Robbed of Personal Power - Beyond Your Story

I talk a lot about your story up until now and how you should not let it define you.

We all have had people in our past who have taken away our personal power. It might have been parents, kids at school that made fun of us or people who have abused us in some way.

In the words of The Bloggess, depression lies!

 I've been right in all these places. I've been told I was fat, even though I was beautiful. There was a man who told me that he loved me, then choked me until I blacked out. There was a man who, when he saw me walking around the college campus without him, told me that I was fat and that he was embarrassed to call me his girlfriend to his coworkers. Girls, so insecure with themselves while in my presence, that they systematically tore at my self esteem over years until by age 17, I didn't think that I was worthy of even drawing breath, anymore.

A picture of me at 17 - suicidal and believing I was horribly fat, ugly
and not worthy of drawing breath, anymore.

There are so many things that float around in our heads from these situations in our lives. They come back to us as we are driving down the road. They replay to us as phantasms behind our closed eyelids in the shower or before we drift off to sleep. These are horrible stories that we repeat in our heads and they hold us back in our lives.

"Oh, I can't do that because my family was . . . "

"I don't deserve to be happy because I'm too fat, too intimidating with my intelligence, too ugly, too . . . " any number of things.

All of these things that you tell yourself in your head, no matter who told you that? They were wrong.

A conversation my local grocery store with a cashier led me to make the statement, "I don't know why people are so mean to each other."

In my younger years, I was (to borrow a phrase from TRAPT) "a little piece of heaven raising hell." I was beautiful. With a dancers' build and modeling contracts, I still didn't think I was worth a damn. And because I let my past define me, I was angry. So angry. I watched this TED talk, recently, and I really know how this woman felt.

For years, I was so hurt. It started with my heart being broken by a good friend / high school romance and it built from there. But I never really allowed myself to feel the pain from that betrayal. I didn't see the outside influences on him. His parents, etc. Only my own pain.

I still had to go to school. I still had to care about getting good grades and getting into college. I had to pretend to care about so many things when, really, all I could think about was the fact that I felt I had lost the one and only person who had understood me and that I was alone in the world, again. I couldn't feel that pain or honor it.

Parents and well-meaning peers told me to "get over it," so I hid it. I "sucked it up" and it became tighter and smaller and it morphed in my heart into a black ball of anger that followed me. Situations and years came and went and my anger just knotted in upon itself and I raged.

I raged! And the more I raged, the more I found to be mad at - righteously (I thought). Patriarchy, sexism, racism, genocide, cruelty, the Native holocaust. Ani DiFranco sang "I'm not angry, anymore," and I screamed back at her. "Fuck you, Ani. I'm still angry!" Hundreds of personal and cultural and worldly slights to be mad at until I spun myself out of anger in exhaustion some time in my late 20's - right around the time Hubby and I started dating.


During my period of rage, I pulled back from any vulnerability. My anger made me strong. It made me goal driven. It gave me scholarships and grants and awards and accolades far beyond my schooling and years. It gave me fire and it gave me drive. It made me hard.

When I did form relationships, I was so terrified of being hurt again, I kept everyone at bay. Even those that knew me for years only had an illusion of intimacy. Two year relationships only scratched the surface of "knowing who Bri was." I couldn't be authentic because of my fear, so I sought out other broken, hurt and furious souls, like me. There was no way that these relationships were going to last, but at least the two of us could find comfort in someone who was just as broken as the other was, for a time. And if my partner was broken, too, they wouldn't judge me for my damaged self.

I'm not quite sure what has changed me. Maybe it was Hubby or age. Maybe becoming a mama has softened my edges. Maybe moving back to my hometown has made little Native me want to "bury the hatchet." Maybe picking my art back up, being in therapy, admitting to being in pain, finally getting medical attention, and regular writing are all contributing to my change of heart and mind.

Or maybe it's because I'm 32 and I'm finally ready to start growing into the woman that I'm meant to be in this life, ready to step up and be the creative, the medicine person, the healer that I was always been meant to be. And you will know me, now, by the way I dance with the fire and the wolves.

