Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Raspberry’s Daddy

    It is only after my children grew up that I recognized how little I appreciated my own parents. I know I wasn’t easy to raise. And I see that now – in a way I probably couldn’t have seen before.

    I still call my father “Daddy.” He’ll be 61 this year, and after a stroke, an ankle surgery, and an upcoming knee replacement, I’m learning that parents are not invincible.

    Upon reflection of my childhood, I made mental lists of some of the great things about each of my parents. And I’ll start with Daddy.

    1. He raised me in church. My faith has evolved in 38 years, but who knows where I would be if not for the foundation Daddy set? Daddy taught me that there is power in prayer, power in worship, power in praise, and power in giving all control to the only One capable of taking care of my needs. I watched Daddy struggle. I saw him cry. I saw him lean on Jesus when things were out of his control. And now, I do something similar…with a lot less tact, I’m sure.
    2. I inherited his love of music. My daddy has a beautiful voice. I’d post a video if I wasn’t worried about privacy. He led praise and worship, sang in the choir, sang specials, and he even still travels with a quartet. I can’t sing like him, but I enjoy listening. He also encouraged me to join band, and he attended most of my concerts and even some of my football games.
    3. He surprised me with *NSYNC concert tickets. Twice. I know gifts are superfluous, but I am still an *NSYNC girlie. He got us tickets to the tour after the release of their first album the year I turned 13, and again the next year, when “No Strings Attached” came out. I was so lucky.
    4. He taught me the value of hard work. Daddy was a truck driver for most of my childhood, and when I became a teenager, he started working at a flour mill that manufactured flour for pizza chains and other restaurants. He left for work before I left for school and got home just in time for dinner, covered in white dust. He never complained, but often made mention of how many flights of stairs he had to climb on any given workday. I believe I am a hard worker today because he taught me that nothing worth having is given freely.
    5. He was a good provider. He worked and my stepmom stayed home. We always had what we needed. Clothes, shoes, toothpaste. Having been in a position, many times, where I had to choose between buying a Happy Meal or paying the water bill, I can’t imagine it was easy to take care of three kids financially. And what I thought I was “owed” as a child? That has now become “what Daddy gave.” Because the truth is that we aren’t owed squat.
    6. He kept his expectations high. I won’t lie – Daddy was hard on me. If you talked to him today, he’d admit it. He had strict rules, some of which I didn’t understand as a teenager. I didn’t get to hang out with friends much. I couldn’t be around boys, really, outside of school. You wouldn’t catch me smoking in the shop behind the school or drinking on the weekends – because – well – I wasn’t there…because I wasn’t allowed. Now, I get it. Daddy knew the world was evil and cruel. And I think he wanted to keep me away from all of that for as long as possible. Maybe he knew that I was going to have an addictive personality. Or maybe he just wanted me to forego the struggles that he knew would come with adulthood. Either way, I look back with gratitude.
    7. He is the first person I call when I need advice. Even today. If I’m having a tough day…if the kids are whipping my tail…if I need to know which choice is the best choice…my instinct is to call Daddy. ‘Cause he’ll probably know.
    8. He taught me how to drive. Parallel parking. Three-point turns. Backing up. He might have told me once or twice that “I needed a dadgum bicycle,” but he taught me, none the less.
    9. He let me go to four proms. I dated a junior/senior when I was a freshman/sophomore. I wasn’t technically allowed to “car date” at that time – that started when I was 16. But he let me go. He even made sure my hair was done and my shoes were dyed to match the color of my dress. What dad does that?!?
    10. He forgave me when I spit on him. My hardheadedness didn’t start when I became an adult. It began much earlier. And I had a smart mouth and a lot of opinions to go with it. There were consequences for my bad behavior, yes, but Daddy also talked to me. He delivered many a lecture, just trying to explain things I couldn’t possibly understand at such a young age. He knew better – he knew more – and he gave me grace when I fell.

    These are only ten things off the top of my head. There are many more. Maybe I’ll come back and edit this post as my brain dumps more information. Either way, I’m grateful for a father, today, that I haven’t always shown grat

  • Ordinarily Raspberry

    I used to think I was going to change the world. With my efforts. With my love. With success. With wisdom.

    And at 38, I’ve come to realize that I’m just ordinary…

    …which used to offend me.

    “Ordinary.” Nothing happening. No major events. No stories worth telling.

    But ordinary days are where most of life actually happens.

