Things I'm Not Saying Anywhere Else: A Brain Dump

These days, I share a lot of myself in writing across different spaces – particularly Quora, Substack, and Medium. But some thoughts don’t really fit anywhere official. They’re too quiet, too in-progress, too unresolved, but they're not necessarily private journal thoughts, either. 

So this time around, I’m giving myself permission to play emo writer and putting them here – my little, old Blogger blog that almost no one reads. Not because I have a point to make, but because I needed a space to breathe.

........

Lately, I’ve been craving spaces where I don’t have to be useful but still feel like I can share if I want to. Where I’m not writing to explain something, solve something, or potentially earn anything. Just spaces where I can be a person. Quietly. 

That feels more radical than it should. I suppose that's something for me to think about further when I've got a minute to navel-gaze freely.

........

I’ve been noticing how often I brace myself for disappointment, even when no one’s let me down yet. There’s a scar in me that expects abandonment and another one that whispers I deserve it, so if it does happen, I'm not even surprised. 

I don’t believe what those scars tell me about myself anymore. But some days, they still echo. Loudly, on occasion.

On that note, I've decided to put a pin in therapy for now after my therapist pulled a no-show last week, as well as didn't bother to communicate afterward. 

One of the bigger, more pervasive issues in my life is people who don't treat me like a priority and show up for me the way that they should. For that reason, I really, really need my therapist to be reliable and communicative if I'm going to actually have one. 

........

Sometimes I think the quietest parts of me are the ones that hold the most truth. The parts that don’t want to perform, don’t want to teach, don’t want to be good. These aspects of who I am just want to exist, without apology or polish. I'm getting better at letting them.

There’s something sacred about writing things that aren’t meant for anyone but me. No optimization. No growth strategy. Just a timestamp on a mood, so I can remember who I was for a moment.

I should consider doing this again sometime. 

When the System Hands You Humans Instead

When it comes to jury duty, there seem to be two types of people out there — the type that loves the idea of serving on a jury and the type who will do just about anything to avoid it.

I’m a million percent the second type and have been my whole life, despite never having had to report in person before yesterday. I don’t drive, and the courthouse is relatively far from my home. Plus, I’m neurodivergent with terrible anxiety and agoraphobic tendencies, so jury duty is packed with potential triggers I’ve learned to avoid through hard personal experience.

So, when I got my summons in the mail a while back, I tried everything I could to avoid it. I asked my therapist to write me an excusal letter (which unfortunately didn’t come through in time.) I overthought and tried to plan for every little possibility. I rage-snacked. You name it.

But this time the summons stuck, so yesterday morning, I found myself seated in a government building full of strangers and unfamiliar smells, bracing for the worst.

What I didn’t expect was how human the day would feel at the end of it all. Not in a “yay bureaucracy” kind of way, because fuck that, but in a we’re all just doing our best in here sort of way. And that, more than anything else, is what I want to share today, because I think we all need reminders like this from time to time.

Entering the Machine With Dread

Courthouses and legal protocol are designed to make you feel small and insignificant. Cold lighting. Metal detectors. People barking instructions about bags, and belts, and phones. So, as a neurodivergent person with anxiety, I arrived already feeling like prey. I anticipated robotic procedures and poor treatment from cold, cruel people who serve the machine (and like it). I expected to feel like just another cog in a system that doesn't care.

But what I found instead were… people:

• An older woman who sat next to me, pulled out a pendulum, and started divining with it like it was the most natural thing in the world to be doing in a courthouse
• A bailiff with a kind voice and a sense of humor who seemed more concerned with whether we spilled juice or coffee on the carpets than ruining anyone’s day
• A judge and a state prosecutor who genuinely thanked us for being there, acknowledged our inconvenience, and took real time to listen to each person who spoke

Maybe the Problem Wasn't Me: Rethinking Anxiety When the World Really Is Too Much

There’s a really common narrative people love to circle back to when it comes to anxiety. Maybe you’ve heard it.

You get all worked up about something ahead of time, because you're sure it's going to be an absolutely shit show of an experience. A test, a job interview, or maybe just a party. Your brain immediately kicks into worst-case-scenario mode. You lose sleep, overprepare, and stress-eat something regrettable (or, in my case, you stop eating at all). And then the day comes, and… it’s fine. Or at least not nearly as bad as you feared.

And that’s when you get the backhanded pep talk. "See? It was just your anxiety talking. It’s never as bad as we think it’s going to be."

But here’s the thing. That’s never really been my experience.

