May I Just Say (An Eloquent Editorial)


I go to a support group for people living with bipolar and depression (often co-occuring with other mental health challenges) and have been noticing a trend lately. I’ve been noticing this trend in my personal life as well, and thought I’d just address it because it’s ridiculous.

Please do not tell people with mental disorders how to treat said disorder.

Honestly…just mind your own damn business. Unless you’re my doctor, you have absolutely no right or authority to tell me how to take care of myself.  I’m specifically addressing people who think it’s their right to tell others to stay off medication.

I have Bipolar II. I take medications to stabilize my severe mood swings, which at times have led me into the darkest places imaginable. I really, truly don’t think I would be alive right now if not for my medication. I see a therapist, and she’s also life-saving. My support group is absolutely essential to maintaining stability. These three things, combined with a good diet and not living a sedentary lifestyle, are the reason I’m happy to say I’m very stable at this current moment.

What people don’t understand about me, what they don’t see when I’m alone and at my worst, is that I work my fucking ass off to stay sane. It’s offensive that people think they are allowed to tell me how to handle my life. It’s offensive that one of my support group peers was told by a naturopathic doctor to discontinue his lithium and antipsychotics. I understand having differing points of view, and I understand that when someone finds something that works for them they want to share it. I also understand if you’re suffering with the same mental illness and sharing about your own experience. But if you know nothing about the mental illness you’re trying to treat without the proper education, you just don’t get to casually suggest that people go off of their life-saving medication.

I don’t want to hear it. My life has been hell for the entirety of 2017. I’ve also struggled through some extremely dark periods throughout my adult life before my diagnosis. I’ve had hypomanic and depressive episodes while unmedicated, and I remember them and shiver. Being inside my mind during those episodes is absolutely fucking terrifying. I honestly find it disgusting and negligent that anyone would try to tell me to medicate with herbs or non-FDA-approved supplements or berries or kale or marijuana or skydiving or dolphin therapy or space exploration.

I’m skeptical of medication. Truly, I am. I’ve told doctors I will not take certain drugs because of their potential side effects and lack of research on them. But the side effects of being inside my brain are sometimes much more dangerous than the ones inside of a pill. I’ve researched. I’ve weighed the costs and benefits. I’m an adult who has made an adult decision to save my own life.

So stay the fuck out of it, ya know?

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Diary Sessions: Part 1


When I was last visiting my parents in April, I brought all my old diaries back with me and realized…they’re kinda amazing. I was in such torment over everything. Now, I don’t want to invalidate the feelings I had as a kid, because I went to a small school full of awful little children being awful to each other (I think a lot of us can agree on that regardless of where we grew up)…but it’s cute to see how I described this torment. I thought I was such a grown up and was just so dramatic sometimes (not much has changed on that front, probably). I also had the habit of getting myself into ridiculous situations out of sheer boredom.

So. As I was reading my first diary from 5th grade (age 10 was a particularly ridiculous one for me) I came across a few lines that I wanted to share. My comments are, obviously, in italics.

November 4, 2003 — Study Hall We didn’t have study hall. I don’t know who I thought I was tricking other than my older self, but surprise! I have not been tricked….

I wish I could finish a diary sometime but I never have anything to write about other than my problems and I don’t have a vivid memory Spoiler alert: I have three diaries full of “problems” and vivid memories sitting directly in front of me that were written from ages 10-18, plus a few half-filled ones somewhere else.

Sometimes I read peoples diaries who have died already and I wonder, how did they not get writer’s cramp?

At the moment all I want is a friend (single tear). Megan isn’t a friend and never will be because if she even tries I’ll die. Okay, hold on there sister. A little less drama please. She probably wants me to die. I want  her to die. Gosh, diaries are just so private! Not anymore. I am making no sense, even to me. I don’t get it either, you tiny murderous child. 

Cramp! Will write later. I guess I wasn’t like those dead diary-writers who never got “writer’s cramp.”

“Shane is so annoying…sometimes I want to tell him he is an ass and slap him across the face. That would be very rude though!” TO. SAY. THE. LEAST.

Then, later that day, (there are several entries from the 4th of November…I must’ve been channeling my inner dead diary-writer) I wrote: If someone asked me if I don’t think girls’ body parts are fair compared to boys’ body parts I would tell them that girls can get breast cancer, they get a period, because of their period they have to wear a tampon/pad, they get breasts, because of breasts they need bras, blah blah blah. I would be very open about that sort of thing. I really don’t think it is fair…I miss being a little kid and not having to worry about maturity. Oh, kiddo. If you think that’s unfair, you have no idea what you’re in for. Also, though, I love that I already wanted to be super open about the female body. 14 years later and I haven’t changed on that front. #BabyFeminist.

