligent assholes. But this isn’t a normal dog, this is Oliver. If he gets a leaf stuck to his foot, he’ll limp for a block even after we removed the leaf. And anytime he gets a belly ache, which is at least three times per year (it was more before we figured out his food sensitivities), he acts like he’s in total organ failure. For years, I panicked every time he limped or whined and rushed him to the vet every month, sometimes more than once. Slowly, we’ve learned to take his extreme sensitivity to all discomfort with a grain of salt.

So, I didn’t panic. I calmly picked up the phone and called the vet.

The vet asked, “Can you describe how he’s acting?”

“Like he’s dying, basically. He’s growling and shaking and won’t let us touch him.”

“Oh, no. That does sound like he needs to come in.”

“I mean, I want to bring him in but I’m sure he’s fine.”

The vet cleared her throat, “Uhm, okay. So you do want to bring him in?”

“It’s just like, you know, what if this is that one time that I don’t take it seriously and it is something really serious for once? So, I want to bring him in. And clearly he’s not feeling good and I don’t want him to be sick. But, our dog is a huge wuss. So, most likely he has a belly ache.” I said.

The vet said, “Of course. Bring him down now.”

I grabbed his leash and put him in the car. He laid down and stayed like that all the way there. Then, once we got to the vet he jumped up and was instantly normal. He wagged his tail, wanted to greet everyone, and suddenly wanted to be picked up. Which, made me feel like one of those crazy moms with Munchausen syndrome.

The vet came in, took his temperature (normal), pushed on his tummy (a little sensitive), and took him into the back to give him a shot to alleviate his tummy ache. I knew the exact moment that they gave him the shot because he screamed for a solid minute, so loud that it echoed throughout the entire clinic.

Hearing your pet cry, or kid, or partner, is painful and a part of me wanted to kick open the back door and kick everyone. But logically, I knew that they were just trying to help him. The vet came running into my room out of breath and red-faced like she’s sprinted all the way to the door to explain why my dog was howling, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, “I promise, we only gave him the shot. I mean, it stings a little but…”

I nodded, “I know.” Oliver came running into the room with the vet tech and hid behind my legs. I picked him up, “did that mean lady hurt you?” and kissed his head. He looked at me like, “yeah, fuck her.” The vet shot me a look.

“The medicine will get rid of any nausea or any tummy pain that he might have.” Said the vet, “I took a fecal sample and it does look like he has more bad bacteria than normal so it looks like he ate something he wasn’t supposed to eat. He seems very sensitive to pain.”

Read: The goddamn noodle. He was practically dying over a noodle. Or tampon. He’d also eaten a tampon that week. Dogs are so Gross.

The vet gave him probiotics and antibiotics to rebalance his bacteria and sent us home. We walked in the door and the meds must have already kicked in because he ran over to his food and gobbled up the entire bowl in 3.2 seconds. Then he grabbed a stuffed squirrel and took off running around the couch.

F picked Oliver up, “a tummy ache?”

I shrugged, “Yep.”

Later that night, around 3 a.m., Oliver woke me up to go potty. I let him outside, he went to the bathroom then came running back inside. He tore through the house and jumped on our bed. Then he sat down, rolled around, and sat down again. It was dark. I was tired. I closed the door and climbed into bed. I put my hand on something wet. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. Brown smears all over our white comforter. My husband was fast asleep.

“Babe, BABE, get up. Oliver shit the bed.” He sat straight up and stared at me, baffled.

“Oliver got poop all over the bed. We have to change the sheets.” He slowly nodded and crawled out of bed. We silently changed the sheets and I took Oliver to the bathroom to wash Oliver’s ass (when I was younger, I never thought that I’d grow up to spend a ton of time washing dog butt). I disinfected my hands, cleaned the bathroom, and settled back into bed at 4 a.m.

Oliver padded up to space between me and F, turned, and flopped down in between us. He snored like nothing had ever been wrong and all was right in the world.

