11 Self Care Quotes

Happy Valentines Day! I’m hoping you all have a great day spending time with the people that you love. As you’ve probably noticed by now, I love using Valentines Day as a great opportunity to celebrate Self Love as well as romantic, familial, and platonic love. So here are some of my favorite quotes about Self Love. I take some of the ones that talk about practicing Self Love so you can support others with a grain of salt. I think that you should practice Self Care and love yourself for you- and if others benefit, that’s great. But they still have good stuff to say, so I included them!

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Pin for Later: These 50+ Quotes Will Remind You, Above All, to Love Yourself

Truth be told...   How critical it is to nurture, especially for children....

“Loving yourself isn’t vanity. It is sanity.” – Katrina Mayer  Click for 26 inspiring Self-Love Quotes, just like this one, that encourage you to love yourself.  Your self-love life is important, it's insane NOT to love yourself.

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Do you have any quotes about Self Care or Self Love? Let me know in the comments! Although please note that I had surgery yesterday, so I may be a little slow (or a little drugged up) in my comments.

 

Self Love

Valentines Day is coming up, and while I very much enjoy celebrating romantic love (my wife, Jess and I usually mark the occasion by eating chocolate and playing video games), I also think that the holiday is an excellent excuse to celebrate self love too!

As I think that I’ve mentioned before, I’ve spent a lot of time in Eating Disorder Treatment, which is basically a nice way of saying a butt load of therapy. Like, therapy 3 times a day. And a lot of the therapeutic emphasis is on self care and self love and all of those other ‘self’ things. So yeah, I’ve sat through a lot of group therapy on these topics.

And it may seem like I’m a self love zealot- I know, I have been talking about it a lot lately. But there are definitely parts of the self care thing that I think are silly, or don’t work for me.

For example, a lot of people have a really hard time with shame, and they need to put in a lot of time and effort to let that go.

And while I totally understand how it works, I don’t really experience shame (I do experience guilt, but that’s a whole different post), and so doing exercises around shame are sort of boring for me.

Self care though? I’m totally behind. Treating your mind and your body with care and respect? I’m all for it. I know that when I’m tuned in to what I need, I have more more energy, less anxiety, and I’m more flexible and less sensory sensitive. Win win, right?

There are lots of ways to care for and love yourself, and I’m just going to share today some things that I do in my day to days life.

Stimming is definitely the most important part of my self care routine. This is something unique to us neurodivergant folks, and doesn’t get included in most articles about self care. For me, this sort of self care takes two forms.

The first one is making time for stimming and sensory needs in my daily routine. I start my day with my favorite sensory friendly food (Cheerios). I take the time to knit. I wear clothes that are comfortable, tagless, with flat seems, and I buy the only socks that I find tolerable in bulk. I end my days lying in bed with my weighted blanket and my glitter lamp casting blue shadows on my ceiling, and I ease into sleep.

The second is certainly more challenging, but it’s also just as important. I call it sensory-on-the-go. And it’s a big deal because following my home routine is easy, really but dealing with the real world is hard. It’s really hard! You have to be able to sense what you need before you need it, because at least for me, by the time I realize that I need intervention, I’m not in a very good position to do it for myself. So on-the-go self care requires pre-planning, and, if you’re lucky, a buddy. So I don’t leave the house without a sensory emergency kit, and I check in with myself regularly, so meltdowns don’t take me by surprise. They still happen, but somehow it’s (a little) better if I know they’re coming.

I’m a total introvert, so this type of self care seems like the opposite of what would work, but I’ve learned that I need to connect with people. If given the choice, I’d go days without talking to anyone except my cats, and if you’d asked, I would say that this is the ideal situation, and that I was very happy indeed. And don’t get me wrong, I definitely need quiet me time, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that I really benefit from interacting with people. So I volunteer, and I play music with people, I interact at church, and I connect to my awesome internet community. And while there are days when I don’t want to talk to anyway (not even the cats), that’s fine, because I know that my connections will be there waiting for me when I come back.

There are dozens of other things I do to take care of myself, and if I listed them all, this post would be 26 paragraphs long, and you’d probably have gotten bored 19 paragraphs ago. So here are a just a few more things that I think are worth mentioning, and then I promise that I’m done.

Hot hot hot showers. I hate being wet, so I sit on the floor of the tub and let the steam come rise up around me. I also like talking to myself in the shower, which is apparently a thing?

Bookstores. There’s nothing more calming than being surrounded by books. Especially if they’re used, cheap, and smell good.

Watching movies I’ve seen over and over again. Being able to predict every line and every song makes me feel safe. Props to Moana, Into the Woods, and Sondheim! The Birthday Special.

I feel really grateful for my time in treatment because it let me think critically about how I treat myself. Learning about who I am and what I need has let me practice self care, which in turn has led to self love.

