Zucchini Bread and Memories

#HAWMC Day 10:  We’re not all 5 star chefs, but we all need to eat! Tell your readers how to make your favorite dish. Does the recipe hold a good memory for you?  Is it the act of cooking itself that brings you joy, or the people that come together to eat it?  

When I was a kid, my mom invented a game for us called Mixer. Or rather she probably gave an "official" name to an activity that countless other mothers had also shared with their children. Mixer was this: we took every allowable baking ingredient (flour, sugar, brown sugar, baking soda, baking powder, spices, water, milk) and mixed them into a bowl however we wanted, and then baked and ate it. They didn't guide our cooking, just let us go to town. Keeping in mind that my brother and I were probably four and five years old at the time, the fact that my parents ate these concoctions and deemed them "delicious" is a testament to their love. 

In the past 30 years, my cooking style hasn't changed much, other than the fact that I now know the ratio of baking soda to flour shouldn't be 10 to 1, or you're going to get some strange looking (and tasting) baked goods. 

I like to cook, I really do. But I'm a vegetarian, and many of my dinners involve things like veggie stir fry with baked tofu or seitan, and that's pretty self explanatory. The majority of my cooking is in one of two forms:  intricately follow a recipe from a book/site/pinterest that I could never duplicate without it, or throw everything in the pan/pot/baking dish and taste as I go along, adjusting and learning from trial and error. There's not much of a middle ground. 

My day to day "recipes" also don't hold much special meaning to me, unless you could general sustenance as special, which I guess it kind of is. Still, they didn't seem like something worthy of a blog post. But to keep to the theme, I did, technically, choose a food that does have a special meaning to me. Then, I googled it and found a version here on All Recipes. (Note: this is not my recipe nor do I know the person that wrote it, but it got 5 stars so why not?). The recipe is for Zucchini Bread. I admit, I've never used this particular recipe, but it seems about right. To duplicate the bread of my memories, I'd suggest adding raisins, if you're a raisin person. If not I'm sure it'll be just fine without it. 

Zucchini bread and I go way back. Probably farther back than Mixer and I do. My Grandma Ventura lived in Buffalo, NY which was, at the closest, about six and a half hours from where I grew up (significantly more when we lived in Georgia, of course). As a child, zucchini bread was synonymous with my grandma, and vice versa. Every time she came to visit us, she'd get off the plane holding loaves of zucchini breadwrapped in foil - I can still picture this exact scene.... it was in the days when you could still meet people at the gates. Going to Buffalo to visit her, we'd leave after my parents got home from work, usually around 6 or 7 PM I suppose, and arrive in the middle of the night. She'd always be wide awake (I was amazed at this, since it was usually 2 or 3 AM by the time we got there) and have zucchini bread and Italian Wedding Soup waiting for us. Sadly the soup was out for me after I became veg at the age of 11. This tradition happened every visit, which was at least Thanksgiving, Christmas/New Year, and Easter every year, from the time I first remember until I was about 17. In college, I wasn't at Grandma's as much, but when we visited each other, it was the same. 

I think I knew when Grandma started to get sick because the zucchini bread and soup stopped. I couldn't imagine she'd break the tradition for any other reason other than that she physically couldn't keep it up. She either wasn't able to remember how to make them, or didn't have the energy. I'm not sure which, as she covered her symptoms up well at first. Probably, it was a combination. Eventually, she couldn't remember what the stove was for.

My Grandmother passed away, seven years later, from stroke induced dementia and Parkinson's. Towards the end, she didn't recognize us and could barely communicate. But we talked to her anyways, telling her stories from the past, hoping to get a glimpse of some recollection, to share happy memories with her. Once, when she seemed to stop recognizing us and communicating all together, we reminded her of our late night arrivals to her house, and how she used to greet us with zucchini bread and wedding soup. She quietly said, "but no soup for Maya, not with the meat." Whether it was a moment of lucidity, or she was more alert than we thought and just couldn't tell us, we'll never know. But in that moment, I realized not only how much those visits, and that zucchini bread (and for everyone else, the soup), meant to us, but how much they must have meant to her. 

Maya and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Month

#HAWMC Day 9:  Share with readers about a time you had to overcome a daunting challenge. What words of encouragement would you share with others who find themselves facing similar difficulty?