 

 

I Could Outrun A Tiger: Panic And Anxiety

Sometimes, my brain is a real asshole and seems to hate me. I’ve had anxious episodes a few times in my life. I suffer from low-grade depression, not always, but often. I’ve had a few panic attacks throughout my life. Lately, it’s been bad.

About four months ago I went out for drinks with colleagues and ended up in the emergency room around two a.m. after I demanded Francesco to take me because I believed, completely, that I was dying. It felt like I was. My heart was beating out of my chest, my legs were shaking, I couldn’t take a full breath of air, and I felt a kind of fear that is hard to even imagine.

Panic attack, the doctor said. They handed me an orange pill, tucked me into some warm blankets, and monitored me until the Xanax kicked in and I fell asleep in the hospital bed. The next day, it was as if nothing happened. I was fine. I’ve been fine.

Speed forward to this week. For no rational reason, I’ve been having a lot of anxiety. It seems like I’ve been overthinking everything and it’s been leading to some shit feelings, terrifying thoughts, and bad nights. I lay in bed at night, my mind racing, thinking, “oh my God, Francesco is going to die. So am I. So is everyone.” And I’m terrified for eight hours in the dark. This last Tuesday night, F was in class and my anxiety crept up again. I watched Bad Moms, snacked a little, tried to stay preoccupied. But around ten p.m., I was struck by the same indescribable fear as four months ago. My entire body started to shake, and I felt, once again, like I was going to die. Somehow, though, I fell asleep eventually but the next morning I woke up with the same panic. Let me tell you, it’s a shit way to start your day. Good morning, terror.

I was able to get into the doctor at eleven a.m. and was given a prescription for Ativan. I hate pills. I am scared of them and I don’t trust them. Still, it I didn’t have a choice if I wanted the horrible, terrible, scary, awful, feeling to go away. I practically sprinted to the Pharmacy and popped it right then and there. Twenty minutes later,  I felt slightly better but not great. I still felt shaky, my muscles were still tense and trembly, and despite my burning stomach, I couldn’t eat. Even crackers made me gag, which made my anxiety ten times worse. Eating is the most basic human thing. And I couldn’t do it. I was convinced I’d die if I didn’t eat. Which made it so I couldn’t eat. Let’s just say it was a terrible fucking cycle.

Unlike last time, it took me two full days to stop feeling panicked and anxious. And six days later, I’m still not at 100%. I stopped taking the Ativan after the second day and I feel better but I’m still slightly weary and uneasy. I’m still not able to sleep through the night. I’m still worried that it will happen again. Luckily, I have an amazing husband who all but dropped everything to reassure me, cuddle me, and stay with me until this feeling passes.

Fun fact about anxiety: All of its horrible symptoms, are actually your bodies way of preparing for combat and or running away developed from some time where we needed to fight crocodiles or club your dinner to death. You guys, I could outrun a fucking Tiger right now. Seriously, bring it. outrunning-tigers-image

I’ve also done a lot of introspection and realized that ever since I moved home from Italy, I’ve been stressed out, irritable, distracted, just below the surface. I don’t know why exactly but it’s been there and I’ve ignored it. I’m not a highstrung person, in fact, my parents make fun of me for being “too relaxed,” all the time. Apparently, all of the stress has boiled to the surface and is like, “PAY ATTENTION TO ME YOU TWAT!”

I am. I’m paying attention. I made an appointment with a therapist and I’m going to go to Yoga. And, I’m going to stop thinking about things that don’t matter. You really don’t realize how great your life is until you’re cowering in fear for no fucking reason praying for the horrific scary feeling to pass.

It’s been a shitty reminder to take care of myself. I’ll be doing this for a minute instead of worrying about getting pregnant and starting a family. Apparently, I need some self-love for a minute. It’s so easy to get caught up in life and forget to take care of yourself. Your body and brain will only take so much abuse before it bitch-slaps you from here to China.

Also, have any of you had panic attacks, anxiety? Have you experienced it with children? How do you manage? What has helped you?