I wish there were more words in the english language

Stupid thing to ask, but I want more.

In my senior year of college, a student in one of my classes told us about her boyfriend, to whom english is a fifth language. She told a beautiful story of how he wishes to improve his language so he may more accurately tell her how he feels for her, “What I feel for you comes to me in my mother tongue, and when I translate it doesn’t feel genuine.”

She explained the term Ya’Abrnee, an arabic term translating to ‘You bury me’. it is used to describe deep emotional outpouring, that you would rather die first, “I wish that you don’t die before, but I die before you and then you bury me”.

That is the most beautiful sentiment that I can think of. I want more words to describe that feeling. For the love of god, we have a word that means to throw a person out a window (‘Defenestration’ for those of you who didn’t take AP English), why can’t we have more words to describe feeling and emotion? I am envious of the availability of words like this that other cultures have, if we had words that described such concepts we could communicate on deeper levels than we can with just “I love you, please let me die before you.”

I’m gonna go enjoy Puff the Magic Dragon (that’s a euphemism for pot. There are a lot of words for pot culture…. -sigh-) and make up new words that will have no meaning to anyone except me.

Aftenblïque! (I dare you to try and figure out what that means. Go ahead! I can wait…)


Inadequate Potato

I feel inadequate probably 90% of the time. I look at myself in the mirror and think:

-My face is chubby

-My teeth aren’t white enough

-My eyebrows are a mess


-Bags under my eyes

-Goddamn lip hair

-My hair looks awful

-Ugh my boobs

-I need to lose some weight in my middle

-Fuck muffin topping

-Next to any other person I look like a potato

My old roommate used to say that this is internal oppression, and she is right. A lot of this stems from being raised in a society that influences us to have a certain appearance (ie stick thin, flat stomach, perfect hair, flawless face) and when we don’t ,we start to hate ourselves.

But my feelings of inadequacy do not end at just physical appearance. I feel like:

-I’m too LOUD!

-My voice sounds stupid

-I overthink EVERYTHING

-There I go getting my hopes up again

-I’m so not worthy…

-I’m about as graceful as a newborn moose

-I have foot-in-mouth syndrome

-Queen of Assumptions

-My anxiety is a bitch

Amongst a million other things that are all stemming from anxiety and depression and all those other fun mental issues that pop up time and time again.

So why am I bringing it up? Am I looking for comfort? For someone to come out and say “Joy you are none of those things! you’re only human!”

CLOSE! I’m bringing up the point that I AM only human! It is human to feel inadequate. In fact, if you’ll notice, people who think they are perfect are really colossal douchebags with enormous egos! And no I’m not referring to their genitals or breast size.

While it is good to have pride in oneself and feel good about yourself and be comfortable within your own skin, it is totally normal to feel like you’re not awesome. Chances are, everyone else around you feels the same way a good portion of the time. Nothing makes me feel better than hearing people who I think are perfect (Like Jennifer Lawrence) talk about how much they dislike themselves or how embarrassed they are by their actions or look hideous while they cry (seriously watch videos of Jennifer Lawrence or Kim Kardashian crying, it’ll make you feel 100% better in seconds). It lets me know that I’m not the only one!!!

Try bringing it up with a friend sometime. I’m not saying to ask them for help or advice, but just ask them, “Hey, do you ever feel inadequate sometimes?” It might take them a while to open up (I mean, it is a pretty personal question) but in the end, you two can bond over feeling low on the totem pole of life. You’d be amazed by the common ground you’ll find. Sometimes it feels really good to talk it out with someone who knows exactly what you’re going through.

If you’re too nervous about talking to someone you know, feel free to tell me, because who the hell am I to judge? Leave a comment below and tell me 5 things that make you feel inadequate. BUT THEN (to even the scales) I want you to name 7 (yes, 7) amazing things about yourself, because we all need to work on recognizing things that make us amazing.

It’s okay to feel as low as a potato, anyone who thinks they are all that and a bag of chips are really just a can of spam. MEANING they aren’t that great and they leave a bad taste in your mouth.

I know I’m not the only one… It just feels that way

I was starving, at that uncomfortable point where you’re so hungry you feel nauseous and ready to cast your cookies without having made the batch in the first place.

I’ve been taking Anti-depressants for well over a year. I’m one of the few fortunate who’s doctor hit the nail on the head with the prescription the first time, Zoloft. I can’t say enough wonderful things about this drug, I’ll tell anyone who asks how it completely gave my life a 180 degree turn from where it was when I graduated college massively depressed and struggling with an unknown diagnosis of PTSD (Oof long sentence, sorry guys).

One of the side effects of Zoloft is my decreased appetite. If I don’t remember to consciously eat, next thing I know it will be 3 PM and I’m reenacting the poor orphans of Oliver Twist. Stupid people have called it a gift, not having an appetite makes it easy to lose weight; it’s also an easy way to embarrassingly pass out onstage during dance rehearsal for The Music Man (True story, but another time for that).

So today, I remembered to drink a breakfast shake this morning, but I completely spaced out during lunch time doing puppy training with my friend, Susan, and watching our various favorite British shows (Hint: Miranda, Downton Abbey, and my new favorite: Crimson Fields).

