Recovery Diary 08/30/18

Dragonfly miracles

The fan buzzes to my left like a powerful and entrancing dragonfly. I used to be mesmerized by dragonflies and in some ways I still am. Three summers ago I went back to treatment. I had to stay in these supportive living apartments for people with eating disorders and mood problems. On my first night, I walked into my assigned apartment to find all the lights turned off, heavy metal blaring, and two shadowy figures on the couch. No one said hello. I put my bags down and left. I didn’t feel welcome there.

The apartment was downtown Chicago, right next to Millennium Park. So I took the elevator down the 27 or 37 floors- I can’t quite remember- and bee-lined it for the outdoor stadium. It was humid and hot. Mid-August in Chicago so it is to be expected. I sat in a long sleeved shirt and pants because god forbid someone see my fat thighs and thumpy arms. They tell me to gain weight. I tell them to screw off. But none of that mattered as I sat there. Alone. Scared. Lost. Unable to comprehend how I got to this place again. I leaned back to lie down in the lawn and there I saw them. Hundreds upon hundreds of dragonflies. Buzzing, flying, dancing, mesmerizing me.

No one believed me. they said I must have imagined it. why would there be a swarm of dragonflies randomly in Millennium park which no one else witnessed. I don’t care what they say. I don’t care what they think. Whether imagined or real, the dragonflies were there. they danced for me, performing a composition I needed in that moment. A moment of fear and loneliness, a moment of questioning, and there they were. All these weird bugs keeping me company and making me feel a little less alone.

Maybe it is sad to think that bugs were my only source of company. Or maybe it is sad for someone looking into my life, my story, because they don’t understand the experiences that lead up to that moment. Being alone and able to have a moment to sit and reflect on my emotions, to witness the dragonflies, it felt like a miracle to me. Everything since starting to fight for recovery felt like a miracle to me.

It is amazing how dark times can be and how light at the same time. It’s the yin and yang, the good and the bad, the angels and the demons. I have a lot of both I have decided. My demons are simply louder beings while the angels are respectful and pleasant.  They scream and scream and scream about my dirty little used up no good for nothing body. I have learned to sit and wait it out. To let them throw their fit. Scream and yell and make me feel like shit, that’s how they get pleasure.

It all comes back to the dragonflies. I see miracles every day. I look in the mirror and see a miracle. I let myself have the slice of cake and I witness a million miracle. I am blessed by hundreds of dancing dragonflies that no one else sees. I pet a shark underwater and feel as if I have just uncovered the truth about the entire order of the universe. I see angels in my bedroom as a child. I hear whispers of love when I am alone and scared. I run through forests and the trees sing to me. I look up at the sky and tears fall down my cheeks because I know. I know more than anyone else that up there something is orchestrating a shit town of miracles for us to encounter every day, but if you aren’t looking you’re going to miss them. you see, I’ve been through enough hell to notice when somethings not from the pits of fire and despair. All I have known is burning sensations and tears of Clorox. So when I feel a breeze of goodness or taste to words of kindness, I see these things, I feel these things, I understand these things on a different level. These touches of light, the new song on the radio, the text from a friend, the hug from a stranger, the parking spot in the front row- these are miracles. Some of us are just too blind to see.

We Don’t Recover by Being Harsh with Ourselves – We Recover by Being Gentle

Words by: Megan Lawrence.  Follow more of her journey at or on her Instagram,  

It is powerful when someone decides to step into Recovery and make a conscious decision to better their life. It is within this first step that we are able to point ourselves in the right direction. As we continue taking the steps towards becoming the person we were meant to become, we will come to realize that, although we have made the choice to recover, that does not mean it will be smooth sailing from that point on. In fact, you may even be greeted with even tougher battles, and it is because of this that we MUST be gentle with ourselves in our recovery journey.

When it comes to my own experience with recovery, I have hit many uphill climbs, hardships, and unexpected discoveries about myself. When this occurs, I am often left feeling discouraged, confused, and disheartened to find out that there is still more to learn about who I am and why I am the way that I am. I can become very self-critical and harsh with myself, and quite frankly, that is just not fair. It is not fair for anyone to do this to themselves, especially because we are only able to know what we know thus far. Putting ourselves down in any way or wanting to give up on our progress is never going to get us closer to the life that we deserve to live. We chose a life of recovery, not because it was going to be easy, but because it was, and still is, going to be worth it.