November 5, 2003 — Early in the Morning

As I was saying last night, all you have to worry about when you are really little (You are a child. Please just embrace that and stop feeling so woeful about your old age) is whether or not your friends will share crayons with you. Whoa boy. Times have changed. P.S. The worst thing that can happen is having the same pants as the same person who didn’t share crayons! Ba-dum-chhhhhhhhhhhh.

Then I described some weird incident where a girl named Morgan asked me if I was smoking on the bus and I said I wasn’t and everyone else said I was. What the fuck was wrong with these children?!

Sidney is so sickening (Hello, RuPaul) sometimes. When I was at the drinking fountain she kept bumping me. I almost turned around and said, “Sidney, is something coming to attack you?” (Zing) Seriously, that girl has some kind of problem. See, she sits right in front of me and always wants to use my stuff. I, being the generous person I am, never let her use it. HAHAHAHAHAHA that was actually pretty good.

A few lines later, I made some weird joke about George Bush being the leader of all the girls who were mean to me. I don’t know, y’all. I don’t know. #PoliticallyActive10YearOlds

Dad had surgery on his wrist. He’s gonna show us his cut. What’s so gross about a cut? I don’t know — who are you asking, exactly, and why are you so sure they’re going to argue with you about this cut business?

The next few entries are just me calling everyone I know a “jurk” and a dope, the latter of which I must’ve picked up from my father. After that, it was all about how I was in love with Jesse but he loved Janelle, and then I “made Megan talk to the hand.”

Okay, y’all. I think that’s all for now. Trust me, there’s plenty of material here for next time…

 

A Few Fuck-Yous…


…Brought to you by international air and train travel.

1. Fuck you for wearing your skunk perfume on a plane (also on the train…I’m looking at you, passengers of renfe who showered in old man cologne). I’m glad you’re making an effort to smell good but we’re all hurtling through the sky in a coke can so everyone can smell everyone else a little too well and I will sneeze on you.

2. Fuck you for wearing your nicest heels and jewels through the security line. I’m glad you’re wealthy and old, but there’s really no reason to hold up the line with your nonsense just so you can stick your fake nose a little higher in the air.

3. Fuck you for looking nice on an airplane, honestly. This isn’t so much of a fuck you as it is a how is this possible? I look like a gremlin who was caught in a flood and a tornado and a hornets nest. It’s just rude to look so much better than me, and to make it all look so effortless. I’m wearing socks with sandals, goddamn it, because I’m tired, these shoes were too heavy to check through, and my toes get cold. I’m a wreck. This is a PSA.

4. Fuck the system. Or…yeah. Fuck this whole first class business class nonsense. I get it, because I, too, would like to actually be able to stretch my (very long) legs out whilst flying. But I can’t, because I don’t have money flying off of trees and landing in my wallet.

5. Speaking of first class, fuck the stupid curtain. “Okay so what we’ll do is take the rich people and put them up front and then keep the plebs away from them with a mesh curtain.”

6. Fuck airports that don’t have free unlimited wifi. Sorry I have a six hour layover and wanted to write on my laptop but only had 30 minutes to do it, JFK. Sorry. So sorry I refuse to pay $5 an hour for shitty wifi. On that note, fuck writing a blog post on your cell phone whilst using data.

7. Fuck. I’m so fucking tired. I’m in that mood where nothing matters so I don’t understand why people put any effort into anything non-essential. Also I broke a nail and I’m annoyingly emotional about it.

8. 12 hours down, 8 to go. There’s no place like home. Fuck everywhere else.

Chapter 2: In Which Everything is Overwelming and I Lose My Mind But in a Good Way


21688163_130984047636455_2539152691532689769_oY’all, I’m tiiiiiired. Or at least I was a few days ago. My jet lag set in after 5 days, which was later than I’d expected. It sucks. I think it’s gone now, as I’ve been here for 8 days and my sleep schedule is finally back to normal.

I’ll tell you this for free, though: it’s awkward realizing you did not try hard enough in your college Spanish classes, and winning the foreign language award for your high school’s graduating class in 2011 does not a fluent Spanish speaker make.