There could be a hundred different reasons that I'm not the same person, anymore. But I like who I am, now. And I like who I'm becoming. I like that I am content, most days, though I still do have the yearning to grow, to explore, to learn and to create.

I used to be hard, like a scalpel. I find myself, now, becoming soft. My arms, my belly, my eyes, hair, skin and smile. All soft. And I'm okay with this. I'm reclaiming my personal power. I am strong. I've moved beyond my story and am writing a new one.

And, the one thing I want to tell you, my readers, about all of this. I am not special. I'm just one girl, out here, in the middle of the corn fields of Indiana. Trust me. If I, with all my faults and foibles can move from a place of hurt and anger to a place of peace and calm joy, you can too. There is nothing special about what I've done. All it takes is the effort to try.

You, my readers. You are my pack. So, if your heart is aching. If your spirit is downtrodden. If you're angry or alone or misunderstood or feel like you're forgotten - know one thing. There's one soul, out here, who's been exactly where you are and has come through it to a better place. There is hope. There is a way. And you can find it!

Oh my lovelies, I hope this entry finds your heart in a place of joy. If it doesn't, I hope that joy finds you soon.

And please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All My Relations,

-Bri

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Forgiving Dr. Mengele: An Inspirational Story

Today, I watched the wonderful 2002 documentary, Forgiving Dr. Mengele.

A quick history: Dr. Mengele was a doctor in the notorious Auschwitz concentration camp in Nazi Germany. Eva Mozes Kor and her sister, Miriam, were children that survived Dr. Mengele's experiments on twin children. The documentary focuses on Eva and her journey in mentally processing what happened to her in Auschwitz, forgiving the perpetrators of the crimes against her and the effects that her forgiveness has had on other survivors and the world, at large.

The documentary is, as of this writing, available for viewing on Netflix streaming.

Of all the documentaries I've watched, I deem this one to be the most profound and important. 

None of us comes through this life unscathed. As a victim of rape, violence and abuse, I have come through much in this life. Others have come through much worse.

We come through unloving parents, teasing and ostracizing by our peers, rape, violence, abusive relationships, gaslighting, poverty, racism, sexism and intolerance. But, no matter what we have come through, for the most part, none of it comes close to the horrors and pain that Eva, her sister and all the survivors of the Holocaust came through.

I found this documentary inspiring. Eva and her twin sister, Miriam, survived atrocities and pain that most of us could never even dream of experiencing. Even after the death of her sister (which was a direct result of Dr. Mengele's experiments), Eva still manages to look past the pain and toward a brighter horizon.

This horizon is one that few of us could imagine getting to after such an ordeal. Eva's horizon is the forgiving of her tormentors and the building of hope for a better and more understanding future.

This begs the question, for me, "If Eva can forgive something so great, why can't we all forgive the things in our lives that seem so small by comparison?"

I would have thought there would be support for Eva for such courageous acts - even going so far as to visit the house of a Nazi doctor who worked in Auschwitz in order to gain some clarity and closure. But it seems that this is not the case. Arguments fly of "Who are we to forgive them? We are not God!" and "If I forgive, I would be dishonoring the memory of my family who died." to "We demand acts of atonement for what was done to us!"

I can not say that I would blame those who are still hurting over their experiences. Maybe, if I were in their shoes, I would feel the same way, hard pressed to let the past go. But Eva's response is simple and pure. "Getting even has never healed a single person."

Eva is not about forgetting. And, in fact, world should never forget the horrors that happened, lest we lose the lesson found therein and allow something like the Holocaust to happen, again. "I don't want to be a victim all my life, " says Eva. "That is why I forgive."

And Eva is right. Our forgiveness does not change the nature of the acts committed against us as wrong. It doesn't even matter if the people who hurt us deserve to be forgiven. Forgiveness is a gift we give ourselves, our own hearts, our own spirits. We have things we want to do and people (hopefully free from pain) that we want to be. We forgive because we want to move on.

What was done to Eva, her sister and millions of others was wrong. Nothing will change that fact. But holding on to the pain, to the trauma, to the hatred of the perpetrators does nothing for the healing of the wounds in the human soul. Everyone is entitled to feel whatever they wish regarding this issue, to forgive or not. All I am saying is that Eva and her perspective inspire me.