Let's face it. As chronic illness sufferers, we face daunting challenges probably on a monthly, weekly, or even daily basis. Sometimes, the daunting challenge is getting out of bed. I can think of a lot of examples of cyclothymia-based challenges. When I was diagnosed, for instance. Or when I decided to tell everyone I'd been diagnosed. When I had to start my meds and it made me ill as crap for weeks. Daunting. Very daunting. But I thought I'd reach a ways back and discuss a time before I was diagnosed, though I was most certainly living with my condition, and it's when I first really notice it in full force. 

January 26, 2007. I called my mom and told her my then-husband and I were separating. We'd been married for a mere two and a half years. I gathered those things that I could fit in a suitcase or two and moved back home with my parents, who luckily lived about a mile and a half away. You can read more about my divorce in previous posts (if you search "divorce" in the search box on my blog it should pull up a few), but suffice it to say that, while the decision was mutual and in actuality probably more my assertion than his, it wasn't easy. No divorce is. If it is, you shouldn't have been married in the first place. I liked my ex-husband. I liked him a lot as a friend and companion. Perhaps I loved him as such. But I didn't love him as I should a husband, a partner for life. I knew it, and with time, he did as well. We cried together and held each other a lot in those first few days. We didn't want to be apart per se, we just didn't want to be married. And in total honesty, I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with a companionable roommate, no matter how much I liked him. We had a five-year plan that included children. I couldn't commit to that, given my feelings. It wasn't fair - to the future children, to him, to myself. 

Rewind to the previous March. I'd given up my full time corporate fitness job and started my own travel planning company, which I still own and operate. While I had a "family loan" for the business, our plan was to dig into that as little as possible, and to put what money I made into savings, while living on his salary. It was a trade-off for my having helped pay down numerous school loans of his when I'd had none. As I previously had made a whopping salary of about $28,000 before taxes, much of which we'd put into savings, this didn't seem like a huge change to our lifestyle in terms of daily living income. We'd already more or less been living on his salary. I was also on his health insurance, which was a huge relief. Things were falling into place. My marriage was, surely, falling out of place at the time, but I just figured we'd get through it. We had had our challenges before - once calling off the wedding for a couple of days - and we'd found our way back to each other and our life together. We were still rather newly wed and we were having some growing pains. All in all, we got along and were doing pretty well at playing house, so all would be fine, right? Partly, I realize now, I don't think I thought I'd have the balls... I mean guts... to leave. But I was wrong, on all accounts. 

Fast forward ten months. As I settled into my parents, I started looking for apartments, finding one that I could move into within two months. That set, I put the rest of my energy into my business. I could focus on it full time, and indeed I had to - there was nothing else to focus on anymore. My marriage was done. I had left my corporate job.  All of my friends in the area had been "couple friends" and, save one, had removed themselves from my life as to not be in the middle. But that was ok, I had my business. It was new and shiny and I was excited. It was my dream, after all. Externally, things were progressing. Internally, I was still crying in the shower so that my parents didn't hear me. (Note: this wasn't a very fool-proof plan; they live in a 150 year old house and the walls are thin). 

But then,  more shit hit the fan. The landlord of the building that I rented for my business decided to sell. The day he put it on the market, a buyer offered him full asking price, cash. He wanted to buy the building and put his wife's business on the first floor... my first floor, where my business was. He could close within two weeks. Our landlord, being the nice guy he is, gave us right of first refusal, but he needed to sell - he was moving out of the area - and he couldn't refuse the full price cash offer. He told us if we could meet it before closing, it was ours. I saw finally, how badly my life falling apart.  My marriage had crumbled, my friends had vanished into thin air, and now my business, my brand new business, was about to be displaced. It wasn't quite the digital age it is now, where a brand new business can thrive online. With so few clients, and being so new, I needed the storefront. I was inconsolable. I doubted and questioned myself and my decisions. I didn't know what to do. Long story short, my parents are absolutely amazing and managed to come up with the money. My business was saved, or at least, it's specific location in the building was. 

The reprieve wasn't long. It slowly occurred to me that the "business plan" had been to live on my husband's income, not mine. Because I didn't have an income. It also occurred to me that I now had to find health insurance. Andextra $250 plus per month, as it turned out. My new apartment was great, but it was only about $250 less than my mortgage had been - the mortgage I'd split with my ex-husband - and again, I had no income. Did I mention the lack of friends? 

