Getting buff + modern spirituality

Despite the massive amount of snow we’ve gotten in the past 3 weeks, I’ve made it a personal goal to get back in shape. Rather, my roommates have made it their personal goal to get me in shape.
Dave is my bootleg personal trainer; we all go running and hiking, then he feeds me ice cream. It evens out. Right? I think so.

 

(My view of the nor’easter from my room)

Throwing my childhood in the garbage

My parents are currently in the process of losing their home. Since they both have rather limiting health conditions, they asked me to help clear out the house. Basically, I shoved room-fulls of belongings into garbage bags. I threw out tons of old drawings, stuffed animals, clothes, art projects, memories – pretty much my entire childhood went into the dumpster today.

Moving back to Manayunk & feeling some type of way

(featured photo by Tyler Corbley)

This Saturday I single-handedly hauled all my belongings into my tiny Honda Civic and drove off to Manayunk. I don’t have a lot of things – at least not furniture wise. So right now, the room is kind of… barren.

(Yes, that is a little ball of Nova Dog on the bed there.)
Also I don’t own a chair.

Crashing. (and how to cope with it)

Mental illness is not always constant. There are days, weeks, or months where you could be feeling on top of the world. You’re taking care of yourself, you’re getting things done, the days don’t weigh you down like they used to – momentarily, you feel like a real person. I think that’s one of the scariest parts for people with mental illness; the knowledge that the “real” feeling is only temporary, and that it’ll burn down in a ball of flames one day. And that day could be any day. And it’ll probably be terribly inconvenient.

Maybe crashing is mostly consistent with those who have bipolar disorder or PTSD, but I’d argue that the combination of depression + anxiety can create a very similar crash. The labels and technicalities aren’t important and I’m not a therapist. All I know is that crashing, at least for me, is serious. The higher the high, the lower the low. It’s chemical.

Dealing with death, getting myself together

For those of you who’ve been reading my posts, you know that my grandfather (whom I’d been living with) died in September. Well, last week, my aunt (my grandmother’s daughter) died of cancer. (Rather, the intensive therapy they bombarded her with – but that’s another rant on its own.)
I saw her in hospice before she died – unlike Chacha. I was sick when he was in the hospital, and I didn’t want to risk getting him sick too. I held my Aunt Lizzie’s hand while she struggled to breathe and complimented my eyebrows. We always talked about makeup and skincare and how much we hated working in healthcare. Everyone said I was just like her; empathetic to the point of it being a downfall. When my brother and I were little, we called her “Crazy Lady.” She would dress up and do comedy skits with us in an absurd “crazy lady” voice. We loved it. We loved being with her. She bought me my first ice skates and took me to lessons. She helped me find a psychiatrist in high school. She broke her back for the people she loved.

I’ve come to accept this fact: the people who raised me are dying and there is nothing I can do about it.