    This morning looked like a lot of mornings do. Got the son to school. Shower. Coffee. I threw on my 17th pair of leggings and the sweatshirt that required the least amount of digging through my drawers. I dropped my husband off at the doctor. Picked up Oz Monster from daycare. Ordered groceries online.

    And while doing all of that, I thought about the day ahead – what work would look like. Lunch. What chores I’d try to complete during breaktimes. I prayed. I anticipated an uneventful day. Nothing dramatic. Just life, continuing.

    There is a quiet weight that exists in days like this. Not overwhelming. Not crushing. But present. It’s the awareness of everything going on beneath the surface.

    The things I’m working through. The people I care about. The responsibilities I carry.

    And none of it is loud. But it’s there.

    My life right now isn’t chaotic. It’s not filled with constant highs and lows. It’s steady. Predictable. It’s familiar, which used to make me antsy. But now I see it differently.

    This is what stability feels like.

    Most of what I’m doing these days wouldn’t stand out to anyone watching. Going to work, handling responsibilities. Making thoughtful decisions.

    The miracle lies in the small, unnoticed choices. Choices that don’t meet the criteria for congratulations. Choosing not to react. Choosing honesty. Choosing to stay grounded when my emotions try to pull me somewhere else. I don’t talk about it. But that work is constant.

    There are small moments throughout the day that probably wouldn’t mean much to anyone else.

    A conversation.
    A thought I choose to sit in for a brief moment, but do not follow.
    A decision I make differently than I would’ve this time last year.

    They don’t look like milestones. But they are.

    An ordinary Monday used to feel like something I had to survive. Now it feels like something to build on.

    Because ordinary days like these are where change actually happens.

    Not in big moments. Just in ordinary days like this. Days where I show up, stay steady, do the next right thing. Days when I want to fall apart but don’t. Days when I mundanely cross to-dos off of my checklist while noticing that the congratulations I so desperately sought from other people can be given to myself, by myself.

    There’s nothing flashy about an ordinary Monday. But something in it matters.

    Consistency. Stability. Forward movement.

    And for me…right now…that’s more than enough.

  • Raspberry Energy

    The social construct of “matching their energy” is played out.

    I used to do it, too. If someone was distant, I’d pull back. If someone was short with me, I’d return that tone. If someone showed up halfway, I’d adjust to meet him/her there.

    But what feels like self-protection, balance, and “giving what I get” doesn’t create peace. It just multiplies the problem.

    When you match energy, every interaction defaults to reactivity. Choice is taken out, and instead, you’re just responding based on what someone else does first. And before long, your behavior isn’t rooted in your values. It’s rooted in theirs.

    People aren’t predictable. Their behavior changes based on moods, stress, personality, and circumstances. And if your responses are tied to all of that, your stability disappears. You become as stead – or as chaotic – as the people around you.

    That’s not a place I want to live anymore.

    So I’m not matching energy. I’m choosing mine. In scenarios like these, it’s the only thing I can control.

    So I’m going to be calm even when someone else isn’t. I’m going to be respectful, even when it’s not returned. I’m going to be consistent, even when others fluctuate.

    At some point, we have to stop making decisions based on what we think other people “deserve.”

    No, we don’t have to accept poor treatment or stay in unhealthy situations. We don’t even really have to pretend that things aren’t bothersome, when in fact, they are.

    But we can set boundaries, walk away, and create distance without become reactive in the process. And matching energy is reactive. Choosing your own energy is intentional. One is driven by the moment and the other is grounded in who we’re trying to be.

    If I have learned anything from all of the inner work I’ve been doing, it’s that I cannot control other people. Peace doesn’t come from that place. It comes from controlling my response to other people’s behavior. And the more consistent I become when choosing how to show up, the less power others’ behavior has over me.

    I decide who I am. And I show up that way regardless of what they do.

    I find that emotional maturity lies in the space between “giving what I get” and “treating them how I want to be treated.”

  • Regulated Raspberry

    In connection with a previous post about being too emotional, please allow this post to serve as clarity.

    Being “emotionally healthy” does not mean “feeling less.”

    I’m not someone who can detach, or calm down, or just “be” unbothered.

    I have to work alongside how I feel, and I teeter the line – all too often – between fighting harder and losing the fight completely.

    Being regulated does not mean that I hurt less.

    Jesus wasn’t numb on the cross. He was in pain – physical, emotional, spiritual. He was rejected, and still prayed, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doing.” He didn’t deny the suffering. But He didn’t allow his pain to turn into retaliation.