Eva inspires me to think that, if she can forgive such a huge encroachment on her being, why can we all not forgive the little (by comparison) violations in our own lives. Eva and her story give me hope for a more forgiving world.


And I come to find out that Eva and I live in the same state. How amazing and cool is that?!? Maybe, one day soon, I'll get to meet with her and thank her for all the work she's done.

Me? I've forgiven most of those who have harmed me. As I said in my first vlog, amnesty is granted to all. (And please, make no mistake, there is a big difference between forgiving people and allowing them back into your life so they can hurt you, again.) I do not want to live out my days in fear, in pain, in keeping the negative things in my life in the forefront of my brain. I prefer hope, joy, reason, compassion, empathy and oneness.

Until next time, my lovelies. Please remember that we are all visionaries.We just have to figure out where we excel.

Go to Episode 2

Love to All,


-Bri


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Living Within Your Means

If there's one thing I've learned about living a creative lifestyle, it is this: you can not operate at your full creative potential if you're constantly worried about money.

It is only now, in my early 30's that I am starting to comprehend how much of a practical feminist work "A Room of One's Own" by Virginia Woolfe is.

To quote The Indigo Girls, "I wrote papers about her in college, but I didn't know what I was talking about."

If you haven't read the book, I highly recommend it. In this book, basically, Virgina examines why more women don't go on to become business people or creatives. It comes down to a simple perspective. A woman must have money - meaning a way to support herself that is not dependent on anyone else that can be taken away. One can not reach their full potential if they're constantly worried that their electricity might be shut off or that someone will get mad at them and kick them out onto the street.

The second thing that Virginia says a woman (or anyone) needs to be creative is 'a room of one's own.' This means space and time to be able to sit and hear one's inner voice. It is very hard to concentrate on creative work when you have no corner, no time where you won't be interrupted by the daily ins and outs of life.

I am very lucky. I have all my essentials. I have a house that is warm. I have food for myself and my family every day. I have clean water to drink that comes directly to my house. Not all people have these bear essentials in their lives. When I look around the world, I see that I am fortunate.

I am also fortunate to have Hubby. He helps in all the child rearing things like changing of diapers. He helps with the chores that need to be done and understands that, mama needs some time, just needs rest or some time to be the "me" I was before my identity of "mama."

Hubby is much less social than I am. In order to function happily, I need hang-out with friends. I need to be able to cut loose and stay out all night and drink coffee and talk. He has his time away, too, with his martial arts. But we respect each other enough to understand the need for time away. And give the other their occasionally needed breathing room. This, I think, is one of the most important things of being in a psychologically healthy relationship.

But, really, the most important thing for us is the money. Everything is taken care of. Everything we need, we have or can get. This is thanks to many different kinds of support systems. My family, we do not live extravagantly. We don't think we have to have a brand new, flashy car. We don't need the latest in cell phone technology. We don't even need an entirely new wardrobe every year. In short, we live within our means.

We don't have massive debt. We don't rack up credit card bills. We make, we make due, or we do without.

Living within your means is one of the biggest things you can do to support yourself, creatively. As the quote from Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat, Pray, Love) says, if you're not demanding that your creativity support a very extravagant lifestyle, it can be about where your art needs to go. It doesn't have to be about how much money it can make you.

I've known artists who have fallen into this trap of needing their work to make them a certain amount of money. They get burnt out very quickly.

Art, writing, dance, creativity of any kind does not thrive when you're constantly worried about your next mortgage payment or rent. You can not give of yourself and your talents, fully, if you're coming from a place of lack. In order to create, our hearts must come from a place of abundance, where we feel that we are taken care of, we are safe and valued. Only then will our spirit be able to speak its' deepest truth.

Reduce, my beautiful souls. What do you really need out of this life?

Keep this in mind, my lovelies. I encourage you to live more simply. I encourage you to live more sustainably and, more than anything, I encourage you to live the life that you've always wanted. A life that makes your eyes sparkle, makes your heart break open and makes your spirit sing.

