Triggers

Triggers are something that gets made fun of a lot. I think people started using ‘trigger warnings’ for things that seemed quite trivial to a lot of people, and it took the meaning away from the word. Now, if you talk about triggers, people think you’re being over sensitive. They don’t realise that for a lot of people triggers are a very real, very scary and very awful thing.

I have a few triggers. I grew up in an abusive household and have Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). There are things that ‘trigger’ me and put me back in that mindset, the mindset of being in danger, powerless and terrified. Things like shouting, not even directed at me, just in the same area, causes me to freeze up. It become harder to breathe. My heart starts racing. I can’t think. My body kicks in the fight or flight reflex and pumps me full of adrenaline. Any kind of confrontation is the same. I sit and shake for ages afterwards. Shouting, certain gestures, even being in my childhood home, are all triggers. Unfortunately, I still live in my childhood home, something that contributes largely to my poor mental health.

Triggers don’t only come from PTSD. There are also things that can trigger mood swings. For example, tonight I was feeling pretty good, better than usual. I had a long, busy day at work, so I hadn’t had time to dwell on my thoughts. I got home and was watching my current favourite tv show. I went out to get a drink of water before bed and my little brother made a comment, something he thought was a hilarious joke, about how he and my mother were going to get me a garbage skip for Christmas.

Now, this might not make a lot of sense, but let me explain. My room is always messy. I’ve tried to keep it clean and tidy, but so much of the time finding motivation to get out of bed is too difficult, let alone to clean. I have bursts of energy and I’ll clean for a while, then it’s like getting hit in the face, and I just can’t do it. I also learnt when I was younger that if my room is messy my father won’t come in here, which means it’s safer. My bed is right at the opposite end from the door and there’s an obstacle course separating the two. In a house where I often hid in cupboards for hours to avoid him, that kind of safety is highly prized.

But why did that joke hurt so much? Well, it was like a slap in the face. I was so cheerful and happy and then BAM a reminder that I’m not good enough. A reminder that they talk about me behind my back, they make jokes together at my expense. I know all this, but it’s still not nice having it through in my face, especially around this time of year when everyone talks about how important family is. What really sucks is they wouldn’t have any idea how badly it effects me. How I went into my room and cried and cried, while they laughed. What’s worse is I don’t think they would care. I’m just being too sensitive. And that’s where the issues really come in. People don’t understand that when you have a mental illness, you’re not going to react the same to things. Teasing might just seem like teasing to some people, but to others it’s soulcrushing. It’s not being too sensitive, it’s reacting to something that really cuts deep. But because they don’t experience the same, they can’t understand it, and they don’t like it when you “ruin” their joke. They expect you to laugh along, and when you don’t, they get offended. We’re not allowed to get offended. But they are.

In my last post I talked about suicide and how I deal with those feelings. Triggers are different. They’re often unpredictable and difficult to avoid. They hurt. People judge. It sucks. But being aware of triggers is very important. There’s not a lot I can do when someone around me yells. As I said before, it makes me freeze up. I have learnt that repeating the phrase “It’s okay, you’re safe” outloud to myself does help, but that’s only once the trigger, or what my brain sees as the threat, has been removed. Dealing with triggers is something I’m still learning about. I recently got the book The Body Keeps The Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk which was recommended to me by a psychologist I was seeing. She thought it might help with the triggers, learning how the mind and body stores the traumas. I haven’t started reading it yet, but when I do, I’ll make a post about it. I’m hoping it will be good, that it will help.

As always, I feel a bit better after writing. Still crap, but that seems to be the norm at the moment. Probably due for another medication switch up, but that’s another post entirely. So, I guess this is where I say goodnight and settle down to sleep.

Goodnight.

 

 

 

Image credit: https://www.concealedcarry.com/safety/should-you-modify-your-carry-gun/

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Depression and Suicide

Suicide is something I think about a lot. I’ve had bad depression for most of my life. I didn’t start getting any kind of treatment until I was nearly eighteen and most of the coping I’ve done on my own. It’s not something that’s easy to talk about. It’s not something people want to talk about. I’ve tried to bring it up with people I’m close with in the past, my mother, friends, etc. but it’s amazing how quickly they want to change the subject. If you ever want to test someone’s thinking speed, bring up mental illness and they’ll have a topic within seconds.

