Tag Archives: OCD

Who I Am

About eight or nine years ago I was in a group therapy session with 10 other women when the doctor had us go around the room and do a seemingly simple exercise: tell the group about ourselves.

Now keep in mind the setting—it was a hospital and not a wine bar—but one by one we went around the room. In the span of 10 minutes I learned among other things that one woman had severe depression, one was bipolar, one was struggling with bulimia and self-harm while another was checked in for a suicide attempt after a brutal sexual assault.

The doctor sat back with this look on her face and was quiet for a minute before she looked around the group and said, “You know what I find interesting? I see something entirely different.

“I know that you are a retired opera singer,” she continued as she shifted her gaze over the group. “That you graduated from dental school with honors, that you are a nationally published writer and that you have three children under the age of five. I don’t see your circumstances. I don’t let them define you.”

That really stuck with me.

It’s natural to identify ourselves using our circumstances, our struggles or how others perceive us. There’s an odd sense of comfort in being able to fall back on those things—more as a justification than an excuse—but none of those things are truly who we are. And the problem with latching onto these identities is, in addition to limiting our growth, we start to let them define us.

Why so serious?

Because this month’s “League” question as posed by Noa is: “Identity. Who are we? How did we get to the realization of who we are?”

I hate the “Who am I?” question myself, in part because it’s something I’ve struggled with now for years. It’s been a decade of survival, of retreating into intellectualizing everything and just being a quiet observer of life rather than fully immersing myself in it at times.

The problem is that through all my searching, I never found that “one” answer I needed, but rather the answers for somebody else.

It’s not so much that I don’t know who I am—I think I’m actually quite self-aware—but that I don’t know how to align where I am with where I want to go and how I want to live my life. And as much as I wish someone would just tell me what to do and how to get to that point, I also know it’s a journey.

Identity is constantly changing, and authenticity can’t be intellectualized or wrapped up in a neat little bow and printed on high-gloss business cards. But I’ve learned that it’s vital to be more concerned with how my life feels, rather than how my life looks. This is much easier said than done at times, but most valuable things often are.

So in response to Noa, I would have to say that among other things, I am a writer, a daughter and a loyal friend. I’m funny and grateful for humor, but introspective and complex as well. I’m someone who struggles, but I’m doing the best that I can and am unapologetically myself.

I am not my circumstances, but rather a survivor.

I am a constant work in progress.

Like the blog? Buy the books!

How would you answer the question?

P.S. A reminder that Facebook is limiting what you see, so if you don’t want to miss anything, be sure to subscribe here on the blog, follow me on Facebook, Twitter or Pinterest.

Under the Weather

If you’re tired of me complaining about the weather, I can promise this post isn’t just about that. Instead I’m going to use it as a fancy metaphor for depression in an artsy attempt to complain about the weather.

The fact is this winter has been brutal already. We have about 18 inches of snow right now, are already around 80 inches this year and they’re predicting another storm this weekend. We had four days in January with no snow and haven’t been above freezing in weeks. And it’s only February.

Needless to say, FTW.

Aside from the actual cold, I struggle with a commute that gets complicated and dangerous, keeping my driveway and car clean when there’s nowhere else to throw the snow, worrying about the impact of the weather on my house, the increased bills, etc.

And more than ever before, the weather has upped my depression. Well, I’m blaming it on the weather, but in reality that could be a coincidence seeing as it’s been just as relentless for years.

But much like the weight of this winter, lately it’s crushing me down.

The OCD, the exercise, the hopelessness—it’s come to a point where I wonder when I’ll break, either physically or mentally, and yet I keep  testing those limits. I keep waiting for some event so significant in my mind that I’ll feel compelled to change, that the cloak of depression and obsession will fade and voila! The metaphorical sun will melt the snow and everything will become sun-shiny great!

But of course, that’s just magical thinking.

So instead I fight myself from both sides—the terrifyingly powerful disorder that wants me to cling to it and the part that wants to live a life without it. Finding a balance between the two might seem like having the best of both worlds —Yay! I’m a semi-functioning person balancing disorders and depression, well done!— but we know that’s not the case.

Because while everyone has heard how things have to get worse before getting better, what it doesn’t say is that you should make things worse before they magically, somehow get “better.”

So for the first time in years I actually went to a therapist.

