I'm So Glad Your Job is "Exciting"

I don’t care that you think this is an “exciting time” and I care even less if you think that sharing that opinion is an appropriate response to people losing their basic human rights.

I get it, being a journalist right now is exhilarating. It’s thrilling to be able to report on a story as big as the overturn of Roe v Wade and be the first on the scene at a protest. It’s exciting to capture the perfect press photo that will live on for ages.

It’s also exhausting knowing that to some, my loss of bodily autonomy is just an article to add to a resume. It’s heartbreaking to hear the cries of women who are in more danger now than ever and think that some people only hear a soundbite. It’s painful to know that some people only care about how this moment in history will advance their career.

But I get it, it’s an exciting time to be in a newsroom.

I read a tweet the other day by a girl who said that and as a journalist and as a woman I was overcome with a lot of feelings. One hand I can resonate, history is happening around us in this moment and we are the vessel to get information to the people and to preserve history as it happened. But at the same time, I don’t think I need the lives of millions of people to be impacted in order to tell a good story.

I don’t need women and people who can get pregnant across a country to lose their reproductive rights in order to think I’m doing my job well. I want to be a journalist because I want to bring a voice to the people and I want to seek out the stories that no one hears. I don’t want to sit around waiting for the next disaster to happen in order to find my job exciting.

I don’t care that you think the death of women is exciting. I don’t care that you think the trigger laws put in place to oppress people who can get pregnant is cool. And I certainly don’t care that you have announced that you care more about how the loss of human rights makes your job “cooler.”

Why I Fear Being Pregnant

tw: mental illness, abortion, suicide, eating disorders

“Treating pregnant women with bipolar disorder is among the most challenging clinical endeavors.”

I was doing some research to write this piece because I knew that if I were to get pregnant I would be facing 9 months of hell, but that statement, “Treating pregnant women with bipolar disorder is among the most challenging clinical endeavors,” cut like a knife into me.

I have been adamant about not wanting children since I was at least 14. Every time someone asked me about it or the topic was brought up in conversation—which is odd that topic would even be prompted to a minor—I gave one of various reasons I had. One of the first reasons I started to hate the idea of giving birth was that childbirth itself terrified me. I read somewhere when I was younger about the mortality rate of pregnant women and felt petrified with fear. That was merely the beginning of a long list of reasons why I do not want to be a mother.

I am mentally ill and I don’t want to give birth to a child knowing they could go through what I have gone through. And I don’t care about the argument around, “well if you went through it too then you can better help your child,” because I can barely keep myself together despite all of the progress I’ve made, so why would I willingly put someone into a position where I cannot sanely take care of them and provide them the proper support that doesn’t traumatize and scar them? Not to mention that women with bipolar—and women with other mental disorders as well—are often required to go off their meds during pregnancy. There have been weeks where I have gone off my meds and I have wanted nothing more than to kill myself so how does one expect me to go 9 months without them?

Women with bipolar face more risk in postpartum than women without it. I would be more at risk to fall into a psychotic episode or mania or have a more intense relapse. Even if I did fine during the 9 months I carried a child, I would not be able to be a competent mother to that child.

Not to mention the physical toll pregnancy takes on your body. As someone who has struggled with body image and eating disorders for the majority of my life, I cannot imagine how I would feel after giving birth to a child. I can’t imagine how any mother who has struggled with accepting themselves feels after giving birth.

These are just some of the reasons I do not want to get pregnant and have a chili and these are just a fraction of the reasons millions of other women do not want children. The overturning of Roe v Wade specifically hurts disabled women, poor women, minority women, and mentally ill women.

I urge you to take action if you are able to and speak up. It shouldn’t be anyone else’s business what you do with your own body. It shouldn’t be up to anyone besides you what you do. Abortion restrictions don’t make abortion disappear, they simply make them less regulated and more dangerous for women.

If you can, use this link https://abortionfunds.org/funds/ to donate. We are watching our rights be stripped away as we speak so we need to take action now.

Catholic Guilt on the Road

Nothing sums up my religious experience more than when I was on a roadtrip with my parents to Flagstaff and I cried for half of the ride.

