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All my furry fosters have left behind tangible tokens of affection. Their expressions of love manifest in chewed-up shoes, the etchings on my front door, the once-conspicuous black urine stain on my hardwood floors (now gracefully concealed beneath my living room rug), and the delicate tracery on my unraveling screen windows. My sweaters, faithful witnesses to their presence, are now undoubtedly partially composed of both dog and cat hair, an indelible mark of their cozy companionship despite my diligent laundering efforts.
Most recently, my cherished Cold Picnic blanket became the canvas for a heartfelt love note, mistaken as a scratch pad by a cat I rescued last fall. Though Freckle found her forever home four months ago, I hesitated to address, let alone repair the blanket - until last night. I lingered awake, dedicating my time to mending the piece and embracing a moment of introspection, sitting with my thoughts and acknowledging the discomfort that arises when things deviate from the 'perfect' ideal.
In the quiet night, I confronted the allure of perfection and began to question why I've invested a significant portion of my physical and mental time and energy in servicing an unattainable standard. I recognized the irrationality inherent in my definition of perfection, the illusory band-aids I use to ease the overwhelming sense of inadequacy.
Mending the blanket proved to be more challenging than I expected, including several spurts of unraveling as I figured out the optimal stitch (faced with the absence of a sufficiently small crochet hook and matching thread to replicate the original stitch, I resorted to resourceful improvisation, experimenting with a simple needle, thread and ‘close enough’ color until I found something suitable). Two years ago, this task would have broken me, the blemish too uncomfortable for me to even process. I would have easily opted for purchasing a replacement, conveniently erasing any trace of the mishap from memory.
However, fueled by my environmental consciousness and a steadfast commitment to addressing my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, I chose a different path. The result is a securely stitched piece that is no longer just a blanket, but also holds a fond recollection of Freckle. I miss her.
Feb 13, 2024
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During every season of change, I get so caught up in the muck, fuck-up and duck of it. My thoughts start reflecting these rush-hour based beliefs (I should’ve gotten more done, I’m not doing enough).
after an honest therapy session yesterday, I realized that the root of a lot of my recent heartaches are from the way I speak about myself, think about myself. Instead of considering how hard I work, how much I try, I‘ve been pouring pebbles into my soup and wondering why it was so hard to eat. In other words: I’m real mean to myself.
I’ve attached what this open book page can be, and I just come write a little note on it whenever I return from my journey from the outside world. It feels nice to be nice, truly.
I have no timeline to finish this, no minimum level of detail I need to explain my actions. It’s going to be very sweet to reflect with every version of myself who paused, took off her coat, picked a coloured pen, and appreciated what she is, who she’s becoming.
Feb 7, 2025
I don't really know how to start this post, so I'll let out the word vomit.
As days pass, I sometimes find myself more confident, appreciating my physical appearance and grateful for what I can handle mentally and emotionally. Some days I acknowledge I'm smart, pretty, funny.
Yet other times I can't see any of that.
A lot of times I don't really see myself as pretty, incapable of remembering a simple equation, I feel as if I'm a wet towel thrown on my friend's and loved ones. Maybe I compare myself to others often and that's my issue, that I see myself as lowly yet other times I put my self worth as high.
I'm a very back and forth kind of girl if you didn't know already. I do have my moments however when I give in and embrace what I am, a girl who spends more time doing my makeup than studying, and what I enjoy like playing Hello Kitty games when I finish schoolwork or watch reality television, maybe spiral into a rabbit hole of lore after learning about a new game.
But I can't deny the weirdness I feel when nobody understands what I'm talking about.
They say 'to be cringe is to be free' but God does it make you writhe with displeasure when you're the cringey one.
I'm coming to accept and realize that I can be harsh and cruel to myself, especially when it comes to my abilities to perform hobbies I'm passionate about. I've stopped drawing for a month because of these impending thoughts.
It's like wearing a suit of flesh in hopes of getting some idea of what you are for some sense of clarity.
Maybe it's because I am just a girl, or it's the human experience nobody talks about. If we did, maybe we wouldn't feel as alone or awkward but oh well, what can you do?
Slowly but surely I have come to accept and embrace myself despite the faults I carry.
Feb 19, 2025
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28 March 2024
“I never used to be this insecure
It’s strange
I don’t recognise my new self
I thought this worry made me a better person”
-me
“I thought all this worry made me a better person.” Trapped in the illusion that if I thought about everything enough I could win at life, I would be the kindest, most successful, mature and ration person I could be. for me being irrational was worse than death. it’s ironic isn’t it?
A teenage girl ridden in shame, misplaced desire and overwhelming hate for myself, my past and all actions I had partaken in. The type of shame that feels like a splitting headache that’s been around for years. The type of shame that makes you throw up on nature walks because the silence of the trees becomes a theatre projecting all the terrible things you have done and said. Shame was my water, shame was the ground beneath my feet, shame was the sun wrapping around me and leaving my body tingling on a hot day. Shame was inescapable and replaced all my pleasures with pain.
With many anxieties and obsessions i have had previously there was irrational elements to them, my great fears were bazaar and shockingly niche. This new obsession was a wolf wrapped up in a warm fuzzy logical cloak That loved to remind me of all the horrific parts of myself. But how could it stop following me this haunting picture of myself and the people I had hurt, how could I fix any of it. how could I even face it.
