Seasons of Love

How do you measure a year?

Rent, the stage musical as well as the movie version, has shaped a lot of my beliefs around living and what it means to exist. (Given my liberal arts education, I can of course look back and see the problematic aspects of the storyline, but for the sake of argument, let's set those aside for now.)

One of the most famous songs from the musical, as well as in general as a Broadway tune, is "Seasons of Love" (or you may recognize it by the chorus, "525,600 minutes/525,000 moments so dear/525,600 minutes/How do you measure, measure a year"). Here's the movie version if you want to check that out.

I've been reflecting on that idea a lot lately, especially since I have begun documenting and essentially scrapbooking my life in my journals and planners. And as December 24, 9pm, Eastern Standard time approaches (Rent reference), I thought I'd reflect back on what made up my year of 2018.

Joining the Health Club

New Election Cycle, New Me

You've probably heard of new year's resolutions. You know, the time of the year you are definitely going to lose 20 pounds, go to the gym, wake up early, and cook a three course meal every night? Yeah, that idea. Well, I'm starting some now, on a Tuesday in November.

Tragedy Overload

Saturday I woke up to breaking news of another mass shooting. Barely a day has gone by since the pipe bomb suspect was arrested and now we have something else. My heart broke as I clicked the news video, and it sank deep into my chest as I learned, in horror, that this one was targeted at a synagogue.

Something in me broke.

Something I had been pushing around for some time now, a sense of doom and hopelessness and sadness. This morning, I felt it. The utter sense of sorrow, of grief, of acceptance of tragedy. The point I realize I cannot leave, I am not immigrating to Europe, this is real and this is my life now. This is our American reality.

Each time something happens, I tell myself I am done. I will fight this. I will vote. I will protest. I will move far away from this dystopian reality. But this morning, as 8 souls were snatched from this world and hundreds of lives forever changed, I just sank.

I checked my Facebook obsessively. I shared a post, I followed the breaking news. My feed was filled with Jewish friends and family sharing outrage and non-Jewish friends expressing fear and sadness.

I didn't know if I could take it anymore. So I stopped.

I turned it off. I clicked away. I put mu phone on silent and my media on pause, just for a minute. And you know what? It was okay.

I made myself some iced tea. I changed my sheets. I tidied my floor. I cast on a new knitting project. And it felt alright.

No, it didn't solve anything. The news was still there when I got back, and the hurt and the pain came rushing back. But that afternoon, I needed some time to shut off before I shut down.

What We Talk About When We talk About Mental Illness

Roseanne, Kanye, and Mental Health Awareness Week

Photo Credit: What I Be Project by Steve Rosenfield

October 7-13 was mental health awareness week, with NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) starting a CureStigma campaign. You may have seen posts on social media of friends or acquaintances posting about their struggles or their allyship/offers of support. If you hadn't seen or heard, I don't blame you-- I had to google it prior to this post. I had heard the term "mental health awareness week/day/month" floating around, and I figured now was as good a time as any to share my personal thoughts.

In addition to NAMI, the constant news cycle reminds us of how prevalent and even marketable serious mental illness is. Kanye West, for example, was recently at the white house, rambling about our country's problems, his solutions, men, male energy, alternate realities, the 13th amendment, and more. He mentioned the Unabomber and prison and bipolar disorder. In general, it was an extremely disjointed and fantastical discussion. (If you are interested, here is the full transcript)

Roseanne Barr, an up and coming (and subsequently fallen) reboot star was recently on the Joe Rogan podcast. She discussed her infamous tweet, her personal history with serious mental illness and psychiatric hospitalization, and the fallout from her drugged out post. I have not finished the full episode yet (it's a two hour podcast), but it is available here if you are interested.

This is a lot to dig through. This is a representation of not only our attention seeking culture, which values the extreme, but also is subsequently a version of how we understand mental illness, specifically psychosis or other dissociated forms of reality. 

To be fair, it could be worse-- at least we're not talking about mental illness because someone with a firearm took that constitutionally protected firearm and used it to murder innocent people. And at least these people in the spotlight are successful in some regards. They are creative geniuses despite their demons. There are so many angles to approach this question of celebrity culture and mental illness.