Once the "I did it! I had the courage to leave my unhappy marriage" blush was off the rose, I realized how alone I truly was. I worked by myself. I lived by myself. I had one friend. My business kept me... not so busy as I'd hoped. I thought (foolishly I suppose) that I'd open the door and people would just walk in, asking me to help them book a trip. Or, asking me anything. Or at least just walking in to see what the new place in town was about. I'd seemed so busy when I was doing it part time on the side. But that didn't happened. Many days, I sat, and sat, and sat, waiting for clients. Alone. Making very little, paying a lot for bills and rent and health insurance. 

My condition, though I didn't know what it was a the time, was also no longer taking a back seat. My moods were cycling rapid fire, I now know. I'd go from proud, independent, and energetic to feeling low and so very alone. My mind wandered back to the times when I'd had so much pent up energy that my soon-to-be-ex-husband held my core lovingly to let me punch and kick in the air until the energy was expended and I collapsed. It occurred to me, then, that this wasn't normal behavior (and that perhaps I hadn't given him the credit he deserved - he never once mentioned to me that this wasn't normal behavior). I was concerned, but I pushed it aside. I was broke and going through a divorce, of course I felt depressed and alone. I had started my own business and was gaining independence, of course I had excess energy to the point of agitation and anxiety at times. It made sense that I was in the mix of a ton of emotions and didn't know which way to turn. I'd always been an emotional person, and I figured this was just part of my life adjustment. It would be two more years before I would be diagnosed. 

I made it through, thanks to my parents, my one friend in the area, and several far away who were long distance moral support. It wasn't easy. Looking back, I'm not sure exactly what got me through. Guts, perseverance, stubbornness? I think I just knew I had to. Perhaps it was a glimpse of my future self, this me that deals with the challenges of chronic illness as just simply part of daily life. Perhaps it was a training ground for things to come. I know it made me stronger, because in my mind, I had no choice. 

When I think back on challenging times like this, two of my favorite sayings from my Grandma Ventura come to mind:

"Just put one foot in front of the other."  It was her reply when someone asked her how they'd get through something. Just literally, physically, focusing on the next step is sometimes all you can do, but it will, eventually, move you toward where you want to be. 

"If it ain't your ass, it's your elbow."  Something's always going to be wrong. There will always be challenges. You just have to get through it. However you can. Often, by putting one foot in front of the other. 

The Story of Tony the Teddy Bear

#HAWMC Day 7: What is an item you have kept with you that reminds you of an important time in your life? Whether it was a good day, a stressful time, or a happy moment... why does this item remind you of that period of your life?

When I was 15 years old, I dislocated my knee doing a basic gymnastics move that I'd done tons of times. In a matter of seconds, I broke my tibia, pulled my ACL off the bone, completely tore my PCL, and partially tore my MCL. Simply put, I broke my leg, tour almost all of the ligaments around my knee, and it swelled up with blood taking on the appearance of a cantaloupe. After three months of physical therapy and thinking I was almost home free, it turned out they'd missed something on the original MRI (the complete rupture of my PCL, which happens to be the strongest ligament in the body) and I required surgery. 

After the operation, I got numerous flowers, gifts, cards and the like, and I truly appreciated each and every one of them. One, however, stood out. It was a small, maybe four to five inch tall yellow stuffed teddy bear, attached to... something. I sadly can't remember - I was pretty amnesia'd and medicated up those first couple of days post-op. I'm guessing it must have been flowers. I have to imagine if it was something more permanent I would have kept it, and so I'll use flowers for the purposes of this blog. It was from a man named Tony, a colleague/friend of a family member who I'd never actually met. 

Two years prior, Tony had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I don't remember what kind, but I know it was considered terminal. I went to a catholic high school, and as part of our religion class that year. we had a prayer chain. Any student in the class could add someone, or something, and at the start of each class we all prayed the prayer chain out loud.  I had heard Tony's story from my family member, and I added him. I wasn't asked to do this, and I am not a particularly pious person who believes in the healing power of prayer above scientific and medical advancements, but I felt I had to do something to help.Despite having never met this gentleman, for some reason his story wracked at my heart. He stayed on my prayer chain at school every day. A few months later, the doctors told Tony his cancer was improving against all odds. They were dumbfounded, but his "life sentence", as it were, was reversed. Today, 23 years later, Tony is still alive and, to my knowledge, cancer free. He has told my family member that he credits me with saving his life, via the prayer chain. 

