Remission Anxiety

I cannot fathom the pursuit of one interest.

My passions and goals are not neatly typed out into steps.
I don’t have one ideal I aspire to.
I won’t be able to reference my childhood fantasies in a future acceptance speech.
I have never focused on one thing long enough to become an expert on it.
I don’t have neat categories. No aesthetic I could be the face of.
There is no single lifestyle I can be the spokes model for.
I don’t have the cutthroat ambition needed to attain some level of greatness.
I don’t have what it takes to reach career or wealth levels that would impress the people around me or the kids I went to school with.
I will not cause any envious chatter in circles of people I don’t know.
But I wanted to.

For a few years I thought acting could be my thing. I felt like it was perfect because each role is different, a new set, a new cast. But I never got far enough into the business to get a taste of that variety. The environment got toxic, and I started making choices that made me dislike myself. My health got in the way of bringing my best work to the stage. Rehearsals went long; the amount of sleep I needed to rejuvenate myself was unattainable. I wasn’t able to create the depths needed in my characters because I wasn’t willing to be any more vulnerable than I already I was. I was never comfortable taking on relationships within a show beyond a G rating – and I didn’t have the drive to find other opportunities that would have let me stay within that comfort zone.

I kept at it while it was easy and felt natural.
Once I was asked to go beyond that, I walked away.
I quit.

I’ve since realized that this happens to me a lot. I quit a lot. And it’s ironic because I consider myself a “Learner.” I love going to school, have you seen my highlighters!? I read so much that I have an instagram dedicated to books. I watch documentaries! But something about “Learner” implies a level of commitment I don’t possess. I tend to present the bare minimum of what I am capable of. I do more than what the average is, but it’s not the best I could do. I am a perfectionist who procrastinates. I let myself down, constantly. But I do not push myself to do better. I don’t know how.

In high school I hardly put effort into my homework. I did some of it the day of or copied things I knew I could do but didn’t want to do. I tested well enough and had enough jive with teachers to get extensions, and those are the only reasons that I managed to graduate with a GPA over 3.0.

I could have done better, I know that.

But I talked myself out of it, almost every time. Home wasn’t a happy place to be, and I was only ever at school or at home. If I had access to it, hadn’t grown up with health issues, or had I not gone to Narcotics Anonymous meetings every Friday for about six years, I am sure I would have gotten into addictive substances. Instead I found that reading a lot and watching movies on Netflix was another way to numb myself and make the days go by faster. For most of middle school my memories look dark and feel heavy. Happier memories are of those moments I remember thinking, “oh good, a second of lightness.”

I think I have inadvertently trained myself to be afraid. I have come to find a sense of comfort in the darkness. I fall into this pattern of working my ass off, only to end up falling off the face of the planet. I rarely feel like I can find a happy medium. I would either be up till midnight for a week straight, working on missing assignments, trying really hard in my classes, eating three meals a day, writing and singing, and keeping my room clean. Then suddenly I would crash. I would stay in bed till noon, eat junk and leave the trash on the floor of my room next to yesterday’s clothes. I would skip class physically and/or mentally.

Senior year I dropped out of my college level science and math classes because I had gotten sick (again), missed two weeks, and was too overwhelmed by all the work waiting for me when I came back. At that point, I didn’t need the classes to graduate, and it was made clear by the attitudes of the people around me that me going to a big university the next year was a non-option.
My confidence was shattered, my motivation was shot. It was November and the cold was creeping in. Instead of letting it take over, I dropped the classes.

I don’t regret that choice, because there was too much happening in all facets of my life in that moment – dropping one of the stressors was imperative and I wasn’t allowed to drop my parents. However, it created a trend I have since been trying to shut down. I have turned my poor health into a crutch. If there was ever anything I couldn’t handle, if I ever get scared or overwhelmed, all I have to do is pull out my platinum health card.

Now, technically, it is a health issue. I have only ever lied about having colds in high school. I do have a weak immune system, and at least two rare diseases. But I think the argument could be made that it is a mental health issue, and not to blame on my physical health.

In lieu of an addiction to drugs or alcohol, I have formed an addiction to being “sick” while also fearing it to the point that I’ve developed an anxiety about it.

