The Woman From the Advance Auto Parts Store

I came in to the Advance Auto Parts store in a small town in New York on the border of Massachusetts today, looking to find a replacement bulb for my broken headlight, hearing many words from many people in the back of my mind, in situations that haven’t yet happened,

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This Is My ESA Story.

For the past 13 years of my life, I’ve had an emotional support animal even though she wasn’t ever registered. Her name was Lemon, she was a cockatiel, and she saved me from killing myself when I was a teenager.

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Looking Inward | Cleaning Frenzy

Since my life derailing event, life has been more like floating in midair and sitting on top of a cage rather than inside of it.

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The Internal Productivity Struggle

How do you stop constantly assessing if you’re doing “enough” work?

Society plugged us into this capitalistic machine of wanting to do work and feeling satisfied when we do more work, or the most work. When have you truly done “enough?”

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Late Night Rant #2: Angry Facebook

Please see Late Night Rant #1 if interested. This is completely different. This post is in defiance of my mother and also proof that she never reads my blog – ever.

Topics discussed:

  • Anxiety
  • Angry Facebook
  • Talking about talking about politics
  • Poverty
  • Shame
  • New Years Resolution

Continue at your own risk.

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Is It Real or Is It Anxiety?

A really common predicament when going to the doctor is worrying if s/he will ignore your problems and label them as “anxiety.” What if it is though? Here’s a pep talk.

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No Fast Fix: Life With Mental Illness

I am nineteen and sitting in the campus counselor’s office. Her room is sunny and overlooks the quad, where boys in shorts toss frisbees with shouts and girls in floral shirts clump together at a picnic table, laughter and chatter floating above their open laptops. I look down at my hands, fidgeting in my lap, as I wait for Alexa to sit down in the arm chair across from me.

The arrangement of the room is more suggestive of a conversation between friends than therapy–– we’re both in arm chairs, a small table between us. Her notebook lies on the table when she isn’t writing. On the first day she explained this to me:

“I keep it there because I want you to be able to know what I’m writing, if you’d like.”

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