I hope you guys are able to send some love to yourself this week, because Valentines is about all types of love, including self love. Happy Early Valentines Day!

 

My Fade Out

I dissociated today in therapy.

This is something that I’ve dealt with since childhood, although there’s no evidence to explain why. The problem with fading out so early in life, is that even if something did happen to cause it, I can’t remember what it is.

What happens to me is what therapists tend to call Profound Dissociative Amnesia, which sounds a lot more complicated than it is. It just means that when my brain decides that I can’t handle something (usually related to strong emotions), it just takes my  consciousness out of the picture.

While it’s very kind that my brain is looking of for me, it can cause a lot of problems.

Like not remembering most of my childhood.

Or ruining friendships in high school. Or coming to realizing that I’m driving around and I’m totally lost (this was before the days of GPS).

But this is about today.

I’m in the process of ending a toxic friendship. After months of trying to get them to respect boundaries, to not verbally attack me, and to not use me as their emotional garbage can

I‘m done. 

They asked for closure, and I think that’s fair, so I met with my therapist to plan out how to approach it. After talking about setting boundaries and making rules about behavior, my therapist started comparing my friendship to an abusive relationship.

And I was gone.

I came to with her asking me questions in a tone of voice I’d never heard her use before. She got me ice to hold in my hands, and grilled me on who I was, where I was, and when it was. Everything was fuzzy, like when you suddenly get woken up from a dead sleep. After I figured out the logistics of who and where and when, I knew one thing.

I was so embarrassed.

Which seems to be a theme lately. I’m embarrassed about meltdowns, embarrassed about dissociation, basically I’m embarrassed that I have non-standard coping mechanisms.

I wish it didn’t happen. It says so much about who I am and what I fear. Like today, triggers often come as a surprise to me, out of nowhere, and now my therapist knows.

I’m self aware to the point of dysfunction, and I hate not knowing what I’m feeling, or why I’m feeling it. I try to avoid talking to my therapist about things that I haven’t figured out, because the idea of someone realizing something about me, before me, terrifies me.

I do realize that’s what therapy is usually for, but I still anxious and scared about having to talk about the dissociation, and what the fact that I dissociated when I did means.

For now, I’m exhausted. I’m still fuzzy around the edges, and to be honest, I’m still fixated on what happened. I try not to ruminate about what happens when my brain exiles my consciousness, but I can’t help but wonder what happened while I was gone.

I don’t like when this happens. I don’t like feeling helpless, and I hate feeling like I’m being defined by my disorder. What do I do if this keeps happening?

Don’t worry. That’s a rhetorical question.

 

 

 

Meds and Me

Alright guys, it’s confession time.

I haven’t written anything in weeks.

Thank goodness for me, I had a bit of a backlog, but it was driving me crazy trying to figure out what was causing my “writer’s block”.

At first I figured everyone gets a little burned out, and I didn’t worry, but as the days and weeks went on, I started getting really anxious that I’d lost my writing chops.

That anxiety should have clued me in. But even though I’ve had anxiety since I was a tiny human (my family jokes that I started stress biting my nails the day my little sister came home from the hospital), I didn’t recognize it this time.

And that should be a good thing! It proves that I’m so well medicated, that I’m not used to being an anxious wreck anymore.

Once I realized that, I knew what happen. My psychiatrist wanted to try decreasing one of my anxiety meds, and since I do up pills two weeks at a time (it makes sense when you take 22 pills a day), I didn’t correlate the med decrease with the crippling anxiety I’ve been feeling.

I’ve been anxious about writing. About going back to school and deciding on a career. I worry that my wife will die. I worry that I’m wasting my life. I’m worried about getting old. I’m worried about dying. And about not dying. Sigh.

So clearly, the medication is going back up where it was. Depending on how things go, I may be quiet for a little while. I figure blogs are for honesty, so here I am.

Adept at Adapting

I can do magic. It’s a skill I’ve had since I was very young. And like any good magician, I’ve kept the source of my skills a secret. Why, a good magician never reveals the source of his magic. Especially when it’s not. Magic, that is. My tricks fall more in the line of pure deception. My goal is to get the audience to believe that everything is fine, and by no means should they pay any attention to the man behind the curtain. In short? I am a con artist. I con everyone I meet into thinking that I don’t modify the world to fit my experiences. That I don’t have to change everything I touch to make it make sense in my head. And that one deeply desperate thing I certainly don’t do is tweak myself. I am a con artist. And how could I not be? After almost 30 years of adapting to a world was not meant for someone with my brain, I’ve become pretty good at making things fit my needs.

