Delerium

Intake 
Awaking to a swollen head, a puffed out chest, basking in the clarity that I have mentally ascended to. The universe is mine, and I’m ready for it. 
Like a mechanized cephalopod, limitless limbs extending in all directions, ready and willing to aid everyone anywhere, each limb acting independently of the body, but the body and mind are omnipresent; and approve the limbs whims. 

The world’s problems seem minuscule, and I am the answer. 

Calculating, insightful, linear, purposeful, energetic, like a bioluminescent light show, drawing everyone in, offering comfort, wisdom. 

The omnipresent body is full of hope, not just for itself; for everyone. Every being is a pearl; beautiful and fragile, and in need of constant protection. 

Tentacles outstretched, the mind clouded by the pounding of the heart; the omnipresent body loses sight of what each limb is doing, and against what it believes of itself – doesn’t know what the limbs are capable of when left to their own devices. 
Compression 
Awake in a shallow pool, gasping for breath, unable to see through clouded vision. The weight of the ocean bearing down on the omnipresent body, it falls in and out of consciousness. Ink stained dreams – memories – obligations that cannot be fulfilled by the weighted down limbs. 

The lights no longer flashing, the limbs fall away from the body – no longer omni anything – the body wheezes as the limbs splash violently, failing to grasp at anything, until they fall lifeless into the puddle, surrounding the body like a grotesque disconnected sun. 

Water finds its way into the lungs, but not ever enough to end the life of the body, but enough to inflict excruciating pain. A hurried prayer for an end that will not come, repeated until the words lose meaning. 

Metallic coughs sputter as the body tries to make sense of itself – of the limbs; brief moments of harsh clarity show promises broken, pain inflicted, knives through the hearts of trustees who trust no longer. 
Power
The second wind, the nail that seals the coffin. Muddied and bloodied the body crawls away from the decay of the limbs, determined to make right of the wrongs committed. A delusional sense of hope, a new kind of clarity. Answers to the problems that sparkle like diamonds. Plucking these hope diamonds out of the carnage, they quickly turn to coal. Extreme measures must be taken to prevent the coal from blackening the delicate pearls. 

Clawing through inky darkness, clinging to anything that remotely resembles a solution. Cramming pièces of different puzzles together and convincing itself they fit. Panic, chaos, and the passage of time force the decayed limbs into réanimation, recklessly attempting to do the bidding of the body, who is trying desperately to gain traction in the shallow pool in which it fell apart. 

Completion is completion, regardless of the eventual outcome. The ends justify the means, a deluded and tired body is convinced of that. 
Exhaust 
The calm before the final storm. 

A sense of relief washes over the body, its intense desire to succeed in the eyes of others temporarily sated. The mind and body blinded by the pounding of the heart, watery eyes that stare blankly, hiding behind them a prayer of desperate hope. A hope that things will work out the way they were intended. 

Watching the good intentions go up in flames, but standing steadfastly by the choices made by not only the body, but the limbs as well. Flames licking at the body, it crackles and bubbles until it pops. Delusions of happiness are gone, an inky hole of unfathomable depths remains. 

Acceptance washes over and the breast swells with understanding. A limp handshake with the devil, the pills are lined up and swallowed without hesitation. 
Awake with swollen eyes and clammy skin. Disappointment that it’s not over, and terror in knowing that the cycle will repeat, but you can’t know when. 
The strand of pearls dirtied and broken, the body bruised, the heart broken. Waiting….for the next manic upswing. 

Enough already.

I am physically strong. I can lift things, fix other things, my cardio could be better, but I can begrudgingly run a 5k without throwing up or dying. I am mentally acute, and in many aspects I am emotionally strong. When it comes to defending myself and my ideals, I am undaunted. Strangers with differing opinions don’t scare me, and I am always ready to go to bat for those I love at any moment. This does not, however, mean that when I do need help, when I am scared and vulnerable and feeling weak, that a simple “you can handle it, you’re tough” will make all of my problems disappear. 

Telling me I’m strong is, in my opinion, a brush off of my concerns/fears/anxiety etc. You care so little about my wellbeing that you end the conversation before it starts. One sentence and TA-DA! I’ve been reminded that I can deal with it, so I should shut up and make sure there’s nothing that I can do for you. The worst part of this for me is that nearly every time I’ve been given the “you’re strong” conversation ender, it’s been someone I consider myself close to. I don’t latch onto strangers and force my sob story upon them, I keep my emotions for the people I think I can trust with them. 