Recovery is not synonymous with perfection. If you are recovering with the hopes that you will become a spotless, seemingly unflawed human, you are going to find yourself disappointed on this journey. I say this not to be cruel, but to remind you that you are not perfect. Nobody is. We are all perfectly imperfect as we are, warts and all. When we are hit with a truth about ourselves, we need to embrace it, accept it, and use it to our advantage. We can achieve this by asking, NOT why is this happening to me? But, why is this happening FOR ME? What am I to learn from this realization, and how can I incorporate this into my everyday life moving forward? When we are gentle with ourselves, we allow more room for growth, and we can then step forward into who we are with self-compassion, understanding, and self-love.

One thing I have had to learn numerous times in my dance with recovery is that a couple steps backward is not a failure, but an opportunity to look at my growth from a new perspective. Sometimes we will even be hit with the same obstacle we thought we resolved already, but find ourselves confronted by it yet again from a new angle. This is not a reason to give up. It is, in fact, a new opportunity to expand ourselves as human animals. I for one have faced many of the same challenges, just with a new face. I ALWAYS end up taking away something valuable from these situations, and although uncomfortable at first, we are all way more resilient then we give ourselves credit for. We can withstand many hardships and still live to see the other side of it. I would even go as far to say that we will be able to smile about them as well. When we are gentle with ourselves, we start to see just how much we are capable of overcoming, and THAT, is what we do it for; THAT is why we continue to recover.

Maybe you are recovering from an eating disorder, mental illness, substance abuse, a narcissist, or self-inflicted pain, and even though you know better now, you find yourself in a situation you thought you would have been able to avoid. This does not mean that all the hard work you have done is erased. It is still there. It is always there. Being gentle with ourselves means that we know this is par for the course. There is no guarantee that we will become invincible to pain because although we are recovering, pain is still a part of life. We collect the tools we need as we go, and we use them accordingly when the time calls for it. Mistakes are going to be made, missteps are still going to happen, and hard truths are going to be discovered. There is a reason why so many people avoid recovering in the first place. Be proud of yourself for wanting to recover in the first place. And be gentle with yourself along the way.

Thank you for reading!


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Recovery Diary 08/26/18

Classical music in the early mornings is not a foreign concept. It feels repetitive; meditative. It puts me in a trance able to ease racing thoughts and any bodily discomfort. Mornings are a time of reflection to sit and think, think, and think some more. Mornings are sacred. Mornings consist of mediation, reading, writing, and quietly staring off into the distance allowing creativity to scream loud and exciting thoughts into these commonly absent ears.

I paint a lot. I draw a lot. I write a lot. I read a lot. Does that make me an artist? Everyone is an artist is my response every time someone calls me one. I say this because I want so badly to be an artist that I am afraid of being one. Does that make sense? It is staring at the gold medal at the Olympics, afraid to take it out of the announcers hand because once it touches your fingers it is all real. Everything you worked for is real.

I had a dream last night that I was in the Olympics. I was an aerialist. They don’t have that sport in the Olympics, but behind my close eyelids the competition was very real. I was the best so naturally everyone hated me. I was ostracized from the team and forced to train on my own. Despite all odds, I won…? I actually woke up just before the results were in. I finished the dream for myself. I got the gold. All the hard work paid off. I took the medal. I touched the gold. I allowed that dream to be achievable.

I’ve always been drawn towards seemingly impossible goals. When someone says I wish I could just do ______, I automatically want to do that thing. I want to prove to them and to myself that whatever they have deemed unachievable in their mind is actually within arm’s reach. Go do it! Go do it! I always want to scream in people’s faces, but that would be rude and uncalled for and so I bite my tongue and let them vent about all the things that want to do in life but never will.

I don’t want to have any regrets. I want to do whatever is on my budget list. I want to be open to changes in my goals, to growth along the way. I never want to lose my determined spirit. I want, I want, I want… damn I want a lot of things.

Meditation helps me let go of all these racing ideas and thoughts. I need to be more present is what my therapist tells me. I’m motivated she say, which is good, but sometimes it’s okay to just be. Yesterday I tried to just be. I didn’t know what to do so I sat on my bed and listened to classical music and read. I don’t think I give myself enough credit for how present I can be. Each morning is filled with meditative and present rituals.