Something that I hate is the taboo around talking about mental health. It’s something I could go on about for ages. Recently a friend of mine brought up the fact that she had been at a fast food drive through and the girl serving had self-harm scars. She asked us, two other friends and I, if we thought the girl should keep them covered. I wanted to say no. No, she shouldn’t have to keep them covered, she shouldn’t have to feel ashamed of them, how does that help?! But it’s confronting, and I know that I keep evidence of self harm covered up as much as I can. I recently had someone notice something I had burned into my ankle and it’s like this wave of “Play it cool and lie” came over me. I don’t want people to know I self harm, even if I haven’t done it in weeks, months, years. I don’t want people to know because it makes me seem weak, and because I’m ashamed of it.

Shame. That’s a big thing with mental health. And I don’t mean “Oh, isn’t it a shame…”, I mean that horrible, burning shame that you carrying around with you. Because people can’t know. They can’t know that you cry yourself to sleep. They can’t know that you hurt yourself. They can’t know that every day you think about whether it wouldn’t be better to just rip the bandaid off and end it. And this shame that forces you to keep it all in, also convinces you that not only to people not want to know, they don’t care. It turns the rational thoughts of “It’s confronting and they’re struggling to respond” into “They don’t care about you”.

I can remember confiding to my mother once that I didn’t think anyone cared about me. She told me that I had convinced myself of that. I didn’t have to. If you were to ask me who in the world cares about me, I would answer “Nobody”. Not to be dramatic, not to be attention seeking, or self pitying, but because I truly don’t believe it. I can rationalise, I can tell myself that of course people care, but that is what I have to convince myself of. It’s not that I’ve talked myself into believing that no one cares, or that I’m alone, that’s like an inherit thought. That’s just how I feel. I can sit here and go through people I know in my head care. My mum, my sisters, my friends. But could I honestly believe that they care? No. That’s mental illness.

Mental illness is exhausting. Not just forcing myself to get out of bed, to go to work, to smile and laugh and pretend, that’s actually easy compared to just existing with myself. At work I have distractions. People coming and going, things I have to do, problems to solve. That’s the easy part. The hard part is when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, or when it’s quiet and still and my thoughts can just do their thing.

Mental illness is isolating. I work in an office with a lot of people. I would see at least a hundred different people a week. I see friends regularly. I live with my parents and my little brother. I have people around me all the time. And I feel so disconnected from them, I might as well be on a different planet.

Mental illness is tireless. It’s like trying to swim against a rip. You push all your energy into just staying afloat, but it doesn’t let up. It just keep pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing and eventually you have to make a choice: do I keep swimming or do I sink? Which one is easier?

For the people around me, it’s easier that I keep on swimming. That effects them less. No one wants to have to deal with a suicide. Think of what that would involve. Police. Medical staff. Funerals. Getting rid of possessions. Having to tell people that hadn’t heard.

For me, it’s easier to sink. It would be so easy to just end it, just to give up. There are methods where it’s just like falling asleep. No more tears, no more heart stopping panic attacks, no more terror, no more depression. Just sleep.

So why don’t I end it? Well, firstly, because it’s biologically ingrained in us to survive. Go to the edge of a cliff. You’ll feel your palms and the bottoms of your feet start to tingle and sweat, your stomach will clench, you’ll tense up. Your body is literally fighting to keep you alive. It’s really hard to override that instinct. Secondly… Well, no, I think that’s the only reason. I haven’t got the energy to override my human nature screaming at me to stay alive, even though I’m miserable.

Now, you might be thinking, why don’t you do something about it? That’s one of the things people say if you do force the conversation upon them. One of my friends, who knows quite well I’m medicated and have seen psychologists, said that once and I wanted to slap my palm against my forehead and say “Oh! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that! So simple! I’m cured!” but I didn’t, because I’m not an asshole. I do, in fact, do things about it. I go bak to my doctor to reasses the medication I’m on whenever I feel like I’m getting worse. I want to see a psychologist, but I work with all of the ones in my city, and have no way of getting to another town to see someone else. There are psychs in training at the uni I can see, but I don’t want to be the one that turns them off being a psychologist. That’s not entirely true, I just want to see someone with experience, someone who has gotten people through this kind of thing before.