    In Acts 16, Paul and Silas were beaten and thrown into prison. Not inconvenienced. Not misunderstood. Actually beaten. And by midnight, they’re singing. They shifted their focus from hurt to praise.

    Hannah was deeply wounded – bullied because she couldn’t conceive. But instead of suppressing the pain, or even fighting back, she brought her struggle somewhere safe. “In her deep anguish Hannah prayed to the Lord, weeping bitterly.” (1 Samuel 1:10)

    Stephen was stoned (Acts 7) and prayed for those who were hurting him while they were hurting him.

    Elijah was tired. “I’ve had enough, Lord…Take my life,” (1 Kings 19:4) he prayed. Overwhelmed, fearful, and depleted, he finds sanctuary in the wilderness, where God meets him…and restores him.

    Emotional regulation is about redirecting your feelings, not letting your hurt turn into destruction. Being regulated, for me, doesn’t mean that the hurt doesn’t exist, or that I bury it. It doesn’t mean I don’t get angry. It doesn’t mean I pretend that I don’t struggle.

    It is not the absence of emotion. It’s the presence of restraint.

    So my goal now is not to feel less. It’s to respond better.
    To feel the hurt without letting it become harm.
    To acknowledge the emotion without letting it take control.

    You can be hurting and still be anchored.
    You can feel deeply and still choose wisely.

    And maybe that’s where real strength lies. It is not the absence of pain that makes us strong. It’s the ability to remain grounded in the middle of pain.

  • Raspberry Season

    I’ve been thinking a lot about Job today. It’s funny because people around me like to say things like, “I’m in my Job season.” You know – when Murphy’s law kicks in and everything bad that could happen does happen and you’re laying in your bed at night wondering “Why me?!?”

    I think what some people forget about the story of Job is that Job didn’t do anything wrong. It’s one thing to be tested when you’re an innocent bystander in the circumstances of your life. And all over the world, good people are being tested.

    I can’t say that for myself. I have made so many mistakes and I’ve done so many things wrong, and I can’t (and don’t) blame a single person except for myself for the aftermath, consequences, or dissolved relationships that have come as a result of those wrongs.

    So I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to say, “I’m in my Job season.” I know that right at this moment I feel incredibly blessed and I definitely don’t “deserve” it.

    But here’s the thing – none of us “deserve” it. We all *deserve* death. Forgiveness, grace, mercy – those are all things available for the taking – even though we don’t deserve them.

    I hope you’re not wallowing in regret or punishing yourself for your mistakes, because neither of those things will help you or anybody else. I hope you’re not doubting every decision you will ever make again just because you’ve made some bad ones, or impulsive ones, or selfish ones one second before right now. I hope that you don’t cling to your mistakes just because you spent a long time making them. And I hope you don’t allow someone else’s perception of you, or your mistakes, to shape your identity (this is something I really struggle with, and that is not my wish for anyone).

    If you really are “in your Job season,” or if you’re just reaping what you’ve sown, I hope you’re thinking a lot less about what you deserve, and a lot more about asking for your freebies.

  • Perceived Raspberry

    I’m one of those people who can’t just make a mistake once and learn from it. I like to make the same choice 4 or 5 times just to make sure it’s a mistake.

    And because of that, I’ve been defined by a pattern of those mistakes.

    It takes three murders to earn someone the title of “Serial Killer.”

    So by that standard, I’m a “Serial” lot of things.

    And one of the hardest parts of changing isn’t the work itself.

    It’s what comes after. It’s realizing that there are people who tally up my repeated mistakes and allow them to equal my character. And since I’ve failed at making changes many times before – because I put a band-aid on the core issues instead of actually digging deeper – there are people who still see me the same way they always have (and probably always will).

    The old labels. The old patterns. The old version of me.

    And that used to bother me a lot, because (1) it’s been hard to accept that those repeated mistakes are the cause of so many dissolved relationships; (2) I would instinctively compare my progress with those judgments, and it tore me up.

    But other people don’t experience my growth in real time. They experience the version of me that they once knew. The Raspberry they interacted with. The Raspberry that affected them. And that version is real. To them. So when someone sees me through that lens, they’re right.

    It’s just not current.

    There’s a part of me that wants to lash out. “But I’m not that person anymore.”

    But the most genuine growth doesn’t ask for an audience, and even when it gets one, not everyone is ready or willing to believe it.

    So I don’t argue anymore. I no longer try to convince people to update their perceptions of me. I don’t overexplain my past, hoping to change opinions.