When you find out that you don’t think like other people, you react in a couple of steps. They’re sort of like the steps of grieving, except that instead of grieving a person, or a relationship, you’re grieving a state of mind. While most of us go through a phase of feeling weird or alone, the idea that your brain works in fundamentally different ways than a “normal” person’s, you go into shock. At least I did. The idea is so foreign, it was a while before my brain could make sense of it. After that, I suppose there is a period of mourning. Mine didn’t last long. It’s not that I didn’t wish things were how I thought they had been, but more because the next phase is fascination, and fascinated basically describes who I am as a person.

I love to pick things apart in my head. I like to pick things apart with my hands too, but that’s a different story. Give me a thought, or a story, or a theory, and I will analyze the crap out of it. It makes conversations interesting, because I often get sidetracked thinking about what someone has said, even though they’ve kept talking. It usually end with me proclaiming the results of my thoughts in excitement, and them being very confused, as they’d moved on from that topic five minutes ago. Needless to say, I’m much better at text based conversations, as it gives me time to think and analyze without someone standing right in front of me.

Like a lot of autistic people, I learned to adapt to my surroundings pretty early. I think I was lucky, in that my love of analysis meant that I could observe how people around me acted, and then take that data to make rules for how people behaved. I don’t think I ever knew why those people were doing what they did, and I certainly didn’t know why I was acting that way- except because it was a Thing that people do.

This is the beginning of my long history of pretending. I mentioned that I am, in essence, a con artist, because I cultivate infinite versions of myself; whoever I need to be to fit the situation. Just to keep the record straight, I’m not changing who I am as a person, I’m not changing the important parts of me. Think of it more as a filter, as millennial as that makes me sound. The essence of the photo doesn’t change; the subject and the composition remain intact, but a filter lets people see it differently. And you can change the filter to fit the person. I may stay the same internally, but I certainly encourage people to see the external filter that I want them to see.

It probably won’t surprise you to hear that all this amazing and complex filtering takes incredible amounts of mental energy. Which is interesting, because when I realized exactly what was going on, I was really surprised. After some, you guessed it, analyzing, I realized that over the past twenty-five years or so I had actually automated the observe-analyze-regurgitate process. It was like malware running in the background of my brain computer. I didn’t remember installing it, it slowed everything down, and it didn’t always have my best interest at heart. Not to say it isn’t useful sometimes, but I’d like to be the one who decides when it happens.

I’ll be coming up on my two year diagnose-iversary, and I’m planning on giving myself a gift. Luckily for me, I know exactly what I want: more brain space. Since I started learning more about myself, I’ve realized that there’s so much that I want from life. I want to educate people and to be an advocate, I want to go back to school, I want to write. And spending all my time trying to perfectly fit into every social situation is keeping me back. I’ve practicing being slightly more autistic, even though it feels like I’m doing something wrong, because of the huge amount of energy it grants me. I’m even getting more comfortable with just being myself. I’m perfecting the balance of wanting to be a kind and polite person, and staying true to who I am. And while there’s nothing wrong with adaptation, I’m finally learning how to make it work for me.

More Than Entertainment

What happens when something meant to entertain becomes something more?

I saw Star Wars: The Last Jedi last night, which I’ve been avoiding for awhile now. Partially because I couldn’t bear to see Carrie Fisher in her last role, and partially because I was standing in line to see Rogue One when I heard of her death, and I’m a little superstitious (and not ready to lose Mark Hamill yet.)

I cried at the first scene.

Star Wars was a Special Interest that spanned my entire childhood, and I loved Princess Leia for being everything I had been told a princess wasn’t supposed to be.

As an adult, I still love Princess Leia, but I love Carrie Fisher even more. She dealt with a lot of shit in her life, and she wasn’t afraid to talk about any of it.

When I got my Bipolar diagnosis I wasn’t afraid, because if Carrie could live with it, so  could I.

Her death hit me hard, and I don’t know how long it will be before I can read her name or see her face without tearing up.

She was so important to the mental health community, and to me.

May the Force be with her, always.

Candidly Mental

This post discusses Eating Disorders, Suicidal Ideation, and Self Harm. If you think reading this might be harmful to you, please stop now, and please take care of yourselves my friends. 

There’s nothing like a therapist to start you thinking about how things were. Because I don’t know about you, but for me, mental changes come so slowly, that it’s hard to remember how bad things were at the beginning. Or the middle, for that matter, as I didn’t start seeing this therapist until my mental state had already improved by leaps and bounds. But even then, me, my team, and my family were trapped in a cycle of putting out fire after fire, trying to keep me stable, and while logically I know that things are different now, it doesn’t always feel that different. More importantly, I don’t feel that different. But I am, and I can prove it.