The idea of getting severely sick again and having to quit my life again is gut wrenching and terrifying. I did it two years ago. I did it for a lot of my childhood. Having to take a step back from everything I want to accomplish and enter a world where all that is expected of me is to get well and rest – it’s awful. I can’t even feel happy about what I have achieved because once I am sick I fall behind everyone around me. I am no longer considered a player in the game.

It instantly feels like no one expects me to live, only to survive.

But gee…  that is delicious when I am healthy and feel like I am failing.

So the second I do get sick, whether it is a cold or a disease decides to relapse, I am riding that Nope Train. I forget to do anything that makes me feel good, only the things that keep me feeling bad. I forget to brush my hair. I forget to put on clean clothes. I don’t read, or take the dog out so I can get a breath of fresh air. I forget to eat real food.

For several days I am 13 again, wrapped up in cozy blankets and watching beautiful movies, lost in a daydream about what I’ll be someday when I’m older and well.

And then when I don’t need the prescriptions anymore or the sniffles ease, I am faced with the realization that – I am older, I am well. That Nope Train has been coming around for 10 years now. This game is no longer new. I can’t keep hiding.

I like to think that every time I reach this point of realization, I get better at battling it.
I come up with new ideas on fighting myself. I get better at putting limits in place:

“OK, this time, I only get to throw a pity party for one extra day after being sick”
“This time I have to write what I am frustrated about”
“This time I have to finish x amount of chores so that I push myself to move around”
“If I stay home, then this time I have to keep up with emails and I have to respond to the texts that friends send”

I am terrified and skeptical, daily.
I am scared in my own skin; I am scared of pushing myself too far, of trying too hard.
I don’t want to fail at something I want. If I get sick, then it wasn’t my fault. I never had a chance! “My health got in the way and I had no choice but to take care of myself!” If I half-ass it then I can always say, I could have done better if I tried harder. But if I give something my everything; if I go after the things that I want and dream and crave, there runs the massive risk of failing at it.

I am so scared of getting into something, and really loving it… only to have to quit.
I simply don’t trust my own remission. And as much as we say that failure is just a stepping stone, it fucking hurts and it’s severely uncomfortable.

Sure, my health doesn’t have to dictate everything in my life.
But in the past it has.
In the past it has stunted me.

Who is to say it won’t happen again?


The original version of this post was sent to The Mighty around 2am about 6 months ago, when I was in the midst of a panic attack and finishing up my associate’s degree. Recently, The Mighty has changed their publishing rules and format. Before only some entries got posted, but recently they have gotten access to a larger server and now are publishing everything. So they’ve gone back and published every previous entry they passed on as well.
As a writer, this does feel like a step back because now its just a free-for-all-social-media. But as a #spoonie, I think this is utterly fantastic because it will not only widen the scope of who publishes their stories, but also widen the scope of the type of stories.
It turns out that another version was also in my drafts here on WordPress, which is what led me to editing it and posting it today. That version was called “This One Has No Answers For You, But Many Questions For Myself.”
You can read the original version here on The Mighty’s website.

Push Through The Fear

Over the past years I have been teaching myself to be happy.
To steady myself when I start to get too frustrated or mean.
To look around and see what’s there.
To remind myself that our short lives are full of long days, and that I get to decide what each one looks like.
It’s not been easy.
Sometimes it feels totally stupid.
But more often than not it feels good, and addictive.

I’m a very scared person. I am scared of anything and everything. Of how my body moves, how my voice sounds, what I love, what I hate. I’m scared of what people think of me, and more scared that they think nothing at all. I’m scared of how little time I have, or that I’ll have too much time and realize I wasted all of it. I’m scared my loved ones will leave me. I’m scared my dog will die sooner than later. I’m scared that I’m stupid.I’m scared that I am entirely selfish. I’m scared that I’ve invented all my personality aspects to seem more interesting. I’m scared that I don’t know who I really am.

Every bold action I take, I was talked into by my braver heart. Every time I speak up I was manipulated into it by my bravado. Every lipstick color was dared. Every blog post was goaded into existence. It’s easy to love yourself, it’s harder to love yourself back.

I’ve been pushing myself to spin.
To take a bow. To skip.
I’ve encouraged my shadow to dance,
her arms high above her head.

I’m teaching myself to embrace raindrops, to smile at birds and leaves and clouds.
To wave to children, to nod at each pedestrian,
to thank every bus driver, every barista, every customer,
every door held open – even when they don’t look back.