I also have management strategies for when things get bad. I have specific songs that I put on that make me feel happy. I go for walks. I distract myself. But those don’t always work. If it’s late and I’m trying to get to sleep, and all of a sudden all I can think about is how much I’d rather be dead than anything else in the world, what then?

Well, then I get up and blog. I put on one of my happy songs (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sywP3aVNUpY), I cry and type until my head pounds, my face is wet and my wrists are all crunchy from being held wrong. Then I check the time and realise I need to be up in a matter of hours and I don’t have time for this shit. Then I sign the blog off, post it and go to sleep.

Goodnight.

 

 

 

(Image credit: https://leisurethings.wordpress.com/2014/01/28/lets-talk-depression-and-leisure/)

It’s All About Perspective

Last week while I was at work, I got talking to this nine year old girl. We talked about her favourite books, school, and all the other things nine year old girls like. Somehow we got talking about age and I made the catastrophic mistake of asking her how old she thought I was.

“46?” came the reply. I laughed and said “Not quite!” Her next guess was 47 and it only went up from there. Now, I turn 23 tomorrow, so obviously I hope that I don’t look 47, but to a nine year old I clearly do look “old”. But let’s be honest, most kids aren’t great judges of age. I sure wasn’t, still aren’t! They see kids, big kids and grown ups. And maybe “old people”, you know, those people with grey hair and false teeth. Apparently those people are only a few years older that me!

I have to be honest, though. I did go home and check for wrinkles. Not because I’m old, but because I’m getting older and for the first time I’m starting to feel as though life is getting away from me.

When I was little I imagined a lot of things about being a grown up. Some things, like having my hair change naturally to black, having green eyes and a flawless tan, were not realistic. Other things, like being a vet, were. However if nine year old me could meet present day me, I don’t think she would be impressed. Her expectations of being married with kids, a farm and horses have not come to fruition. But at age nine, I thought people in their twenties had all that and more.

Silly me.

A little older, not much wiser, 13 year old me walked the school hallways looking at the year 12 students, 17 and 18 year olds, in admiration. They were so grown up and beautiful. They had relationships not just boyfriends. They drank coffee! They had it all together.

Ha!

Fast forward five years. 18 year old me: struggling with school, single, didn’t like coffee. I thought I’d turn 18 and go out clubbing. I went once to a place known as The Spewie and avoided it from then on. I thought I’d have my license and my own car. I still don’t. I despite that, I knew that I’d be married by 19. 20 at the latest!

Hahahahahaha!

Wrong again, past me. We’re currently on the cusp of 23, single and very much still trying to figure this whole life thing out. I have, in the past few years, leaned a lot, however. I’ve learned that no one really knows what they’re doing, but if you act enough like you’ve got it figured out, people will think that you do, and eventually, your life starts to look as if you’re a Proper Adult™. For example, I go to work every day. I complain about work. I save money. I buy an obscene amount of books. I’m about to buy my first car. And then I will learn to drive. From the outside, it’s starting to look like everything is coming up Milhouse. Finally, I’m an adult!

Except…

I don’t really understand taxes.

My little brother had to teach me the difference between a blue slip and a pink slip.

I can’t even keep my room tidy, let alone a house.

But the important thing is that this is all okay. I’m 22, nearly 23. Sure, some of my friends are married, some of them have kids. Hell, a couple of them have even graduated university! Some of them are really acing it. And some of them are addicted to meth. So, in the grand scheme of things, I’m not doing too badly.

It’s all about perspective.

 

 

Image credit: https://www.tes.com/lessons/s2mKePgAVVUC0Q/space-and-perspective

“Say sorry!”

I don’t know anyone who likes to admit when they’re wrong. It’s a hard thing to do for most people. It takes a lot to go to someone and apologise for something you’ve done/not done. It takes even more to apologise for something that truly wasn’t your fault, something that I’ve been learning about recently.

Last Friday at work I had an… Altercation with someone. More accurately, I took a message for her in which the person gave me the incorrect phone number and she blew her top. All day she was at me. She got right up in my face, yelling and being very insulting. In short, it was extremely unprofessional and rude. And it made me cry. A lot. On Monday I spoke to my supervisor about it and basically told her how awful it was and how unfair it was that this woman treated the staff this way (I should put in quickly here, I work on reception and this woman was one of the people I do reception for. She’s not my boss, I don’t work directly for her, making it even more out of line). My supervisor agreed and we decided she would talk to our boss.