What is a self described mental health advocate to do?

Finding my Path

Withdrawing from my CGU Master's Program

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out. 

This is a tough post to write. This is the post where I will be talking about my choice to withdraw from my graduate program at Claremont Graduate University, a highly competitive and intense masters track for Positive Developmental Psychology. This is not easy to admit, and yet for some reason I still am writing it. Because there is power and truth in personal vulnerability.

Living for the Future

Graduate School Anxiety and Overall Stress

As you may have heard, I am starting graduate school at Claremont Graduate University in Positive Developmental Psychology. I am pursuing my masters at the moment, with hopes that perhaps I would continue on to get my doctorate. And it's time I admit something: I am scared. I am terrified. I am overwhelmed. I am vulnerable.

Starbucks Routine

Enjoying a drink during a long hot day of touring London

For those of you who have not heard, I will be attending Claremont Graduate University, pursuing a masters in positive developmental psychology. (I have a blog post about it, if you are interested in reading more.) I moved back down to Claremont a couple weeks ago, about a month ahead of classes starting, in order to settle in to my new place and get my routines set prior to the stress of my new graduate program.

It's been about two weeks, and I'll be honest: it's lonely. Not in any terrible way, but at night, when it gets dark and all I have for company is my kindle and my knitting, it's lonely. 

But I'm finding ways to make it work-- ways that include my favorite morning blended ice drinks at the nearby Starbucks.

Speaking Up, Speaking Out

My journey of de-stigmitization

Dedicated to my inspiring sister, Shayna

For my younger sister's high school senior project, she decided to record and present stories of mental illness in an attempt to further de-stigmatize our community discussion around mental illness. I could not be prouder or more impressed by her final project and presentation, in which she also spoke of her personal struggles with chronic anxiety and the pain she suffered watching me suffer all those years ago.

Shayna spoke of the pain she held onto as she was forced to stay silent, hold in this family secret of how badly I was doing. We told no one of my diagnosis, out of fear of judgement and isolation. Shayna had to spend long hours in the waiting room of doctor's offices, alone and lonely, holding so many secrets and the stigma and forced to grow up before she even hit puberty.

Reflections on American Democracy

"SHOW ME WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!" a middle aged woman of color shouts to the hundred or so students, parents, teachers, and children standing at the base of the capitol building in Sacramento, CA.

It is April 10, 2016, months before Trump's election. Months before the country turned from the years of the first black president to to the years of bashing the elite, electing the infamous outsider and claiming he would speak for the forgotten men and women. 

This was back when I was a I was still a sophomore in college, attending the ACLU conference as a part of the Pitzer in Ontario academic field learning program. We had driven up in a large charter bus from southern California, forming study groups with names like "The Justice League". This was a weekend of Thai food and cafeteria sandwiches, of workshops and dancing and lobbying senator (...'s assistants). 

I decided I couldn't be a politician, because the meetings looked long and mundane and I couldn't see a single person knitting in that whole auditorium of senators and congress people. I thought maybe I could get into political advocacy; after all, I was skilled at writing and research, and I wanted to make a difference. Visiting the state capitol, hearing bills being passed on a tiny fuzzy television projection of the auditorium, I had hope. I had dreams. I had plans.

Quality of Life Planner

How the Erin Condren Life Planner Helps me Enjoy Life

In a recent post, I talked about how using a bullet journal helped me to become more flexible, less frustrated, and overall more creative and open-minded. In this post, I will be continuing the series, and talking about how using the Erin Condren Life Planner helps to enhance my happiness and quality of life.

This post is not sponsored in any way, all opinions and ideas are my own. However, it is dedicated to my Nonny and Poppy (my mom's parents), who gifted me this wonderful planner for my birthday this past March.

Implicit Bias Training

Today, most if not all Starbucks locations in the United States will close early for what is being called "implicit bias training". In short, they had a bit of a media meltdown after two black men were arrested at a Seattle location for doing nothing. Literally, their crime was they were doing nothing when they should've been doing something (namely, purchasing a drink). From the way I have heard the story, and accounts vary as they always do, these men had the cops called on them after asking to use the bathroom and hanging around the shop after being asked to buy something or leave.