It’s early, but so far she “gets” me. She’s a vegan holistic yoga teacher and I want to move into her office, but I think that violates some kind of ethical code. Anyway, much like dealing with winter, therapy is a lot of work. It’s exhausting. It’s expensive. It’s not fun.

But eventually you just reach that point—breakdown again or breakthrough?—and that’s where I am right now. I don’t feel like I’m really “me,” and even more scary, I’m not sure who that “me” is anymore but I owe it to myself to find out.

Now you’re probably wondering a) why I’m sharing this with you and b) when I’ll shut up. Frankly, I wonder that, too. I mean, how do you respond to this as a reader? What good does it do to ramble on about this when I would rather put up something funny?

Part of it is healing for me, getting it out there and telling someone. Part of it is that social stigma (and pride) often prevents many people from discussing these things. However, I do it anyway because maybe reading that I feel this way will help someone to feel less alone — or at least ridiculously sane in comparison.

So to wrap this all up and come back to that meteorological metaphor, I’ll say I have no control over weather, but I have faith that spring will eventually come. The sun will shine, the gray and desolate cold will recede and we’ll start to dig out of this hole.

healing

I’m ready to dig out of this hole.

Like the blog? Buy the books!

‘Twas the Write Before Christmas

‘Twas the days before Christmas, and all through my place.

Not an idea was stirring to share on this space.

My stocking was hung by the chimney with care,

(Which meant there would be no more dusting right there.)

And then there was me, wearing what I wear best.

Yoga pants, sweatshirt, well you know the rest.

When out from the driveway, I heard something clatter,

And turned to the window to tend to the matter.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear?

But a Lexus that made me ask, “Who the heck’s here?”

The lost-looking driver sped off in a fit,

And I knew those commercials were still full of shit.

Speaking of cars and a holiday ruse,

Those dressed up like reindeer that Santa might use?

The antlers on top and a red nose to boot,

Send mixed messages when drivers give the one-fingered salute.

“Freaking merge!” “Learn to park!” They all shout and they call!

‘Tis the season for road rage for those at the mall.

But back to the story of writing this post.

Even though all the readers are logged off, like most.

I thought I could write a more eloquent poem,

That centered on exploits from June, our old gnome.

But this year he’s tanked and refuses to eat,

Except numerous Vodka-filled candy cane treats.

I’m left on my own to come up with this stuff,

Something holiday-centered, sprinkled with fluff?

I had an idea of where things could be going,

In my head all the words just kept flowing and flowing.

But then in a twinkling, I heard in my head.

The prancing and pawing of something instead.

“Did I put back the Swiffer I used on the floors?

Of course I should check, and then clean out some drawers.

Perhaps now the shower could use a good scrub?

I’ll keep writing as soon as I clean out that tub.

And now the mirror’s streaky, so that gets cleaned, too.

What’s with my eyebrows? Let’s pluck one or two.”

My eyes looked quite tired, my hair still a mess.

My chest most resembling a flat iron press.

A shirt stained with hummus not hiding that stealth.

But I laughed when I saw it in spite of myself.

Then I remembered I wanted to bake,

There were cookies and candies I still had to make!

Once that was over, with treats wrapped up tight,

I had no more excuses to not sit and write.

“Okay, back to work.” I decided right then.

I resolved to see this post right through to the end.

But then laying the cursor aside of my lines,

I somehow clicked over to go back online.

To Facebook I sprang, and of course, then to Twitter.

As long as I’m there, e-mail too. (I’m no quitter.)

My train of thought suddenly derailed again,

I figured that yoga might help me feel Zen.

small_Yoga-EXC003

Down dog and pigeon and side planks galore,

I couldn’t help notice a string on the floor.

Out came the vacuum to suck up that stuff,

And at that point I figured enough was enough.

Clearly this poem wasn’t going that great,

A much better post would just have to then wait.

So I sighed and I shrugged and then turned on TV,

And crashed on the couch for a Food Network spree.

Now where was I going with this rambling spiel?

Oh yes, for you people I like a great deal:

May your holiday bring you much joy and delight,

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Like the blog? Buy the books!

P.S. Have you joined the cult yet?

Magical Thinking

There’s a quote in Augusten Burrough’s “Magical Thinking” that I love:

“I like flaws and feel more comfortable around people who have them. I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”

That’s me, pretty much to the letter.