I got home at 9Pm this evening and got to work tidying my apartment (my mother is coming over tomorrow to help me rearrange some furniture, I don’t think she’d take kindly to the pile of dirty laundry that smells like a dead hobo). I hadn’t noticed I was sweating until I went into my overheated bathroom and realized it was a cold sweat. I was reading some packaging on a hair product when nausea hit and I tripped and fell in a fashion that would have made Miranda Hart proud.

I knew I was hungry, and I needed something quick. I didn’t feel sturdy to stand and cook something and all the take out places near my apartment were long closed. So I snatched my car keys and dashed out of my place.

I am no stranger to fast food. I grew up on it, as soon as I had a car I went and spoiled myself with McD’s french fries at least 3 times a week. My car was low on gas, so I drove quickly to the closest open joint, which was a recently reopened Taco Bell (don’t judge, I love their Ranch Tacos….).

There was a loooooooooong ass line of cars, but I was stubborn and unwilling to drive further. As I got closer to the check out window, smoke curled around me as my anxiety sat in the back seat and silently chuckled, “Oh look, they added a huge window for everyone inside to stare out at you.”

Since they rebuilt the place, the entire side of the building on the drive through lane has one HUGE window, supposedly so we could watch the depressed workers make our fake hispanic meals. I’m calling a huge BULL SHIT on that, the bitch in the backseat drawled, “Oh man, it’s like you’re the exhibit for all of them to watch and judge you for your food choices.” I knew it was ridiculous, but the bitch had a point……

I tried stopping just out of site of the window, but the bloody thing was at least 8 feet long and the cars behind me were getting impatient. So…. I hunched down in my seat and inched forward….. Until I tapped the car in front of me with my own…..

I could only sit and stare wide eyed while my anxiety was slack-jawed in the back seat, “Well done…. You’ve put on a performance for the whole audience.” I made the poor choice of looking beside me to see all the workers paused and staring, the bitch was right again, dammit….

Fortunately, the driver in front was in good spirits and I didn’t make a scratch or dent on their car or my own. The whole business was done within about 5 minutes, but it felt like those times where time slows and you seem to be the only one realizing that everyone else is speaking in slow motion while you’re just like, “WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!?”

Completely silent, I drove back to my place, my food in the bag on the seat untouched, while the bitch in the back seat rambled on and on, “My god you couldn’t have done that better. Well done! They’re all going to remember you now. Maybe you can go back tomorrow evening for an encore!”

So now I sit here, wallowing over bean burritos and wondering why this happens to me, why?

I talk about shouting into the void with no expectation of a response, but I could really use a shout back to shut up the smoking anxious bitch in my armchair right now….

For the 2-3 people who read this blog (Hi mum and dad…), have any of you had similar experiences of utter humiliation by the hands of your anxiety? Comment below with stories if you have them, or even just some kind words. I can’t seem to shut my anxiety up by myself right now, I was wondering if a few of you can help me quiet the bitch down? Any of you? Hello? -sigh-

Stoned thought of the day

I think a lot of people, not everyone, believe that they’re the sun. That they provide light for every person in their orbit. They’re trapped in their own perspective of being the center, that everything else orbits around them.

It’s a grave mistake for them to assume that the rest of humanity around them are mere planets, thinking everyone depends on their light to be the only that illuminates their days.

I am not a planet. I am my own sun amongst a universe of star disguised suns.

Don’t let others assume that you depend on their light for your days, be your own sun.

“But sometimes your light attracts moths and your warmth attracts parasites. Protect your  space and energy”

-Warsan Shire

Weaponized Joy

I have been very unsure about everything in my life, no more so than I have been unsure of this blog.

I started it as a therapeutic tool, a place where I could shout into the void about my weird life and my ongoing struggle with mental illness. Never did I think that the void would shout back…

I’m overwhelmed by the support I’ve received on this blog, the mental health community is so full of love and acceptance for anyone struggling. It’s beautiful how many people relate with one another and send out messages of support to complete strangers. I have yet to find a community more full of warm love than this one.

It scares me from my toes to my scalp that people are reading my words; I’m aware that this is my site and there is zero pressure from anyone to post anything, but my bitch of an anxiety has gone into full greedy manager mode, “IF YOU DONT POST SOMETHING AMAZING PROFOUND EVERYDAY THEN YOU ARE LETTING DOWN HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE!!!!!” She screams in my ear, pacing wildly around pointing to the clock going, “Tick Tock time to write a blog!”

I put so much pressure on myself internally, finding invisible responsibility to weigh down my shoulders. Over the weekend I found myself panicking, actually listening to my anxiety bitch on about how this is going to fail, so I should quit and run now. I laid in bed as I stared at the blank draft screen feeling absolutely fake and wrong, that I was only pretending to be a good writer, I felt like I didn’t have anything to share. I wanted to delete this blog, so badly, just to spare myself from potentially disappointing anyone, “Because you will.” The bitch sighed.

