One of the ultimate joys of reading books is you can pick up a 19th century novel and the main character is spiraling over the same existential dread that I felt this morning. Different clothes, same crises.
I can't think of anything more comforting than that.
I need more credit for the massive amount of restraint I employ for not correcting someone when they use the wrong *your* in their social media post. Especially if that person thought they were being snarky or clever.
I'm 48. And guess what? It's ohfuckingkay that I look 48. Wrinkles, creases, smoke lines, laugh lines, sun spots.. I earned every damn one of them. Proudly.
Yesterday was day 5 of dealing with a prolonged anxiety attack and I was at the point where I needed help, and do you know why I didn't want to go to my Dr? Because I didn't want to make HIM uncomfortable about prescribing me something.
And that's me in a nutshell.