I had good intentions of keeping things super light here and not addressing some issues, but I also don’t want to be dishonest and act like everything’s fine every day. So today you get this crap.

522369_388604667851424_1108814944_n

Long story short-ish, the past few months my OCD, exercise, weight, depression, etc. have really been kicking my ass. Everything except spacing out on the couch or exercising makes me uncomfortable. When I get uncomfortable my instinct isn’t to sit back and evaluate why, but rather to simply escape.

Quickly.

Enter the (maladaptive) behaviors I associate with relief. But the problem is it’s never enough, and it becomes harder to sit with the most fleeting feelings of discomfort. (And when you’re depressed, there’s a lot of discomfort.)

In other words, it’s a temporary fix for a permanent predicament—that “life” will always happen and things are always in flux.

I guess it’s a little comforting to know that what we all struggle with in our lives can be acknowledged as ordinary experience. Everybody feels the pain of not getting what they want or getting what they don’t want, and most of the time it’s not because they suck and can’t get things right.

It’s life, and we’re not the only ones who feel we can’t keep it all together.

But sometimes the internal issues offer no rhyme or reason—no big life event you can cite—which makes you feel kind of crazy and write blog posts like this.

Because even though my intentions are good — I know I’m not a horrible person — I cancel plans because it might interrupt my “safe” routine. I do a good job at work, but don’t enjoy it or the fact that I’m stuck at a desk for the day. I’m pretty sure at times I come off as a flake.

I’m not a flake.

I’m trying to get by. And while I know these bizarre things I do for self-preservation are technically making my life more complicated, it’s a “comfortable” complicated. I pretend I can deal with that better than I can deal with reality without them.

So why write this? I don’t know.

It doesn’t have some great motivational moment to end with other than the fact that my insecurity over publishing it trumps any insecurity you might have if you relate to anything written.

I can also add that if you do relate to anything here, just know that I pledge to try every day. Most days I fail, but I try.

427727_357790977599460_428690567_n

Maybe that’s it.

Maybe it’s so you (we) remember it’s easy to get sucked into online personalities presented in an edited version of reality, one where we’re often  given the good parts and a sliver of the flaws, just enough so that people relate. We forget that it’s only what they want us to see. 

Of course I’m envious of those who don’t have to deal with this stuff and can just be “okay” without so much effort, but I’m not ashamed that I have issues.

You should never be ashamed.

So while my next post is back to humor—writer’s block, be damned—this one exposes my flaws. After all, “I like flaws and feel more comfortable around people who have them. I myself am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with good intentions.”

Magical thinking, indeed.

Like the blog? Buy the books!

On the Road Again

It’s that time of year again.

Uncle June is traveling, my friends.

In case you’re new here, my OCD and general outlook on living prohibit me from enjoying traveling for work. However, it’s a necessary evil that happens every year towards the end of January when I go down to Houston.

It starts with a 6am flight Thursday (3am alarm) and ends Monday night. We put on a party Friday night for 900 people in the industry, 300 people Saturday night and I work the trade show the whole weekend. There are many 14-16 hour days.

Because I’m me, the majority of those 14-16 hours each day are spent stressing about finding vegan food (the one place nearby is closed on the weekends) and avoiding the flu epidemic.

Side note: I’m going to see if I can make the “professional chest bump” a thing instead of a handshake.

Many people say, “It sounds likes fun!” or “At least you’re not stuck at home!” These people are crazy. It’s a work trip, not a vacation, and I prefer to be stuck at home. 

junesombrero

Last year he found himself in a little sombrero. Ole!

Why?

Thank you for asking:

1. Travel is not comfortable, and I don’t just mean for vegans with OCD. Something about shoving long legs into an airplane seat, sleeping in a bed with lumpy pillows and trying to avoid touching anything that probably served as the origination for the Ebola virus just doesn’t make it’s way into travel brochures.

2. Travel is also painstakingly long and stressful. You’re on someone else’s schedule and waste days just getting from one place to another, and that’s not counting the time spent when you get where you’re trying to go.

3. When you’re on the road, you can’t get other stuff done—especially with the crappy hotel Internet you have to pay $15/day for. When you get home, you have to rush to do laundry, restock the fridge and get caught up on everything else work-wise that had to be delayed because you were traveling for work.

junedorthy2

And then I found Uncle June in Dorothy’s cleavage.