So yep. I’m tired. And I like the food but it’s also so strange? And they eat so much of it at lunch, which is at 2:30 in the afternoon…so I suddenly understand why siestas are a thing. After eating ninety potatoes, who wouldn’t need to rest? Can I just have a permanent beach siesta, please? I don’t want to walk. I don’t even want to breathe. I just want to lay here and listen to the little Spanish children running around in the street saying things I don’t understand. I like doing this, because I don’t have to try to understand them. Their words just float through one ear and land gently in my brain before floating out the other.

But honestly, I’m having a good time. I get to see the ocean every day, and I can actually swim in it. I’m taking a break from being vegetarian so I can try new foods, and I’m accidentally remembering how much I like chicken. Oops. I’ve always kinda hated palm trees, but they look nice here, and some of them are super short and squat and it’s adorable. There are old, beautiful, colorful tiles on some of the buildings and in the parks, and even the pigeons look different here. The dogs here are goofy, sometimes — I saw one man walking 8 chihuahuas at once the other night and took a photo because I’m the biggest tourist ever. I had the song California Dreamin’ stuck in my head all morning, and this afternoon someone drove by blasting it. A few days ago, some random woman was holding a bunny in her arms and yelling across the street at her friends. God knows why, but now I want to move here and start a bunny commune with my friends. This morning, I watched a man hardcore reel in a fish off the pier whilst smoking a cigar. All the flies in this entire country have decided they love me and want to make little fly houses in my hair, on my arms, and in my water glasses. Every. Single. Fly. Yesterday, one day after I’d mentioned I’d never been pooped on by a bird, a little tiny one decided to make my left arm its toilet. I guess I’ll try anything once, but I’d rate the experience 2/10, would not recommend.

Freeman, Past and Present


Some of you may have heard about the most recent school shooting, this one at Freeman High School in Rockford, WA (near Spokane). What most of you don’t know is that I grew up there, know those people, and attended Freeman Elementary and Middle Schools before transferring to a high school out of district.

Freeman is, as I’ve always half-joked, conveniently located between two wheat fields (just take a right at Bessie the Cow); more accurately, it’s a small school district with about 80 students per grade level, and many of those students come from farming or working class families. The great thing about small communities like that is they’re tight knit, and people take care of each other, as many families have known each other for generations: their fathers were friends, their daughters played soccer together, her brother married his sister, they opened up a store together, etc etc. It’s a really beautiful thing because it feels like everyone is a family. Except when you feel like the very distant cousin from Mars.

I transferred to a high school in downtown Spokane after 8th grade because I was often isolated, friendless and miserable while at Freeman. I was that Martian cousin, ostracized by my peers and occasionally their parents. I was always different — being outspoken, liberal, AND feisty isn’t the best combo if you want to avoid conflict at a conservative school. Sometimes I sought conflict because I didn’t know what else to do; I lashed out verbally at times, because I never fit in with the cliques that formed as early as first grade. Truly, I felt uncomfortable, out of place, and desperately unhappy for most of my time at Freeman. Children are horrible to each other no matter where you live. Teachers and parents, too.

The world changes so quickly. All three of the schools were remodeled shortly after I left. Students come and go, and a lot of my old teachers have retired. Perhaps a lot stayed the same. Perhaps it’s still a home full of family for some students, and a place of isolation and despair for others.

As I write, I can only think, “I don’t really know how to do this.” I don’t know how to convey both my sympathy and my memories all at once. I don’t know how say that my heart is broken for the community I grew up in and that I look back at my time there and feel ill and vulnerable, just as I did when I was 8. I can’t explain how uncomfortable I am with my conflicting feelings. I can’t cry over the beautiful memories I had there, because none really come to mind. But I can cry for the fact that there is something very, very wrong in our society when these events keep happening in different settings all over this country. Barely anyone knew where Freeman was, even in my neighboring town of Spokane, because it was quiet and small. Now, CNN is reporting on it.

I will never sympathize with someone who hurts others. But I can, perhaps unfortunately, empathize. I don’t want to make Freeman out as a horrible place…it is no more deserving of tragedy than any other place on this earth. But I see this combination all too often: a child obsessed with revenge — obsessed with school shootings — attacking the place they’re supposed to call home.

They released the boy’s name within the past day or so. He looks a little familiar, but his name doesn’t. I probably don’t know him at all. Maybe I just know the look on his face, as it reflects that of so many school shooters before him. He’s a child. He’s a child with the strength of an adult, weapon in hand. It’s no one’s fault. It’s everyone’s fault. I don’t know where to place blame, so I let it float out in the air hoping it’ll eventually land on something.

