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.
Healing is hard work. It will be hard today, tomorrow, next week, next month, 3 years from now.
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.
We need to stop trying to be perfect. I know better than most that it is much, much easier said than done.
Do you feel stuck? Paralyzed by fear that you will be bad at what you want to accomplish? The never ending cycle: perfectionism, procrastination, paralysis.
I had spent so much time yearning for solitude that I had never really confronted the reality of being alone.
I have sought out solitude my entire life — up until pretty recently, it was a hard thing to come by.
It’s supposed to imply that I can do a lot of stuff even while I’m sick, but what it actually means is “not dying yet.” Because that is the actual definition of functioning: existing. Breathing in and out, eating, talking, and — especially if you live in America — generating some form of income.