Books are a uniquely portable magic
I feel so fiercely fond and protective of teenage girls. All of them. Girls with pin curls and carefully applied cat eyes and girls who live in sweatpants. Girls blasting music through headphones or reading quietly in corners; girls who sweat blood over sports or who have never been on a field and never intend to be. Girls with razor bumps from shaving clumsily in the shower before school; girls with runs in their tights or perfectly ironed skirts; girls blinking owlishly, clutching a starbucks cup like a lifeline.
Don’t think that your passions make you weak. Feeling so deeply and completely makes you stronger than the rest, gives you more vitality. Don’t ever feel like you have to apologize for being a teenage girl. Don’t let patriarchy turn you against each other with cliches about female ‘cattiness’ or ‘backstabbing’, or belittle your existence.
brb something in my eye
I need you to do more than survive. As writers, as revolutionaries, tell the truth, your truth in your own way. Do not buy into their system of censorship, imagining that if you drop this character or hide that emotion, you can slide through their blockades. Do not eat your heart out in the hope of pleasing them.
(This quote is on our bathroom inspiration board.)
I love this.
This is maybe the most important thing Mark taught me. This shapes my existence today. This is important.
I didn’t reblog this very long ago, but I needed to see it again.
In a potentially seismic move, the National Institute of Mental Health - the world’s biggest mental health research funder, has announced only two weeks before the launch of the DSM-5 diagnostic manual that it will be “re-orienting its research away from DSM categories”. In the announcement, NIMH Director Thomas Insel says the DSM lacks validity and that “patients with mental disorders deserve better”.
WOW WOW WOW YESSSSSSSSS
well that was unexpected.
FILE UNDER: THINGS I NEVER EXPECTED TO HAPPEN IN MY LIFETIME
“patients with mental disorders deserve better”
“patients with mental disorders deserve better”
that’s got a beat and I can dance to it
it is an essential function of the fourfold form of the canonical Gospels to resist all such attempts of a critical reductionism which would fuse the diverse witnesses into one portrait.
I do not hold it to be historical possible or theologically legitimate to seek an abstraction of the teachings of the earthly Jesus from the earliest levels of each Gospel which in the end is a portrait of Jesus apart from his reception through the faith of the early church… the reconstruction fuses into a mixture of elements of genuine Gospel witness with elements of historical reconstruction, which blur the hermeneutical distinction between witness and source.
Did Jesus actually exist? The general consensus, with a very small minority dissent, is that there was a man, probably named Jesus, on whom the gospel accounts are roughly based. I am not satisfied with this answer for a few reasons.
1. The answer is both yes and no. There was and there was not…
Ultimately, I think the question “did Jesus exist?” is much less interesting than “what experiences did these people have of Jesus, and how did it change them?”
What a beautiful and inspiring way to look at the issue!
I’ve written about this before, but the above post really got to the meat of the philosophical implications of the historical-Jesus question.
Single-serving microwave cake! To improve the crummy way my day started.
Add and mix one at a time: 1/3 cup milk of choice, 1/4 cup unsweetened applesauce, 1/2 tsp vanilla extract, 1 tbsp sweetener of choice, 1/8 tsp salt, 6 tbsp flour, and a handful of chocolate chips (the last two being gluten-free flour and carob chips, in my allergy-sensitive case). Microwave for 4-5 minutes or until surface springs back a bit when tapped. Enjoy!
Down The Well (A Series)
It must be horse show season, because the people I’m volunteering for ran late (as usual) and opted not to pick up their volunteer.
I’m not angry. In fact, the only thing I really thought when I found out I’d been left behind was, “Well, that was worth getting up at 5:30am for.”
In the interests of my commitment to liveblog my mental illness, I share a thing.