I was bullied in school, but I never did something like this. I wasn’t obsessed with school shootings. I wasn’t allowed to be obsessed with guns. Guns aren’t exactly uncommon in rural communities like this, and I remember children joking about using them when I was little, too. Everyone grew up much too comfortable with weapons. I was terrified of them, but my peers didn’t always seem to be. We can’t just say this boy was a wacko, because that ignores the real problems we need to face in this country. We can’t blame this solely on mental health problems. He was suicidal, but most suicidal people don’t try to bring others down with them. He took liking guns to another, more dangerous, level. Perhaps the fact that he had access to a gun is less important than his desire to use one to hurt others at such a young age, or perhaps that access to guns is what caused that desire in the first place. These problems are widespread across our society, and we need to find ways to teach our children that violence of any kind is just not the way to go. And we need to teach our children to stop treating each other so badly. Children, as I’ve said, are horrible to each other. But they don’t have to be. Not if we teach them how to love just a little harder.

I don’t know how to convey my feelings. But perhaps if we were a little more honest with ourselves about the complexities of these situations, we’d find more complex and effective ways to prevent them.

holaaaaaa


sunset 9:12Here I am, sitting in the dining room of a small Spanish grandmother, looking at a silver plaque of “La Ultima Cena de Jesus” (The Last Supper) whilst a cool breeze blows across my shoulders. It’s bright out — surprisingly less humid than the past four days — and I can hear the neighbors chatting over the lazy sounds of the occasional car passing by. Concha (who, judging by the many many many depictions of Jesus around here, is Catholic) is in Jerez visiting her sister and has left us her home for the next few weeks. Here. In Cadiz, Spain.

It still doesn’t feel real, honestly, that I’ll be in this city for another two weeks before heading up to Barcelona, then to Brussels. My mediocre Spanish skills, however, are very real. I studied the language until I was 20, but that was four years ago, and it’s disappointing how little of it stuck. But every moment I spend here, with my brother-in-law’s family, I improve. It’s out of necessity, really, since their English skills are worse than my Spanish ones. It’s like everyone says: I understand much more Spanish than I can speak, which results in me understanding entire conversations but being able to add very little. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the only words I know are “sí” and “me gusta.”

I’ve spent two of the past four days at the beach. Or, more accurately, floating in the ocean for as long as I can until the sun sets and I get cold. I’m so used to the frigid waters of Pacific Ocean on the Oregon and Washington coasts, so actually getting in the ocean is such a treat, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna waste it. It tastes sooo salty (fun fact: I got some up my nose and it hurt like hell but suddenly my sinuses were very clear, so there’s an upside to everything) but all that extra salt makes me buoyant, and I’m getting a kick out of watching the sun set over the Atlantic whilst I prop my feet up over the salt water. The sunsets here, y’all. The sunsets.

So much has happened, so here’s a synopsis: eggs, potatoes, smoked paprika, white fish, gelato, humidity, a store called la cucaracha, tinto de verano, mediocre (and shy) Spanish, broken English, beach, sunset, more beach, boats, more sunset, mangoes, more mangoes (fun fact: the mangoes they sell here are almost as good as the ones we bought off the street in India, but I think these come from Brazil), and just a touch of jet lag.

I’d forgotten how exhausting it can be to live in another country for a while, but I think my Spanish is improving daily and I’m honestly enjoying not really knowing what’s going on anyway. This entire world is catching fire (both literally and figuratively) lately, so I’m allowing myself to ignore all of that at least a little bit and just enjoy my time abroad.

And now, I head to the beach once more. ¡Adios!

Who, What, Where (A Brief Autobiography)


Contrary to popular belief, I am indeed still alive and well. It’s been a rocky road (unfortunately not the ice cream, though I desperately wish it was), and I have absolutely not fulfilled my resolution to continue blogging more often, as it’s been about 4 months since my last post. I’ve said this before (so many times) but this started out as a humor blog exclusively, but as I’ve gotten older and faced adult challenges, I’ve found it increasingly difficult to be constantly hilarious. I’m still hilarious, but am faced with the fact that I am a multi-dimentional, emotional human being. Of course, that’s okay. Less entertaining at times, but okay.

So what have I been up to? Dealing with multiple mental health crises, honestly. I stay pretty private about it for the most part, mentioning it only in passing unless talking to specific people about it, but you’re all part of the internet so I feel a little more anonymous and lately am less concerned about talking about it anyway. I don’t feel any shame about it anymore, but I also believe it is my story to tell when I want to tell it, and only when I want to tell it.