To leap over puddles simply to fly.
Take up the space.
Stretching up and out; leaning forward, bending back.
Gasp out loud and let the air fill my lungs.

To listen fully, learning to wait before asking questions. Savoring each individual bite. This is food someone made, this is food that the Earth grew. To feel those raw vocal cords from singing too loud; side pains from laughing too hard. To actually laugh and feel it fill me up enough to loosen the knot in my stomach.

Knock me over with wind. I’ll wade into the water up to my ankles. Walk leisurely through that rare sunbeam. Let my hands reach out and feel the dew. Let condensation fog my glasses. Filling cupped palms with cold water. Embrace my skin.

Every habit has to be practiced before it’s formed. I’ll get there.
Patience & Practice


A Skinny Bitch Bitches About Being Skinny.

(((This entire post is about weight. I talk about disorders, and invasive thoughts, and societal expectations. It is not researched or supported, this is what we call an opinion piece. This is all about me, and it is frankly written. If you struggle with weight, or have in the past, don’t push yourself to read this if you think you can’t. Take care of yourself first bb.)))

      My disease causes my weight to fluctuate when its active, but my issues with weight are nothing new.  I’ve always been too small, for my age, for my height, for my family, compared to my friends, compared to the little kids. My mom tells a story of how my preschool teachers called Child Protective Services because they were worried I wasn’t getting fed at home. I’ve always been too, damn, small.

      We presently live in a society where media tells us that it is a desirable thing to be small. My own community pushes against this, and while the logical-compassionate-Raelee understands why; Insecure-about-her-weight-Raelee is struggling.

     I think that since there are people who fit into the “Standard for Beauty” without trying, we assume that they get off in life easier and therefore they get through it easily. Certainly I’ve rarely been made to feel that I am a monster by the media, and I can usually find things in my size, and strangers don’t stare at me rudely. But Society isn’t the only voice we interact with on the daily. I still have the voice nagging and yelling and being mean in the back of my head, and the strangers telling me to fix myself are usually saying I need to eat more. And usually it’s not strangers, its family and friends. And it starts out fine, and they always mean well… don’t we all?

     I used to make myself throw up in high school. I had a special stirring stick that I found in our kitchen. It’s from my Hawaiian Poodle party I had when I was 9 or 10. Its blue with a green palm tree as a little handle. I’ve also used a toothbrush when in a sitch. Or my fingers. Usually after a fight with my parents, or after a really shitty day at school. Or when I was feeling lonely. Or because I looked plump that day. 

     Now I won’t pretend that this was a more serious issue than it was, let’s not exaggerate. It happened less than 30 times the four years I was in high school, and maybe 5 more times since I graduated. I was paranoid about it ruining my teeth so it was always a last resort among my supposed options. When it happens now it’s because I ate something that upset my stomach and throwing up is the fastest way to be done. I did start getting help for it but I realized that my high school counselors didn’t really listen when I was talking. If you are struggling with an eating disorder, please seek professional help. You are so much more than what your brain keeps saying, and getting help will be a lot easier than fighting on your own.

     Yes I am small, and I take immense pleasure in fitting into small spaces for people. But I also can’t see how small I am. I can sometimes see it when my friends and I are in swimsuits, but even then I have a hard time not inflating my perception. Being thin means wearing shorts from the kids section and thinking it’s hysterical, and then wearing 0 size jeans and feeling guilty and dirty. It’s a constant roller coaster of omg im so thin just like a model, to, all my friends have beautiful sexy curves and I am a skeleton in skin and then when you add in the insecurity that a fluctuating waistband brings omg i finally can wear a size 3 which brings oh my mini skirt makes me feel like a sausage and then 2 months later oh my pants are too big…

     I’ve been losing weight recently. At first I thought I was just being paranoid because last winter when I was sick, I dropped 20 lbs real fast. So any changes I thought I saw, I assumed were me just struggling to see reality. But I’ve been having to wear leggings under my larger jeans, and my 0’s are fitting better than they were 2 months ago. My ring from Bree doesn’t fit as snug as usual. I’m down 8 lbs. I don’t know why. I’m struggling to keep myself from obsessing over it, but the hotel we’re in has a scale which I don’t own at home (for a reason), and I keep using it. Or eyeing it. Maybe i’m wrong. Maybe it was just a fluke, maybe it was on a slope. What does it say over here? Oh. still that. And we don’t know what that means in terms of my disease yet because it’s a recent realization, but I can’t even think about the disease yet, because I’m too focused on the weight part.