For me, things usually are as bad as I expect, if not worse. And what’s more, I don’t get used to them. They don’t become less overwhelming over time. I just get better at hiding how they make me feel until I burn out, shut down, or start fantasizing about disappearing into the woods where no one can find me. If it gets bad enough, suicide might even start looking like a great way off the merry-go-round, so yeah. It really is that bad.

And if that resonates with you, I want to talk to you for a minute. Because something's seriously wrong with that whole setup.

When Your Brain Isn't Lying

I used to assume I must just be overreacting. That I needed to “build resilience” or “get out of my comfort zone” more often, just like my mother used to say when she'd get disgusted with me. And I tried. For years. 

I pushed through school even though the noise, the pressure, and the constant need to perform left me raw and exhausted. I took (and kept) jobs that drained me daily because I had no other choice. I tried to do the socially expected things — like have a wedding to which other people were invited, make small talk, keep up appearances — and I hated every minute of it. I hated it all so much, I frequently found myself wishing I were dead, just so I wouldn't have to do it anymore.

And through it all, I kept waiting for that moment people talk about. The part where you realize it wasn’t so bad after all. 

That moment never came.

Because for people like me — people who are sensitive, anxious, maybe neurodivergent in ways they don’t even fully understand — our brains aren’t always wrong. We’re not catastrophizing or "being dramatic," as my mother always used to like to call it. We’re predicting.

The overstimulation, the exhaustion, the inevitable emotional hangover when it all eventually slips sideways? We saw it coming because we already know how much it takes out of us. This isn’t “just anxiety.” It’s lived experience telling us what we can expect because we've already been there before.

Normal Is a Lie: Choose Yourself Instead

Life's taught me a lot of hard lessons over the years, but in my case, one of the most important ones was also one of the hardest to learn. It's that people are allowed to be disabled and to have limits. And they shouldn't feel the need to put themselves in the hospital trying to prove otherwise.

I spent an embarrassingly large chunk of my life gaslighting myself –– about my autism, my anxiety, my agoraphobia, my occasional run-ins with depression –– because that’s what I was taught to do growing up. My parents didn't "believe" in disability, especially anything mental. They thought the only thing worse than struggling with your internal wiring, brain chemistry, or mental health was admitting that you were. 

And the absolute queen mother of all cardinal sins? Expecting others to help you or otherwise reasonably accommodate you because of a disability, documented or otherwise. 

So, when I’d reach a breaking point — mentally, physically, emotionally — I didn’t rest. I didn’t ask for help. Instead, I doubled down and smiled harder. I forced myself to push through, assuring myself that everyone goes through this. Then I'd fall into a depression (sometimes complete with suicidal ideation) when I couldn’t “just get over it” or magically keep up with everyone else.

But the system applauded. Friends nodded approvingly, telling me I was “so strong” and so “inspiring.” And as long as none of the cracks were showing on the surface, making them look bad, my family approved, as well. Meanwhile, I was falling apart. Quietly, invisibly, and possibly even permanently.

And the worst part of it all was that I thought I was doing something noble –– the "right" thing. I thought keeping myself in a perpetual state of self-destruction was proof that I was tough and capable. That I had value. It took me way too long to understand what was truly happening to me underneath, and I don’t want that for you.

So let’s unpack a few things.

1. Disability isn't a character flaw

Disability — whether it’s physical, mental, neurological, or a complex cocktail of all three — isn’t a personality defect. It’s not a failure of willpower, a failure to try harder, or a sign you’re “less than.” It’s a condition, it's real, and it definitely shapes how you move through the world (sometimes drastically). Trying to pretend it doesn’t exist won’t make it disappear. If anything, it makes it worse, especially over time.

This world is built strictly for people who fit into a very specific box when it comes to functionality. If you don't fit comfortably inside that box, and you won't, the system doesn't adjust to make room for you. It tells you to contort yourself and force yourself to fit instead. It will demand that you hustle harder, be more positive, and “not let it hold you back.” 

It's up to you to advocate for and accommodate yourself however you can.

And accommodating yourself is not the same thing as giving up. It’s how you survive and stay upright while living within a system that was never designed with you in mind. And, in many cases, it’s the only way you’ll have enough energy left to actually live, instead of just perform.

When You Thought You Could Handle It (But Couldn't)

There are moments in life when you really think you’ve finally got it. You’re managing your obligations, you’ve built coping mechanisms that work for you, and you’ve certainly been through worse, so surely, you can handle this, too. 

