Wednesday, June 8, 2016

No More Delusions

Denver has been weighing heavily on my mind—not the city, but the character in Toni Morrison’s Beloved.  Denver’s insightful and feisty as hell, like when she asks Sethe and Paul D, “How come everybody run off from Sweet Home can’t stop talking about it?  Look like if it was so sweet you would have stayed.”

When Beloved comes, Denver kinda likes having a young woman in the house, but then she sees that Sethe is consumed with Beloved, far more than she was ever consumed with Denver.  How lonely that must be, to see your mother’s face light up for someone but not for you?  But Denver’s a scrapper.  She doesn’t feel sorry for herself nor does she reside in delusions.  Instead, she mobilizes herself and starts problem solving.  She gets a job and starts to open herself up for a life and a love of her own.  I need to be more like Denver.

After communicating with my family for the last six months I’ve come to the same conclusion that I came to so many times before: These mu’fuckers are crazy!  Communicating with crazy people is exhausting!  And I’m equally crazy because I keep trying to make it work.  
  
I keep thinking about the family members whom I actually want in my life.  I miss them, and I tell myself that I can tolerate the other crazies if I can maintain a relationship with these people.  But that is a delusion; enmeshed families don’t work like that.  You can’t communicate with persons D, E and F without communicating with persons A, B and C.

I feel so terribly sad.  I love my family despite everything.  I keep trying to re-write the past and make it less painful.  I keep trying to make myself over (which is the ultimate delusion), so I can be whatever it is I would have to be to maintain a relationship with them.
  • Delusional Attempt #1: Brain Dead Angèle
    Willing to pretend I don’t know all the fucked up shit about my family that I actually know.
  • Delusional Attempt #2: Docile Angèle
    Willing to eat a massive mound of shit and never complain!
  • Delusional Attempt #3: Woman of Steal
    Willing to allow my family’s emotional ammunition to explode all around me and pretend that it doesn’t faze me in the least.  
I can’t do it.  It’s simply not possible for me to be an active member in this family and lead a sane life.  From now on, I’m channeling my inner-Denver.  I’m not going to feel sorry for myself nor will I reside in delusions.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Brioche…I Mean Withdrawal

For the last four days, I’ve limited my sugar consumption to ≤ 24 grams per day, which is the recommended daily allowance for women.  That is significantly less than what I usually consume. I keep telling myself that a low-sugar diet is better for my mental acumen, my physical health and my creative process.   But I’ve been dreaming about French-toast style brioche with extra maple syrup.   



I cannot eat brioche this weekend.  Addicts never adhere to boundaries.  They spiral out of control.  If I eat brioche this weekend, it’ll be cookies next weekend and pie the week after that and pizza the week after that then it’ll become cookies, pie and pizza in one week.

Fuck boundaries!  Fuck health!  Withdrawal sucks!

~ Hours Later ~

Dear God,

Thank you for my health.  Although I would give my left tit for some brioche right now, please know that it’s just the sugar addiction talking.  Thank you for my liver, kidneys and gall bladder, which detoxed all the shit I have consumed throughout my years of hedonism. 

Amen

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

My Name Is Angèle, and I’m an Addict

One of my friends was in town last weekend.  Even though we speak on the phone every week, she doesn’t come to town often, so I was excited to see her.  I suggested that we meet at this little breakfast place that serves great French-toast-style brioche.  While we waited for the waiter, she told me about her latest therapy appointment and some revelations she had made.

The waiter asked if we were ready to order. My friend went first, but when I asked for maple syrup with my brioche, the waiter said, “I’m sorry.  We’re out of maple syrup.  We only have the regular kind.”

My mouth fell open.  I clasped my heart.  My friend gave me a sympathetic look.  All of my closest friends know that I abhor imitation syrup.  These so-called “regular” syrups are made primarily of corn syrup, and they taste like sugar-flavored ass.  I was in such a state of shock that I could not even speak.  What kind of breakfast restaurant runs out of maple syrup on a fucking Sunday?  

I had been rationing my sugar intake all week!  The only reason I didn’t eat ice cream or pizza or cake or pie or cookies or fresh-baked bread or any of the other high-sugar dishes I could subsist on was because I was holding off for my Sunday reward!  I went to the gym four times last week as opposed to three (Have I mentioned how much I hate working out?), so I could eat my French-toast style brioche!  Goddamnit!!