When it was my turn to be in the hospital two years later for that knee surgery, Tony remembered and sent the flowers and teddy bear. For some reason, this touched me more than all of the other gifts, cards, balloons, and everything else. Maybe it was the unexpected nature of it. Maybe it was my first glimpse of camaraderie through shared medical experiences, which I find so often today as a mental health activist in the digital age (albeit terminal cancer and a knee surgery are worlds away from 'shared experiences'). For whatever reason, the bear was special. I named it Tony, after him. I've never been super creative with names. 

I still have Tony (the bear) with a few other coveted stuffed animals from my youth - those that were passed down through family, some I received on special occasions, etc. I thought I'd pass him down, along with the others, to my kids some day. Well, we all know that story. Luckily, my boyfriend's son has a room that's perfect for a basket of stuffed animals. When I gave him the basket and asked him which he liked the best, he immediately picked Tony up from the pile. Maybe it's his bright yellow color, or the fact that he's a teddy bear and little kids seem to like teddy bears. Either way, I'm glad Tony once again has a place of honor in someone's room. One day, when my boyfriend's son is old enough to understand things like "reconstructive knee surgery", "cancer", and "prayer chains", perhaps I'll tell him Tony's story. For now, I've just told him that Tony is a very special teddy bear, and to take good care of him. 

Get In My Belly: Food, Drink, and Mental Health

#HAWMC Day 7: April 7th is World Health Day – so let’s talk about daily nutrition and diet. After your diagnosis, did you alter your diet or health routine? If so, how? How do you maintain a healthy regiment?

Happy World Health Day! I LOVE this prompt. I have a Bachelor's in Kinesiology, worked in corporate fitness for five years, am a certified personal trainer and group fitness instructor, and am a mental health blogger and activist. Health is, in all senses of the word, kind of my thing. 

Perhaps I'm luckier than some in that I came into my condition with some training in the body systems and how diet and exercise can affect virtually all of our organs, including the brain. Still, I'ave had a lot to learn. While my background has always made me a bit conscious of my health routine, I've had to become hyper-aware since my diagnosis, and much of it has come through trial and error. 

First off, I have to take medication three times a day. This medication must be taken with food. If not, I incur severe nausea, dizziness, disorientation, occasional vision blurriness (as if I was about to pass out), and numbness in my tongue and lips. These symptoms can last for hours, and often are temporarily debilitating. It can't just be any food either. It has to be a large enough quantity and the right kind of food. There must be enough carbs to quickly get into my bloodstream (they are broken down the quickest) and absorb the meds. I can have a buffet full of proteins and fats, but if there aren't enough carbs, I'll be ill for hours. The more meds I cumulatively take, the more I have to have eaten throughout the days, so if I miss a meal, I have to adjust my whole medication schedule, and this can affect my routine for the day. While I won't have a massive mood cycle from taking my meds an hour late, or even missing one at all, I can't do this on a regular basis.  I can sometimes start to feel the effects of a missed dose after just an hour or two, especially on a day where I'm already cycling. I'll be out doing something fun and social with friends and suddenly say, "have to get something to eat, medication time!", and it well may not be at a normal dining time (one of my doses has to be taken around 2 PM). Thankfully, if they're embarrassed, they never say it. I'm certainly not. To me it's just daily life. 

In addition to the fact that I feel I now eat like a horse in order to take meds, there are foods that bother me. Dairy, for instance, seems to make my depression worse. I don't know if this is an across the board thing with mood cycling, or just me. It may also be in part that I have a slight lactose issue and what a GI doctor once called severe IBS, and feeling like shit (no pun intended! OK, maybe a little...) generally makes people feel worse. I think it's probably a combination. Either way, I try to stay away from much dairy when in a depressive cycle. There have been studies on potential links between gluten and mood cycling as well, and though I've not read all of the research, I do keep an eye on this. I'm a vegetarian, so gluten-filled foods like seiten, for instance, are a regular part of my diet. When I can, I choose corn-based items (i.e. corn tortillas and chips) instead of flour/wheat based, but I do consume probably too much gluten. I've considered experimenting with low-gluten or gluten-free eating, but as a vegetarian with severe IBS and lactose issues, my diet is limited enough, and I'd rather not add to it if I don't need to. Going out to eat with me can already be a pain in the ass, and I'd rather not make it more so. Still, it's something I do keep an eye on. 