I like to write unconsciously, spilling all the thoughts onto paper as if to help sort them out. But, sometimes they don’t need sorting. Sometimes they are fine just the way they are.

Recovery Diary 08/21/18

(a late night poem about the beauty industry and all the lies it throws our way…)

you take three steps forward

before jumping headfirst into a pit of cement

that you read in an ad was supposed to be a shower of



and unicorns

you drive to the ER

with a mosaic of red between your eyes

you take a picture

you post a comment on the ad

and become the perfect pinnacle of sacrifice

beauty is pain

no pain no gain

what are you gaining

the ER nurse doesn’t understand that

you were just showered in lilies,


and unicorns

you jumped into a pile of cement

the nurse is relentless

you show the nurse the picture

they get it now

everyone gets it

after all

only an idiot would jump into a pile of cement

Kindness is Key

Words by: Zoe Spiers. Follow more of her journey on her Instagram, @boporecoverywarrior.   

The issue with today’s generation is that nothing is ever enough.

Your best is never enough. There’s this unspoken rule that you can always do better at work or school – achieve more, cope better, push yourself further, recover quicker, and the list goes on. This mindset is drummed into us: that whatever we do, there’s always more that can be done.

This is exactly how diet culture works too – there’s this promise that if you lose x amount of weight/eat a certain way/exercise x amount/look a certain way, that happiness and success will follow. But the weight loss is never enough, the dress size is never small enough, your diet is never perfect enough and the workout is never tough enough. With perspective and knowledge about diet culture, it’s easy to see how this disordered relationship with food, exercise and our bodies can spiral into an eating disorder – something that is far too common. So it’s no surprise that there’s an eating disorder pandemic at the moment.

Choosing recovery is really hard, but it’s a huge step in the right direction. You start by immersing yourself in the recovery community online – which, don’t get me wrong, can be such a positive, comforting and beautiful community. However, social media is a highlight reel. And this is crucial to remember. Recovery isn’t linear: it’s not always eating cake and laughing with your friends; it’s not suddenly being able to let go of your eating disorder. Recovery can be incredibly messy – it can be breaking down in tears in the middle of the restaurant because of food anxiety; it can be bent over the toilet after a slip up; it can be sitting on the floor numb after a binge.

Recovery is all those good things you see on the highlight reels that the community posts, but it’s also the tears, the pain, uncomfortableness. It’s unlearning everything diet culture taught us, AS WELL as fighting against your own eating disorder. It’s about finding the you – the real you. It’s hard work. But, despite all this, recovery is worth it – in dark times, please remember this.

These highlight reels can be so detrimental to our recovery sometimes, causing us to compare our bad day to another person’s good day. However, the next day the roles may be reversed. It’s this knowledge, that everyone has good and bad days in their recovery journey, that you should use as a reminder to be kind to yourself if you’ve reverted back to a disordered behaviour – to be gentle with yourself. Being kind to yourself doesn’t necessarily mean face masks and bubble baths (although, of course, it can include those too!). It means being the friend your younger self desperately needed; reassuring this vulnerable part of you that you are not a failure; comforting yourself with the knowledge that a step or two backward doesn’t negate the leaps and bounds you have made in your recovery journey.

Don’t punish yourself, for you are unlearning years of diet culture and challenging your own mind. Nobody’s – yes, not even that influencer you admire on social media – journey is linear. Be kind and gentle with yourself, for recovery from an eating disorder can be painful and a rollercoaster of a ride.

Recovery Diary 08/17/18

The rain starts lightly, like the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard. Pitter pattering across the roof, the windows, the lamp posts, the streets. It coats the asphalt in a sheer sheet of glass making something so strong, delicate, slippery, and misleading. The night crept up on me. The daylight was swallowed in sleep, tears, and pages of other’s stories. I don’t understand the stirring, twisting, gnawing pain in my gut that keeps me prisoner to my bed. It hurts. It hurts worse than it has in months. This year was nearly free of this sickness, this knot in my gut, and yet here it is back with vengeance.

I still have bad days.

“You’re depressed, PTSD can manifest in this way sometimes. It is just flaring up right now. Be patient with yourself,” professionals tell me through concerned stares and scribbling pencils.

“I’m broken,” I explain.

