menomaenoonnanoko

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Also the importance of building habits and structure through long term persistence and self forgiveness is more important than the gratification of quick results in almost every aspect of life just FYI

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i think my heart was made for slow things. tea that takes time. stories that don’t rush. people who don’t ask "why are you so quiet?" as if quiet is a flaw.

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Lisa Young

Fortune Wall (detail)

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Underground is a weird place

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...!

just found your blog and read your post where you mention criticizing cbt and dbt. could you explain a bit what specifically you’re critical of?

I'm critical of the tendency within both of these branches and therapy in general to miss the big picture and end up individualizing suffering by blaming the understandable consequences of real material problems that often contribute to mental health issues of various kinds (abuse, isolation, trauma, poverty, disability, discrimination and much more) on "negative thinking", "cognitive distortions", etc - framing "positive thinking" and other internal policing of thoughts, emotions and reactions as the solution to problems that can't actually be fixed with an attitude change alone.

Of course there are situations where reframing your thinking and questioning your reactions is genuinely helpful, but the tendency to focus on this part as the only necessary solution turns into an assumption that everyone with mental illness are inherently suffering due to irrational reasons and just need to think/react differently to get better, and that's both dangerous and harmful.

There's a general tendency towards individualism in this society which is reflected in how these therapy approaches are often used - we are often expected to fix our individual suffering with willpower, positivity and hard work alone, completely separately from the surrounding circumstances, and then blamed and shamed for "not really trying" when we can't, and that's what I'm really critical of.

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Josef Wawra - Sparrow (ca. 1920)

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‘Ode To The Seasons’ by Meryl Valerie for Nasty Magazine, January 2023

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Uncoiling

What is it that I like?

Tracing the edges of what it might be, my mind colors giraffes, wooden spoons, and Egyptian folklore.

Yet, why those images come in the first place? How did these come to be the images of comfort I turn to whatever the tides of longing rise?

No matter the truth of how we're made of bits of others but where I mine, to begin with?

If you replace every board on a ship with new ones, does it stay the same or can it be called new?

Theseus, you tell me — am I even real?

—

my piece for The Unpretty Challenge by @versesbyaaliyah — thank you for the soul-itching prompt, like always.

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What a fun surprise..m! Thank you a lot for tagging me, @versesbyaaliyah. Although I don't have many people to tag in return, I'll still share my odd fears.

My biggest, most nerve-wrecking, albeit fairly common, fear would be insects. I simply cannot stand them (though I've been making an effort not to kill any anymore... they're terrifying but alive nonetheless).

Now, an odd one. I'm specifically scared of large anythings. From buildings to the sky itself and even just ocean charts — they trigger an onset terror that leaves me heart-thumping, frozen-blodded on the spot.

Again, thank you for the tag! I'll invite one person... @scarlettlaurie ...!

Starting a tag game! What is a really weird fear you have?

Mine is walking through those security things at stores. Like- what if I accidentally packed a bomb in my back pocket? Or accidentally stole $1,000 dollars worth of gum?

@sylki221b-of-the-shire @quietlyartistic13 @the-woodlandfaerie @sunnyyy-daze @iwanderbecauseimlost

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Kaga-Yuzen in Indigo, Navy, & Black

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Kikukawa Eizan, from the Fashionable Four Accomplishments series

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Kaga-Yuzen in Pink & Peach

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temporary binder reminder, thank you yumi sakugawa

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2004

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something tiny for the candlelit memory challenge, posted by @versesbyaaliyah

木曜日 ー 死んだ日

Cleaning the house, counting pills.

Dust-stained fingers.

Tears trace moon-colored circles—two, four, six, ten.

A round number.

Like the pills.

Like the bundled clothes slumped by the bed,

forgotten for weeks.

A futon buried under fleece and cotton, fraying at the seams—

You’re supposed to tie loose threads before leaving, aren’t you?

Each sweep of the old broom,

one more goes down—

soft flesh scraped,

something heavy settling deep inside.

Trembling hands

straighten the room into a grave-shape.

This isn’t poetry.

Just like ten pills

aren’t enough.