    If someone needs to see change, they’ll see it through consistency – not through explanation.

    My focus has been on living differently. Quietly. Consistently. Without a need for immediate recognition.

    I tell the truth. I make better decisions. I stay where I used to run.

    Not because anyone else is watching me. But because I am.

    People are allowed to remember me however they experienced me. They’re allowed to hold onto the version of me that caused hurt. They’re allowed to be cautious, distant, or even closed off completely.

    I do have to accept/respect their experiences. But I don’t have to sit there just because they choose to. I don’t have to agree with their current views. And I don’t have to make decisions that coincide with what they think.

    Growth happens internally. Reputation happens externally. And those two things rarely move at the same speed. Sometimes your character has already changed, but reputation hasn’t caught up yet. And honestly, sometimes it never fully will.

    There’s a quiet strength that comes with realizing that I don’t need everyone to see me correctly in order to live correctly.

    It does hurt. Sure. I can see when someone still interacts with me based on whatever version of me they’ve conjured up in their minds – a version that no longer exists. I notice avoidance. I observe hypocrisy on a mass scale.

    But those moments pass. I’m no longer dependent on changes in the perceptions of others to determine my direction.

    I can’t control how I’m remembered. I can only control how I live today – and I have actively chosen honesty, responsibility, and self-awareness. I’m reinforcing something that matters more to me right now than any label – who I actually am.

  • Raspberry in Progress

    I didn’t get to heal in peace — but I am healing in responsibility.

    There was a time when I used my survival as an explanation.

    Not an excuse — at least not consciously — but an explanation.

    I was immature.
    I was overwhelmed.
    I was hurt.
    I was trying.

    And all of that was true.

    But true doesn’t erase impact.

    There came a point — quiet, unceremonious — when survival stopped being the headline and consequences took the microphone.

    Healing in chaos is one thing.

    Healing after you see what your chaos cost is another.

    No one claps for this part.

    There are no filtered photos of “working through the damage I caused.”
    No aesthetic journal spreads titled Repairing What I Broke.

    Just long afternoons with your own thoughts.
    Just the weight of knowing some apologies arrive years too late.
    Just the understanding that growth does not guarantee restored relationships.

    Healing in responsibility feels different.

    It is slower.
    Less dramatic.
    Less self-focused.

    You cannot center only your own pain anymore.
    You have to make room for the pain you were part of creating.

    That’s sobering.

    It means sitting with shame without letting it turn into self-pity.
    It means listening without demanding forgiveness.
    It means resisting the urge to say, “But I was struggling,” when what needs to be said is, “You didn’t deserve that.”

    There are days I want to defend the overwhelmed version of me.

    She was drowning.
    She was unprepared.
    She was carrying things she didn’t know how to name.

    But there are also days I have to look at her gently and say:

    You still hurt people.

    Both can be true.

    Healing in responsibility means not collapsing under that truth.

    It means standing upright in it.

    It means choosing different reactions when it would be easier to repeat old patterns.
    It means noticing the instinct to run, to numb, to justify — and staying instead.

    It means becoming stable not because someone is watching, but because someone once was.

    There is grief here too.

    Grief that I can’t rewind time.
    Grief that some of my growth happens in rooms I no longer have access to.
    Grief that accountability doesn’t guarantee reconciliation.

    But there is something steady growing underneath the grief.

    Integrity.

    Not flashy.
    Not loud.
    Just consistent.

    I can’t heal in isolation, but I can heal in alignment.

    I can become the kind of woman who does not look away from her mistakes.

    The kind of mother who says, “I was wrong,” without attaching a footnote.

    The kind of adult who understands that remorse is not the finish line — change is.

    Healing in peace would have been easier.

    Healing in responsibility is heavier.

    But it is also cleaner.

    It doesn’t rely on someone else handing me relief.
    It builds relief from the inside out.

    I don’t know which relationships will mend.
    I don’t know which photographs will ever feel uncomplicated again.

    But I do know this:

    The woman I am becoming is steadier than the one who was scrambling to survive.

    And maybe that is what accountability gives us.

    Not a reset.

    But a foundation.

    And this time — I am building it on purpose.

  • Reactive Raspberry

    If you asked me to describe myself, one of the words I’d probably use is “emotional.”

    Not emotional in an explosive way, but in a way that makes me sensitive. Sensitive to change. To tone. To “vibes.” Passionate might also be a good way to describe it.