But all of that aside, I’m grateful to have a job and know I’ll be home soon enough.* I won’t be chained to my computer every second though, so you’ll have to survive without my constant tweets and updates.

Stay strong!

I’m always in observation mode, which means I’ll milk at least one or two posts out of this mid- and post-trip (depending on crappy hotel Internet, of course.) If nothing good happens I’ll just use this space to tell you nothing good happened, feed my feelings and then distract you with pictures of the happiest animal in the world or a post I wrote that includes an open letter to my sock.

buzzfeedanimal

It’s really a win either way.  

*This statement sponsored by that voice in my head reminding me I need to keep my job and pay my mortgage. Carry on.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

Three Things

“The three grand essentials to happiness in life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.” – Joseph Addison

Although I like to keep things light here, this time of year is always a little bit rough for me. So while this post feels self-indulgent and I’m sure I’ll regret that I shared it, that’s why I’m writing it—because it’s easy to only share good things and hide all the gray in between.

I promise “funny” next time. It’s not all doom and gloom.

But while everyone is optimistic and resolving to be EVEN MORE AWESOME and productive and “following their passion” in 2013, I’m still counting the minutes until I can crawl into bed and drop the façade of a functioning adult human being. In other words, riding out another wave of depression in which I find it hard to find any or all of those things.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

The past couple years I’ve really come to embrace my own likes and dislikes and peculiarities, and I do have a slightly better grasp of what makes me content. I’m quite simple, and it doesn’t take much.

But depression’s a game-changer, and I feel like my biggest accomplishment in 2012 was surviving without complete self-destruction. I didn’t really live up to my potential and didn’t really care all that much. My weight slipped down, motivation came in bursts and busts and for the most part I just floated along.

We don’t need to go back over that, as that’s not the “something to do” that he spoke of. Instead, I shall overshare more.

Doing

For me, “something to do” is to make a living in a way that grants me the freedom to look forward to going to work, ideally writing and making a few people smile. I don’t seek fame, but rather the work that I do and the people I’m around to make me feel good about myself.

I’ve yet to find my “fit,” that place that feels right, but I have to believe that meaningful work is somewhere out there for me.

Loving

When you’re depressed, your world gets very, very small and soon you see nothing but things in your head. The last thing you want to do is appear weak or feel like a burden, so it’s easy to keep it all in.

And despite my fierce independence, wanting a connection with others is a natural inclination. Connections are the main reason why I write—along with the fact that I love it—but I often reveal myself to strangers and hide myself from the people I know.

I need to remember that “something to love” doesn’t necessarily mean “something to validate me” and that being in an abusive relationship with myself takes up time in which I could be open to healthy relationships.

Hoping

As I’ve covered before, the key is to want to want something to hope for, to want to want something to change. For most of last year I had insight, but not much inspiration. So while I don’t aim for extra awesomeness or miracles in 2013, I hope to do more than survive.

I hope to find somewhere I fit.

And no, it’s not a resolution. It’s a reminder that life is messy for everyone. It’s filled with pain and confusion mixed with moments of joy, much of it out of our control. But we can all seek something to do, something to love and something to hope for.

Three things.

One day at a time.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

What are one of your “three things” from above?

Step By Step

I hate when I overthink stairs.

It’s not that I’m incapable of general motor skills, but sometimes I neglect to literally take it one step at a time and end up with a bruised shin or my heart in my throat when that extra step isn’t there at the bottom or top.

Please. Like you’ve never done it.

But because metaphors sound fancy and I’m nothing if not fancy—isn’t life a little like stairs? Not in the sense that it’s a pain to clean with a Swiffer, but in that it’s a series of ups and downs and overthinking the most basic things can leave you tangled up or even in pain.

Let’s explore.

I’m sure I’m the only one who has noticed, but I haven’t been sharing quite as many serious and “introspective” posts as I used to. I’ve vented to (myself and) friends about my health and exercise issues, feeling stuck with my writing and work and just life, blah, blah, blah, but I haven’t published that here.

It’s not that I’ve given up on mindfulness or that my depression has magically lifted—let me assure you I haven’t and it hasn’t—but I started to think I was dwelling on things instead of looking for ways to dig out.

When I dwell and keep saying the same things I’ve said, it leads to getting stuck in the negative, withdrawing from reality and trapping me in an endless loop of questions without sufficient answers.