Until next time, my dearests, please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All,

-Bri

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In a Bad Funk

Today, I'm in a funk. My body doesn't feel right. My head isn't clear. In general, things suck.

Even I have days like this.

I'm in the grocery store at 10 o'clock at night, staring into the frozen food cases. My shoulders are slouched. My hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. I don't have on any socks or makeup and I'm wearing pajama pants. Through the frost-coated glass doors, I'm trying to figure out what flavor of ice cream contains the secret to getting my happy back.

I know this won't work, but everything else I've tried has failed.

It's snowing out. There are clouds from horizon to horizon, so there's no sun to bathe in. When I get home, I know that hubby and the kids have bathed, so sitting down in the shower and letting hot water run over me? Not going to happen.

Cookie Dough? Pistachio? Strawberry? Super-Fudgy-Chunk?

I stare at the rainbow of little pint containers. Finally, I select one I haven't tried before. "Maybe it's just that I've not tried ALL the flavors, yet," I think to myself.

Again, I know this isn't true, but I'm grasping at straws.

As I'm walking to the checkout line, it hits me. Potato chips. I want salt. I bypass the checkout line and stroll down the aisle with different colored mylar bags just winking at me in the florescent light. "Why do stores keep putting florescent lights in? Don't they know that it just makes people feel worse?" I think.

I select a bag of popcorn instead of the chips and I think, "These are healthier . . . I think." The bag is black and I remember how a cashier once, about 4 months ago, who told me that she didn't feel any smarter after eating the bag of corn, despite what the company who made it was called. Some cynical remark about the cashier's intelligence that I don't mean skitters across my brain like a beetle.

Then a song so depressing comes on the PA that it feels like the world is just conspiring with my funk to keep my shoulders slouched.

 
At home, I sit with a spoon, watching some comedian's special on my television for the 20th time. I know the jokes. I'm not laughing, anymore. But, somehow, the familiar voice cadence of a routine that I know by heart makes me less agitated. I love the lilts of the comedian's voice. I love the little laughs and sidetracks that happen in the moment.

I spoon the ice cream in my mouth. Then, when I'm done, I mute the television. I pull out my laptop and I write, "Today, I'm in a funk."

I can't change the fact that I'm in this strange funk that nothing seems to be able to penetrate, so I try to do something with it. I put it down on the page. In words or art, I put it down. I try to get it out of me so that it doesn't stay and wreck the next couple of days.

I think back to what may be the root of my malaise. Is it the fact that there hasn't been sun in a couple of days 'cause it's winter in Indiana? Did I do too much at that television interview and now, with my Lupus, I'm paying the price for it? Did I miscalculate my spoons? Did the nightmares that I woke screaming from cause me not to get enough good sleep, again?

It's pointless to try and figure it out. It may be one, all, or none of those reasons and knowing doesn't help me, at all. So I write. And I write. And I write some more. I pour it out on the page.

That's what I do when things are crap and nothing seems to make them better. I watch television. I eat ice cream. I take my pills and I type on my computer. I read books. I play with Pookie while sitting in bed. Maybe it's just my body trying to tell me that I need this cave time - that I need to hunker down and just not be as many things to people as I usually am. Or maybe this is just another one of those things that come with having Lupus.

So I try to get by with my ice cream and comedy specials. And maybe tomorrow I'll feel better. Maybe tomorrow the clouds will break and the wind will quit blowing stinging snow in my face and I can get out and take a walk. Maybe I'll go into a store and not hear depressing songs in minor chords. And maybe there could be Alfredo for dinner. Tomorrow. All tomorrow.

Today, it's time to be honest. It's time to write. Today, there's the truth of everything and the power of being authentic - of not pretending that everything is okay.

Today, I'm in a bad funk and I can't figure a way out.

The Nightmare Should Be Over: Dealing with PTSD

♫ And though the nightmare should be over
some of the terrors are still intact
I hear that ugly, coarse and violent voice
and then (s)he grabs me from behind
and then (s)he pulls me back ♫

The lyrics above are from a song by Meat Loaf called "Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are." 