     Logical Raelee knows that I didn’t purposefully do this to myself. I don’t watch my calories, and I don’t intentionally exercise. I don’t try to keep myself from eating, I just have a picky appetite. I haven’t made myself throw up recently. And then I am surrounded by all these voices of “Bigger Girls are Beautiful” and images of skinny waists with big thighs, ”BIGger is better,” the #thinsperation, “get your swimsuit body ready,” “real women have Curves,” the thigh gaps. They’ve ingrained this irrational fear of changing body shape and I know that, and I work against that fear, and I gain the pounds, and then GPA swoops in and drops them.

Wallowing in guilt for a size I can’t control.

It’s too much.
For a second there was a push of “love your body whatever your size” and then its reverted back to specifics. And I know that you’re frustrated because your whole life the images around you said you were repulsive, but you and I know that isn’t true. You and I know that they are the assholes. We can have diversity and not tell everyone that they need to be one extreme or the other. We can have a vague “
love who you are not what you look like” And I know that part of that doesn’t feel good enough. They got to be the center of attention for so long, it’s MY turn but all that does is continue a cycle of frustration and competition.

Stop being competitive when it comes to struggling, please.

Stop laughing at the skinny girls when they say “Yeah I struggle with weight too.”

     I know that sometimes they are the same ones who make fun of you but at least give them a shot to show you they aren’t that person before you start chuckling. Because it’s frustrating enough. Stop telling people that they haven’t struggled enough to be worth compassion. Treat others how you wish to be treated, right?

Be kind.


OH! And I know I’m not a skinny bitch, I just think its funny to make long titles in which words are reused. ❤

I’ll Call Her Samantha

My anxiety is a race horse. My anxiety is running at full speed. Wait, ok, maybe my anxiety is one of those coach horses that only stops at a very specific command. The thing is,  I don’t know what the command is. So it’s just running and running wild and repeating the same thoughts and telling me what I should do and what i shouldn’t.

My anxiety is not evil. It’s never told me that I deserve to die or that I deserve for everyone in my life to hate me. Sometimes it says I am fat, but then it offers solutions like exercise more, or eat less, or starve yourself, or learn to not care. It’s a rounded out kind of advice, some of it is helpful and some of it is hurtful. It’s just doing it’s best.  It’s doing its best to help me become the kind of person I long to be, the kind of person I could be, the level of me that is best and ultimate. But my anxiety is going about it too intensely. Its dragging me by my feet. Its latched into every aspect of my life screaming at  me to do better, be better, want better. To improve everything at once. Be more fit. Write more. Write better. Read more. Read different books. Read harder books. Read bigger books. Keep a diary. Write a book. Start a writing group. Be the top of your class. Study more so you’re the top of the class. Watch less television. Watch the popular shows so you know all the references. Watch every pop film. Watch indie films. Watching indie films makes you cultured and cool. Take your camera. Take photos of everything. Be that person who always has a camera. No be that person who always has a book. Be both. Drink tea. Drink loose leaf tea. Drink teas with long names. Only drink one specific far out tea. Drink coffee. Drink it black. Drink it with honey. Drink espresso from a tiny cup. Wear big earrings. Don’t wear earrings with that hat though. Write about this. Write about the trees. Write in a tree. Go outside and write until your fingers turn black. Real writers have pain and push the limits. Push your limits. Push yourself. You can be a much better person than you are. Write about that girl, write about who you wish you were. Don’t write about Anxiety. Put a color to your anxiety. Make it a shape, a person, an animal, a feeling. What’s the aura of your anxiety? What is her name?

I started fully acknowledging her this summer. I read a book about a girl with an anxiety disorder. It read a lot like mine. Like how high school was for me. It felt like stumbling into a room I had in my brain that I didn’t know was there, and finding photos of myself that I didn’t remember being taken. It also felt like I was probably feeding my inner hypochondriac. I decided to ignore it. But then it kept eating at me. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I thought that maybe i should write everything down. I wrote down everything that felt like it was relevant. All the coping mechanisms I had in high school. All the little things I do now. My random bouts on the floor of my closet. The nail biting. The face picking. The eyebrow pulling. The scripts I had written for myself before there was a person to help me get out of my head. I found numbers of local talkie docs that I could hit up for a diagnosis. To know if I was actually crazy or just crazy for thinking I was crazy. I told a friend. I listed all of the attributes of my personality that make sense now. All the details that didn’t make sense about me until I read this book and looked up this thing and read about it and now it all fits together. My puzzle complete.