    But as the Lord has been doing work in me, I’m realizing now that a lot of the things about which I can become emotional aren’t thoughtful. They’re just immediate.

    If something happened, I’d feel it intensely. And I’d respond just as quickly. It felt natural in the moment, but it didn’t always lead me to somewhere safe, or to a mental space by which I could rest.

    So learning to become less reactive hasn’t really been about simultaneously become “less emotional.” I may have to learn to live with deep feelings, and that’s okay. But it’s really been more about creating space between feeling and doing.

    Prayer really works. I’d encourage you to try it if you aren’t praying regularly.

    Outside of that, I’ve implemented some practical steps that have helped me take a breath between the feeling and the action.

    1. I delay my response. I don’t respond immediately to texts, calls, emails, or comments. I read/listen, and then I pause. This has prevented so many arguments.
    2. I name what I’m actually feeling. While in my “pause,” I evaluate my feelings. Am I upset? Embarrassed? Do I feel rejected? Slighted? Offended? Getting specific has helped me understand the feeling itself instead of allowing said feeling to control me.
    3. I identify the trigger. My reactions don’t come out of nowhere. They’re usually tied to something deeper. So I started noticing patterns. And that awareness has helped me catch my reactions earlier.
    4. I do not trust the impulse. Impulsive decisions – the ones I make – are usually the worst of all available possibilities. The urge I have to defend, explain, correct, or withdraw is worth naming, but not necessarily worth acting on. I do not have to obey my emotions, and I know I’m a little late to that Learning Party, but hey, better late than never.
    5. I give myself an “out.” If someone is pestering me for a response, I literally will say, “Let me think about that,” or, “I’ll get back to you,” or, “I need a minute.” If my feelings aren’t on my watch, they sure as heck aren’t on anyone else’s. Creating space is not avoidance. It’s wisdom.
    6. I lower the volume of the moment. When something feels intense, my brain interprets the situation as emergent. But feelings lie. The question, “Will this matter in a week?” helps me bring the emotional intensity down a notch or two.
    7. I have become comfortable with discomfort. A lot of my reactivity has come from wanting immediate relief, either by wanting to end the tension or fix the feeling (or sometimes even to prove a point). But discomfort is just part of life, and learning to be uncomfortable without acting on it is a skill. And it really has changed everything for me.
    8. I’m patient with myself. I still don’t do all of this perfectly. So when I have weak moments – ones where I pop off without thinking, I reflect afterwards. And then I apologize and reconcile my head feelings with my heart feelings – usually on paper – so that I can track my progress as these situations come up.

    I thought for a long time that becoming less reactive was impossible for me, because I was just incapable of “feeling less.” But as I’m growing, I’m learning that it’s more about not letting those feelings control me. And over the last 8 months or so, that space between feeling and action has become something pretty powerful – it’s become choice.

  • Raspberry Diagnoses

    My therapist says diagnoses don’t matter.

    She says it calmly. Clinically. Like someone who has watched enough people wear labels like armor or shackles.

    “Diagnoses don’t matter.”

    I nod.

    But I still Google them in the parking lot.

    I still compare symptoms on various lists on the internet. Still screenshot phrases like they might hand me a mirror that finally makes sense. Still whisper, “That’s me. That’s me. That’s me.“

    Because if there is a name for the way I spiral – for the intensity, the restless wanting, the shame that comes in waves – then maybe there is a manual. A treatment plan. A prognosis. A reason.

    And reasons feel cleaner than flaws.

    Labels promise structure. They promise explanation without confession. They say, “You are not bad. You’re wired.“

    And sometimes that’s true. Sometimes biology deserves the microphone. Sometimes chemistry deserves compassion.

    But I don’t think that’s what my therapist means.

    She means that a diagnosis might explain our storms, but it doesn’t excuse who we choose to be inside them.

    A diagnosis might describe the terrain, but we still decide how we walk through it.

    I think she means that we could all spend years trying to define ourselves down to a code in a handbook – or – I could spend that same energy asking harder questions.

    Am I regulated? Am I honest? Am I accountable? Am I trying?

    Those questions don’t fit into categories. They live in the gray.

    There is a quiet temptation to let diagnoses become identity. To say, “I’m like this because of X,” or “I react this way because of Y,” or even, “My relationships struggle because of Z.”

    And parts of that are probably real.

    But if I cling too tightly, the label becomes protective.

    The label keeps me from asking, “Okay. And now what?“

    My therapist says diagnoses don’t matter.