Until something makes you realize you've just hit a point where you truly can't handle one more thing. 

It’s a deeply uncomfortable realization, especially for people who pride themselves on being resilient. But it's important to realize these moments don’t mean you’ve failed. They mean you’ve hit a hard limit that you should think twice about pushing past.

And I'm realizing limits aren't necessarily weaknesses, the way I was raised to think. They're information you can use to help yourself... if you choose to treat them that way.

The Moment Something Cracks

Sometimes the breaking point sneaks up on you. It’s not always the “big” crisis you expect. Sometimes it's something as mundane as an extra-tight deadline, a phone call, or some bad news you didn't expect.

For me, it was a jury summons. Something that would be a minor annoyance to most people.

I don't talk about it much, but I've suffered from anxiety and occasional panic attacks my entire life. I'm aware of some of my worst triggers and do my best to avoid or temper them. Others, I'm not as aware of, and they wind up sneaking up on me. Today, I found out the idea of having to show up and report for jury duty in person is apparently one of them.

I've received summonses before, but I've always been excused on check-in and never had to report in person. But this time was different. Instead of seeing that I was excused like usual, I saw that I'd be expected to report in person for the first time ever in my life by 9:30 Monday morning. 

I'd have to figure out how I'd get someplace half an hour away without private transportation. I'd have to spend my weekend front-loading my work week to prepare for the possibility of being seated on a jury. I'd have to basically not go to sleep Sunday night, because 9 AM for me is basically like 4 AM for someone else. And I'd have to do all this on the heels of a solid two months of non-stop stressful events and work overload instead of enjoying a badly needed rest.

And that's when it started happening. 

Simple Meals, Simpler Living: What Bread and Butter Can Teach Us

It was just a can of lentil stew I had sitting around. Just a little butter on a slice of sourdough from a loaf I bought the other day, plus a few walnuts and a slice or two of fresh mozzarella to round things out. (No meat, because it's Friday –– a Catholic tradition I adopted years ago and held onto because it still serves me.)

It was the simplest possible lunch I could have made for myself on a weekday afternoon while trying to figure out what was next for my day –– nothing special. But I felt like making it into something more than just scraps and leftovers with a dash or two of intention. Not a gourmet meal by any means, but a deliberate one.

So, instead of absentmindedly cramming my food into my mouth while I continued to work, I lit a stick of pine incense, put on an old episode of Outlander, and took a moment to appreciate the grey overcast cloudiness outside while I ate instead. That choice changed everything and helped the rest of my afternoon play out better.

Simple Doesn't Mean Lesser (or Lazy)

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about simplicity, and not just when it comes to food. But also my creative work and how I structure my days. I've been considering all the different ways people try to keep up with a world that never stops demanding more, faster, louder. There’s this pressure, especially online, to make everything into a big production. To over-engineer the sacred, over-style the beautiful, and turn even lunch into content.

But sometimes, the most nourishing thing we can do is return to something unremarkable instead, allowing it to be enough. 

Simplicity is so often mistaken for lack. A meal that isn’t Instagram-worthy is proof we didn’t even try. A short blog post means we didn’t give a shit. A walk taken without tracking our steps must mean we weren’t committed to our health that day.

But real simplicity takes presence and restraint. It takes the ability to know when something is already enough.

Notes from the Wolf: A Survivor's Guide to Manipulators

They say a wolf in sheep’s clothing is someone dangerous pretending to be harmless. But here’s the truth you won’t hear in Sunday school or in any of the pop culture clichés littering the digital landscape these days. 

Some wolves wear sheep suits not to deceive, but to survive.

I’ve done it. (Maybe you have, too.) Not because I was a predator who was hiding bad intentions, but because I was surrounded by people who only tolerated softness, compliance, and silence. 

These were people who recoiled from the sharp glint of instinct. Those people didn’t want to love me as they should have. They wanted to train me, so maybe I'd be useful to them later.

So I learned to blend in, because that's what you do when you're still just a kid who's still wholly reliant on others for literally everything. But blending in never made me forget who I was. Here are a few things I learned during my anxiety-ridden formative years zipped inside the fleece.

1. Decent people don't associate healthy boundaries with cruelty

If you know someone who does this, you're likely already nodding along. They're the type who respond to even the most polite “no” like you just ran over their grandmother without even stopping to apologize. Then they cry, sulk, lash out, guilt-trip. That's emotional manipulation at its finest, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. 