But then I didn’t call. I tried, I really did. I’m not just saying that to sound like I did. But the first one didn’t take my insurance and wouldn’t point me in the direction of someone who could. And then I got a full time job and all the sudden my restless spirit had an outlet for a while and it didn’t seem pressing. Besides, Anxiety and Self-doubt showed up and suddenly I was questioning the whole thing entirely. What if my person is just that. What if there is no magical diagnosis that attributes every aspect of who I am and maybe this was just another human attempt to find meaning. To find my place in the world. I assigned myself and made it fit so I could take a shortcut and feel settled in my existence. I tried calling another number, but she didn’t answer. I did more research and found a second number for the same woman so I called that one, because what if she hadn’t updated her listing and the first number I called was the wrong one. I tried again a week later. And then I started school. And once again I had an outlet, I had assignments to finish, I had work. I tried to fit in writing and reading when I could. Mostly I got caught in a rabbit hole, falling down in my own thoughts. The Universe had enough of my bullshit and started punching me in the face with “signs.” A friend of a friend got diagnosed with a compulsion disorder. A popular YA author published a book for the first time in years about a girl with thought spirals. I have a third number. I haven’t called him yet. I probably should. He might help navigate the never-ending self reflections, the self analyzations, the nail-biting, the face picking, The bouts on the floor of the closet, the self-doubt that turns into pulling out those old scripts to remind myself that this isn’t me. But it is me. And I know what he would say. He would ask how many cups of coffee I drink, and I would try to defend it. I would mention that coffee actually soothes my panic attacks, and that its smell is one of comfort. And he would shake his head and talk all sciencey about how coffee can increase your anxiety especially on an empty stomach. Do you drink it on an empty stomach? And I would be that scene in Gilmore Girls when Rory is sobbing to her therapist about how much she loves coffee and I would have to develop an entirely new morning routine for myself. Or he would say that it’s just the coffee and that if I cut it out of my diet I’ll be fine and no you’re not diagnosable or crazy, there’s nothing special about you, everyone has anxiety and yours is nothing major. Stop drinking coffee and we’ll part ways and I’ll never see him again because he was right i’m not crazy I was just looking for a shortcut. But. If i am just searching for a way to stick out why would I choose the monster that almost everyone has? Why would I spend months obsessing over this possible solution nitpicking every flaw in it’s ruling only to realize it’s sound logic, why would I do that unless there was some truth to it? To answer that, I should probably call. But I’ve coped this long, I’ll probably not get much out of it, save for a diagnosis.
So. I’ll just put it off a little longer.


An Afternoon With Canals

I find a quiet nook in the sun near a bed of roses and let the ink sink into an ugly puddle on the page. We’d just been sitting in class, analyzing an essay set in Amsterdam, and I had felt that irritating pulse beginning to push on my tear ducts. All the sudden it is imperative that I find somewhere secluded so I can sit down and cry. Anywhere on campus will do. Never mind the fact that my eyeliner and mascara will stream down my face. There is too much happening in my head. Too many thoughts. Too many ideas. Too many words floating in and out so quickly I can’t possibly reach them in time to put them to paper. IT’S TOO MUCH. I can’t breathe. Or am I breathing too heavily? I can’t even tell. All I know is that I have to get the words out – it is not a good feeling. I don’t feel poetic, or at the very least creative. I feel something stuck in my stomach that isn’t meant to be there and I don’t know how I am supposed to get it out unless I write it down.

I turn the corner and see a bird flying repeatedly into a wall. I don’t know what kind of bird. A small bird. A small grey bird, and it has cornered itself. I pause, long enough to recognize I can’t help the damn thing without getting pooped on or pecked at. It’s the shortest 30 seconds on the planet. I laugh to myself. Is this what writing is going to be like for me? Having drought after drought until suddenly I get “struck by lightning,” six times in a row?