    I am not a case study. I am not a cluster of symptoms. I am not a paragraph in a med student’s thesis on mental illness.

    Change does not hinge on terminology. It hinges on humility. Patterns. Whether I am filling to confront those patterns without theatrics.

    Some days I still want the label. I want something tangible to justify wiring, as opposed to a moral failure.

    And maybe some of it is wiring.

    But at the end of the day, peace doesn’t come from the name.

    It comes from integrity. From showing up differently than I used to. From catching myself in the pause before I react. From choosing not to weaponize my pain.

    Maybe diagnoses don’t matter because growth does not wait for classification. And healing isn’t gated behind a code.

    Instead, it’s built in small moments, none of which require a title.

    That is terrifying. And freeing.

    Because if diagnoses don’t matter…

    Then who I am becoming does.

  • Raspberry Emergencies

    One of the main things I’ve learned about my brain is that it has absolutely no concept of proportion. Real problems? We’ll get to those eventually. But random, mildly uncomfortable situations? Those are apparently five-alarm emergencies that require immediate mental attention. In all specificity…

    1. That text message I sent to a friend three hours ago. The perfectly normal message, “Let’s do lunch before you start your new job!” I’ve read it like 17 times and now it looks suspicious. Was that too assuming? Was the punctuation too aggressive? Should I have used an emoji? At this point, I’ve created an entire psychological profile of the other person’s response time.
    2. The possibility that I offended someone in 2012. My brain loves to occasionally dig up a memory from years ago like it’s presenting evidence in a jury trial. Like, “Remember your meal before freshman year prom, when you only ordered a baked potato because you were too embarrassed to eat in front of your then boyfriend?” Yes, Brain. Thanks for that information at 11:47 p.m. on a week night. Super helpful.
    3. The tone someone used when they said “okay.” In my mind, there are 14 different versions of that word, and my brain thinks she can decode them all. And my fellow overthinkers can vouch. “Okay” is not the same as “Ok” or “ok” or “kk” or “k.”
    4. My bullet journal theme for April. Like I don’t have work to do or laundry to fold, my brain goes, “Hey, Meg, April is 2 weeks away, and you haven’t even thought about your bullet journal.” And it’s not just the passing thought that eats up my day. It’s the pressure.
    5. To that end, the one thing on my to-do list I haven’t done yet. I could complete 9 tasks (and I have). But that 10th? The one I haven’t finished? That’s the one my brain will obsess over like the rest of the world is waiting on it. Today it’s doing my nails, like somehow a Victoria’s Secret model will bust through my front door, look directly at my hands, and think, “Oh that just won’t do.” And all of that while I’m sitting here in yoga pants and a two-sizes-too-large-tshirt.
    6. My life trajectory. And it’s never at a convenient time. It’s always, like, 2 a.m., and I’m fluffing my bedroom pillows, when my brain decides it’s time to conduct a full existential review. Are we doing enough with our life? Are we where we should be? Do we need a completely new career path? And none of these questions can be answered at 2 a.m. But that doesn’t stop the metaphorical screwdriver from prodding.
    7. That awkward social interaction from earlier. Two weeks ago, during our small group at church, I thought it would be an amazing idea to divulge some fun facts about serial killers, specifically asking no-so-rhetorically, “I wonder what seasoning Jeffrey Dahmer used…” Lasted about 7 seconds, and I even got some laughs. Nobody in my small group has thought about it since, but I’ve thought about it every day for two weeks straight, like a slow motion replay of someone tripping down porch steps.
    8. Whether or not I’m “self-improving” enough. My brain regularly panics and tells me that I should be reading more books, exercising more, journaling more, and thereby growing into a better version of myself every 15 minutes from now until I die. It’s admirable, but also, can I just sit numbly on the couch while Big Bang plays in the background for an hour?
    9. The time I waved back at someone I thought was waving at me, but it turned out she was waving at the person in the check out line behind me. My soul dies a little more every time I think about it. And now I don’t wave at anyone. Like…nope. Not getting me this time.
    10. Whether or not I’m overthinking too much. Ironically, one of the biggest emergencies created by my brain, every day, is the possibility that I might be overthinking. When I then analyze extensively…thus proving the point.

    It’s like my brain doesn’t think I have enough actual problems, so it tries to spot potential in every decision I make. The discipline it takes to redirect my cerebellum so that I don’t have to open a full investigation…

    I’m exhausted indefinitely.