People who pull this hot nonsense aren't doing it because they're truly hurt or confused. They’re carefully testing the waters to see just how much guilt it will take to get you to give them their way.

2. No amount of softness will change a narcissist

Narcissists respond to empathy the way sharks respond to blood in the water. They don't smell your kindness and see someone worth loving, admiring, or appreciating. They see a potential energy cache to be taken advantage of at will.

So they play the victim and plead for grace. Then they bite the very hand that offered it the second they think they can get away with it. I used to think I could "nice" my way to a better relationship with people like these and maybe teach them a better way to be.

Spoiler alert. They're simply not capable of it, but they'll happily take as much "nice" as you're willing to dish out before you finally see the light.

What I Wish I Believed About Money (And What I'm Learning Instead)

I've always had to worry about money and think about it way more than I'd like. It's also always managed to elude me, so it's never been the neutral force in my life that it should have been. 

Instead, the concept of money has felt loaded right from the beginning. Emotional. Moral. Personal. 

My potential earning power and job title were literally all that ever mattered about me to my parents, even when I was little. For that reason, it's always been hard to separate the number in my bank account from how I feel about myself as a human being. Not because I think money should define worth, but because the world around me often acts like it does.

I wish I believed instead that money was just energy, the way some people do. That it's normal for it to flow like breath or water — sometimes abundant, sometimes scarce, but never personal. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still working on that (and often failing miserably).

But I'm learning that when we stop viewing money as an emotional verdict, we can start seeing it as a tool instead. A neutral current. A resource to work with, not beg for and judge yourself because of. If you’re struggling to see it that way, too, you may relate to some of what I'm about to say.

I Wish I Felt Allowed to Want Money

Like many people raised without a safety net or a proper support system, I’ve been conditioned to believe there's something wrong with wanting money. Suffering, working yourself too hard for too little, and being satisfied with that is virtuous. Being unwilling to quietly settle for what life (and those around you) have decided you deserve is ingratitude and perhaps even entitlement.

But the truth is, I don’t want piles of money so I can lord it over other people while the world falls apart around me.

I want it so I can breathe easier, sleep more deeply, and give more freely. I want to be able to say "yes" to beauty, travel, generosity, and creativity without feeling guilty for doing so. I want to be that person who can afford to bless a waitress or an Instacart shopper with a $500 tip. And yes, it would be nice to finally stop white-knuckling life for a change.

If you’re also struggling with guilt over wanting more, ask yourself, “What would having more allow me to do, feel, or create?” If you're anything like me, a lot of what comes immediately to mind is probably pretty wholesome. Regardless, there's no shame in wanting your needs to be met. And there's no merit in denying those needs because someone else told you to at one point or another in your life, either.

Soft Armor: A Reflection on Quiet Strength

I never used to think of myself as a strong person, and with good reason. 

As a little girl, I was quiet and shy, the sort of kid who stayed glued to her parents whenever she went out with her family. I didn't want to be anything in particular when I grew up either. In fact, the idea of having a job one day filled me with terror and the closest thing to existential dread a little kid can feel. 

The world just seemed like such a scary place, a place I didn't think I'd ever be strong enough to survive in. But as it turned out, I also didn't understand strength yet. Because not all strength announces itself with a roar. In fact, some of the most powerful types don't make noise at all. 

They don’t show up with medals or applause. They aren’t polished, flashy, or performative. They’re the strengths that live underground and spend their energy producing roots instead of flowers. They're hidden until you look closely, quiet until you really take the time to stop and listen.

Mine is this kind. The kind that waits. 

It waits in the calm pacing of a rational thought when my chest is full of storms. It waits in the decision to keep going, not because the path is easy, but because I refuse to give up on the idea that there's a point and a purpose to my being here in the first place. 

My hidden strength isn't obvious fortitude or impenetrable toughness. It's resilience. 

Resilience is quiet, but it’s also defiant. It’s choosing not to become bitter, even after years of being underestimated, picked apart, or flat-out ignored. It’s telling others that they don’t get to tell me who I am, even when I’ve forgotten how to remind myself. 

It’s lighting a tea light on my altar when I feel powerless. Anointing my wrists with oil meant to invite success, even on days when failure feels more honest. 

It's waking up with my anxiety telling me the world is about to end, but getting out of bed anyway. It's going out into the garden to get some sun when I'd much rather hide inside in a dark room all day (or all year, even). It's reminding myself to drink plenty of water. Answering emails. Whispering hope under my breath when the world’s noise tells me not to bother.

