One Panic Attack at a Time

I’m going through one of the most anxiety-riddled times of my life right now. The stress of purchasing a house on my own (and constantly being terrified of something ruining the whole thing) and the stress of being poor during the holidays (and being terrified of disappointing my children on Christmas) is rippling out and making my everyday normal anxieties ten times bigger.
Anxiety is always telling me that people don’t really like me. They’re just being nice and pretending so they don’t hurt my feelings. Why would anyone like me? I’m boring, antisocial, needy, and riddled with anxiety. We call these brain weasels.Usually we can fight off brain weasels with logic, and they’re not a huge deal. But with all this additional stress and anxiety, my brain weasels have been running amok. So much so, that I decided everyone I’m closest to – friends, family, and significant others, would all be better off without me.
I honestly didn’t realize what I’d been doing. This is a brain weasel I’v…

I live in a trailer. It’s not terrible, but it’s not all that nice, either. It looks like crap on the outside, though my fall wreath on the door helps. On the inside it’s cute – I’ve decorated with everything geeky and as much purple as I can manage without it looking like Barney threw up in the place.
The problem is, the living space is small. I have two children, and there is just no space for all their toys and clothes. My son can’t clean his room because there’s just nowhere to put everything. There isn’t even room for a dresser in his bedroom, so his clothes are in a hanging contraption in his closet, and they’re constantly falling out of it.
I separated from my husband a little over a year ago. We filed for bankruptcy two years ago, so I didn’t think home ownership would be in the cards for me anytime soon. Especially since I have zero money for a down payment, and living paycheck to paycheck means no way of saving.
But a realtor friend made it happen for me.
She got me an …

I was once one of those skinny bitches who thought she was fat.
I know now that body dysmorphia is real, because I was convinced I was chubby even when I was only 112 pounds. I’ve always had plenty of junk in the trunk, and when I sat down I had the smallest roll over my pants. I’m pretty sure it was all skin. My rolls now laugh at my tiny skin roll back then.
I was one of those people who could eat anything and not gain weight. But in my mid-twenties I started getting heavier. I chalked it up to aging and metabolism. My mom was a bit chubby, so I figured genetics had something to do with it as well. I tried diet, exercise, and diet pills, but nothing helped. I figured I was just doomed to be chubby.
I gained 70 pounds in a year. I married a man I didn’t really love because I figured I’m fat, this is the best I can get.
I decided I wanted babies, but after a year of trying and my periods completely stopping, I was forced to seek medical help. It was then, at 25, that I discovered …