Three years ago, I was low, lower than I think even I knew. Put it this way- on a scale of 1-10, I was a negative two. My life revolved around the amount of calories I took in, and the amount I could manage to get out. My brain actually turned it into a kind of math puzzle. If calories (C) equals food minus exercise, how many miles will you have to walk before you’re allowed to eat dinner? This equation became my whole life. Obsessing about calories in verses calories out, slowly decreasing my portions, and pacing. Endless pacing. I had shoved out my life all the things that I loved, and I didn’t even know it, because the numbers were all that matters.

The one other thing I did have time for was hurting myself. Not that restricting and over exercising wasn’t hurting me, but that wasn’t really why I was doing it. I knew enough about the body and nutrition to know that technically what I was doing was harmful, but it was more of a secondary thing. Self-harm was different. It was conscious and purposeful, and as confusing as it sounds, back then it was the one bright part of my day. When it came to restricting and exercise, I could never do enough to make my brain happy. If I set a goal, I wouldn’t feel good even if I competed it. I wouldn’t feel good even if I surpassed it. How depressing is that?

I worry when I talk about self-harm, because I don’t want to romanticize it. It’s easy to avoid making an eating disorder sound good, because when I was restricting, all I experienced was misery. I will tell anyone who will listen that eating disorders are not cool, they’re not sexy, or glamorous, or anything but a life full of desperation and sorrow. I struggle doing the same with self-harm, mostly because given where I was at the time mentally, I needed it. Please note the past tense, because now that I have a therapist, and meds that work, and a collection of coping skills, I don’t need to hurt myself anymore. But I did then. And I didn’t care about infection, or about causing more harm than I intended. I certainly didn’t care about scars, although I wish that I had, because mine lead to a lot of awkward questions now.

It is impossible to sustain this sort of life, and when I finally got help, I was circling the drain. Something I’ve since learned is that when you want to stop a behavior but can’t, you’re way past being able to fix it on your own. I spent about a month trying to deal with it myself. I’d do okay for a day or three, but eventually everything would come crashing back down, worse than before. So finally, after almost of year of living a secret life, I told someone. You’d think that something so important would be imprinted in my brain, but to be honest, I don’t remember it. This is probably a testament to how malnourished my brain was, and how disconnected I was from reality, but it happened, whether I remember it or not. I don’t remember how it went, but I definitely remember what happened next.

I’m not going to go into specifics about treatment, mostly because for the first year, it was a complete wash. Undiagnosed autism made the standard treatment model ineffective, and after therapist after therapist told me that I was stubborn, and rigid, and unwilling to change, I started to believe it. I would do well for a few weeks, only to relapse the minute I was given a little freedom. This happened over and over, and this hopelessness that I wasn’t good enough to get better, and the loss of my only coping skills, dropped me into a pretty dark state of mind. The feeling started slowly and crept forward, the feeling that I would never get better, that I would be stuck in a body I hated, that I was hurting the people that I loved. It whispered in my ear that maybe I wasn’t meant for this world, and maybe it would be better without me. This is a dangerous pit to fall into, because often times, in trying to climb out, you end up digging deeper instead. Instead of paying attention in treatment, I was daydreaming about what the world would be like without me, and how I could make it happen. It didn’t happen. Clearly, I’m still here. But it took several hospitalizations and some new diagnoses to keep me here.

Recovery is a strange beast. In the beginning, it occupies your mind every moment of every day. You go around and around, questioning if recovery is worth it, if you can do it, or if you even want it. And everyone has a different path to recovery. Some people can recovery on their own, some only need one round of treatment, and there are chronic types like me, who need to do it over and over again before we can get it right. I can’t tell you what happened when I truly got it right. I’d like to stay the stars aligned and everything I learned came together in one magical recovery moment, but it wasn’t like that.

In order for recovery to work for me, I had to figure out how to replace restriction, over exercise, and self-harm in my life with something healthier. Even more, I had to accept one thing that no one will tell you about recovery- those healthy replacements? They’re never going to work as well as the unhealthy ones. And you’re going to have to keep making all those healthy decisions for the rest of your life, and that’s really hard. I’m stable enough to make good decisions maybe 95 percent of the time. Even in good times, I’m not perfect. But if something terrible happens? If my meds stop working? I don’t know if I’ll be able to do the right thing. I hope. But I’m not sure.

We all change throughout our lives. Some people go through more drastic changes than others, and I have no problem saying that I’m one of those people. In just three years, I’ve gone from the desperate, disconnected person who was barely hanging on, to the person my therapist was talking about today. I take my meds, I follow my meal plan, I use my coping skills. I connect, not just when I’m in trouble, but for the joy that is being part of a community. I am neutral on my own existence, which might not sound like much, but is huge for me. I still don’t feel very different, and I don’t know if I ever will. But I don’t think that’s the point of recovery. As long as I feel like me, and as long as I’m living the life I want, past me is just that- past.