There is a leak in my gut and insecurities, shame, rejection; they are all pouring in. I am slowly drowning in my own body. The leak, the crack, the hole in my gut, it’s real, it’s real, it’s so damn real I can hardly breathe because my lungs are filling with the liquid of my tears and my heart is weighed down by a thousand bricks of all the things that should have been said. Do I even matter? The demons creep back in spewing lies into my mind. Life starts to shrivel and the world becomes a pin hole that I no longer fit in. I want to disappear, I whisper under my breath as I fade into another dream. I want to be far away from all this pain, all this suffering, this sickness that will not go away.

“When did you start feeling this way again?”

Of course, the therapist would ask me. If she didn’t what was her degree for in the first place? This is a business arrangement, a chair worth thousands of dollars to help make me better. The cushion is sewn in my dollar bills pulled from my throat of hard work and perseverance.

“Just this week I think,” I explain.

I can’t remember because when the demons come, the days blur together. Colors melt and it all looks grey. Voices are muffled by the watery tears flooding my lungs all the way to my ear channel.

What have you been doing to manage all this pain? The therapist is relentless.

I roll my eyes, “living.”

I live, I live, and I live. I want to shout at her empty smile and plastic red lips. Living is getting up and eating and bathing and going to work on time and paying bills and getting gas. I text back, I hang out with friends, I do what is required because what the fuck I supposed to do? Living is all that I know because at the end of the day I am a creature and creatures know one thing for sure: how to survive. I am in recovery. I remind myself. Sometimes all you are going to feel you can do is survive. The feelings will pass. I hope they will pass.

Flash forward to Monday morning, waking up early, drinking coffee, eating breakfast, listening to music, and writing. I am smiling as the sun rises. I am looking up the next country I will travel to.

It’s night and day. Yin and yang. Dark and light. I have many persons, many demons and many angels all within me. One day might be a rain shower of bullet casings and the next a sunrise of unicorns. I’m not broken. I’m just figuring myself out and, actually, I am okay with that.

Recovery Diary 08/14/18

My alarm went off at 7 and I didn’t wake up until 9:25. I was supposed to leave at 9. I don’t know why I am oversleeping every day this week. When I was in my eating disorder, I would be lucky if I slept past 6. I was always restless, agitated, and running around doing a million things because doing everything was far better than sitting with my own thoughts. But here I am staying up late with enough energy to talk, watch movies, read, and write. Here I am beginning to feel like a normal human- what a weird and foreign concept to someone in recovery.

I was late so I grabbed a cliff bar, granola bar, and water to eat/drink in the car. I had some coffee with cream and sugar- a new recovery phenomenon for me. At noon I was asked if I would want to go grab pizza. I panicked. I hadn’t had any food- in my disordered mind- that had any nutritional value today. I needed a smoothie, or a salad, a quinoa bowl perhaps, or one of those insta posts of a colorful plate of veggies- #recovery? This of course is a lie that my mind was telling me because all food is processed and used by our bodies. Our bodies are well oiled machines that are a whole lot smarter than the logic our disordered minds try to use to define their functioning. And guess what? Our bodies function better when we allow them to have what they truly want to have. These days even when the panic sets in around certain foods, I try my best to push past. I know that to give into those panicked thoughts would strengthen the muscles I don’t want anything to do with. I want to be toned by authenticity, normalcy, and freedom not from hours in the gym or a million Buddha bowls. I want peace. All I have ever wanted was some peace. In simpler terms, that meant I needed to get the effing pizza.

Pizza and real soda because to get diet soda would be an eating disorder win and I am not in the business of losing. I am competitive by nature. I want to win. I want to beat this disease that, for so many years, has taken over my mind. So, real soda is a must and not just any real soda, but Root Beer. This is a childhood favorite that I never was allowed to have. Now, I have it when I want. Soda is bad for you. This nagging voice, these lying thoughts trickle in forcing me to hesitate when picking out the drink.  So is self-punishment and restricting my life, I internally yell back to the voice as I grab the harmless Root Beer.  Yes. Another win. Like I said, I am not in the business of losing.

Don’t get me wrong, these decisions to get what I want are hard as hell. I have to aim, fire, and shoot at the eating disorder multiple times throughout the day. The difference now is that the eating disorder doesn’t have a chance. I am pulverizing it. Devouring its very existence. The eating disorder is dying with each passing day because I have been in enough therapy. I know too much about recovery to not fall into recovery. I can’t unlearn all the skills and coping mechanisms that I have been taught. I have, in a way, been brainwashed into recovery. I have no choice, but to choose freedom. For this very fact, I will be eternally grateful to all of the therapists, dieticians, and fellow patients that have helped brainwash me along the way. With the help of a mini army, I have been given the gift of freedom.