And thus begins a whole new sub-cycle of anxiety and fear. Are my problems that easy? When I struggle, should I keep it under my vest so as not to burden my loved ones? Why is it that I am willing to repeatedly help those who cannot offer me even a feigned interest in my life?

I am strong. I kick ass on the regular. But strength still requires maintenance, validation, and gentle care. If you leave the rebar exposed to the elements it becomes warped by the wind and rusted by the rain. It needs to be built upon, encased, secured with foundation, and protected so that it remains a a useful part of the structure as a whole. The point is, we all need to support each other, whether you’re the rebar, the windows, the support beams…because if one breaks down, the whole structure suffers. 

So please, I beg you, don’t brush ANYONE off by “reminding” them that they are strong. They know they are. What you need to remind them that you can be strong on their behalf when they need a break. You may see your statement as uplifting, but to people like me it indicates complacency. Treat me how I treat you. 

That’s all. 

Two songs to go with the post: 

Apple Blossom by The White Stripes https://youtu.be/y8gU1zhzJ2E

Bloody Motherfucking Asshole by Martha Wainwright http://youtu.be/pX-bIr8dr6U

Empathy from the Devil

I am vexed and perplexed, confused and unsure. I am an emotional enigma, and not even I can crack the code. I have been called narcissistic and sociopathic by more than one doctor (and several layman’s), and I have felt and identified with these diagnoses at certain points in my life. I am treatment-resistent bipolar, prone to spending sprees, delusions of grandeur, and thoughts of suicide. As if that wasn’t enough, I was have been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, the cherry on the psychotic sundae. 

I am also an empath. 

Wait….what?

How can I be a sociopathic narcissist and an empath at the same time? It doesn’t make sense, does it? 

I feel. I feel so deeply that the weight of my emotional load is crushing. I never tune out or turn off, while I’m supposed to be sleeping I’m reliving everything that’s ever happened to me, in vivid detail. Do you remember the time you told me that my makeup didn’t look good? No? I do. My mind is a highlight reel of everything that helps me to hate myself. Perhaps you were the one who told me my thighs are too thick for corduroy. Don’t remember? I can fill you in. 

I am not a doctor, but I would like to amend my original diagnosis – I am a hedonist. Yes, I have narcissistic tendencies, I have long periods of introspective self-involvement, although what I see as quiet regrouping others see as pathetic lagubriousness. If I’m not feeling as though I’m conquering the world, I am desperately maudlin. There isn’t an in between. That doesn’t mean that I’m a narcissist. In fact, most times I find myself to be quite the opposite! I will do anything for anyone…once. Dick me around and i’ll wash my hands of you. At least on the outside. I don’t have the ability to forget. Once you stick your knife in, it stays put. You move on, I do not. That’s the empath part. 

So how is it that I identify with all of these traits? Honestly, I  have no fucking clue. But if you have any insights, please feel free to share!

I cut apart my favourite book today. That act is what spawned this post. I felt more emotion about tearing pages out of a book than I do about most people. I relieved it of its loquaciousness with good reason; to make a book bouquet for my sisters wedding. My poor book is missing the first two chapters, stained with tea, folded and dilapidated. It still hurt to take my scissors to it. I painstakingly sought out my favourite passages and cut the delicate pages away from the spine. In rereading these snippets I found myself overcome with emotion. I know every inch of each character, and can imagine how they look, how they smell, but they can never know me. What a beautifully tragic relationship to have! To know everything without revealing anything. I love these characters because they hold pieces of me that I can’t let others see. They live inside of me, never changing, always existing exactly as I need them to. The only relationship I’m good at maintaining…

But I digress. 

What was my point? 

That if I can’t define myself, how can I ask anyone else to. 

Perhaps that was it. 

Cognitive Dissonance

I’ve had to make a decision recently, about a problem that has been bothering me for quite some time. I had been waiting for a moment of clarity, a sign perhaps, to guide me in the right direction. However I have now determined that waiting for some cosmic being to tell me what to do would leave me waiting forever. I had to put on my big girl pants and make a hard decision, and hope that it was the right one. 