Finally the waiter said, “I apologize.  Would you like to order something else?”

I still couldn’t speak.  I was too busy calculating the distance between the restaurant and the nearest grocery store.

“No,” I said.

The waiter left to put in the order.  I fumbled through my bag for my wallet and keys.  I looked at my friend.  “I have to go buy some maple syrup.”

My friend looked stunned, but I could tell she was trying to hide it.

“The store’s not far.  I’m sorry,” I said scooting out of the booth. “I know this is extreme. I know I have problems.  I can’t do cheap syrup.  I been dreaming about this brioche all week.  All week.  I just can’t.  I need my maple syrup.”

“I understand,” she said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she reassured me.

I rushed out of the restaurant, ran to my car and sped to the grocery store.  I ran at least two red lights. I sometimes speed through a yellow light, but I scarcely ever run red lights.  Did I mention that my friend doesn’t come to town often?  Did I mention that she was talking about her therapy appointment?  She wasn’t crying or anything, but she was talking about something that was emotionally difficult.  God, maple syrup is love in a bottle.  Did I mention that I’m a fucking asshole?

I was gone 24 minutes.  On the way back to the restaurant, I realized that I am worse than an asshole. I’m Gator!

Yes, Gator (Samuel L. Jackson) from Spike Lee’s Jungle Fever. The main differences between me and Gator as addicts are: 1) our preferred addictive substance, 2) sugar and sugar-addiction are socially-acceptable and 3) I’ve never stolen for sugar.  But the other symptoms of addiction align pretty damn well.  According to Mayo Clinic drug addiction symptoms or behaviors include, among others:

        ·         Using the drug regularly—this can mean daily use or even using several times a day
        ·         Having intense urges for the drug
        ·         Over time, needing more of the drug to get the same effect
        ·         Making certain that you maintain a supply of the drug
        ·         Not meeting obligations and work responsibilities, or cutting back on social or recreational  
         activities because of drug use
        ·         Doing things to get the drug that you normally wouldn’t do, such as stealing
        ·         Focusing more and more time and energy on getting and using the drug
        ·         Failing in your attempts to stop using the drug
        ·         Experiencing withdrawal symptoms when you attempt to stop taking the drug

They forgot to mention the tell-tale symptom of addiction: Prioritizing the substance above your personal relationships.  So there you have it—My name is Angele, and I’m an addict.

Saturday, January 23, 2016

Notes on Shatter Me

I finished Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi not too long ago. Shatter Me is a young adult (YA) novel about Juliette a 17 year-old female protagonist who can kill people by touching them. Juliette’s parents don’t want her because who would want a kid who can kill you if you tried to hold her, and she’s spent most of her life being ostracized and thinking she’s a monster.

When the book opens, Juliette is in a mental institution/prison. She’s been institutionalized for three years ever since the Reestablishment (the dystopian authorities) found out about her power. The outside world is a hot mess. Normal people are eating some kind of processed food substance that expands in their stomach, the Reestablishment keeps popping people off, there are a shit load of orphans because murder/execution is so commonplace, the ecosystems are all off balance, and, of course, there is the Resistance, the people who are trying to fight back. The plot is, for the most part, cliché, but the writing pulled me in.

Juliette is the most interesting character in the book. It’s obvious that Mafi put lots of time into developing her character. Unfortunately, the other characters are two-dimensional and cliché. Adam, Juliette’s love interest, was abused by his father when he was a child, and there is no mention of a positive adult influence in his life, yet somehow, he becomes well-adjusted, kind man. This is highly unlikely and disregards the basic principles of psychology, but whatever, Adam is pretty and fine and Juliette needs somebody to make out with. Warner is the novel’s antagonist, and he’s a sinister fucker. He’s the head of a division of the Reestablishment’s army even though he’s only a teenager, and he’s obsessed with Juliette. He wants to possess her and coax her into his plot for world domination. Warner is also cliché, but he has good fashion sense.