I am fortunate to have wonderfully encouraging friends, who can help pull my head out the dark so I can see things clearly, who help me tell my bitchy anxiety to fuck off and leave me alone. They all told me I was wrong, that my blog was something that was needed. My friend Doc described me as ‘weaponized Joy’, in that I use humor to combat anxiety and use my own joy to fight back the dark thoughts that pervade myself and society.

I’ve never taken myself too seriously, always afraid that I’d disappoint myself and others if I were. But in not taking myself serious, I learned to be humble and to love the imperfections that society frowns upon. I found my joy in my constant search for humor even in the dark. I use my joy as a weapon against those dark thoughts and people who would hurt others by putting them down. Doesn’t mean I don’t get banged up in the process, but I’m going to use this blog as a platform to shout my pain and joy out into the void and share my battles in hopes that other comrades will join me in weaponizing their own joy.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m gonna enjoy some weed and smoke the bitch out.

Clair de Lune, the clouds, and a joint

I feel so low and small, but in the best possible way. I’m sitting in my chair listening to a piano playlist, I’m staring out my window and watching clouds change into multiple shapes as they past by. I feel so happy to enjoy the uncontrollable, untouchable natural beauty of this planet and galaxy. There’s so much media to distract us from the world outside that has been here long before we were, and will continue to reign long after we pass.

A cloud just past by, it started out as a caterpillar. Then it slowly changed into an elephant, who smiled so wide that it made me believe it was happy. Then it turned into a pointing chimpanzee, which was a rather uncomfortable transition as it involved the trunk of the elephant detaching. Then the monkey became a boxing bear, before the cloud disappeared all together.

If you think I’m stoned, you’re not wrong. I smoked part of a joint earlier to calm some frayed nerves after overcoming anxiety earlier. Any person with social anxiety will understand the sheer amount of nerves it takes to explore uncharted social territory for the first time.

I have never mailed a package. I’ve never been to the post office alone, in the past I’ve gone with my mother or father, nowadays I go with my boyfriend when he’s around. Going by myself has never been an option for me. I always went with other people so they could do the talking for me, I was always terrified I’d do the wrong thing and look like a complete moron in front of strangers (why does this matter to me? It doesn’t, but my bitchy anxiety makes it matter…).

Thanks to my professional procrastination, I had to mail out a cheque this morning for renter’s insurance (YAY ADULTING!!!!) and couldn’t find my roll of postage stamps ANYWHERE. My anxiety was lounging the corning blowing her smoke while I searched all the obvious places, “Gonna call mommy to take you to the postal office?” She cooed, “You only brought this on your lazy self.” Did I mention that my anxiety is a bitch?

I got dressed and stomped out of my apartment, refusing to acknowledge the bitch in the room. At that point I just moved on autopilot, I went and got in my car and drove to the postal office, conveniently down the street.

Now I could makeup a super epic story of the bitch showing up and my having a showdown with her and winning victoriously, brandishing my postage stamp in victory as I road out in style; but it wasn’t that exciting. It was way easy, I just went in and asked for stamps and paid. I finished the task in less than 30 seconds. I did, however, ride out in style while blasting We Didn’t Start The Fire (I know, so cool right?)

After getting my mail sorted out, I took a few drags of a joint and settled down. While it’s always a satisfying victory overcoming the bitch, it was still exhausting as hell. But sitting here now and listening to Clair de Lune, I feel an overwhelming peace that I have not found in weeks. I give thanks for the simple things, a tune of music and the glorious natural world around me.

Now excuse me while I sip on cranberry juice like its fine wine and try to tell what the clouds are telling me (I’m still a little stoned).

Notes from a strange mind

I’ve been exploring the world with wide, curious brown eyes for my entire life. I always had words to describe what I thought about, felt about, and how I reacted to the world, but never enough for a decent story or essay or whatever. I’ve collected these notes my entire life, both digitally and on scraps of paper. Here are some of my favorites:

I can’t kill myself, there are far too many Marvel Movies I have yet to see.

I’m trying to fix my life but sometimes it’s like standing on a ladder on a wet hillside

Lady Gaga dresses yogurt-y

It’s not that life is too short. It’s just that it’s full of distracting pointless crap.

Sci-Fi thriller about babies bred for celebrities looking to adopt

I am an artist. I like to make things more beautiful, noticeable. Why is it that I am applauded for doing so for painted objects, but when I do so on myself using makeup I am condemned as vain? Double standard.

Fear is just a feeling. Fear can never kill you. But it can warn you about something that’s about to kill you, like spiders, or Ghost Face.

Marry someone who doesn’t care about your personal hygiene habits.

Dastardly is a word I don’t use often enough in my regular vernacular.

I love the illusion of being pursued

People are people who are people, treat them as such.

I think when we die, our souls sort of go everywhere at once.

Can one make money by auctioning off personal space?

I love Kaiju films, there’s satisfaction in watching humanity pay for their mistakes.

Follow your heart, whatever happens, just do it. It might take you down some questionable roads and dark alleyways, but eventually it will get you where you’re meant to be.

I hate that I don’t look like Blake Lively

What would happen if I published a novel and sold the film rights to a porn studio?

I won’t change my last name unless I marry someone which a cooler name than mine. Like Hiddleston, or Boyega…