My dad introduced me to Broadway and all of the best songs and shows and we loved to sing along to our favorites on long car rides. Music was a way for us to connect and I loved it. But when I was around 8 or 9 I started to become more aware of my faith and I was becoming an “adult” in the church’s eyes. This meant more intense lessons on my religion and more gloom and doom teachings.

I started to become scared of ever thinking or saying a bad thought about God and my faith. Every time I had a doubtful thought or a negative one, it spiraled me into a panic attack filled with fear of going to hell. It didn’t help that my OCD symptoms, at the time, were growing in intensity and starting to drastically affect my life. But I took the premise of the gift of “fear of the Lord” a little too far.

On this road trip my dad and I were singing Les Mis and the line “Jesus doesn’t care” from the opening song sent me into a downward spiral. I started to cry and pray and beg God for forgiveness because somehow in my child mind I was convinced that my dad singing this lyric meant eternal damnation.

I can’t imagine what 8 year old me would think now about what I’ve heard or done or said, but I know that it would cause an unhealthy amount of fear within me. I spent so much of my childhood scared of my faith and thinking anything different than what I was exactly taught and that takes a toll on anyone, not to mention a child.

I think that one of my biggest issues with the church is this idea that you are not allowed to question and to doubt. Yes everyone preaches that doubt is okay and you should always question but at the end of the day they only accept the kind of questions that can be nodded off with a superficial answer and hope that you won’t pry for more.

Connect the Dots

Everything happens for a reason…and I hate that I am constantly being reminded of that.

During my first semester at ASU, I applied for an internship interview day with various publication groups. Looking back on it now, I was definitely in over my head, mostly because I felt like I had to do everything I was “supposed to do” as a journalism student. Long story short, my specific day when all of my interviews were fell right in the middle of Halloween week and ASU’s homecoming week—which I was working. So you can imagine how I must’ve looked and sounded in each of my online interviews: barely holding it together and tired, attempting to look as put together and professional as I could. I fumbled through each interview running on a couple blinks of sleep and half a brain cell AND to add insult to injury I ended up in an interview for a position I did not sign up for and essentially was 100% not qualified for.

With all of this in mind, I was not super shocked when I found out no one wanted to hire me out of the 5 or so positions I had interviewed for. While I was not surprised by this I was disappointed in myself. I had failed the one thing I thought would give me peace of mind that I was choosing the right career path.

So as I was pulling myself together, trying to convince myself I was not a massive failure, I discovered Keysmash.

A production all about mental health was being put on by one of my favorite theater companies. It was like God had placed the perfect opportunity into my hands. (if it isn’t clear already, one of my dreams is to simply write and create art all about mental health)

I applied immediately on my phone and waited patiently for the next step. Now I can say I have written a script and aided in creating a full show. If I had received an offer back in the fall for something my heart wasn’t in, I wouldn’t have been able to do the one thing that floods my heart with joy.

I think back on the idea that “everything happens for a reason” a lot. There are hundreds of dots that connect in my life and yet every time I am faced with a new path, a new dot, I forget everything else. Reminding myself that there is, in fact, something better coming is so difficult to do, especially when worse things precede it.

Hate is Not a Mental Illness

Mental Health America posted the above quote on Instagram on May 15th. Something that I have seen time and time again when scrolling through Twitter or Facebook or any other social media platform is people using mental illness to either justify or penalize people who do bad things.

The most recent example is the tragic shooting in Buffalo where a white supremacist coordinated a hate crime against Black Americans. It makes me sick when people equate racism to a mental illness or try and blame a mental illness for harmful actions. There is plenty of stigma around mental health as it is and inaccurately equating acts of hate and violence to mental health is harmful to everyone involved.

It not only places negative stereotypes around people who have mental illnesses but it also provides an excuse for racists, homophobes, and other hateful people.

Before I dive any deeper I want to preface that I am not a mental health professional and I am basing my opinions on my own personal experience and knowledge about mental health. While I have done thorough research, I am not qualified to offer mental health advice or guidance.