My 3C’s rating is below:

Competent Writing: 3
This book is well-written for a YA book. Mafi doesn’t use much challenging language nor does she patronize her audience. The writing is quite accessible for YA readers. Mafi has an impressive command of metaphors and similes. I don’t know how she came up with so many! I think she over used these literary devices, but that, I’m sure, has to do with the fact that I am an adult. Kissing is nice, but honestly, it ain’t all that! Mafi’s writing for teens and people in their early 20’s. When I was in that age group, I wanted emotions to be on full blast all the time because I was frustrated, and I had so little control over life. I hadn’t experienced much, so reading about a 17 year old having explosive kisses was…well, explosive! Mafi’s abundant use of metaphors and similes allows readers who have never or have rarely experienced things like uncontained power or a steamy, kick-ass kiss feel Juliette’s intensity. It also suits Juliette’s character perfectly because Juliette has been denied human interaction for about 99% of her life. For poor Juliette, a conversation with Adam is not only jaw-dropping because he’s lonely, it’s also jaw-dropping because people have detested her and avoided her for much of her life. She’s not used to people looking her in the eyes, listening to her ideas and being kind to her.

Character Development: 2
As I stated before, Juliette is the only well-developed character in the text. All the other characters are surface at best. If this rating were for Juliette’s character development alone, I would give Mafi a 4.5. Of course, Juliette thinks she’s crazy! She’s been neglected for her entire life. Of course, she wants to be different. She can kill a motherfucker by touching him! Also, I love that Mafi developed a diverse group of characters. She’s given us an Asian-American character, a black character and white characters. Sadly, that’s a rare occurrence in the writing world. I also like that Mafi points out everyone’s racial features rather than referring to the white people as “man” or “woman” and the ethnic people as “black” or “African-American” or “Asian.” My only racial complaints are that, 1) Mafi refers to Castle’s skin as “chocolate,” as if he’s a candy bar not a human; and 2) that there are no Muslim or Iranian/Iranian-American characters in the book, and if there are, they weren’t revealed.

Content: 2
Again, the plot is basic. Can’t say that I was surprised by any of the developments in the book, except the scene in the white experiment room (that was awesome!) and when I realized that Castle was black. I am, however, surprised at how suggestive yet obfuscating the kissing scenes were. They read more like sex scenes. If you’re kissing in the shower, you’ve entered the realm of making out.

Total 3C’s Score: 7/12
Shatter Me is a well-written YA novel with a compelling protagonist. I read this book because: 1) I want to explore YA since I usually read literary and adult mainstream fiction or non-fiction; and 2) I want to read more texts by marginalized (ethnic) authors. Mafi is Iranian-American and Muslim and comes for a middle-class, possibly upper-class, family. This is the first book I have ever read that was written by an Iranian-American or a Muslim although no one in the book falls into either of these identities.

Shatter Me is Mafi’s first published novel. Although I enjoyed the book, it isn’t indicative of what she’s capable of. It’s is just her warm up. My guess is, she’ll grow and get better and better with time.

Friday, January 22, 2016

“I’m sorry it happened…but it doesn’t define you.”

Although some people are born with clinical depression, I’m pretty sure I was not. I’ve heard people use “chemical imbalance” as a synonym for clinical depression, but according to Harvard Medical School’s Harvard Health Publications, “chemical imbalance” is a gross simplification of real clinical depression. The aforementioned webpage states that a clinically depressed person may have multiple chemicals that are imbalanced, and there are neurological, genetic and situational factors that also come into play. My doctor believes my brain was altered by trauma, which resulted in what I call “acquired clinical depression.” Remember, I’m not a doctor. I’m just making up a term to help me convey my experience.

From the peer-reviewed articles that I’ve read (and I have read too many over the last 10 years to cite), I learned that clinical depression relates to how one’s brain regulates and produces hormones. These articles explain how, for example, the hypothalamus and the pituitary gland work in people who have clinical depression and those who don’t. People who don’t have clinical depression (or a history of drug or alcohol addiction) may experience situational depression after a loved one dies or after they were fired unexpectedly, but they move through the depression, and their brains, for the most part, continue to function like normal. Their hypothalamus does not “react” to the death or job loss as a “circuit-damaging tragedy” (my term), e.g., their hypothalamus will continue to synthesize oxytocin (the love/trust hormone), and their pituitary gland continues to secrete it. This helps them feel love and trust for the important people in their lives. The memory of the painful event may arise, but it will eventually feel less devastating. People who are clinically depressed may have a hypothalamus that doesn’t function as it should. My hypothalamus interpreted the childhood trauma as a circuit-damaging tragedy. She has to bust her ass to produce oxytocin, and she doesn’t produce as much as the hypothalamus of someone who’s not clinically depressed.