My Future Superpower: No Self-Judgment

Words by: Casey Urban.  Follow more of her journey on Instagram (@caseyurban) or on her blog
When I was in an in-patient treatment center for Bulimia, my therapist would tell me, “Come on Casey, get off you’re own back!” Even today my partner tells me that I’m still too hard on myself. I guess I’ve just grown up that way. My parents are hardcore Texas ranchers (of the equestrian persuasion), and I became a Bikram yoga instructor at the age of 21. Bikram yoga is a 90 minute no bullshit militant yoga sequence done in 105-degree heat (40 degrees Celsius) taught with the notion that, “If you don’t suffer, you don’t get anything. Nothing is easy in life.”
Ever since I was five or six years old, I remember having negative thoughts about my body. I remember not feeling good enough or worthy enough. I remember every time I got off stage after a dance or vocal solo I would cry because I thought I didn’t perform well. Every. Single. Time. For decades this kind of mentality persisted and negative self-talk became deeply embedded in my brain’s neural pathways.
Four years ago this all shifted.
I graduated from college, and I moved to Chile. I spent almost a year and a half in Chile away from the diet culture I grew up in (note: IMO Chile does have its fair share of diet culture, but Chileans don’t seem as obsessed with weight and image as people from the United States). I deepened my recovery by letting go of food rules. I stepped away from my internal pressure of being thin as a full-time yoga instructor, and I only taught private lessons and a few public classes. I decided to never again talk bad about my body out loud. I binged and purged for the last time four months before moving to Chile.
While I’ve learned to be more forgiving with myself, I’m still a work in progress. I’m still retraining my brain and researching every possible avenue to help me do so. I recently heard an interview with Gary Vanerchuck where he said he thinks his superpower is that he NEVER judges himself. That was huge for me. Even just the thought of someone having the ability to not judge themselves provided me hope that I could eventually get there. Vipassana meditation has helped a lot. Imagine if you could re-train your brain to not judge yourself for any mistake, awkward comment, or failure. The good news is, you can (cue neuroplasticity)! How would this superpower change your life?

Recovery Diary 08/12/18

Words by: Morgan Blair 

Life is a tricky thing, that’s the main thought on my mind as I finally roll out of bed at 11:45 in the morning. I never sleep this late, but I don’t feel overly concerned with this fact. There’s too many other things on my mind. So many things that I wouldn’t be able to name one of them. They are all too jumbled and messy for me to even know what I am thinking about.

But life is tricky, I continue this line in my head as I order a bagel with cream cheese. Now, it’s 4 in the afternoon and there was no reason why I was ordering this bagel other than this shocking fact: I wanted it.  It is in these moments where the punch line reveals itself, where the tricks become apparent. I am walking a thin line. We are all walking a thin line. We approach dozens of choices throughout our days that require us to decide between what we genuinely want and what we feel obligated to do. We stumble back and forth giving into societal expectations and then jumping back towards ourselves and our own desires for our lives. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s life’s game of hop-scotch that we never seen to win.

I am not stupid and I understand that sometimes what we genuinely want gets tangled up in what our demons want. I’m not talking about what your eating disorder would order in that moment or what your depression would have to say about letting yourself sleep in until 11:30 am. I am talking about authenticity. What does your authentic self want in these moments where you are faced with choice?

The bagel and cream cheese wasn’t just a bagel and cream cheese. It was a choice, a deliberate choice to take a step over this thin line towards my authentic self. I think these choices are a muscle. The more we exercise them, the stronger they become. The more at peace we are with our lives. Gym or yoga? Cookie or carrots? Sleep in after a long week or get up and do more work? Bath or quick shower? Movie or business calls? Full-time job or entrepreneurship? Pay for a trip or pay for a tattoo? Buy a ton of drinks on Friday or save for the new camera you want for your photography passion? Choice, choice, choice, choice…picking the choice that leads you towards the future you wish to hold will make you ripped AF with muscles of authenticity and pride.

So as I sat down with my bagel, iced tea, and notebook at 4 pm to discuss to future of Unpolished Journey, I felt insanely grateful. Grateful that I could live this moment, full of pride, and completely satisfied with the choices I had made throughout the day.