Then my supervisor told me that in the future, I should just apologise and try to fix the mistake, even though it wasn’t me that had made it. At first I was furious. Why should I have to apologise if I hadn’t made a mistake?! Why couldn’t I just tell her to f*** off?! Well, in short, because I had to be the bigger person. While my reaction would usually be “I didn’t do it, don’t look at me”, my supervisor explained that, unfortunately, in our role it was often easier to just say sorry. She told me that often the people that we do reception for will find errors or things that have gotten switched around and that while I may not have done anything wrong, if they’re upset they will usually react better to me saying sorry and offering to fix it, than if I just try to fix it.

Now, I have no problem taking responsibility for a mistake. If I mess up, then I’ll try to fix it. I do, however, have an issue with taking responsibility for someone else’s mistake. However, in my role it is far easier to just say sorry. Easier, not easy.

Saying sorry has never been easy for me. Apologising in general, especially with people I’m close to. But it’s something that I’m learning to do more and more. I think part of the reason I find it so difficult is that when I was little I never saw adults apologising. As I grew up I found I didn’t have to apologise that often either, except for doing the awkward sorry-shuffle through a crowded place – you know the one, “sorry, sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry”.

I can remember this one particular time I had to apologise. I found it so difficult. I used to nanny for these two kids and I had made a promise to one of them, something like he could have x for dessert, but then I forgot and we were running out of time, so when he said “BUT YOU PROMISED!” I snapped at him, which obviously wasn’t fair and upset him. Later on, I remembered having promised and so I steeled myself up and apologised. I just said something like “I’m sorry I snapped at you. You were right, I did promise. How about we do it tomorrow night?” and just like that it was all okay again.

I think learning to put your pride aside and say sorry is a difficult thing, only made harder when you’re not responsible, but I also think it’s an important skill to have. It’s certainly something I’m going to have to work on. And like my supervisor said, you can always be swearing on the inside.

Playing The “Yes, but” Game.

It’s 23 days into the new year and I haven’t written anything. Wait, that’s not entirely true. I have a few little scribbles, a scene or two, in a note book somewhere. But as for substantial, planned writing, it just hasn’t happened yet. As always, I came into the new year with grand ideas of publishing my first novel (“this year, for sure!” – me every year), reading 52 books and moving out of home – permanently this time. I have to say, I’ve made fairly good progress on the books, being on my 11th already, but what with reading, binge-watching vampire movies and discovering a new anime series, my writing has suffered.

It wasn’t until just now, reading a blog post by my sister, that I realised how little I’ve written this year. Reading the post, all I could think was “God, I wish I could write like this”. I’ve always been compared to this particular sister. When I was around 12 we looked similar (she was 22, so I don’t know if that was insulting to her, me or both of us) and I constantly got mistaken for her. And then I started high school and people started expecting me to achieve like her. See, she’d topped the state in English, and when my teachers realised I have a particular knack for English, they all thought I would be The Next Her. Unfortunately, I let every single one of them down.

Being compared to my siblings, not just my younger-older sister, has always bothered me, mainly because (and I’m not afraid to admit this anonymously) I am extremely, painfully insecure.I hold ridiculously high expectations for myself, basically setting myself up for failure, but still beating myself up when I do fail. It’s something I realise is not good for me and try to change, but I think the Yes, But game is something everyone does, even from a disturbingly young age.

The Yes, But game goes like this: Person A compliments Person B. Person B either accepts or rejects the compliment, then passes it on to Person C. For example, “Wow, Anna, this story is brilliant!” “Thanks, but Judy’s was so much better.”. I’m sure we’ve all played this game at one time or another. I know that I, personally, play this game a lot. Not always out loud, either. Sometimes it goes like this: “Wow, this story is really good!” “Thanks!” *Inner thoughts* I bet they’re just saying that to be nice. Theirs was much better.

As someone who does this a lot, I have to say, it is an excellent way to undermine your own confidence. Because, let’s be honest here, we’re never going to be the best at absolutely everything we do. I’m never going to be the greatest writer in history, nor the best dancer, nor the best painter. In fact, even within my immediate family, I’ll never be the best at any of those things. But just because I know that, does that mean I should hang up my laptop, dancing shoes and paint brush? Of course not! I’m not going to get any better by sulking about how I’ll never be the best! And I don’t have to be the best, I just have to be my best. Comparing myself to others is never going to help me. Even if you compare yourself like this: “My story wasn’t the best, but at least it wasn’t as bad as Paul’s.” In fact, that may even be more harmful. Besides, maybe Paul’s just a little rusty, you don’t know.