I am no longer willing to nurture relationships that are not healthy for all parties involved. I cannot journey healthily into the future if I am still clinging to parts of my past. No more “friends” on facebook that I don’t communicate with. No more hate-stalking, no more waiting for someone I cared for to reach out to me. I have evolved, and my evolution is bound to leave some things and people in the dust. That is not to say that I don’t care about these people or things, I will always wonder about them, but  what I’ve had to give up is wondering why they get along so well without me. I’ve spent too long on the outside of people’s lives, looking in, and feeling a sad disconnect based on the relationship we used to have. My love is always constant, and I’m learning that it is an unrealistic expectation to think that everyone operates on the same emotional plane as me. As much as I try not to be, I  am an empath. I don’t want to feel as much as I do, but it is beyond my control. This amplified feeling of rejection and loss has led to an unhealthy obsession with trying to find out where I’ve gone wrong. What have I done to drive a wedge between myself and this person that I once connected so strongly with? I must’ve done something, because I am defective. Trying to find all of my faults and flaws within each relationship has been taxing both emotionally and physically, but I needed that introspection to determine what I now know: people grow apart, and it’s not (always) anyone’s fault. It’s time to stop focusing on what I could’ve done better, and refocus on taking care of the relationships I currently have, while occasionally remembering the good times and experiences that came from the old ones. 

I no longer have the energy to chase people down, and I will not beg anyone to keep in touch – family or otherwise. I will no longer wonder how to make you like me more, it’s not my job to please anyone, nor is it OK to try to change myself based on who others want me to be. I am me, and I am enough. I am legitimately happy for everyone, past and present, that is living a happy and fulfilling life. If ever our paths cross again I will greet you warmly, as I always have, but I will no longer wait and wonder. I’m ready to let go of my past to prepare for my future. My future involves focusing on the good, fostering love and mutual respect, and finding a state that I have yet to function in – a state of being content with who I am, and with what I have. 

This is not a new years resolution, it is a promise to myself and to my loved ones that I will make a conscious effort to let go of the things I cannot control, and to look to the future with hope and positivity. It’s time to step out from behind the shadow of my past and allow the light to guide me in a healthy direction. 

I love all of you. You past demons, you present angels. I am a product of everyone and everything I’ve ever loved and cared about. I am grateful for who I have become. I am ready to move forward. 

The downside of happiness

On December 1st, our eleventh anniversary, my husband and I finally got married, surrounded by friends and family. The day was everything we wanted, and was a beautiful recognition and celebration of how far we have come together. 

In the months leading up to the wedding I was in peak condition. Big Daddy was sailing, and I was planning. I made a lot of things myself, including decorations, the bridal party’s shoes, the cake, the ring box. I worked alongside the caterer to create the perfect menu, helped the commisioner create a ceremony that best reflected our personalities, booked hair and makeup appointments, made all of the wedding favours. I felt a sense of purpose that I don’t feel very often. I was creating something, and it felt good to be the driving force behind something that meant so much to me. 

 The day was a huge success, and it meant so much to us that so many people put in the effort to be with us. 

   
 My bouquet 
   
 Our cake
  Mashed potato bar!!

  One of the favours 

  Ring box

   
  
  Happiness 

———————————

With all of the excitement over and all of our guests gone, I am at a loss for what to do with myself. I was so busy with wedding prep that I couldn’t feel the sting of my depression in the background. It never left me, but waited patiently in the shadows for the perfect time to re-envelop me once again in its cold cloak. I wasn’t expecting it for once. I was legitimately very happy, and proud of what I was accomplishing. The weight of depression has crushed me. I can’t stay awake, I’m cold, my head hurts. I have so much to do in my every day life, but lack the energy and the focus to complete anything. I have gained 10 pounds from irregular eating and poor food choices. I’ve picked my face and arms raw. My brain and my body are no longer lining up, like a poorly dubbed kung fu movie. I watch my life happening around me, but cannot participate. I can see that I am no longer thriving, and the judgement from my mind increases, and the cycle repeats. I don’t want to be an illness, but if not that, what am I? 

I literally cannot focus enough to finish this post. 

Shady’s back

I’m back, bitches!

New name, new social media handles, same brand of crazy. 

I got married this month! 

My sister got engaged this month!

(So far) I’m happy this month!

