I’m a sufferer of what I like to call squirrel brain. Because I’m always on the hunt for food, yes, but also because I can’t sit still and I’m always looking for something new to fixate on. I have more interests than Netflix has TV programming to offer. I’ve tasted the waters of everything from writing fanfiction, to writing novels and blogs, to learning French, to practicing yoga, to self-teaching myself photography, to a still-lingering obsession with the Romanovs, to living in infinite intrigue about the cosmos and life outside of our little planet. Recently, I’ve expanded my curiosity into the art of painting and just as with everything else, I can’t ever just scratch the surface and taste it. I dive so deep I can’t even see the rays of light peeking through the surface anymore. (more…)
November has rolled around again (or sneaked up on us, is more like it) bringing it with it the beauty of fall and thoughts of Thanksgiving. (It’s also brought, as it does every year, premature Christmas preparations. But I’m one of those people who starts singing Christmas songs in October, so there are no complaints on my part.) (more…)
Unless you’ve been living on a different planet you must’ve, via some medium or another, heard about the recent hurricane that devastated the Caribbean region and parts of Florida. Fortunately, I can now say that I am a survivor of Hurricane Irma (and if I really want to show off I’ll even throw in a casual mention that I also survived Hurricane Luis twenty-two years ago). (A mention as casual as six-inch leather pumps.) (more…)
It’s no secret to those that know me that I’ve struggled with anxiety my entire adult life. I was barely into my twenties when I simultaneously started having panic attacks, became a hypochondriac and began battling bouts of depression and the consistent, obsessive, repetitive, draining, worrisome thoughts that have plagued me over the last ten years.
I may actually have had anxiety longer than I can actually account for. I do have memories of being very young—five or six years old—and running to my mom, crying, my face and my extremities having run cold, my heart racing inside me because I’d had a moment in which I remembered we were all going to die someday. I didn’t have these episodes often, but they were regular enough for me to remember with distinct clarity that cold feeling of dread bigger and more powerful than my small six-year-old body. (more…)