This is a much, much larger issue than these two black men and one impatient barista. This is an issue of what is known as "implicit bias", and it stems from a long and troubled history of racism in our country. Implicit bias is similar to making assumptions based on appearances, or stereotypes based on group identity. If I, a white woman, started a fight with a black woman, a passerby might assume that the African-American woman was the perpetrator because I, a fair skinned woman, look less intimidating and less likely to pick a fight.

This is so much of a deeper problem and I am barely brushing the surface here, but the point remains: people make assumptions based on skin color, and those assumptions favor lighter skinned or white-passing individuals.

Bullet Journaling and Flexibility

How Bullet Journaling helped me go with the flow

Have you heard of bullet journaling? In short, it's a journal/planner/to do list method created by Ryder Carroll (who, fun fact, also has ADHD) to organize your life on paper rather than digitally. I learned about it 3 or so years ago, and before that, I was already obsessed with journaling and list making.

Here is the introductory video from the creator, Ryder Carroll

Here is my blog post on bullet journal basics

Both those links should give you a good starting point into understand what bullet journaling is. However, this post is a little different. I am going to talk today about how bullet journaling helped improve my artistic and organizational skills, while also teaching me some valuable skills about flexibility and perfectionism.

My Gift of Writing

I'm done. I finished the last of my undergraduate assignments this morning. I checked off the boxes, I planned my next week, empty except for some stickers.

And yet. I have this nagging feeling, one that comes up in my nightmares and my daytime anxieties. A feeling that I cannot make it. A feeling that I am not worthy. A feeling that I am not as capable as I seem to be.

This feeling, reminiscent of "imposter syndrome" started a while ago, and it has little to do with my impending graduation. For that, I know I did the work just like everyone else. I got good grades, I went to the club fairs, I made friends, I had an amazing college experience. It's not even a fear that I am not qualified to be entering a master's program in positive psychology because honestly, that has been the theme and focus of my college experience. No, none of those. I'll be honest with you guys, which I always have been, but this time it's different.

I'm afraid I'm not a good writer.

Rivi Graduation FAQ

I've been getting a lot of questions as I near my college graduation, so I figured I'd put together a list of questions and answers to help better illuminate my post graduation feelings and plans.

When you want to give up on life: Advice from a Suicide Survivor

If you are struggling, the National Suicide Prevention Hotline is open 24 hours everyday

1-800-273-8255 and https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

I am a suicide survivor. I survived years of suicidal ideation and one small attempt. And I am here to tell my story.

http://eponis.tumblr.com/post/113798088670/everything-is-awful-and-im-not-okay-questions-to

Okay, where do I start? Well, I think this would be something that those of you who read my blog would assume. Which is weird. The same way you could assume I enjoy reading and knitting and stickers make me smile you can also assume I've tried to take my own life.

But I am here and I am living. And I am eternally grateful to my parents, my support system, and whatever other divine forces and human commitment kept me moving forward into the future and into the woman I am today.

A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear younger me,

I'm sorry for what you are going through. I am sorry I cannot say anything to make it go away because it will be years before that even begins to be a possibility. I am sorry you are in pain. I am sorry that even if now, I promise you, with absolute certainty, it will get better, you will not believe me. I'm sorry you have to deal with this.

I guess I could tell you it will all get so much better, that a light will turn on and the dark cloud will leave and you will have life. I suppose I could make those promises knowing now that it will come true. But in your state, all I can tell you is to wait.

Wait through the dark years, the fog, the confusion. Everyone says high school is the worst, that turning 13 is just a death sentence for your emotions. I don't know what to say other than I believe you. And please, for both of us, just hang on a little longer.

When the nights get dark and scary, remember you have a family and a community behind you. Define yourself by your strengths, your creativity, your writing. Prove to the doctors and the world that your life matters. That despite everything, you are still breathing. You are still waking up every morning and pushing through another day when all you can see is gray and black, depression and fear. 