Generally being emotional is what compels me to write, however, I’ve determined that happiness is a hindrance to my written endeavours. I normally identify as indifferently content, but lately I have been genuinely happy. I think. Maybe I’m not the textbook definition of happiness, but it’s my own brand, and I’m comfortable with it. 

Happiness can be terrifying to Eeyore’s like me. We’re so sure that there’s a storm cloud looming over our parade – we can’t properly enjoy what is going on around us. So positive are we that we will do something unworthy of this happiness that we retreat into the dark caverns of our minds to punish ourselves for ever thinking that we deserve better than what we normally allow ourselves. 

This month, I have felt happiness without guilt. I felt beautiful, loved, and deserving. If this is the only 31 days in my life that I feel this gloriously happy, I will be OK with that. I will be OK because I’ll know that, on some level, I am capable of joy, and I have been lucky enough to experience it. 

Ad Hominem

For the first time in my life I am choosing not to attend a Remembrance Day service, and I have received a lot of flak because of this decision. I would like now to explain  myself, in the hopes that for those of you who have judged me may understand what I am thinking and feeling. 

I have never missed a service. I have sat with dignitaries, laid wreaths alongside veterans, marched in parades, and cried while holding photos of my loved ones. I have drank with légionnaires, and argued with my husband over wearing his uniform. I have held hands with  strangers, shaken hands with people who served alongside my grandfather, and argued with people who celebrate Christmas before commemorating Remembrance Day. 

Each year I put on the equivalent of my Sunday best, do my makeup, pin poppies on my  daughters, and carry a photo of my husband and my uncle, to the service at the legislative grounds. I have gone in every kind of weather imaginable, and have tried my best to present the façade of the strong, elegant, cornerstone of the military family that is the military spouse. It is exhausting, and this year I am too tired to carry on. 

This year I will sit on the couch with my daughters, and the photos of our loved ones, and we will watch the Ottawa service on tv. If I feel like crying, I will cry. I will hug my babies and we will talk about our loved ones, their daddy, and why this day matters to us above all else. We will talk about all of the mom’s and dad’s of my children’s friends who are currently deployed or away for various reasons, and we will count every one of our blessings, made possible by all of these heroes. I won’t put on makeup, I will not present myself as anything that strangers or friends expect me to be. I will watch the service from the comfort of my home, where I am free to feel and express myself without feeling as though I have to “keep it together” for the sake of those around me. 

After the service, we are going for a walk. Maybe we will go to the park, or perhaps the lagoon. From there we can see where their daddy works when he is alongside, and we will count the days until he is home, together. This year I am not doing this for anyone but my family. For too long I have placed too much importance on  appearances, and trust me, keeping them up on a day like today is more exhausting than running a marathon. 

After a decade of being a military wife, and a lifetime of being a military family member, I think I have earned the right to observe this day in a way that is healthy for both me and my girls. My love has missed countless birthdays, holidays, moments that cannot be recreated – including the birth of one of our daughters. He will spend the next year away from us, and I will be strong while I wipe the tears away from my daughters’ eyes, check their homework, take them to lacrosse, doctors appointments, and read them emails from their daddy. I spend 364 days of the year being strong, today I would like, even if only for a few hours, to let my guard down, and feel what I try to avoid the rest of the year. 

So no, I’m not going to a service today, and if you disagree with my decision, I respect your opinion. I am not a bad wife, I am a tired one. If you don’t agree that I deserve to observe how I choose, I suggest you reread this post, or any of my posts, until you feel empathy for what I have to do to survive. If that doesn’t work, I will politely ask you to mind your own damned business – but I’ll only be polite once. 

Reflective Fragments

The first time someone called me delusional I was seventeen. The librarian called said that I must be delusional because she was positive that I hadn’t returned a book that I was positive I had. 
The first time I questioned my mental health, truly, I was sixteen, and was largely rebuffed by the professional I confided in. I was lazy, ungrateful, ambitionless, and angsty. Get out of bed, brush your hair, show up to class on time. You’ll feel better. You have so much potential. 
The first time I wanted to die I was fifteen. I had a panic attack over having to tell my mother that I had failed math again. I had myself in such a lather that I began cleaning out my closet, and I had every intention of hanging myself in it with a belt. A pink belt with green stars that I bought at Forever 21, the only souvenir from my school band trip that I could afford. My mother called and asked me to do the dishes before she got home. I missed my window. That feeling of wanting to end would simmer in the recesses of my mind, bubbling over at different times later in life. 