Recovery Diaries: Entry 1

Words by: Morgan Blair

I’ve been thinking lately about Unpolished Journey and why I started it in the first place. To be honest, it had more to do with a desire to share my story than it did to create a place for others to share their stories. Two and a half years ago when I made that first post on Instagram, all I really wanted was to meet people who understood the struggle, who could relate, who were going through something similar. Low and behold, that happened. Of course that happened because everyone is going through, or has gone through, some kind of struggle. It was through the people I was meeting and the stories I was reading that I decided I wanted Unpolished Journey to be a space for everyone. Everyone struggling with mental illness would be welcome to have a space to share their story so that they may receive the same connection I did after I made that first post.

The community aspect of Unpolished has been so empowering and wonderful, but I feel like I have walked away from the platform of sharing my own story. I haven’t shared my writing in a while or made a post on Instagram of my own artwork. That’s why I am starting these recovery diaries. I wanted to give people a glimpse into what a day in recovery from an eating disorder, PTSD, and depression truly looks like. I want people to be able to connect and feel less alone because, let’s face it, recovery is not perfect and we all deserve to be reminded of that.

So, without further ado here’s the first entry.

Friday, August 10th, 2018

My alarm goes off at 6 am. I have had to get up early every day and I’m not sure why. It just seems like there is so much to get done, but I am not sure that there really is anything that needs to be done. It’s an anxious energy. A shaking hands and pounding chest kind of energy that leaves me lying in bed with racing thoughts and an inability to sleep. I took a sleep aid and two melatonin last night. I had worked hard to calm myself enough the last couple of months to ditch the sleep medication, but over the last week or so that has all fell by the wayside.

I hit snooze. I worked until 10:30 pm last night and didn’t fall into bed until midnight and the sleep aid was making it hard to open my eyes. I’ll just sleep a little longer, I tell myself as I silently run through all the things that needed to be completed this morning.

Breakfast, devotional, clean, laundry, art project, workout, emails, Instagram post for UJ, don’t forget to workout, it’s really important you work out this morning… leave by 11:30 to meet boyfriend…

And I sleep a little longer and a little longer and a little…. I jump out of bed. It’s 8:30 am! How did I sleep so long? I will never get everything done. I become a scurrying hamster running around the apartment. Breakfast was rushed and I hate rushing meals. It makes me nervous, like I am doing something wrong. Food needs to be thought out and eaten slowly to ensure I am not overeating. What if I overate? There was no time to humor that thought. Emails and emails and more emails. They are never-ending when you are planning trips, working at a treatment center, communicating about yoga jobs, and keeping up with UJ. Then I get distracted. My recovery voice comes in and I take a deep breath. I remind myself that everything will get done in due time, that worrying will only make my day harder, that working out is not a top priority in my life anymore. I thank that voice. It is getting stronger these days, but there are still mornings, nights, or afternoons where it gets trampled by my demons.

Reminded of the peace that comes with recovery, I leave my room and sit on the couch next to my sister. I take some deep breaths, chat with her, and relax. Recovery is such a sweet state of being.

The morning proceeds. I shower and clean and pack up some snacks for the day. I don’t work out like I originally told myself was a must do. I didn’t have time and I didn’t want to strengthen those disordered voices in my head. Humoring them just wasn’t worth my time anymore.

By the time I hop on the train at 11:30 am, I feel pretty exhausted, like I had just fought several battles in the last couple of hours. I think back on the morning and pat myself on the back. I had fought several battles and won most of them. I look to my left and my right and find each passenger on their phones with downturned lips. It’s hard silently fighting your head. There’s no audience there to applaud you when you take your final bow.

At the train station my boyfriend is waiting for me. He is wearing a tiger button up and rolled up jeans. He has a big goofy smile on his face. I fall in love all over again. It’s crazy the good things that recovery can bring into your life.

The day is magic. I can’t help but believe every day in recovery is magic. Art exhibits with giant ball pits, confetti machines, long city walks, shared headphones on the train, chocolate coffee drinks, dessert, pizza, drinks, dancing, napping under the trees on the chest of my favorite person, the days are packed full of life-giving activities. It makes me smile all the time and act like a fool and eat like a normal human and forget about how toned my thighs are for long stretches of time. 2 am and I finally crash. I feel good. I feel wound up. I take a sleep aid and combat some racing thoughts….