Mental Illness: My Story

I wrote this piece for my creative non-fiction class last semester. I've wanted to share it for a while, so here you go. Enjoy, stay strong, and my love goes out to all of you.

Home

Trigger Warning: Depression, Mental Illness, Suicide, Self-Harm

  

Note: I will be discussing very heavy themes such as suicide, self-harm, and mental illness. Please always remember to take care of yourself and know that your mental well-being is more important than any article or written piece

I grew up in a small town filled with pretty girls and awkward boys, in a town of cookie cutter homes and old money, in a town filled with painful secrets hidden behind lip glossed smiles. The kind of town you can drive through and think about the beauty but not the unspoken truths lurking underneath. I grew up in the picturesque county of Marin, just north of San Francisco, where the homes have ocean views and everything looks perfect. Everything is just so.

In a town of basic white girl living, where Lulu Lemon stores sit next to hipster coffee shops and expensive electronics stores, Marin county does an eerily encompassing job of hiding our insecurities. That is, until said insecurities and silent struggles cause our fellow community members to overdose, or cut their wrists, or jump off a bridge. At that point, we admit they were having a tough time. That this was a lifelong struggle, and they had expressed this pain before. Their family didn’t know what to do. This was just so sudden. No one ever saw this coming.

Why I Stopped Doing Stand-Up

"Self-deprecating humor is the lowest form of comedy. And I can't even do that right." - unknown

From my stand up days. Yes, I had blue hair.

Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, I'll stop what I'm saying and mumble something about how I could totally write a stand-up bit about that. That's not just me being fanciful-- I actually used to perform stand-up comedy at a local open mic bar.

At the time, I was 19 or 20 years old and one of the two female performers who would regularly pop in to the twenty or thirty person open mic. I couldn't drink, but the open mics were taking place at 10:30 pm, so I was plenty delusional and weird anyway.

I tried different styles, I got laughs, and it felt good. I would heckle the other comics (basically boo or shout something from my seat). I could be myself, I could be sarcastic and weird. And it was fun.

In my last post, I wrote about my journey sophomore and junior year to becoming the woman I am today. Stand-up comedy was a gateway to self growth, but it was something I had to leave behind.

The Weakest Link

"A chain is only as strong as its weakest link." - unknown

If you know my family at all, one of our defining attributes is a love for travel. I have blogged every summer for the past few years (Summer 2015, Summer 2016, Summer 2017). Blogging was often my way to contribute, a tradition that began with my dad chronicling Eastern Europe 2012, a trend that I continued. While my dad's posts were mainly educational, I liked to blog funny thoughts I've had and random quirky anecdotes.

My sister is the photographer. My dad is the professor. My mom is the second grade teacher. I am the writer. We each bring our unique gifts to travel, and that's what makes our family vacations so wonderful. But it wasn't always this way. My family is currently traveling through India for 10 days (without me). Considering that I hate crowds, noise, scents, spicy foods, overstimulation, anxiety producing situations, lack of food, exhausting days, and so many other trademarks of India, I am happy to be here in Claremont, organizing my sticker collection and admiring Shayna's photos.

But as I consider what it means to be a part of such an adventurous family, with parents who are willing to accommodate my sensory needs and my anxieties, I feel truly lucky I am able to make it work. But it was a journey to get to the peace of mind I am at today.

My mother is proud of me

One of my favorite slam poems is a short piece by Kait Rokowski titled, "A Good Day." The poem describes what a good day is like for someone with depression, how the overwhelming pain can show how simply getting out of bed is an accomplishment in and of itself. The fight with depression, anxiety, and mental illness is very real, and it is a fight that is so often unseen and unrecognized.
One of my favorite lines is both funny and very truthful. 

My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.

Living in recovery or remission from depression and mental illness means you must celebrate the little victories. And the external validation, the kind that comes from big awards and presentations, is replaced with casual recognition of your perseverance and offhand compliments about how well you are doing.

The Optimist with a Half Empty Glass

I assume you all know the old adage "Glass Half Empty/Glass Half Full". The idea is, when presented with a glass filled halfway with liquid, do you describe the glass as half empty, or do you say the glass is half full?


I always hated this test.