It was the night before my father’s funeral that I finally asked the tarot for help. I was incapable of imagining a future where I delivered his eulogy.
The facade of control I’d spent so much energy maintaining was ripped from me. I am doing my best, and that’s good enough for me.
I try to imagine weathering the storm of my father’s death without these animals by my side, and the thought alone nearly capsizes me.
In what’s been the most difficult year of my life, animal companionship has been as essential to my mental wellbeing as the time spent with my family.
My dad died. I only know my own grief, and even that is debatable. If you’re hoping to comfort someone who’s grieving, here are a couple of things to know.
Content Notice: mass shootings and violence, suicide mention
In the midst of struggling with being depressed, you’re also saddled with the practical realities of staying alive. It’s no easy feat.
Healing is hard work. It will be hard today, tomorrow, next week, next month, 3 years from now.
More than any other unsolicited mental health advice I’ve received over the course of my life is the admonishment to “fake it till you make it.”
An obsessive spiral is largely invisible, with no quirky Monk-like hand washing to ground it in reality. The hand washing stuff — the compulsion — comes later.
For a long time, I kept a mental list of things that I’d do once I was “better.” I yearned for a sound mind and a thin body — two things I was not born with but figured I could somehow earn. Once I had those two things, I could do anything I wanted.