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.

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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.