Sometimes self-care is giving yourself a pedicure in semi-darkness because you like the soft light.
Sometimes, its painting the stubs of your fingernails because you’re going to try to grow them for the millionth time.
It’s unfollowing his Instagram. It’s letting the weeds grow in your Twitter feed. It’s turning off notifications, and enabling “Do Not Disturb” more hours than it’s off.
Self-care is knowing how and when to remove yourself from the chaos and noise of the world to preserve your self-worth, your sanity, your mental health and stability. It’s shutting everything off so you can finally sleep.
It’s finally letting your brain rest enough to get some sleep.
Louisville I like you but omg learn how to drive.
My instinct is still to call my grandma to clarify points about our family history. Did her great-great grandfather settle his farm in the late 1800s? If his first daughter was born in 1916, that hardly seems correct.
Every time I remember I can no longer check with her, it’s as though someone has punched me directly in the chest.
How do you condense 13 years of your life into a small enough space it’ll fit in the back of a car you don’t have, yet?
The worst part about having an easily-raised temper is that you feel betrayed by your own feelings. I’m almost never sure when I’m actually angry about something because for every 4 times I’m justified, there are at least another two that I’m being irrational.
It feels like I’m being sabotaged by my own brain.
Write Through Him
Learning to Silence the Bitter 30-Something White Man Who Tells You Your Life/Story/Opinion Doesn’t Matter: A Tangents and Angles Story
The good thing is that since I’m so hollow and achy about my grandma, whenever my ex’s face tumbles through my timeline, what once registered as abject panic and pain now is just a resigned numbness.
2016 sucks and I’d like my money back, please.