Another thing that irks me a bit is the argument that because the shooter was coherent and intellectual means that he can’t be mentally ill. I have seen a few tweets using this as a way to “debunk” the notion that what the Buffalo shooter did was due to a mental illness, so I will give the benefit of the doubt and assume they come from a good place. However, by using the ability to function in society and intelligence level as means of ruling out mental illness, people are reinforcing the idea that everyone with a mental illness is incapable to live normally and cannot be smart or functional. And as a mentally ill person, I would like to state that that is simply not true.

At the end of the day, it is important to note that the conversation around mental health is still new. Genuine discussion and debate about it are starting to become more normalized so it is vital that we do everything we can to ensure that authenticity and accuracy flow through our words.

Mental illness cannot justify acts of hate.

My heart breaks for Buffalo and the families that have been affected by this event. If you are interested in donating to help the families of the victims please click here for a list of verified GoFundMe fundraisers.

The Good Side of Nihilism

I could have a solid retirement fund if I had a dollar for every time I questioned what I publish on this site. One of the things that I have increasingly become more aware of is how I am perceived by others. Before 2019 I was very reserved in talking about myself and what I did and who I was. I felt the need to construct the “ideal me” and only present that facade to everyone and anyone I met. However after the pandemic took its toll and I crawled my way through high school, I became a borderline nihilistic cynic—my mother’s words not mine.

And while there is certainly a negative side to always seeking the worst in the world and constantly contemplating whether life is even worth it at the end of the day, there is also a slight beauty to it. After a certain amount of time the terrifying idea of “nothing matters” turns into a freeing life motto. There are certainly better ways to come to this realization than sending yourself down a somewhat neverending downward spiral, but that is how I came to this place. A place of contentment and a kind of unsettling peace—but peace nonetheless.

Nothing matters UNLESS you fuck up so tremendously bad that you ruin the rest of your or someone else’s life (and newsflash this doesn’t mean failing a class or losing out on a job. I’m talking about like murder and stuff like that). At the end of the day, you are only one person and any mistakes you make or anything pitfalls you succumb to isn’t going to matter in the long run as long as you make a conscious effort to fix it, atone for it, move past it, or even just forget about it. This isn’t to say that you can’t make an impact as one person or that the good things you offer the world are meaningless—well for the most part yeah—it just means that overthinking is an unforgiving poison and it doesn’t hurt to remind yourself of that sometimes.

I will admit that at the beginning of this newfound—for me—idea, I found it a little discouraging. What do you mean nothing matters? I have always worked hard and constantly strive to do my best and create things that leave the world better off, and now I’m realizing that none of it matters? And yes, this is probably something you’re thinking about right now, whether or not you should even bother trying because what if nothing you do ever matters. And I’m here to say, in my “profound” not-professional about-to-be college-sophomore opinion, there is some truth to that but there is also so much more.

There is so much more to doing good work and working hard and trying to do your best than just what you produce. By relieving a bit of the materialistic and existential pressure that we all put on ourselves to one degree or another, then we can in turn make better stuff. I can’t even count how many times my own head has prevented me from jumping into something I am interested in or want to try and all of those times are missed opportunities for change and for growth. If I had just taken a moment to remind myself that it’s perfectly fine if I mess up because there are more days and more opportunities and more people and whatever, then I probably have a lot more things to show off.

So back to me, overthinking nine out of ten things I publish here. I have spent so much time afraid of being vulnerable and open and honest because I was scared that people would judge me and laugh and criticize me for it, but the more I write and tell stories and meet people I realize that the only real reason I was afraid was that no one else around me was doing it. Coming to that conclusion made me promise myself that I would be that voice in every space I enter in order to make anyone and everyone else feel a little more welcome and a little more comfortable.

Am I still worried about how spilling every little detail of my life and how I think and feel will affect the way people view me? Yes, but I know that there is at least one other person somewhere who might come across something I’ve written one day and gain a little more confidence in themselves and that is all I hope for.

The Addiction of an ED

cw: eating disorders, addiction

Nothing could have prepared me for the emotional gut-punch watching episode 5 of Euphoria season 2. I would like to preface that I love both of my parents with all of my heart and I have grown substantially in the past few years, but as far as I have come I still have a long ways to go and I am aware of that. There’s a part of my ego that feels the need to preface this in order to defend myself since I am about to tear myself to shreds.