I wish I could say that after realising how bad the Yes, But and comparison games are, I stopped completely and never did it again, but unfortunately, this is not the case. See, I am extremely competitive, and while I know I’ll never be the best, that does nothing to quench the desire to be the best. In fact, sometimes it fuels it, out of pure stubborness. But not matter how much it might drive me to try harder, in the end this is always my failing. Not matter how good I think my story is, when I start comparing it to others’, it makes me feel as if I’ve fallen short. So here is my new years resolution: Don’t compare any writing to anyone else’s until at least April.

I’ve just mentally started comparing this to my sister’s post, so I’ve failed already, but I’ll try again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. And the next. And the next…

 

 

 

Image credit: https://beingsakin.files.wordpress.com/2011/11/yesbut.jpg

Complications of Love

When I was younger love seemed so simple. The movies made it seem so easy. You meet a prince, he falls in love with you, you get married and live happily ever after. I always dreamed of the day I would meet my Prince Charming – or, more accurately, my Prince Eric – and be swept off my feet, falling hopelessly in love. I didn’t think about how to maintain the relationship, I didn’t have to. I was a kid and the way I saw it, you just sort of… Lived together.

When I was nine my family traveled to America. One night we had dinner with a friend of my mum’s, Mick. Mick lived with his partner at the time, a man. Being nine and oblivious to the concept of homosexuality, I didn’t realise that they were together. I thought they were house mates. It wasn’t until years later that I connected the dots and went to my mum saying “Mick is gay, isn’t he?”. I didn’t have a problem with it, even then. It was just a fact of life. My father, however, has a big problem with gay people. He uses a lot of hate language towards them, which honestly makes me sick. So, I was raised hearing that it was wrong and unnatural, when it was acknowledged at all.

The idea of me liking girls, however, wasn’t something I even considered until I was in year eight. I developed a little crush on one of my friends. It didn’t last for long and in my mind I made up ever excuse not to accept that it was a crush. I didn’t like girls, I liked boys! I dated boys! That was that. You either liked boys or you liked girls, those were the options! Right? Nope.

Year eleven brought around the State Drama camp. I met this girl called Georgina. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, but I thought she was stunning. I was painfully shy and she was the most talented girl there. She asked me to be partners in class one day and was so nice and friendly that I couldn’t help falling for her. She was just so down to earth, so easy to talk to, and so talented. I never saw her again after that week, but she was a turning point in my life.

It was around that time that I learned of the term “bisexual”. I thought, “Hey, I’ve had crushes on girls. I must be bisexual!”. I still thought it was that simple. But I didn’t want to tell everyone, to ‘come out’. I spoke to one boy in our friends group who is bi, then I spoke to my mum. The conversation went like this: “Mum, I think I might like girls.” “Yeah, I thought you were that way inclined.” And that was sort of it. It hasn’t been brought up since. But I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being bisexual.

That was five years ago, and ever since then I’ve been trying to figure out what I am. I know you don’t need to put labels on things, but I like labels. They help me simplify things. See, I’ve known for years now that I fall for girls. I’ve known for even longer that I fall for boys. But I’m not sexually attracted to girls in the same way I am guys. Physically attracted, yeah, but not sexually.

So, it wasn’t as simple as I thought.

I thought that if you’re bi you feel the same way about boys and girls, but that’s not the case. Sexuality and romance are so personal, I doubt anyone works the exact same way as anyone else. It’s more like a spectrum  than “gay”, “bi”, “straight”. Trying to figure out where I fit on this spectrum has been really difficult for me, and has bothered me for a long time. I want to know exactly who I am, and having something this important in my life that I’m so unsure about is deeply unsettling.

At the start of this year I joined my university’s GSMA (Gender and Sexual Minorities Alliance). I was so scared going to the first meeting. I was terrified that somehow my father would see me there and find out what I was, even thought I didn’t know what I was. I was scared that one of my friends would see me. I was scared that I wouldn’t fit in. I was scared that I was straight and that I wouldn’t belong. I was just plain scared.