This exact scenario happened last year — although, to be fair, last year was a hell of a lot more stressful, primarily because it was the first show I was working at and I had no idea what the hell I was in for, besides being a) the only obviously poor girl at the show and b) the only person wearing a headscarf. Last year, I was very angry. Righteously angry, because seriously, you don’t shaft the people who are willing to work for free around large, easily startled mammals in highly chaotic and dangerous situations. This year, despite a number of factors that should have made me far more upset, I didn’t feel any anger. I didn’t feel anything at all. Just like how I didn’t feel anything when my aunt died, or when I found out I wasn’t getting a much-needed rebate on my taxes, or even something as mundane as when I died in Minecraft and lost over a dozen diamonds. No grief. No anger. No emotions.
My doctor tells me that I present with early symptoms of psychosis — the lack of emotions and inability to cry, for starters, among other signs like crippling paranoia about strangers following me and trying to kill me, and the whole hearing-voices thing. To which I was like, “Well, duh.” I’ve been trying to get help for my psychosis symptoms since I was eleven, but every single therapist (I do not exaggerate, every single one) ignored my increasingly fervent pleas for psychosis treatment, and focused instead on my depression and anxiety. One of them told me I couldn’t possibly be mentally disturbed because I was too polite. Another, years later, dismissed my symptoms after finding out that the voices I heard rarely said harmful things. I distinctly remember talking to a psychiatrist when I was twelve and saying, with no small amount of distress, “I might be a sociopath! I want to kill people!” She waved a hand and said, “Honey, we all do sometimes.”
I am, in all honesty, intensely curious to find out how my treatment will differ as an adult. The last time I received psychotherapy and evaluation was when I was eighteen — still under the jurisdiction of Youth Services. At eighteen I was given the child-based tests for autism spectrum disorder. (The tests were inconclusive, but I could have told you that would be the result before I even set foot in the testing chamber.) The psychiatrist who ordered the tests was, my local friends may remember, the one who formally diagnosed me with bipolar disorder — and then later denied ever having diagnosed me, and not only went out of her way to call me a liar, but implied that I was wasting time and money by being in her office. That was only marginally better than the therapist who physically abused me when I was eleven. I think the only thing I wasn’t subjected to as an outpatient child was shock therapy — and don’t laugh, because that’s still used, despite controversy, in the mental health community. (Some patients even enjoy it, and return yearly for a “tune-up.”)
Surprising no one, I have developed a fear of therapy. But I want to be better — dear God do I ever want to be better. I want to go to university, and hold down a job, and have a healthy poly relationship, and maybe even kids. I want to have energy. I want to experience emotions beyond resignation. I want to thrive. Maybe therapy will change that. And maybe it won’t — maybe I’ll have to claw my way out of the well alone. Again. Like I did when I was sixteen, and again at eighteen, because no one else would help. Because the mental health system, as good as it can be, failed a little girl who just wanted to be normal.
This morning, I should have felt something.
Maybe by next year, I will have learned how to be angry.
CAN I FOR ONCE HAVE A FEMALE CHARACTER WHO’S A PRINCESS OR A QUEEN WHO IS OKAY WITH BEING EXTRA FEMININE AND BEING PAMPERED AND PRIMPED AND TREATED LIKE ROYALTY AND DOESN’T THINK DRESSES ARE STUPID BUT ACTUALLY THINKS THEY’RE PRETTY CUTE AND WANTS TO BE A STRONG WARRIOR AND KICK ASS BUT STILL WANTS TO THINGS THAT PRINCESSES AND QUEENS DO CAN I HAVE THAT PLEASE
did you mean
I have filled out the paperwork.
I am going to be assigned an intake worker.
The odds are against me getting a psychiatrist, because there are not enough of them for all the broken people in this province, but at least things are in motion, and no longer in that horrible limbo of At What Point Do I Call This Serious.
It’s now serious.
Serious means you can get help instead of clawing your way up the side of the well alone, and when you’re down there in the cold water, that’s something.
I have been quiet about this. I’m not sure if I will continue to remain quiet, or if I will liveblog the process of Getting Better. The queue will keep going regardless, although I need to restock it.
Everything is going to be okay.