Coffee and alcohol are two other biggies. Coffee is amazing! I need several cups every day to function properly, and when I'm depressed and can barely pull myself from bed, it's pretty much nectar from the gods. But, and there's always a but with mood cycling, it's a slippery slope. One cup, no problem, I'm practically immune. Two, usually no biggie. But there's become a fine line between coffee-alert and hypomnia, and while I try to catch it before it's too late, I sometimes don't. Alcohol... well, it's alcohol. We have all loved our friends excessively at 1 AM, and woed our lives and ourselves an hour later when the "high" drops off.  But with mood cycling, it's not just socially enabling/embarrassing, it can bring on serious depression. I can't tell you the number of times I've thought I had a fun night out, only to wake up battling a severe depressive cycle. I have to chastise myself for thinking I can have a night of fun the way my friends do. I can't. It's not just that I can't  over-indulgence. Sometimes, it can be only a drink or two. I always have to be mindful. 

Of course, there's also the whole "my meds can cause hyponatremia (low blood sodium) and send me into seizures" thing. I experience hyponatremia on a regular basis. Luckily, I've managed to avoid the seizures so far, though I did once almost pass out at the gym in my housing complex and some old man had to carry me back to my apartment, which would be moderately embarrassing if I had any shame. Luckily, I don't. I have to ingest more sodium than the average person, though to be honest, that's not really a sacrifice. I love salt and have a palate that seemingly notices saltiness significantly less than the average person, so it's not hard to salt-load. Still, I do have to watch daily for signs of low blood sodium - and get my blood checked for this every six weeks. I'm supposed to always have tomato juice with me in case I need a quick salt fix, and I've slacked on this. I have learned to enjoy large quantities of powerade zero, though, which has a decent amount of sodium in it. I should probably just buy a diaper bag (spill proof for drinks) to fill with all the snacks and drinks and meds I need and carry it around, but I've yet to adopt this habit. 

With all of this said, I honestly don't feel like my health and wellness sacrifices are too bad. I get to eat more salty foods when most people have to buy low-sodium. I have low blood pressure naturally, so this increased sodium diet doesn't, at least yet, seem to be a heart concern for me. I have to eat more, and occasionally exercise less - increased adrenaline can worsen hypomania for me - which does make me feel a bit blah and has added to some minor weight gain, but I'm trying to adjust that with some creative healthy eating techniques. I still get to drink my coffee, I just have to watch it, and at 35, having to drink less alcohol isn't really too big of a deal - in fact, it's sometimes a nice excuse to stay home from a party when I'm feeling socially anxious, and instead do something I really want to do like read, or sleep. So really, all in all, I feel pretty lucky. I truly could have it a lot worse. 

Holding Out For a Hero

80s reference?  Footloose? Anyone?

#HAWMC Day 6:  Everyone has someone they look up to - a person they go to for advice, an individual you admire or idolize. It could be your partner, a family member, coworker, or someone famous. Who are they and what makes them awesome in your eyes? 

The title is in total jest. I just really like Footlose. This is actually one of the easiest prompts for me because the answer, when asked this question, is always the same - my parents. First off, they've raised a family of intelligent, good looking, creative, loving, generally awesome children, so there's that. But more to the point, they didn't do so easily. They went through a lot, and sacrificed so much, to make sure that we had the upbringing they felt we needed and deserved. What's more, they made it seem like "no big deal", which I think is close to miraculous. 

Growing up, I lived in everything from the house my parents live in now - recently renovated and upgraded - to a house on a dirt road in Georgia where daily activities included visiting the "cow in the school bus" and hanging out on the neighbors' tractor, to a home with the numerous foster children that my parents took in as group home parents (I was 10 months old, so I don't remember this, but I know it couldn't have been easy). As a kid, the fact that my mom was in law school every night until 11 PM after raising us during the day (and/or working outside the home once we were in school) was just part of her normal routine. The fact that we had leftover pizza for breakfast on Saturday mornings was a treat. We didn't think about the fact that it meant my dad spent his weekend nights delivering pizzas, after driving the school bus in the morning and then teaching at that same school all day. Didn't everyone's parents work a combination of five jobs to make sure their kids could have what they needed? My parents never made it seem like a sacrifice, and therefore, never asked this question as children.