I’m forever cornering myself. Desperately wanting to fly towards the sun but continuously getting stuck, running into the wall thanks to my own stubborn stupidity. Icarus made it farther than I have. But I wouldn’t pretend that is a compliment to my abilities. I say that acting gives me the chance to be vulnerable, but the reality is that I leave the stage thirsty. I’m thirsty, the stage is thirsty, the audience is thirsty. I write and leave myself thirsty. I leave my journals dry on the shelf. Too scared to sing, so the words stuck in my head and throat are left unsaid. If I can’t say the words aloud so they have at least one chance to carry their full weight, then should I bother writing them at all…?

(How do I write so you know that I’m screaming?)

I don’t cry for Amsterdam.
I don’t cry for the classroom that’s half empty.
I don’t even cry for the bird.
It’s for me.

I’m crying for myself. For needing to look for somewhere to cry in private. For being terrified that another might see. Scared for another to know. For my hopeless heart. For desperately wanting the ability to string words together so that they might read like lost poetry. I’ve never cried over a broken heart, save my own.
And that was only because I felt like I didn’t have the skill to describe it.

This entry is a short piece of writing I did for my writing class in the spring. This was one that I wasn’t ready to share quite yet. I wanted to let it sit for a moment. I wrote semi-recently about a panic attack I had, so here is another. The essay referenced is called Afternoon with Canals by Paul Lisicky, and its very good. He has a way of writing so that he doesn’t give you all the details promptly, they’re hinted at. The color of the scenery tells you the time. The reference to the lights tell you where they are. He doesn’t give you the story, he makes you work for it a little. And that was something that I greatly admired and wanted to find a way to emulate. A story that doesn’t give you all the details, but leaves you with an understanding.

September 4th

This is me in a moment of panic.
I’ve made a crucial mistake. It was amateur, really. I know better.

I stalked my old classmates on Facebook.

See, it started with one tagged in a photo of a mutual friend and then all the sudden I am on the spiral of sorting through photos of the people I never knew and know even less now. Suddenly everything I have ever done, or ever tried to conquer, is not enough. It’s not big enough. The milestones don’t stand tall enough. I’m not married yet. I haven’t traveled enough. I don’t have a degree. I’m not working for some giant impressive company. There aren’t enough photos of me laughing and smiling with my family in the sunny beach landscape. I am a failure. I have done nothing. I am a fraud. I can never write again because I have experienced nothing worth writing about. Why aren’t you going back to school this fall? Everyone else can work full time and at the very least take one class, why can’t you? You’re behind. You’re faking. You’re lazy. You are doing nothing with your life, you work at a bookstore and you haven’t even been reading.
I am drowning in my own assumed failures that literally no one but me gives a crap about, and measuring my life to people who are probably feeling as stuck as I am.

How do we find the balance? Needing things to be constantly changing so we have the illusion of movement and progression, but also having enough time to stop and enjoy where we are?

This morning I had a panic attack because I couldn’t find something to wear. It wasn’t a cute montage with bubble gum music and laughter and pillow fights. It was Raelee on the floor of the closet apologizing that we hadn’t left already because everything was fitting wrong. Frustrated because I knew that it was one part of my head controlling my actions against the rest of my will. Can’t wear a skirt because my legs aren’t shaven. Since when do I care that my legs are hairy? Today apparently. I can’t wear the black jeans because it might get hot and then I’ll be uncomfortable. Can’t wear that because I’ll look like I’m trying too hard. Can’t wear the sandals with those pants because the holes. I hear them laughing at my photo. Can’t wear this shirt because I wear it to work and I want to wear something I can’t normally wear to work. Can’t wear this fabric because it feels like it’s seeping into my skin. Can’t wear this. Not that. Maybe this? Nope, you’re ugly. They laughed at your photo. You’re stupid. You’re fat. I can’t possibly be fat, Anxiety Raelee, you’re a 0!> And even if you weren’t a 0, your size doesn’t measure anything other than the width of your hips. Chill. Please, knock this off right now. You need to go.

The sun is shining and YOU ARE MISSING IT.

I continue to let myself fall into this pit of self-doubt and insecurity. I allowed myself to get distracted from my own life because of what others may think, or how they may live. Why?! As the wise T-Swizzle said “you are not the opinion of somebody who doesn’t know you, or care about you.” Why do we let ourselves listen to this part of our minds? We deserve better. We deserve a chance to explore the world without having to conquer our own inner demons first. Although I guess when it’s timed right, it can push us to be stronger. In this very moment though, that doesn’t feel worth the price.

I’m glad this got me writing, but I really could have done without the dramatics.

So anyway, how’s everyone else doing this fine September?