I shouldn’t have been, of course. They were welcoming, friendly and fun. I liked fitting in with the group, I felt like I belonged there. But I still didn’t have the answers about what I was. I filed myself between Bisexual and Questioning, and just sort of hung out there. It was okay, it didn’t matter what you were in the group, as long as you were polite, friendly and willing to joke around.

Part way through this year I encountered another term. “Bi-romantic”. Someone who is bi-romantic is romantically attracted to both males and females (as well as other genders), but not necessarily sexually attracted to both. Yes! I thought, that sounds like me! And it did. And does. I fall in love with people no matter what their gender is, I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am. But I’m not really sexually attracted to females. I find them beautiful and attractive, but as I said earlier, it’s different from the attraction I have to males.

But, unfortunately, figuring out that I’m heterosexual and bi-romantic didn’t make everything easy like I thought it would. Instead, it just made me more afraid. What if people find out I like girls? Will my friends think I’d perve on them? Would they judge me? What if my family found out? These are all things that freak me the heck out. I think a few people are aware of my sexuality, but I keep it hidden from most people. It’d like to be open about it, but I’m scared of being judged, being teased, being isolated.

And that sucks.

Because right now I am falling for this amazing girl. She’s beautiful, smart, funny and we get on really well. She likes things I like, and talking to her about them makes me feel so alive. I want to hold her, to kiss her, to take her on dates. But I’m also too scared. It’s not just the fear that she’ll reject me, although that is ever-present, it’s that if we walked down the street hand-in-hand, people might stare. That if I took her as my date to the work Christmas party, people would think I was weird. That I couldn’t have her around to meet my family because of my father. I’m scared because I still can’t fully accept that I like girls, even though I like her so much.

When I was a kid, I thought love was straightforward. The older I get, the more complicated it seems. I’m hoping it’ll start to go the other way after a certain age, that it’ll start to seem more and more simple. I hope that one day we’ll reach a place where the LGBTQI+ community won’t have these fears. Most of all, I hope that one day I can call this girl my girlfriend, and be brave enough to walk through the mall holding her hand.

Treat yo self!

I’m a big believe in self-care and self-love. I’ve spent so much of my life hating myself and not taking care of myself, and it’s such a waste of time! It’s also super draining. During my teenage years I’d look in the mirror and cringe. I hated what I saw and who I was. I always wanted to be someone else, someone I thought was better. Now I still have days when I don’t like who I am, there are things I’d change, but I don’t hate myself. Most of the time.

Today I took myself on a date. As I (half-jokingly) said to my friends “No one else will, so I might as well do it!” After all, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself! Really, I’d had a fight with my parents. It had greatly upset me and I needed to get out of the house. It was raining, but I pulled on my boots and a jacket and went out. I started feeling better immediately. I love walking in the rain, especially around trees and grass. Out in the open I felt like I could breathe better, like I wasn’t trapped. I walked into town and went to Spotlight, a craft store. I walked around in there for a while, then went into K-Mart (incidentally, one of my favourite shop). There I decided to buy myself a set of water colour paints, some brushes and an art book. It wasn’t expensive, but it’s something I’ve thought about buying for a while. After that I went down to the cinema and watched The Girl on The Train (great flick!).

By the time I got home again, I was feeling calmer, happier and more peaceful. Comparing that to my mood when I left – tearful, strained and anxious – it was a great improvement.

I used to feel so guilty spending money on things like that. I felt like every cent I earned had to go into savings or something ‘important’. Then I realised: This is important. Taking care of yourself, doing things that make you happy, spending money on yourself, it’s all okay. I have a nice little lump of savings and it shouldn’t make me feel guilty to spend ten dollars on painting gear! If I was dropping hundreds of dollars every weekend, yeah, maybe a little excessive.

It’s okay to treat yourself to things. If you put in the hard yards and earn the money, then you shouldn’t feel bad about buying something you’ve saved up for (provided bills are paid first!). There are some things that I’ve bought ‘just because’ and they still make me happy. Some things are just junk, but it brought me joy at the time, and I don’t regret that. Part of taking care of yourself is knowing that it’s okay sometimes to spoil yourself. Go to a salon, have the more expensive cocktail, buy the blue AND purple nail polish. Treat yo self.

 

Image credit: candy.com