I once heard my parents say that when they closed on the house they now live in, they emptied their pockets and found they had $12 to their name, combined. It was what we had to live on until they got paid in two weeks. As kids, we didn't really get this - hell when you're a kid, having $12 in your pockets isn't too shabby! When I closed on my own house at the age of 23, I realize what a horror that must have been for them. I know people who pay close to $12 for a fancy Starbucks moccha-latte-something-or-other these days. But they did it to get us into a better school system than where we'd been. The house required pots and pans in at least one room to catch the rain water when it fell through the holes in the roof, and one time the bathroom floor collapsed and our toilet fell into our downstairs tenants bedroom at about 2 AM. Oddly, this didn't seem like a big deal, because our parents (and luckily the tenants) never made it one. They never once complained, at least not in front of us kids.

My parents spent our entire child hood and teen years shuttling us to sports and activities that I now realize must been a ridiculous financial strain, not to mention the fact that they had to sometimes cut out of work early to do so. But they weren't going to tell their kids that they couldn't do the activities others were doing. They didn't want us to feel poor or different or left out. 

As I've grown older, I've certainly grown come to appreciate even more what our parents sacrificed, including not letting us feel that sacrifice. Through all these, they were our mental, emotional, and moral support. They continue to be. They have worked through illness and injury to make sure they can still help us if we need. They have supported me - mentally, emotionally, and at times physically - through divorce, breakups, and a plethora of life disappointments. They could have warned me and said "I told you so" when I made the same mistake again over and over (and over and over). When I was diagnosed with cyclothymia, they were by my side, literally. They have never once faltered in their support or love even during my worst episodes. Instead, they've educated themselves about it, learned what they can to help further. They understand, as best as anyone without the condition itself can, what I need, and they do everything they can to provide it. They are at times my lifeline. I feel with conviction that I wouldn't be where I am today without them. They are, always have been, and always will be my heroes. 

All About Me - #HAWMO Day 5

The top story of today is...YOU. Share with your  readers your proudest accomplishments in the last 5 years. Don’t be shy, tell us everything!

This is a tough one. I write about myself a lot. After all, it's my blog, about my journey. I've pretty adept at describing all of the shitty things about my condition, the difficult, painful, annoying aspects that are my brain's daily existence, and my frustrations with myself in every day life. It's not that I have an issue with being positive. I love positive. I'm a glass half full type of person (most of the time). It's that I have a problem with the positives with me. I'm really, really bad at talking about my good points. When I do, I feel either like a cliche or a used car salesman. But because I'm committed to this writers challenge, I'll give it my best effort. Bullets are easier. They feel less like an ode to myself. 

•  This March marked the nine year mark for my business. I've been a business owner and operator for almost a decade. In these days of high turnover and troubling economy, that seems pretty decent.  

• I began a part time front desk job at a museum/conference center (in addition to my travel business) and within a year got promoted to coordinator, which includes such tasks as managing social media and interviewing potential employees. 

• I started this blog. It might seem basic, in the days where just about anyone can, and does, start a blog, but it's a major accomplishment for two reasons: 1.) the decision to throw open up about my diagnosis condition was a big step for me and took a lot of figurative balls. This goes for all of you #HAWMC people, by the way - you're amazing! 2.) I've had  a lot of people - both those I know and those I don't - come to me and tell me how much they enjoy my blog, and how much it's helped them to not feel alone in their own condition. To me, the ability to help people feel supported and not alone is incredibly rewarding.  

• I started a mood disorders support group on Facebook that now has over 250 members. This might not seem like a lot, but considering it started with me and about 5 friends, not too shabby. (It's called Mood Disorders Support System - feel free to search it an request to join.)

• I completed the Out of Darkness Overnight walk last year, walking 16+ miles overnight to raise money and awareness for suicide prevention. I'm training/fundraising for this year's walk and have already raised close to $1200. 

• Myself and two friends organized Go The Extra Mile for Mental Health, a hike to raise funds and awareness for the Brain and Behavior Research Foundation. We plan to organize more (and varied) events for this cause in the future. 