I was diagnosed with Bipolar II at the very end of 2016 and began various methods of treatment at the start of 2017. It’s been difficult, to say the least. Everyone has their misconceptions about what bipolar even is and I’ve received a lot of unnecessary and unsolicited advice from both strangers and those close to me. Be warned: the comments section here is not a forum for advice, but is perfectly allowed to be a place of kindness and support if you really feel the need to speak to me on this subject. This is not a dialogue. It is absolutely a monologue, and I feel perfectly fine drawing that boundary.

I will give very brief and basic introduction to what Bipolar II looks like for me. I know a lot of people don’t understand the disorder (or didn’t even know it existed in the first place):

I live my life in one of three states at any given time: hypomanic, stable, or depressed. I also occasionally experience mixed episodes, which cause me to swing from depressed to hypomanic within short periods of time. Hypomania is sometimes defined as “mania lite,” but I find that definition both overly simplistic and invalidating, as it implies that it isn’t distressing or difficult to live with. During hypomanic episodes, my symptoms range, but can include extreme irritability (what I call “road rage whilst walking”), insomnia, restlessness, compulsive speech, persistent risk-taking compulsions, increased focus on projects (I’m talking picking up an activity and not stopping for days — I’ve acquired several lovely hobbies over a short period of time) and lack of appetite. These episodes last for at least 4 days, but typically last longer for me. I also rapid cycle and at one point had 5 or 6 episodes within a two month period, which was super fun except when it totally wasn’t.

Essentially, I don’t sleep, I don’t eat, and I can’t shut up or stop moving. Sometimes this all feels really fun and freeing, because suddenly I’m the life of the party. Often, though, I feel scared and get the sense that I don’t know who I am or what I’ll do. In general, emotional swings that severe are really distressing.

It ain’t easy, folks. It’s taken a lot of dedication and effort to work toward stability and feel like myself, but I’m getting closer every day. I think. My goal is to keep the hypomanic and depressive episodes fewer and farther between so I can remain stable longer. Sometimes this happens, sometimes it doesn’t. I barely slept for the past three weeks, and started absolutely losing my mind until I finally found the perfect combination of relaxation, essential oils, tart cherry juice, and ocean sounds to get 9 hours of sleep for the past four nights…this is probably the only reason I’ve found the energy to write this post in the first place. That combination may not work forever, though, as I’ve learned in the past, and I’ll have to switch things and work even harder. Extra medication is sometimes involved, sometimes not. It’s hard to know what will help at any given time.

I’m finding plants have helped me heal a lot lately. Doesn’t matter how hypomanic or depressed I am, potting a plant will make me feel sane, if even for just a few hours. Plus, I gain little green friends and purify the air in my house all at once. An unexpected but absolutely appreciated medicine, for sure. Celebrating life and maintaining my creativity has been essential — there’s a lot of art, bass playing, and journaling that goes into my stability. I remain vague about other parts of my treatment because it ain’t nobody’s business but those are also difficult and frustrating at times. Support groups help the most.

I’ve had a lot of revelations over the past 8 months…about life, my will to live, what and who I love, what I deserve in this life and the next, what I want to focus on and what I want to leave behind. I’d 100% prefer to not live with bipolar, but if I have to, at least I’ve done a lot of soul searching and self exploration to learn how to manage it.

Hopefully I’ll write again before another four months have passed, but you never know. Either way, know that I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m more than just this disorder.

xo

If you’re interested in learning more about mood disorders, NAMI is a really great resource. If you happen to be a person living with bipolar, DBSA meetings have benefitted me more than I can ever explain. 

Can We Discuss Disney Princesses Though


I was on the phone with my dad yesterday crying (surprise) over my lack of romantic luck recently. He gave me some really wonderful advice, the most hilarious of which came when he said, “The worst thing Disney ever did for society was write those stupid happy endings.” Or something to that effect — I tend to describe things a little more sassily than he does.

Anyway, it got me thinking: according to Disney, everything works out in the end if you’re a quiet woman in a patriarchal society. I am not quiet, and I’m actively attempting to smash the patriarchy at every turn, so I’m a little concerned about what this means for my love life. Also, I’m not exactly straight so I just wanna know what Disney would recommend if I’m trying to woo a mermaid, but I doubt I’ll be getting any answers on that front any time soon.

