Here’s the thing – I have anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, and more often than I like to admit, these two mix together and create a nice little cocktail called depression (starting today’s post off on a fun note here). Over the years, I’ve found myself looking up different approaches to dealing with these which has always led me to some variety of “self care”.
Now, for me, I’ve always taken self care tips with a grain of salt. Especially as “self care” has become more of a mainstream activity, and it seems as though people are using it almost as an excuse for any behaviours outside of their normal. Which to be fair could stem from me having used it to justify eating too many red velvet cupcakes, and also the six step skin care routine I dropped several hundred dollars on at Sephora last year. Did either of these things better my mental health? Definitely not. Could they for others – maybe.
Self care is incredibly important to me – despite what you are probably thinking after that last paragraph – when done in the true essence of self care. This being to set time aside to sit with yourself, process your emotions and thoughts, and spending time doing things that serve you. For me this means meditating twice a day and filling in my eyebrows, but for others it can mean a wide gamut of things – bubble baths, shaving your legs, watching a marathon on Netflix while drinking a bottle of rosé, what have you. Debatably, the most common form of self care out there (if we’re going off Pinterest tips here) is journaling. Which you’d think I’d be all over, considering the fact that I blog now, and it is practically the exact definition of what I said self care is at the top of this paragraph. But, no. I’ve always thought journaling was a crock of shit.
That was, of course, until I bought a journal a couple months ago.
My grandparents are currently on vacation overseas (hard life), and while they’re away, I was tasked with the very important job of buying tickets for the lottery. Of course I – being the caring and loving granddaughter that I am – agreed to this without hesitation… once my percentage of the winnings was agreed upon, that is.
Ah yes, the first day of fall. It’s the most wonderful time of the year… for Starbucks. The leaves on the trees are changing from green to orange, and our layers from crop tops to flannel. Patio drinks? Not today. It’s time to unleash our inner Marthas and prepare as many apple baked goods as our Pinterest boards will allow. And while they are baking, why don’t you turn on the TV. You’ll be scared shitless by the spooky movie commercials – but hey, at least they aren’t the sappy holiday ones that are just around the corner!
I love the fall. Mostly due to it’s proximity to winter (the BEST season – fight me), but I do love a good pumpkin patch moment. I’ve also become more interested in ghoulish things in my 28th year of life, so I’m starting to get the appeal of Halloween. More than anything else though, the first day of fall marks the end of something that is truly evil – summer.
Listen – I know that in a traditional ranking of seasons, summer ranks pretty high for most people. But with the combination of my insecurities and the fact that heat makes me a completely different (and significantly more angry) person… let’s just say I’d take a blizzard over it any day.
Here I am! I made it! My job back in Toronto is officially behind me, and my belongings are all in a trailer in my grandparents driveway in a new province.
Let me tell you, it still feels weird, and – especially on the job front – like I’m just on vacation (a vacation I packed way too much for, apparently).
For the last six years, I lived, basically, for my job. I was on 24/7. I always had my work phone on me. Even on vacation. So it’s a strange feeling not having it – not having to be ready to solve problems at any second of the day. I’m sure in time this will be nice, but right now, it’s like part of me is missing.
Right now, I’m sitting on my couch in the living room of my bright, roomy Toronto apartment that I’ve been in on my own for the last year and a bit. I’m home from my day at my well paying career job that I’ve been at since I moved to Ontario at 22 years old.