• I served in chapter leadership for two industry organizations over the past five (plus) years - Director and Vice President in one, President of the other. 

• I became an aunt to two more beautiful children (seven nieces and nephews now total), and a godparent to one. I realize this is their parents' accomplishments and not mine, but it feels like something I'd like to share. Surely, they inherited something from their awesome aunt, right? 

• I was published in an anthology called Playing & Staying at the Top of Your Game, an e-book written by (and primarily for) women in business. My writing's been published before on blogs and industry magazines, but this is my first piece in a book/ebook,  

• I began writing my first novel. I'm probably about three quarters of the way through the first draft at the moment. This is a long-time dream of mine and while I will probably be the only one that ever reads it, just starting it is an accomplishment in my eyes. 

• I've gone through a lot of shit and made it out on the other side alive. Not unharmed or unscathed, but not broken. Much of the non-mental-health-related parts doesn't need to be discussed here, so you'll have to trust me on this one. At times, I've been a bit (read: a lot) worse for the wear, and there were times I was almost broken. But I wasn't. I got my ass up off the ground, sooner or later, and kept on going, one foot in front of the other, until I got where I am now. Sometimes, life sucks. Many times, cyclothymia sucks, So hell, the fact that I'm still standing on my two feet is, of all of these, my biggest accomplishment. 

Creature of Habit: How Writing Keeps Me From Losing My Mind

Day 3: What good habits, (health or otherwise,) do you have? Do you have a routine that you follow every morning? Are there any bad habits you wish you could break? #HAWMC

I am 100 percent a creature of habit. My brain, with it's ups and downs (and sometimes sideways), gives me enough "spontaneity", To keep myself as grounded and stress free as possible - "as possible" being the key phrase here - I need my routines. I have to leave room for flexibility of course, in case I have a bad cycle and my plan falls to pieces, but there a few key habits that hold me in place, at least as much as anything can. 

Of all of my habits, writing has to be the most critical. I write, the old school style with pen and paper, every day, ideally every morning, as early as I can. It's always cursive, in a spiral bound notebook. For whatever reason, that seems as essential as the writing itself. 

I began a couple years ago when I read the book The Artist's Way. It suggested exactly this practice - write three pages, long hand, every morning, of whatever you can. You could write "I don't know what to write, this is stupid" for three pages, as long as you did it. I'm a writer by nature, and in the past have been a journal keeper, so it more or less came naturally. Because I can be almost obsessively anal retentive about routine, I stuck with it diligently. Every morning, three pages, come hell or high water. That was about three and a half years ago. 

These days, I still try to write each day, in the morning when at all possible. It helps me clear my head of all of the muck that it may have accumulated overnight, which is, I've discovered, a surprising amount. It helps me get out anxieties about the day ahead, or, if I'm feeling imaginative, pulls me into my creative happy place where I can forget stress and cyclothymia and everything else and just be . I've learned to give myself a little slack now. If I have to move my writing to the afternoon or unavoidably miss a day, I don't beat myself up over it - at least not as much, A few months ago, I began writing a novel. I didn't plan on it, I just woke up one day with the opening scene in my mind. It found its way onto my morning pages.  Since then, I've been writing it three pages at a time, every morning (sometimes I "cheat" and allow myself to indulge in additional pages). Admittedly, it's not the most efficient way to write a book, but it's what keeps this habit going. If for any reason I don't write for a couple of days, or if I feel my writing time rushed or shallow, I get antsy. Writing is like meditation for me (though I do that separately as well). I get in a "zone" when I'm writing, off in a separate world within my brain, and I sometimes joke that the house could be on fire and I wouldn't notice. Those close to me have learned to respect my writing time - to not bother me unless the house is, in fact, on fire. 

So often, my brain is a confusing and painful place. When I need to shed it, I go off and write. I feel it has, at times, literally saved me when I'm about to lose my sh*t and myself. Because I really do feel like there are times I'm going to lose my mind. When I'm writing, the mess evaporates. Even blogging isn't the same. It has to be handwritten, cursive, in a spiral bound notebook and it has been my solace through so many ups and downs. I begun numbering my notebooks when I started this habit several years ago. I'm now on notebook 15. I hope I get to 115.