I love when people give me nicknames, even when I say I hate them. There aren’t a lot of fun, cute ways to shorten my name, but there’s still something so intimate when someone finds a way to, anyway. I like the feeling that someone knows me so well that we become an informality; I like knowing that they, and they alone, have a word that stands just for me.
If only I were better looking. If only I didn’t make as many mistakes. If only I tried harder, made more money or was skinnier. If only I weren’t me. Maybe I would be happier.
Self-awareness is way more than knowing that you prefer thin crust pizza over Sicilian (pardon my pizza craving).
Anxiety unlike depression isn’t a feeling of hopelessness but rather helplessness.
You are still deserving of love and health and satisfaction. You are allowed to try to be better. You are allowed to grow. You learn from the missteps.
But those bad days have a way of testing everything about me.
There is so much beauty in where you come from. So much that it terrifies some of the people in this foreign land because they do not come from there.
My anxiety makes me hide in my own house whenever I hear a knock at the door.
It sucks that you can open your whole heart up to someone and then have them throw your trust right back in your face. It sucks that love doesn’t always last, no matter how strongly you felt it at first.
I used to have three group messages dedicated to friends I partied with; we’d message each other daily to make plans. I used to take my homework to the bars and work on it between drinks and conversation. I used to have a peppermint candle by my bed that I loved, but I had to throw it away because every time I smelled it I thought of lying awake with the spins and I’d start to gag.