I am just so tired. No, that’s the wrong word. I am well rested. I guess I’m exhausted… emotionally, mentally.

Online dating is a really great way to feel like a piece of meat. I’ve heard from about 300 guys just since the start of the year, and it’s mostly made me sad.

Writing is such a beautiful thing, and it is usually life-giving to me, but lately, it’s been a battle just to open up my manuscript.

My friends are incredible… but going through some very hard things. I want to support them well, but that takes energy too. 

I have zero dollars. Please save me, tax return.

All in all, life is so good, so lovely and exciting and challenging. I’m just exhausted, that’s all. 

Psychiatrist on Monday morning. I need to see if any part of this is chemical. 

How are you, lovelies? What are your best suggestions for free/cheap self care?

cared for

My past roommate Becky said she has been reading my blog and is so happy to see that I’m doing better.  She told me, “When we were living together, you were really deep into it.”  It’s true.  The years that I lived with Becky and Tricia (or rather, Biz and Trix) were some of the darkest, most OCD-saturated years of my life.  I am so grateful that God gave those two to me to take care of me in those days when I could not take care of myself.

“Have you had supper?” Tricia would ask.

“Not yet,” I’d respond.  Then I’d begin to consider the whole enterprise.  It exhausted me to ponder opening a loaf of bread, untwisting the twist-tie, pulling out two slices of bread, locating a clean knife, finding a jar of peanut butter, and—it collapsed me—spreading the peanut butter over the bread.  That didn’t even take into account finding a paper plate to put the sandwich on, or cleaning up afterward.  I’d go sit on the couch, my heart racing, a heaviness in my chest.

“Want to make mac and cheese?” she’d ask, browsing through the cupboard’s offerings.

I breathed in and then exhaled deeply.  Macaroni and cheese was so involved—butter and a saucepan and boiling water, milk and cheese mix, and so many dirty dishes.

“Jav?”  (Their nickname for me.)

“I don’t think I’m gonna eat anything,” I peeped from the living room, hoping she would let it go.  I closed my eyes and willed myself to relax.  You’re not going to make anything, I told myself.  You don’t have to do anything.  Just rest. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, poking her head around the corner and seeing me collapsed on the couch.

“Yes,” I said in a voice that screamed, “Not at all.”

She walked over to where I was lying and stood, towering above me, with a frown on her face.  “What is wrong now?”

“Supper overwhelms me,” I said quietly.  “I’ll be okay.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Relax.  I’ll take care of supper.”

“I’ll be okay,” I repeated.

“You have to eat!”

This became something of a routine.  When Tricia and Becky had evening plans, I either didn’t eat, or I tore open a granola bar—something simple.  I lost about ten or fifteen pounds at this time, but I hardly noticed.  But it was an arduous time; I was very dependent and needy, but I was very well cared for.

Thank you, Bizzers and Trix.

me, bec, tricia