The way my hypothalamus functions definitely affects my relationships. When I tell people that I have trust issues, they never believe me, but eventually they ask me, “Why don’t you open up more?” or some cliché shit like that. I always wanna say, Fool, I told you I have trust issues! You didn’t believe me.

By the time I was in high school, I had seen enough talk shows and read enough about basic psychology to know that my aloofness and lack of trust was, in part, a repercussion of trauma.

One night at the Christian depression support group that I go to, we talked about our experiences. I spoke about the trauma, my brain functioning and how I’m dealing with depression now. I’m ridiculously succinct when I talk about all this. I should be. I been talking about this shit in therapy for more than two-thirds of my life.

At the end of session, someone told me, “I’m sorry it happened…Just remember, it doesn’t define you.”

In true Angèle form, I shut down all emotions, smiled and politely said, “Thank you.” 

I thought about that discourse the entire way home. Am I sorry it happened? The trauma helped me develop some amazing survival skills. People often compliment me on being resilient and empathetic. When things don’t work out the way I want, I bounce back like no body’s business. When I taught at the college, I worked well with the difficult or troubled students. I made myself available for them; I set high expectations and clear boundaries with them. I never made things easy on them just because they wrote a reflection essay about having a disability, being beaten as a child, being raped or witnessing their family being shot and killed by soldiers. I said, “I’m sorry you went through that,” I listened if they wanted to talk, suggested they speak to the campus counselor, and in the next class, we moved forward with the curriculum. I didn’t treat them like they were doomed. I treated them like survivors.

Does the trauma define me or doesn’t it? My entire day revolves around alleviating the effects of anxiety and depression. I would love to sleep later every morning, but I have to meditate, or the anxiety will take over. I have to think about every morsel of food I put in my mouth because the wrong foods can tip the hormonal balance, and the depression will take over. I still suck at eating right. I have to force myself to go to the gym, or the depression and anxiety will fuck with my head (releasing enough endorphines is not optional for clinically depressed people). I hate this one. I had to develop a system for taking my ayurvedic supplements (for my hormones) because I used to zone out and forget whether or not I took them. Every night I have to wear a mouth guard because the anxiety is worse when I sleep, and it manifests in me grinding my teeth. I even cracked a tooth from grinding and chomping down so hard when I sleep. I have to talk myself out of leaving my husband about once every six months (That’s actually an improvement.), not because he’s hurtful but because I love him and he loves me and my psyche believes love is dangerous. It leads to trauma.

As I readied myself for bed that night after my support group, I thought, It does suck! And damn if that pain wasn’t as debilitating as ever. It hit me like a scorching blade to the heart. I collapsed to the floor. I didn’t even have the strength to lift my hands to wipe away the tears. I didn’t ask for this shit. I was just a kid, and I was a good kid, a baby actually. Whether I like it or not, the trauma kinda does define me. As powerful and resilient as I am, the trauma can level me in a matter of seconds.

Thursday, January 21, 2016

Notes on Dragonfish

Dragonfish is a novel written by Vu Tran. The book opens with a powerful female protagonist’s voice.  At first, I didn’t know who she was, and I didn’t care. The writing is so succinct, so poignant that I wanted to keep reading her forever and ever. Then the text switches to the true protagonist’s point of view (Robert, a.k.a. Bob), and it’s like a beautiful, gargantuan, iridescent balloon deflates.  About two-thirds into the book, I learned that the powerful female protagonist is Phạm Thị Hồng, or, as Robert calls her, Suzy. Hồng/Suzy is a Vietnamese immigrant who was once married to Bob, but left him after he beat her. She moves to Las Vegas, remarries then disappears after her second husband pushed her down a flight of stairs.  Yeah, poor Hồng/Suzy done had a tough life.

Tran switches between Hồng/Suzy’s perspective and Bob’s perspective throughout the novel. From what I can tell, Bob is white. Just about every other character, save a cop friend of Bob’s, a Latino bouncer and some passers-by, is Vietnamese/Vietnamese American. I am inclined to think that Tran was trying to “write for a broader audience.” This is one of the bullshit phrases that people in the literary world (e.g., MFA professors, agents, editors) use to get people of color to write for white people in the hopes that their books will sell better. If this is the case, it hurts Tran’s novel.