I’m not saying talking and working through depression or problems is bad—the complete opposite is true—and I still plan on writing about more serious things here and there because a) I’m selfish and need the support and it helps me find some meaning in my experience and b) if someone else can find meaning as well, then that makes it all worth my while.

Plus, I’m still an introspective thinker who overshares, so there’s that.

But instead of analyzing everything, I want to notice that it is what it is and then get on with my life.

My “issues” are still glaringly there, but it doesn’t feel quite as natural to dwell on them. Maybe it’s simply avoidance, but maybe I’m just getting bored with that crap and want a new story to tell.

Lately that story is lighter and fun, at least what I publicly show, and a few twisted minds keep encouraging me. Because of this, I’ve found myself feeling a little more snarky, a little more willing to laugh and admit that some things just might make me happy—even when the joy they inspire doesn’t immediately register. 

It’s not a cure, it’s not an answer to any of the questions I have and it sure as heck isn’t helping to pay any bills, but it’s better than just feeling stuck.

And it’s most certainly a positive step forward—one that I won’t overthink.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

My next post? Shower curtain liners. Prepare to have your mind blown.

The Negotiator

The other day I came home to a chipmunk domestic in my yard. It was like COPS: Small Woodland Creature edition, minus the mini wife beater tanks and camera crew.

vegucated

Considering there was plenty of food under the feeder for all to enjoy, it made me wonder what could tick off these little buggers so much that they would scream and chase each other around the yard. Does he always leaves the seat up? Does she only cook up corn? 

Yes, I spent a few moments pondering this.

Perhaps I’ve just been watching CSI: NY for too long. It’s pretty much the only “serious” show that I’ll watch on TV, due in part to the fact I feel a special connection with Gary Sinise after he and his Lt. Dan Band—yes, it’s a thing—were the entertainment at a Halloween party about five years ago.

But I do like the characters and the show, despite the fact each episode would only last about 20 minutes if you took away the music and shots of the medical examiner looking fascinated every time he picked up a scalpel (accompanied by aforementioned music.)

While I don’t live in New York and am fairly confident that I’m not part of an underground Mafia ring, I am a little hyperaware of certain things.

I think people sitting in their cars in empty parking lots look creepy—even if they’re just taking a lunch break, going into a bank makes me feel like I’m part of “Oceans 11” minus the hot guys and I assume anyone who pulls up behind me at an ATM is the Unibomber out for a jaunt.

But if (god forbid) something did every happen to me, I’m pretty sure I would be the world’s worst hostage.

The perps would most likely “remove me from the situation” quickly or surrender to authorities ASAP, preferring jail to my incessant requests to get home in time to watch the new “Chopped.”

Along with the wrath of me missing my TV show, they would have to contend with the fact I drink water all the time. Drinking water all the time combined with a bladder the size of a Cheerio means I have to go to the bathroom every five minutes.

And hell hath no fury if this “situation” falls within any of the five windows during the day in which I engage in my feedings.

If for some reason things did get carried away and a ransom note was required, the criminal would have to let me put my artistic OCD skills to use in cutting out all the letters from magazines myself. In addition, I would need to edit and possibly revise said ransom note before it could be sent out to authorities.

If it has my name on it, I want it to look good.

At any rate, the news description of what I was wearing when I went missing would probably cause my family to pretend they don’t know who I am. “Yoga pants, a sweatshirt and a streak of hummus in her hair? Nope, I don’t know her.”

That would be unfortunate, because I’m pretty sure the criminal would ante up funds simply to send me away if my above requirements weren’t met. After all, I have chipmunks to feed, and apparently you don’t want to piss those guys off.

You never know what they can do.

Like the blog? Buy the book.

Holy Sheet

We all have certain chores that we don’t mind doing. Some people prefer washing dishes over vacuuming or taking out the trash over dusting the shelves. If you have more than one person at home, these tasks can be split up accordingly.

But when you live alone—or with a cat who still hasn’t pulled her own weight—all of these tasks fall to you. And aside from ironing, I have to say one thing I find extremely tedious is changing the sheets on my bed.

Let’s examine the process.

It starts with simply ripping off the covers and throwing the pillows and blankets in a heap on the floor with dramatic flair—and about 1/100th of the time it will take me to remake the bed.