It's choosing to write, create, love, learn, even when the evidence around me says it would be so much easier not to.

This is what most people never notice about resilient people. They don’t see what it costs to keep joy alive in places that feel designed to snuff it out — aging, crumbling, and full of ghosts. They don’t see the negotiations I make with my own sadness, not to banish it, but to ask it to move over so joy can sit beside it. They don’t see how many times I’ve had to build a sense of home out of nothing but music, memory, or a cup of triple Earl Grey tea in the right light.

Joy isn’t something that happens to me. It’s something I conjure, sometimes out of sticks and stones. I don’t lie to myself about how hard life can be. But I also don’t lie to myself about how beautiful it still is, regardless. I'm very familiar with both, because my center is in the space between them, and there it will continue to be. Forever and ever, amen.

* This reflection is part of the Feast of the Wandering Pen, a month-long exploration of writing, thought, and imagination in all its many forms.

The Sacred Work of Slow Days

For someone who craves a life that includes as much peace, quiet, and flexible downtime as possible, I'm horrible about handling slower days with grace when they do actually come around. 

I worry about money and the future a lot, so I'm used to keeping myself in a perpetual state of overwork, especially during the week. Not having spare productive time to think straight, let alone work on ideas of my own, becomes my default state. So, when things are slow at work for more than a day or two, I don't really know what to do with myself. 

It's easy to show up when things are happening, money is flowing, and there's tons to do. Much harder when things are just shuffling along. 

But I've also learned that the shuffly times are the best times to tackle key foundational work, as well as show up for myself in ways I often don't. But knowing that is one thing. Remembering it is another.

Some days, victory is lighting a candle instead of giving up

Regardless of what you do or don't have going on professionally at the moment, it's hard to exist in the world right now. Every morning, there's another headline to get upset about. Everyone's uncertain about the future. We're all afraid for friends and loved ones, as well as for ourselves. All of that makes even normal dips and rises in workflow harder to handle. 

It's easy to feel stuck or like your effort isn't landing. It's even easier to feel like nothing you're doing matters. But it does matter. It all matters. And wins don't have to be big or lucrative to qualify. Sometimes winning is as simple as blessing your day in small ways.

Choosing to get up and tend my garden on an off day instead of sitting around moping is a win. Lighting a candle and engaging in a few minutes of meditation, prayer, or quiet focus is a win. So is sitting down and choosing to spend a free afternoon writing something for myself instead of deciding that my writing only matters when a client is primed and ready to pay me directly for it the minute I'm finished.

On Rough Exits from Summer and the Coming of Fall

Lady Autumn - Olha Darchuk

So, I guess I should have known things felt a little too good to be true after I got that whole DMV excursion out of the way. It showed up in the mail really quickly, and I figured I could totally just hunker down, stay safe at home, and immerse myself in my writing for a good long while without a care in the world. I even had a nice, long holiday weekend planned for Labor Day.

But then the Friday before, I wound up having to pack Seth into an Uber and go with him to the emergency room for some digestive issues he'd suddenly started having. He also wound up staying in the hospital for a couple of days, as some blood pressure problems also came to light once he was there. He's home now and on meds with plans to stay on top of the issues that were found, but still. 

That was kind of a rough note on which to end the summer, especially considering what a pleasant summer it had actually been up to that point. Life hasn't quite felt right since, so we're still struggling to feel normal again. We've both been taking care to get our rest and make enough time for proper self-care. Hopefully, we'll feel like ourselves again soon.

Getting older is honestly no joke, people, as it's scary how quickly the wear and tear eventually add up. You do what you can to stay healthy, fit, active, and vital... but sometimes it's still not quite enough. If I could tell my younger self -- and young people in general -- just one thing, it would be not to take your health for granted, because one day staying healthy isn't going to be as effortless as it feels when you're 20. I definitely haven't been the worst as far as taking care of myself over the years, but I haven't exactly been the best, either. Definitely food for thought.

........

That said, I suppose it's time to start closing the book on summer and getting ready to move forward into fall. The equinox will be here soon -- around the time of Seth's birthday, actually. The weather is still blissfully cool here, even halfway through September, especially in comparison to other years. No wildfires right down the street this year. Halloween is on the way, with Thanksgiving and Christmas soon to follow. (How it's time for all that again, I'm sure I don't know.)