The chapters that are written in Hồng/Suzy’s voice are beautiful, damn-near flawless as a matter of fact. Sonny’s character is fascinating. Tran also does a good job of capturing Mai’s feeling of being untethered in the world. In fact, all the Vietnamese/Vietnamese characters are conceptually well-written. The only problem is they are filtered through the perspective of a white protagonist who isn’t believable.

The Bob chapters are, for the most part, awkwardly written. Tran attempts to incorporate flashbacks and a first-person omniscient point-of-view with Bob’s character, but he does not succeed consistently, and sometimes he doesn’t succeed at all. For example, when the hitmen/brothers come to Bob’s home to bring him to Las Vegas to meet with Junior, there is a flashback to when Bob went to Vegas looking for Suzy a few months prior. At several points, I wasn’t sure if Bob was in Oakland (his home) or in Vegas. Was he talking to the hitmen/brothers or a bouncer in Junior’s restaurant?  I know Tran studied at the best MFA program in America. I think these choppy transitions may be the result of having a limited amount of time to workshop a piece in class, so workshoppers often have to break a novel into “short-story” segments to get feedback. Later there is a scene when Bob is in a Casino and talking to the hitman/oldest brother and Mai. Bob is giving the reader all this insight into the brother’s life. It’s not written as an assumption or as acquired insight on Bob’s part; it’s written as omniscient fact even though there’s no way a white man who doesn’t usually hang with immigrants, even if he is a cop, could understand those intimate details of an immigrant’s experience. Conversely, there’s one part of the book where Tran pulls off Bob’s first-person omniscience.  It occurs after Tran reveals that Hồng/Suzy left her letters with Happy. Tran does a good job of developing Happy as a character who would never snitch, so when Bob realizes that Hồng/Suzy left the letters with Happy as a means of revenge, the reader realizes it as well. It’s subtle, and perfect.

Perhaps if part of the book had been written in third person or if Bob had simply been written as a white-identified Vietnamese-American, his character would have had a bit more believable in his extrapolation. Instead, Bob reads as a two-dimensional character.

My 3C’s rating for Dragonfish is:

Competent Writing: 3
The Hồng/Suzy chapters alone make Dragonfish a well-written book. I can’t emphasize enough how much I love the way Hồng/Suzy is written. Tran unfolds Hồng/Suzy masterfully in her chapters and, to some degree, in the Bob chapters as well

Character Development: 2
Hồng/Suzy, Sonny, Mai and Junior are powerful as hell. They’re all so flawed and beautiful! I know Hồng/Suzy got issues. I know she’s irrational. I know she needs medication and some therapy, but I love her so fucking much! I love crazy-ass Sonny too. He’s such a scrapper, and he’s so charming even though he beats women. Junior is one of the best-written villains I’ve read in a while. At first, I thought he was too soft to be a villain, but once I realized that he was trying to make his father happy, I understood why he kept letting Bob get away with all the shit he was pulling. Bob was the only weak link on the character development front. He was written like a typical mystery-novel cop. Nothing new there. More importantly, he was poorly written. If he wasn’t the main protagonist, this wouldn’t have affected the overall character development score so much.

Content: 2
Overall, the plot was blah then at times, it was riveting. Much of the plot was too formulaic—the typical things one would expect from a mystery. I was riveted by Hồng/Suzy’s psychological developments, but again, I like psych-drama. People who like action and mystery wouldn’t be as excited about it. The only thing that made me uncomfortable was that Tran never explains the psychological mechanics of the rape scene between Sonny and Hồng/Suzy. It’s just written as Hồng/Suzy being crazy, and there’s a lot more to it than that.

Total 3C’s Score: 7/12
I read Dragonfish because 1) I want to read more texts by marginalized (ethnic) authors; 2) the title, the cover and the concept of the book are compelling; and 3) I want to explore mysteries since I usually read literary and adult mainstream fiction or non-fiction. Even with its flaws, Dragonfish is well worth the read. I would definitely read more of Tran’s work. I try to keep in mind that this is Tran’s first published book, which is pretty damn impressive, and that ethnic writers are functioning in a white-centric publishing world (and larger world). This has a huge effect on the choices they make when writing a book, sometimes to the detriment of the text.