The first love of my life came at fifteen, and has remained my only love. He nurtures the good parts of me, and forgives the bad. I owe him my life. 
The first novel I remember reading was Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls. My dog was my best friend, and the book helped put my emotions into words. It also destroyed me emotionally for a few weeks after finishing it. Being able to read independently (i was in the third grade) offered a method of escape that would save my life more than once as I got older. 
———————————–

On the foggiest days I can reach out and touch the ragged fabric with which my reality is created. It’s frayed edges like worn burlap glide through my fingers as I struggle to grasp something tangible. As the mist coats the flora in the early morning, so does my fragmented reality coat my mind. My thirst for normalcy never quite sated from such a thin layer of moisture. 

When the wind picks up I am carried into the lives of others. Today I’m a parent volunteering at the school. When the wind changes I am an acquaintance in a tattoo shop, a fraud in a bookstore, a friend via text. I can never commit enough energy or attention to any one person or thing for too long. Lights flash in front of my eyes, I want to entertain all of them but instead cannot focus on even one. 
I feel so many things, yet I am paralysed by the thought of expressing them. Truly feeling them. It would be more apt to say that I think about feelings. If I start allowing myself to feel, I won’t be able to stop. I am an emotional implosion waiting to happen. The only thing I feel is fear. 

Fear of loss. Fear of change. Fear of success. Fear of self confidence. Fear of finding out who I really am. Fear of failure. Fear of faith. 
I couldn’t tell you who I am if I had all of the words in the world. I am a collection of grand ideas, half-truths, fears, and open wounds. The embodiment of an overactive imagination. I am an actual metaphor. Or is it a simile? I could never keep them straight. 

Affairs of the Mind

With suicide prevention in the news, I thought given my somewhat intimate knowledge of the subject, I would throw my two cents in. While I believe in talking openly about suicide, I do not, necessarily, believe that it can be prevented. In my  experience, if a person is in the mindset that they need to take their own life, they will make that attempt regardless of how many people try to intervene. For those who have attempted to die, many will say that they needed that experience, for many different reasons. 

I will speak only on my own behalf; each person’s experience is as intricate and unique as a snowflake. For me, my attempts on my own life came at various stages. After the murder of a  friend, after attempting to seek help for mental illness was rebuffed as ‘in my head’, after a quiet but tumultuous battle with PTSD, all very different situations that resulted in the same self-loathing, shame, disgust, rage, and confusion. Each attempt I made was in earnest; I didn’t want to survive and receive treatment, I wanted to throw in the towel. Tired of fighting, battle worn, I needed sleep. I needed to sleep. 

No one could’ve prevented what my body was telling me to do. So how, as bystanders, care givers, do we help those afflicted by suicides disease?

Here are my suggestions, based on what I did and didn’t receive during the aftermath of my attempts. 

The person who wakes up from a failed suicide attempt is not the same person who made the attempt. It is naive to think that your loved one will emerge with a new zest for life, ready to take on the world with a new appreciation for all of the sights and sounds that the world has to offer. Shame, anger, regret, frustration, more anger: that is what is felt when you realise that after your best efforts to end the terrors in your life were not successful. The hate that consumes you cannot be abated with get well cards, flowers, or whispered conversations between family and medical staff. You don’t need to understand, but a little bit of empathy can go a long way. 

Make freezer meals. 

Bring books. 

Make horribly inappropriate jokes. 

Stand up against anyone who plans to lecture or belittle the fragile psyche of your almost departed loved one. 

In a shitty situation, Nibs always help make things better. 

In short, be who you’ve always been. No one is made of porcelain (except perhaps Tilda Swinton). Being handled with kid gloves only accentuates the above mentioned feelings of shame, guilt, anger, etc. Yes, things are different, your loved one has changed, but by offering a steady hand you are providing an incredible feeling of unity and support. As survivors we know that nothing about our situation is easy for anyone. We know the fear, the anger, the burning desire to grab us by the shoulders and shake us; we feel these things too – amplified exponentially by the demons inside of us that got us to the point of suicide in the first place. 

I’ve said it before, and I will say it until I’m blue in the face, suicide is a disease. The only cure is death. No matter how many good days we have, suicide is always lurking, waiting for a vulnerable moment to hit us from behind. Remember this:

Suicide. Is. Disease. 