It’s at this point I realize there’s no turning back and  swallow a small lump of panic. With the old sheets in the basket and the new sheets still folded in a pile, I am now committed to following through with the process if I want to sleep on sheets ever again.

Ever again!

Exhausted by the thought, I take the sheets from the shelf and let them rest on the bed for a bit while I rest for a bit on my own.

sheet3

I will usually get (intentionally) distracted by something more interesting like watching the squirrels and cursing Disney movies for leaving me so disillusioned about small woodland creatures and their willingness to help me with chores.

But I steel myself up and return to my task, plowing through the bottom sheet and two pillows and fighting with the corners of death.

sheet4b

You know what I’m talking about.

The only thing harder than fitting the elastic-ish corners of the bottom sheet across each of the four ends of the mattress without one popping off every time is actually folding the bottom sheet when it comes out of the dryer.

Tedious.

Enter a quick break to test out the sheets and pillows, at which point I stare at the ceiling and decide I should probably wipe off the ceiling fan at that exact minute.

About 20 minutes later I continue on with my journey of placing the top sheet on with equal amounts of sheet on either side of the bed.

sheet5b

But no matter how hard I try, I end up walking back multiple times to pull the sheet a little bit more on one side before tucking it under the mattress.

If it’s too short on one side, I end up pulling the whole thing out when I get into bed. If I pull it too far up the front, my feet will poke out of the bottom and there’s a good chance I’ll wake up with the excess sheet wrapped around my head and panic that the cat’s trying to smother me.

Yup, still single, people.

Anyway, once sheet side distribution is complete, I triumphantly throw on the blanket with the flair of a matador waving his flag. After ensuring equal blanket distribution—see sheet step above—the task is finally complete a mere 45 minutes or so later.

sheet6

Holy sheet.

I’m exhausted just thinking about it, but at least now the bed will have sheets. 

Like the blog? Buy the book.

Detour Ahead

My commute to work is a rather straight shot and usually takes around 25 minutes. Considering that I leave early, I tend to miss the morning rush and  make pretty good time.

The other morning I was cruising along and saw flashers lighting up the dark. It turns out there was a bad accident and emergency crews were directing traffic down a side road I had never been down before, much less in the dark.

My first thought was one of panic, as my ability to directionally navigate is on par to Helen Keller’s in a maze.

If it’s not my normal route, there are no detour signs and it’s not light outside, you can pretty much expect me to end up four counties over, huddled in the backseat in the fetal position eating everything in my lunchbox for survival in the span on 20 minutes.

But I followed the cars in front of me and long story short, I realized where I was and made it to work with my mental faculties no more damaged than after accidentally hearing a snippet of a Nickelback song.

This would be a really boring story if I didn’t try and squeeze some deeper meaning out of it though, right? Let’s try, because while my first thought was one of panic, my second thought was a wee bit more centered.

“At least it wasn’t me in the accident.”

I was inconvenienced, yes, but I wasn’t a victim of some personal misfortune. There were people having a much worse morning than me—namely those in the accident—and the fact that I was stressing over finding an alternate route was actually quite absurd.

But don’t we do that more often than we’d like to admit? The screaming child in the grocery store, the traffic jam on our way home, bad weather—a lot of the stress and anxiety we feel comes from the internalization of external events and the feeling that they’re happening directly to us instead of around us.

The way we react to that misinformation is what actually intensifies the discomfort, not the events in and of themselves.

Now don’t get me wrong–crap happens, often directly to us. But we’re often victims of our old way of thinking and not some universal plot to destroy our inner peace (although I would argue that Comcast and people who drive slow in the fast lane are truly in on that plan.)

If we adjust our reaction to one of acceptance instead of resistance and adopt a new way of thinking about them—an emotional detour of sorts—we’re at least giving ourselves a chance to get where we need to go.

So much like my drive to work, I’m trying to stop my brain from operating on autopilot, aware that I can’t really practice contentment while continuing to identify with whatever darkness I’ve let cloud up my mind. I’m trying to remember that my internal reality doesn’t have to be dictated by external events.

Easier said than done—and I have five million half-posts written about this that will never see the light of blog—but the occasional detour can show us there’s more than one way to move on through the world. We can adjust or we can resist, and some days I do both in the span of 3.4 seconds. But progress not perfection and all those other used clichés.

I’ll get there one way or another.

Like the blog? Buy the book.