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Worldly-Me Versus Godly-Me

Worship is important to me. For some reason, I am only just realizing this. When I was in my late teens and early twenties, I would go to a different church each weekend. I would alternate between various Catholic churches and a Unity church. In undergrad, I rarely ever went to church. It’s hard finding a church when you’re in a city/town that’s not familiar, and you don’t have a car. I tried a non-denominational church near campus, but I wasn’t feeling it. In an effort to be general and not too religiously specific, the services ended up feeling spiritless to me. I also tried a Universalist church near campus, but that felt more like taking a science class than going to church. There wasn’t enough focus on the soul or faith for my taste.

Over the last few years, I have pretty much stuck with a Catholic church, a Christian church, a Buddhist meditation center and a Hindu meditation center. It used to be that when I chanted at the Hindu meditation center, I felt the most connected to God. I would feel this intense energy running through my body, and I would cry (Tears are a tell-tale sign for me since I prefer to avoid emotionality.), but lately the Hindu meditation center has been feeling basic to me. Now, I cry damn-near every time I go to the Catholic church and the Christian church, especially the Christian church.

I enjoy the Christian church so much that I am entertaining the idea of joining. This is madd strange because I am not a joiner. Outside of childhood, I have never been an official member of a church. Before I make the commitment, I wanted to try some of the different classes and volunteer opportunities the church offers. Their Bible study bored me although the people were cool. I found the questions and evaluations to be simplistic and surface. The volunteer opportunities are nice. I feel like I’m contributing and serving my community, which is important for me. Recently, I noticed that they offer a depression support group, so I figured Why the hell not? 

The group was small. The people were friendly, but not in that bullshit way. They seemed genuine, which is requisite. We’re not allowed to curse in the support group seeing as it has a Christian focus, so you know that was fucking hard for me, but I still liked it. We delved deeply into various forms of depression, medication, eastern healing, coping options, even cannabis options (that surprised the shit out of me). There wasn’t a heavy focus on the Bible or Christianity, but there was the right amount for me.

I usually feel numb as I walk through the world, but after the group, I felt okay. Okay is a form of peace for me. When I feel okay, that means I’m really kicking ass on the self-care front and/or that I’m surrounded by good people. Numb is my normal. In an extreme state of depression, which is rare, I feel fearful, anxious, angry and sad. In an extreme state of anxiety, I feel euphoric or excessive boredom. I recently read that boredom is the opposite manifestation of anxiety. I never thought of that, but it’s so true for me.

I never feel happy. Haven’t felt happy since I was about three years old, but I’m damn good at riding the happiness wave that other people feel. I tell myself: This is a moment when normal people feel happy then I look at the happiness in their faces. I love that their happy. I love that they feel safe and secure so I smile and feel a sort of residual, albeit muted, happiness. Sometimes I get a sliver of contentment, like when my husband and I are hiking or just hanging out and he smiles at me as if I’m a crush who’s become his girlfriend. I think contentment is another form of peace. I feel unadulterated peace when I meditate. Peace scares me, which is partly why I meditate begrudgingly. Peace is the opposite of anxiety, and without anxiety, I’m left with a ravenous whole. Worship (i.e., chanting, meditation and prayer) fills that hole. It remind me that peace is not scary. It’s actually a good thing.

When I start crying during worship, it means I feel joy, which is a gradation of happiness. It’s such a nice feeling although it’s short lived. Like, this one time at the Christian church, the pastor said, “You can’t be in charge of your life and have God be in charge of your life. God will take over.” I wanted to be mad because I want to be in charge of my own life, but when I’m in charge of my life, all I do is destroy things. Then I started crying because I used to love to fuck shit up (I kinda still do), like my relationships, but now, I can’t do that anymore, and trust me, I try. I used to like to pick fights with my husband because I believed that creating a little anxiety on the outside would balance out the over-abundance of anxiety that I felt on the inside. Now, when I feel antagonistic and I know I’m about to start some shit, I feel this tiny speck of peace then it grows and envelops me. It checks Worldly-Me, shuts her down with the quickness. It’s like Godly-Me takes over, and I feel this ubiquitous calm. My brain stops running like a psycho marathoner, my heart rate slows, and I feel okay. When I’m not worshipping consistently, Worldy-Me has free range, and it’s a fucking anxiety fest!

Godly-Me is kinda boring. She rarely ever drinks. She always wants me to exercise, and she’s always trying to get me to eat green, leafy shit rather than fun shit like cookies and ice cream, but she’s so fucking sweet and consistent. She’s kinda growing on me.