If you told me that I would relate to Rue of all characters in Euphoria the most when it first came out, I would not have believed you. I would have argued that Kat and I have more in common or made a list of all the ways Lexi and I are the same person, and while I do resonate with both of those characters greatly, it is nothing compared to the heart-wrenching reliability that Rue has. Watching Rue yell and scream at her mother is what made that connection unbearably clear in my mind.

I have done that.

I have woken up with my room in shreds knowing that I had done it in a rage. I have watched my mother cry knowing that my words are what provoked her tears. I have seen her heart break from what I have done. And despite all of that agonizing pain that I caused upon one of my greatest role models, it was never enough to persuade me to stop.

Eating disorders have that all-consuming power (no pun intended) to infiltrate every crevice of the mind and poison it. They ruin the rational processing and they taint the ability to feel empathy. The only thing that matters is food and the lack of it and your body and the mass of it and your face and the flaws with it. No one matters, not even you.

I distinctively remember a trip I took with my mom to New Orleans and the overpowering pull my eating disorder had on me. I had won a contest with the Phoenix Suns and had gotten to travel with them to Louisiana. I took my mom with me on the trip and what was supposed to be an amazing experience was clouded by my own selfish intentions.

On our one free night, my mom and I walked around the city trying to find a place to eat. It ended with us sitting in a crowded restaurant that my mom picked. I was crying inconsolably and my mom just sat across from me. She had wanted to enjoy the delicious food and culture of the city and I couldn’t appreciate any bite without thinking of what it consisted of.

This was in the early stages of my ed, or at least the early stages of it being noticeable. My mom didn’t know why I was so obsessed with food and exercise and I didn’t know how to tell her I hated myself.

There were so many moments like that, where we would be talking, specifically about food, and then I would get upset and lash out and scream and cry and I can only imagine how little it made my mom feel. To watch her only daughter fall into pieces all at once while expelling cruelties.

That trip to New Orleans is one of those memories that has stuck in my mind ever since I stepped off the plane back in Phoneix. Not for the reasons that it should’ve but because all my mom wanted to do was eat a beignet and I prevented that.

No I Didn't Want to Stay In-State

If you’ve known me for a while then you know that one of my main goals for life is to leave Arizona and plant roots on the East Coast. As much as I love my hometown, I want to leave its confines and let it be “my hometown.” So, when college admissions season ran me over and left me for dead, there was an atmosphere of disappointment and apathy that covered the excitement and anticipation of college.

To be completely honest, I hated the fact that I was staying in state. I felt dejected and like I had failed myself in a way. I told everyone around me for years and years that I was going to the East Coast, that I was going to get out of Arizona and yet here I was attending a state school roughly 20 minutes away from home. It was the lesser of the three evils, my options at the end of the day were: Tucson, Phoenix, or Tempe, and only one of those places didn't make me want to cry.

I know it sounds like I’m being dramatic and I am, but there’s something sobering about settling for staying in-state that makes you feel kind of sad when you think about it too much. Most people assume I wanted to stay in-state, because if I didn’t then why was I here. I hate having to tell them that Arizona was the last place I wanted to be and I held a bit of resentment towards it. I hate the fact that I don’t get to have the same kind of “first time” experience that everyone else gets to have in college. Yes it’s all new but at the same time it’s all the same.

The restaurants, the weather, the scenery, the people, it’s all the same, even being in a different city, it’s only 30 minutes away. This is such a champagne problem and I’m aware of that, the fact that I even get to experience college and a higher education in any capacity should be enough for me. And I feel guilty that it isn’t.

I feel guilty for the fact that I wish I could transfer to somewhere new, but the thought of having to do the first year all over again makes me cringe. I don’t want to have to experience all of the lonliness and isolation that came with my first year no matter how much fun I’ve had. I hate that I want to leave because no matter how shitty I feel at times, I am also living my best life.