With this dilema of having a guilty conscious finally explode on me like a shaken bottle of Pepsi waiting for its escape. I choose there is nothing but to fix it. fix it all. But how? i Decide I must think about it. all the time. This would form a punishment to myself that meant i was doing a service to those I’d hurt. Secondly whenever I have a good time or a moment of joy, I would remind myself that this was unfair and I must return to my shame because I was still in guilt jail and owed it to those I had hurt. thirdly I would from now on do everything perfectly and not hurt a single soul ever again, they could hurt me all they wanted. but I could not hurt them. I couldn’t possibly bare adding any extra shame on to the debt I was in to the gods or karma or just myself.
This ofc was all stupid
Very stupid
After turmoil and finding myself completely unable to form proper connections because of my obsession with being perfect all the time for absolutely everyone ever I was broken. More broken than before. how have I done it wrong again. This punishment hasn’t changed anything! Not the people I hurt! Not myself! And I’m hurting more people. I wanted to die. this part funny or not. Dramatic or not. It was true. I didn’t want to be alive. I didn’t want to think. all I wanted was to do it all again. Be a better me a kinder me one who didn’t yell at her mother, go To school drunk, sleep with the wrong people, be a terrible friend to someone to trusted me dearly, talk shit and gossip about people I love. I wish I haven’t done any of it. I wish I had never had sex. I wish I didnt know what sex was. I wish I never drank. I wish I never let anyone kiss me. I wish I never was a teenager. I wish I didn’t need to learn how to be good. I wish I wish I wish I just knew. Just knew how to be good. Like those people who come out the womb shining and loving with fountains of patience and love. It wasn’t me. I came out kicking and screaming and selfish and I stayed that way for years. but I couldnt change this I couldnt wish it all away or run away or kill myself.
So I had to accept
I had to apologise
And I had to love
And stop fucking thinking for one second.
I’m ending this terribly for the sole Reason my figures hurt but long story short I confronted my shame with love and compassion. And I’m aloud to fuck up we all are and I no longer want to die. This isn’t simple and I’m making it sound I have to practice everyday for this. But I’m happy and I love my life and myself and I’m so proud of me. And I did this in less than a year. SO FUCK OCD and yay me
Dec 30, 2024
Top Recs from @paras
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Highly recommend starting every new project with a good cry. Let it out.
Feb 26, 2024
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A few days ago, my dad woke up with the words "Ginny's not coming back inside."
Ginny is my dog, a nearly 15 year old Yellow Lab-German Shepard mutt that I rescued in 2013 at the age of 4. She's been a patient, loving and calm companion to me throughout my 20’s, and has overtime won the hearts of my Pakistani parents, both of whom were deeply terrified of large dogs until Ginny joined our family.
What do you mean Ginny's not coming back inside? I asked.
"She's not coming back inside. I think she likes it out there. I have to leave for work, can you let her back inside?"
I nod yes and roll over. I hear my dad descend the stairs, leave the house, start his car and back out of the driveway before I get up myself. I scroll my phone aimlessly for a couple of minutes and decide to check on Ginny.
I go to the back door. Usually when she’s ready, she meets us there, ready to re-enter the indoors. When I don't see her there, I immediately get worried - maybe she escaped from the yard.
It happened once before when someone forgot to close the gate. We found her a few hours later, having a solo picnic in the next-door neighbor's garbage. All the desperate cries she must have heard and ignored in pursuit of scraps; the frantic phone call to the police and nearby animal shelters. We drove around and walked in zig-zags all through our neighborhood only to discover she didn’t stray far at all.
I open the door, now more alert and panicked than seconds ago, but quickly spot her across the backyard. Laying down.
I freeze until I see her chest rise and fall. She's sleeping.
This was a few days ago.
Almost every time we let Ginny out now, we have to cajole her back inside because she loves being outside, alone, with nature. I don’t indulge her too much, I know isolation is a sign of discomfort and pain in dogs, but I think of my grandmother, my dad’s mom, who spent her final days napping in our yard, back when we lived in the suburbs of Toronto. My siblings and I would watch her, baffled, as she placed a sheet on the lawn, lay down and rested there for hours. Didn’t she want to be in the cool air conditioning, maybe watch some tv? Do something a little more… interesting? Wasn’t being outside deeply underwhelming? We never asked her these questions so I’m not sure what in particular she liked about the experience. If could guess, it made her feel connected to the earth, it gave her a sense of peace and comfort, she enjoyed the silence and simplicity of it.
Yesterday, it was raining. I let Ginny out, thinking to myself, surely she’ll come back inside - it’s pouring rain, for god’s sakes - only to go out searching for her 10 minutes later to find her soaked, laying on the ground. I choked up at the sight. I brought her inside and dried her up.
Later in the day, Ginny had her vet appointment. They weighed her. Unsurprisingly, she was 10 pounds short of her usual weight. Unsurprisingly, she was diagnosed with arthritis and dementia. They took bloodwork and warned there could be more. We wouldn’t have the results for a few days. They gave me some medicine to help her with pain management and appetite stimulants to help her regain some weight.
Today, it’s cloudy but the rain won’t start for a few more hours. My mom suggested we bring a towel out to make Ginny more comfortable. I also gave Ginny my cashmere sweater as a blanket, placing it on top of her laying body. I thought she might like it, but it's hard to tell what she likes anymore.
As I write this, she’s been out there for an hour now. It's time for her to come back inside, eat her breakfast and take her medicine.
Mar 6, 2024
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I eagerly participate in conversations only to misspeak. My little sister shared a photo of her new tattoo and the first words out of my mouth were "it's great that it's so small, easy to remove if you ever change your mind."
Feb 14, 2024