I’ve never wanted to be a princess, but I’m realizing that in a Disney world, I would have to be in order to fall in love, so uh…here we go. Now, there are a few (million) necessary adjustments I must make to my life in order to attain princess perfection:

  1. Become tiny. Which might be difficult since I’m 6′ and not exactly slender. Maybe I can cut my legs off at the knees, which would successfully reduce my weight and height in one fell swoop. It would also allow me to become helpless. Maybe my prince would be down to push me around in a wheelchair for the rest of eternity (which is obviously also how long our love would last).
  2. Replace my sweet mother with some horrible woman who wants to lock me in a tower or make me mop her floors and take care of her fat, evil cat. I could probably start looking for that type of woman at the local Chicos clothing store. The more chunky jewelry, the better, I’d assume.
  3. Become straight. And probably develop a dwarf and/or squirrel fetish.
  4. Don’t leave the house unless I look immaculate (note to self: find fairy godstylist). Only do housework if forced to. Allow mice to take up residence in my apartment.
  5. Immediately unlearn every self defense skill I’ve ever been taught. Walk into forests alone at night. Take food from strangers. Make deals with weird octopi in ocean caves. Make out with frogs even though they probably have weird swamp bacteria all over their bodies. Totally wander into random cabins in the woods without worrying about some racist hillbilly coming in and axe murdering me while I’m fast asleep.
  6. Let teacups teach me about love. Employ candlesticks for both light and therapeutic advice. Become easily impressed by silverware. Become way too obsessed with my hair for anyone’s good (this one might not be too tricky for me).
  7. Stop talking. This might be hard, as I don’t think I’ve spent more than 3 hours in silence at any given time. I even talk in my sleep, for goodness sake.
  8. Assume kissing men will always be magical and totally save my life. Because obviously everyone knows how to kiss me the way I’d like. None of them will shove their tongues down my throat (princes don’t actually possess tongues, anyway) or drool on me (and yes, before you ask, that has happened to me and I really don’t want to talk about it). Let random twerps kiss me just in case it helps my situation in life.

I think that’s it.

And yes, I’m super serious about the squirrel fetish.

Mingbin, Gaga and Me


I do not want to get on this plane.  I want to stay in this state of airport gate-waiting for eternity.

I’m not afraid to fly. I don’t particularly like it, and usually I feel a little ill when I fly, but it’s only an hour flight and I have good music and a book about George Harrison (my travel buddy) so I should be set.

No, I want to stay here because this is the first time I’ve felt a sense of calm in the past several days. I got a tea, put on a travel playlist my friend made me, and set up to write this blog. It’s nice to stop, to breathe, to pause this state of existential dread.

I want to stay here and think about how adorable my Lyft driver, Mingbin, was. He was a tiny Asian man, probably 70 years old, driving a Mazda with a dancing flower attached to the dash. After a few minutes of pleasantries, he switched on a CD and suddenly I was back in my sophomore year of high school listening to Just Dance by Lady Gaga.

I have so many questions.

Did he make the CD for himself or was it given to him? It’s clearly a mix of Gaga songs spanning several records, and some are remixes. Is he playing it because he thinks I will like it? Or is Mingbin a Little Monster himself? One can only hope.

I watched the little plastic dash flower dance along to Born This Way as we passed an IKEA and I remember thinking about how much I’d rather re-live the 24 hours of travel to India (turbulence and airplane food-induced diarrhea included) than set foot in an IKEA for an hour. That place is like a maze, set up to destroy and feast on the souls of new homeowners.

I miss Mingbin. He didn’t try to make small talk, which is good since I didn’t really want to talk and also couldn’t understand him very well. He drove like a little old man,  thankfully, because I’ve clung on for dear life in the back seat of many a car in my day. He just played a ridiculous amount of Lady Gaga while I alternated between giggling and singing along.

So Merry Christmas everyone! Happy Hannukah, Happy New Year, congratulations on your new baby, have a nice time at the gym today, happy winter. I hope we can all be just as adorable as Mingbin this holiday season, or as he described it “this long weekend.”

xo

Webs


Three spiders have made their homes outside my apartment windows. Sometimes, I watch them spin their webs in the dark, orange streetlights barely illuminating the fibers. Usually they’re sheltered from the rainy Oregon weather but every so often, when it rains sideways, huge holes appear in the meticulously symmetrical designs. I’m always so amazed at the spiders’ diligence. They never stop. They’re never deterred. I’m assuming they’re never discouraged, though I don’t have much understanding of spider brains and emotions.

I’m proud of them. I’m inspired by them. They’re my little friends, my little roommates, and I root for them every night while I fall asleep. I hope they know how much I care about them. I hope they know how much they matter to me.

I hope they feel me, silently cheering them on in solidarity, because if they can rebuild, so can I.