Those lyrics strike very close to home for those of us with PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can happen for a myriad of reasons. Basically, it boils down to a person being exposed to stress where they feel that their life or safety may be in danger. If this happens often enough over a period of time, the body and the mind can be effected long after the stressful situation has passed.

For those of us who have survived abuse or trauma, our lives can be ruled by the effects of PTSD. We avoid certain places. We alter our habits. The most seemingly innocent things make us uncomfortable, scared, or even (in the cases of war survivors) violent.

I am not the first of my family to have PTSD. My dear father's father killed himself by carbon monoxide poisoning when my dad was 18. My dad found the body and tried to perform CPR on a body that had already gone through rigor mortis. To this day, the smell of car exhaust fumes in a confined area makes my father sick to his stomach. It reminds him of that horrid day and brings up all the emotions associated with how his family fell apart, after that tragedy.

 My father at 18 years old

In the case of having been abused either by a parent or lover, after one gets away, they may unconsciously put themselves back into a different abusive relationship. And a person may do this because that is what "feels normal" to them. I know that's what I did and it took some real inner work to break that cycle.

Throughout my life, my mother was severely psychologically and emotionally abusive to both my father and I. There was physical abuse thrown in there, as well, but it happened less frequently. My mother controlled what we ate, how much we were allowed to sleep, what clothes we could wear, almost every aspect of our lives. She accused us of "crimes" we didn't commit. She spread rumors about us, lied to us, stole from us and generally made our lives miserable. If her whims weren't satisfied, we paid the price. 

My father and I even developed our own sign language to communicate with each other so she couldn't hear us. It got so bad that she even manipulated how my father and I could even speak to each other. And, when we did speak, she pitted us against one another.

When you're a person who is trapped, living with a crazy-making person like my mother was, you almost develop a sixth sense. Other abuse survivors I've talked to have this sense, as well. This extra sense is the ability to read the energy of a room. You learn this as a survival trait. If you can "sense" when your abuser is mad, even before seeing them, you can try to preemptively soothe them or maybe steer clear and avoid their wrath. 

To this day, I notice very small modulations in people's speech, tiny differences in the way their face moves that may indicate either anger or sadness. When I think someone may not be 100% on stable mental turf, I still try to almost instinctively soothe them. Living a life on the edge of distaster with an abusive person made me hyper-aware of changes to my surroundings.

It wasn't until I was 27 and my parents got divorced that I realized how bad it really was in "The House of Unending Hostility." Once I got some physical and psychological distance, I realized how badly she had effected both my father and I. Five years after their divorce, my father and I still talk about it, we still try to process those years and we still sit in disbelief. Yes. It did happen. No, we're not crazy and we're not making it up. It really was that bad.

When an abused person gets out and then goes back to what we think is "normal," the cycle is incredibly hard to break. When I left college at age 20, I moved in with a boyfriend who turned out to be an abusive alcoholic. For 2 years, our electricity got turned off periodically, but there was always whiskey and beer in the refrigerator. 

Living with him was a dark time of high drama and he literally tried to killed me, once. There are times, still, in my nightmares, when I can still feel his hands around my throat, feel myself losing breath and see the world going dark.

♫ And now I still believe (s)he never let me leave
I had to run away, alone
So many threats and fears, so many wasted years
before my life became my own ♫

Now that I haven't spoken to or even been in my mothers' presence for 5 years, I can see how bad it was. Now that I can begin to distance myself and reflect on the relationships of my past, I can begin to heal the wounds and scars that they left.

The day before Thanksgiving, I went to the store where the abusive alcoholic boyfriend was employed while we were together. I haven't spoken to him in 9 years, but I live back in the town where he and I lived, together. It's hard. There are businesses I refuse to go in because of the association with him. There are people I am afraid to talk to, even though I'd like their friendship, because I'm afraid that information about me will get back to him and I'll have to run for my life across state lines, again. It's irrational. I know this. But that's how PTSD works. The fear for your safety is so ingrained that it turns into either fight-or-flight or complete shut-down when the memories are brought back up.