But I can’t look back now and start to feel regret for a time I’m living through now. I am making the best of my situation and I am doing well considering everything at hand, so while no, I didn’t want to stay in-state, I am okay that I am in-state.

My Dear Old Friend: Burnout

My new favorite item on my to-do list is simply: “ALL OF THE EXTRA CREDIT BECAUSE FOR SOME GOD FORSAKEN REASON YOU DECIDED THAT “just passing” WAS ENOUGH…NEWS FLASH IT’S NOT”

It speaks for itself and doesn’t really need any additional context but I’m gonna provide it anyways. I constantly joked before coming to college that “C’s get degrees” and that was the bar I was going to hold myself to instead of the absurdly high one I had set previously. Then I realized that I rely way too much on academic validation to ever do that. And then I ignored the well-thought advice of my peers, family, and therapist and have dug myself into a burnout cave where I simply am hanging on by a hair.

It’s funny how little I understand when it comes to time management. I don’t think I’ve ever said “wow I’m balancing really well” and was executing a time management schedule that wasn't unhealthy. Sure I thought I was the peak of balance, but in reality I was just too sleep-deprived and caffeine ridden to realize I was crashing and burning at a rate that cannot be viable.

I’ve convinced myself that being able to put everything into a calendar and show up to things on time are the only two qualifications one needs in order to be good at a work/life balance. Who cares if all I’ve consumed today is one can of RedBull and the lukewarm remnants of yesterday’s iced coffee, I successfully made the 20 minute drive between meeting #1 and meeting #2 of the day in under 15 minutes. Gold star.

As I typed that out I now realize how I sound to all of my friends and all of the dots are now connecting. They are all justified in their criticisms and I am simply incapable of being self-aware.

Anyways, I have finally come to the light realization of this fact and am now struggling to recover from the absolute dumpster fire I have created for myself. Since the beginning of this semester I have been completely blacked out, not in an alcoholic sense, in a I have no idea what I‘ve been doing with my time sense. In years prior, when I would feel the creep of burnout coming I would simply go into autopilot mode and just vibe on cruise control until I was able to stop crying and think my version of rationally. This time I reverted back to default mode, like Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story. Something hit my ‘reset’ button and now I’m aimlessly doing stuff in hopes something will activate me.

And something did.

Instead of the regular amount of stress and fear of failure that used to jolt me back to reality, a wave 10x that has washed upon the shores of my consciousness and now I am trying not to drown in my own whirlpool of anxiety. I am so looking forward to the summer and next year as I have adequately (I hope at least) planned out my schedule to allow me to breathe and properly function in society without breaking down. Until then, I will just run on the fumes of burnouts past and pray that I can at least go home with a fraction of my sanity.

Catholic Guilt

I promised my parents that I wouldn’t allow the chaos of college to prohibit me from going to mass regularly. I wish that I had kept that promise but I have gone to a service once on my own since coming to ASU. I can make excuses for this all day:

“I forgot it was Sunday”

“I overslept”

“I didn’t have the proper clothes to go”

And whatever else I have convinced myself is a valid reason for not going. But in all honesty, the only reason that I haven’t gone to mass on my own is that I have no desire to and that feels horrible to say. I feel like a shitty Catholic admitting that I do not want to participate in a service and with no one holding me accountable but myself, I haven’t.

I still believe and I still hold my faith close to my heart, but the more I reflect on my membership in the Catholic Church, the more I realize I have a lot of unresolved issues and traumas that have come out of my religion. I don’t want to bash Catholicism because, at the end of the day, I am a Catholic, and no matter what negative experiences I have encountered within the church, I will always be a Catholic. But that also means that I have work to do in confronting my religious relationship and it is my self-imposed responsibility to challenge the ideals that created those negative experiences in the first place.

The church has been an integral part of who I am for my entire life and coming to terms with the fact that it isn’t the greatest thing to happen to me is hard. It makes me feel like a disappointment in my faith and ashamed for questioning and doubting.

For the next year, I am challenging myself to work on repairing my religious life and hopefully helping to continue and uplift the conversation around things like religious trauma and Catholic guilt. And I hope that as I embark on this journey I can find some peace in where I am.