On Writing About the Tough Stuff

I seem to have reached a turning point with some of my writing lately that I thought was still a few years down the line -- the point where I'm no longer just thinking about telling my more challenging stories, but actually sitting down and writing them. And then I've been going and posting them in front of actual people instead of just pouring my soul out into my journal and calling it a day. The topics are all over the place, but they include things to do with my upbringing, my complicated relationships with my parents, some of the abuse I experienced while married to my ex, and so forth. 

I've been at it here and there for a few months now, and it's been a strange experience, especially when it comes to things I'm talking about for the first time. I often wind up feeling like I picked at a freshly-formed scab or lanced an infected boil -- sort of gross at first, with a lingering feeling of just having done something I shouldn't have, but then much better afterward when the pain is gone. I think doing this has made some of these things easier to bear and continue healing from.

I feel like I need to cheer up a little bit soon, though. I don't want to develop a reputation for being someone who complains all the time and never seems to have anything positive to say. I'm a much more joyful, grateful person than I let on a lot of the time -- even on days when I'm not feeling my emotional best. But sometimes, I find it valuable and worthwhile to look at some of the more challenging aspects of my existence through my writing. Here are a few insights for those of you who may be trying to do something similar.

Start by journaling in private first.

I'm not sure exactly what I expected when I started keeping a private journal again a little over a year ago. I thought it would be fun -- a throwback to my younger years when I journaled ferociously, and I knew it would be helpful in working through things without having to bother other people for a shoulder all the time. I didn't really expect it to change much about the rest of my writing, but that's exactly what wound up happening. 

On Vaccine Availability and Coronavirus Anxiety

A few days ago, California officially opened up the availability of the coronavirus vaccine to everyone over the age of 16. That means Seth and I can, in theory, go and get ourselves vaccinated as soon as I can get us appointments. In actuality, though, we will probably be waiting at least a little while for some of the rush to die down a bit. The fewer people we have to be around to get this done, the better.

Before the pandemic hit, it had already been many years since I went out regularly. I don't drive or like being around people, so it's almost always easier to stay home and order the things I need online while running my business and handling my other responsibilities around the house. Strangely, though, I never developed any real anxiety about being out in public. If I felt like it, I could easily head out to the county fair, or the beach, or something, have a great time, and probably even want to go back the next day. 

I feel entirely differently about all that today for obvious reasons. Now, when I see other people, I no longer see minorly annoying fellow humans that might -- at worst -- try to suck me into a boring conversation I don't really want to have. I see walking, talking meat-bags filled with germs and death that can absolutely kill me, especially if they're not masked up properly. And I feel like the outside world has become a dangerous place I'm best off avoiding. I'm not embarrassed to admit that I find the idea of getting COVID (or seeing anyone I care about get it) positively terrifying.

In other words, while I'm grateful to be able to have access to a vaccine, I'm hyper-aware of the fact that to get vaccinated in the first place, I will first have to go out unvaccinated into that big, bad world filled with walking, talking germ bags at least twice. And so will Seth. Naturally, I have a lot of anxiety about that on both counts, especially when it comes to Seth. I still have nightmares about the time he almost died in the hospital of pneumonia years ago. I also realize I'm far more worried about him getting sick and leaving me all alone in the world than I am about getting sick myself, although that would also suck.

Soul-Tired on a Friday

I'm so glad it's Friday. I've been dog-tired this week -- the kind of tired that isn't just physical. It's soul-tired, and as is often the case with me, I couldn't really say for sure why I feel this way. There's nothing crazy going on in my personal life. I'm not overworked, burnt out, or frustrated with any of my clients right now. My brain appears to be chewing on something, though, even if it's just doing that weird thing it does and chewing on itself.

One way I know this is the positively bizarre dreams I've been having at night. They don't make much sense, but they come with intense emotions that don't fit the dreams' events whatsoever. For instance, the other night, I was dreaming about a bunch of young priests eating mashed potatoes on a bus. Something about this scanned as very ominous and was giving me horrible anxiety. And then some of them started putting gravy on the mashed potatoes, which was apparently such cause for alarm that I woke myself up out of a sound sleep. Hopefully, I'll go back to sleeping well and having normal dreams soon.

Thankfully, I could kind of see the writing on the wall with my energy levels earlier in the week, so I decided not to fill my schedule but so full as I moved closer to the weekend. As a result, I don't have any freelancing obligations to take care of today and can focus on my own writing for a change -- one reason I'm updating this blog on a Friday instead of leaving it until some point over the weekend or even Monday. It's cloudy out, and I'm just sitting here in my nice, dark room vibing to some Taylor Swift -- not a bad way to end a week at all.