Suicide. Is. Disease. 

Find the balance between constant vigilance and being over bearing. That’s where we need you. Always be on the lookout for ‘signs’, but don’t make us feel guilty. The bomb is ticking, but no one knows when the clock will stop. Remember this:

We love you. 

We aren’t punishing anyone. 

You can’t prevent something that has been preordained. 

Your patience means more than you know. 

We will work on prevention, we need you to work on acceptance. 

Suicide is disease. It cannot always be prevented. Like a cancer it can be aggressive, all consuming. Some strains have cures, some are fatal. In the end, making those afflicted feel normal, valued, unashamed, wanted, needed, those are the things that will make the periods of remission better for all parties involved. 

Death Song

What does suicide sound like?

Suicide is different for every person who attempts it. Unfortunately for the living, we can not ask questions of the dead. We can however, question the survivors. I am a survivor. I have made several attempts on my life, and although I’m not proud of it, I will not shy away from talking about it. My vow of transparency about mental illness has no conditions, and I will not hide the less than glamourous parts.

An attempt on your life starts well before you even acknowledge your want to die consciously. Your thoughts change slowly, the taste of the things that you love gently fade. The retreat into the vast darkness of your mind is generally an even descent, with sadness and desperation compounding hourly. The poison floods your veins like ink in water, and soon, you hear the sounds of suicide.

Everyone’s experience is different, and I encourage who is ready to share their story. Mine continues…

A slight ringing in my ears, just loud enough that I feel irritated. The constant drone of my inner monologue, highlighting every painful event, every negative feeling, running like a nonstop ticker tape behind the rest of my thoughts. It is background noise, but when things go quiet, the sounds become more clear. The music I love becomes muted when I listen to it, the voices of my loved ones sound far away. The monologue gets louder, its hurtful thoughts getting nastier, more aggressive. It whispers to me while I read, while I do the dishes. 

You’re worthless. You’re a burden to your loved ones. You will never get your life together. Everyone is tired of you being sick. If you love them, you’ll leave. 

 After weeks, months, years, of the sybiote wearing you down, there is no longer any light to fight it with. The fire in your soul is now ashes, ashes that make it hard to breathe, hard to see. As you try to fight your way through the cloud of ashes the demons within blow it in your face, and your soul is scattered into pieces that you think can never be put back togeher. This is when the biggest change happens: you believe your monstrous ticker tape. The fog clears for the first time in ages, and you are thinking more clearly than ever before. I AM a burden. My loved ones deserve better. This is the ultimate sacrifice I can make for them. Free them from the shackles I have placed them in. 

The ringing in your ears stops, you can no longer hear your own heartbeat. You are finally filled with the calm that you have been craving. 

What does surviving sound like?

Waking up is knives in your head, sirens blaring in surround sound. Metallic ringing so loud you feel nauseous. Then the yelling starts. That inner monologue is angry, and it takes no prisoners. It screams at you, over everything else that you’re hearing at full volume. YOU ARE THE ULTIMATE FAILURE. YOU DON’T DESERVE TO STILL BE ALIVE. YOU CAN’T EVEN DIE PROPERLY, HOW DO YOU EXPECT TO LIVE? 

You drift in and out of consciousness while the medication being pushed through your veins starts to work. The volume inside decreases, and if you’re lucky, a tiny fire is lit in the brassiere. The anger subsides, and you promise yourself that you will do better. You feel ashamed and embarrased, but the fire warming you convinces you that you will survive, and thrive. That hideous ticker tape retreats back into the dark annals of your subconscious, but it takes those angry, bitter, ashamed, thoughts with it to save for a rainy day. 

You apologise profusely to your loved ones, you promise your numerous doctors that it won’t happen again; but you know deep down somewhere inside of you that suicide is a disease, and the only cure is death. It becomes dormant, you smell flowers and love and giggle with friends, but it’s always there, ready to spread through you when the timing is right. Thats when you hear the ringing in your ears…
Remember why your life is worth living. Bottle happiness, listen to every song that you love until you can sing every part, including the bass guitar. Accept and be thankful for complements, and give them back tenfold. Look your loved ones in the eyes when you tell them you love them. Eat cake. Sleep in. Feel sand in your toes. Walk barefoot when possible, and store all of these beautiful thoughts and feelings away so that when the ticker tape starts, you have a fighting chance.