We all know someone. Or know someone who knows someone.

I’ve often said I’m lucky. I’m lucky because when I hit my lowest point, I didn’t attempt suicide. I wanted to disappear, but my hope was that something magical would happen. I wanted a hole to open up in the earth — a place I could crawl into and hide until my brain rebooted itself. Essentially, I wanted a cocoon. A womb in the Earth. I didn’t want to hurt anyone else, and I didn’t want to hurt myself. I just wanted to heal. I didn’t want time to pass, I didn’t want anyone to worry. I simply wanted time to “get better.” I didn’t want it to impact anyone else. …

All of my life, I’ve made a habit of side-stepping projects and conversations that cause anxiety. This is a poor approach, and very frequently has led to less than ideal outcomes. I’ve missed out on opportunities, I haven’t advocated for myself, and I’ve let myself and others down.

This blog has certainly started off on a high note.

One of my primary struggles has been with empowerment. Standing up for myself is hard. Communicating that I deserve better (to the person or people that need to hear it) is crippling. I’m not sure where this came from — it could be the fact that I’m a woman who fell into a predictable role, or my anxiety disorder, or however unintentionally I might have been raised. …

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I have the highest respect for my queer friends. You possess a courage I admire so very much. I’m an ally. I feel it’s necessary to write about this because as an ally, it’s more important than ever to let the queer community know how much you are supported.

Admittedly, I want to hear the queer community a hell of a lot louder, celebrating who you are, what your history means to you, and watch you be unabashedly true to yourselves. I feel like heterosexual people could learn a lot from you.

Inclusiveness. Perseverance. Bravery. …

All bodies are beach bodies. And love the one you’re with. All those things. Easy to say, difficult to accept.

I’ll be honest — looking at myself as I stand naked in front of a mirror doesn’t make me feel proud. I don’t see the “battle scars” of giving birth, I see stretch marks, you guys. I see a weird stomach hang thing that I do not like. I see boobs that … well, I like my boobs. Really, it’s the midsection. It’s that not-anywhere-near-tight abdomen. And I get it, it might never get there.

Oh, if I turn around, my flat butt makes me somewhat irritated. Not the biggest fan of my cellulite, either. …

Once upon a time, I thought I was a morning person.

I assumed this because I so obviously was not a night person. It turns out a person can wind up being neither; it’s not an either/or situation.

I was going to write yesterday, but brunches happened. Yes. Multiple brunches. I’m still feeling like a fully-inflated balloon, swollen with bacon and eggs.

If I rattled off all the rich foods I put in my face this weekend, you would cower in fear. …

In other words, don’t focus so much on the thing you’re trying to overcome.

I’ve noticed a pattern in my own life. When it comes time to stare down a challenge, face a fear, attempt something new, or in any way be impacted by a somewhat significant change, I go all in — on focusing on what it is that’s my obstacle to conquer.

My Life: A Roomful of Pink Elephants.

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Photo by Anna Stoffel on Unsplash

I am not making fun of myself for this by explaining my patterns, by the way. This is not meant to be self-deprecating. …

I’ve been actively attending WW meetings for most of 2018 while enduring the slowest weight loss ever. If you hear me complain about this, allow me to encourage you not to tell me that slow weight loss is the best weight loss, because doing it slowly means I’m less likely to gain it back. Roughly 4,000 people before you have also shared this wisdom.

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I haven’t attended a meeting in three weeks. During a fit of frustration several months ago, we threw out our scale, as I was obsessively stepping onto it multiple times daily. While I know it was the right thing to do, I’m super uncomfortable right now, knowing I have to go in tomorrow with no clue as to what I’m going to see on the scale. My assumption is that I’ve gained back at least a third of the weight I’ve lost since January. …

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One of the primary reasons I moved to Colorado (twice) was because I wanted to escape the heat. I grew up in the Midwest, where the stickiness of summer clung to you like a second skin. When exiting cars or houses, my glasses would immediately fog. It was stifling.

BUT YOU GUYS. It’s hot in Colorado. Unless you’re above 8,000 feet in altitude, it really doesn’t matter. Last Thursday, it was hotter in Denver than it was in Las Vegas, Tucson, and some other hot location I can’t remember. Likely Death Valley. It was that hot.

I will grant that it’s not humid here. Yes, we have “the dry heat.” However, that does not mean we’re not sweating. That does not mean inner thigh chafing isn’t happening. And, unlike Phoenix (from what I recall 20 years ago), we don’t have those magical mister things that cool you off as you meander through cute shopping areas or sit on rooftop patios, sipping too much sangria. …

The deaths of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade in the span of a week are crushing. It hurts the spirit, and it is hard to see people who presumably have everything, then lose everything in an instant. There are questions as to why it happened, what led to it, why didn’t anyone do anything?

Here’s why: America doesn’t talk about brain conditions. Our country by and large does not treat people living with chemical disorders of the brain with the same empathy, levels of care, or acceptance. They don’t.

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Emma Goldman

Kate Spade’s sister told the KC star her sister suffered “three to four years of mental illness” and “chickened out” from multiple attempts to seek treatment. She also noted, “Sometimes you simply cannot SAVE people from themselves!”


Kat Atwell

Mental health advocate, self-acceptance enthusiast, storyteller, and comedian. Gen X all up in here. Follow me on Twitter at @katatwell!

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