Through counseling and medication, I've come to accept that the abuse that has happened to me wasn't my fault and that I don't have to let those past traumas rule me. I can begin to retrain my brain to remember that I'm no longer back there, in those situations. I am safe. My daughter, Pookie, and my hubby are my reality, now. 

I haven't completely been able to forgive the perpetrators for their actions, but I've begun to challenge and beat the fear.

Today, I went to his store. I hadn't set foot in there for 9 years. I used to take him his lunch every day. He brought home dinner from this store. I walked in there, so many times, with a smile plastered on my face, yet afraid that someone could read on my face what was really going on. He had made it very clear that, for office politic reasons, it was important that I impress these coworkers by being a "dutiful girlfriend." I was terrified of displeasing him. I was petrified that they would see through my eyes and down into my heart, all the way down to my wrenching desire to be loved and the desperation I was experiencing.

I parked The Visionary Van outside and I looked up at the store's sign. Even 9 years later, just seeing the logo of the store made me want to run, to pass on by, to avoid. Deep breaths, I thought. Deep breaths. He's not here. He hasn't been here for a long time. None of the people that work in there would probably even remember who he was. I talked myself into walking across the parking lot, opening the wide glass door and going into the store. You're safe, I told myself. 

Still, I found myself glancing at every employee, ready to run. See? They're not even wearing the same uniforms. It's okay. You're just a customer. Look around.

As I browsed the store, I noticed that the various departments weren't even laid out in the same manner that I remembered them. That helped. Making my way through the new layout, I wandered down aisles. To any on-looker, I was just another customer perusing the shelves. But, inside, this was monumental. My heart wasn't pounding in my ears. My feet weren't backing away. 

You don't own me anymore, I thought. You're not going to live rent-free in my head anymore. You can't hurt me. See? I am strong. I'm getting over all the crap you beat me down with. I'm not angry, anymore, and I'm not scared. I will not let this rule me.


I looked at Christmas gifts for my Precious Pookie. Amid all the colorful softness of the toy aisle, I felt so thankful that I had come so far. I had the little girl I had always wanted, but never thought I'd have. Holding a stuffed lady bug, silky soft and sweet, I just knew that Pookie would giggle with delight when she saw it. In that moment, my eyes welled up with tears of joy. To come full circle and to stand on the exact same cream and brown tile floor, so happy, where I had once stood and been so sad and scared, my heart broke open and I wept.

I wish that, when I left that store, that it was magical. I wish I could tell you that I walked back to The Visionary Van with my fist raised to the sky in victory. I didn't. I wish I could tell you that I fell to my knees and thanked every god that ever was for helping me on this road. I didn't. I just walked back to my purple minivan.

That was it. Plain, simple and innocuous. No triumphant music gave any clue to the world what I had just stared down. Memories. Past. Fear. Helplessness. To any observer who doesn't know my history, who doesn't have these memories or this heart that was crushed by people who professed love, the title of this blog post would have been, Today, I Browsed Christmas Gifts In a Store.

Dear souls, as you go about your lives, please occasionally try to remember this. That person who just cut you off in traffic? Maybe their sister just died. That lady who was three cents short for the ice cream? Maybe she just faced down a personal demon and was rewarding herself. (Psst! That was me!) 'Cause we don't get theme music rocketing down from the ether at significant moments in our life. We're just people going about our day and living. We're just little beings, trying to make the best of the hand we've been dealt. And, in my book, that's worth a little ice cream, from time to time. 

 My father (today) with his awesome girlfriend and my daughter, Pookie

Lovelies, this isn't the end of my story or my struggle, no. This Earth-shaking day was only one step in a process. Coming out the other side of trauma and abuse can have a happy story that follows it. No matter what you've gone through, your story can continue past fear. It can continue past pain, past betrayal, past hurt and lies, negative self image, anger and the urge to run away.

And maybe your path will take you far away. To mountains and oceans. Maybe you'll be known by a different name. And maybe, just maybe, the road will wind and bend you gently back to the town you started in, to friends and family that will sing triumphant out-of-tune songs with you while passing the chocolate syrup.

 

Whatever you're facing, my dears, please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.


My heart goes out to you and joins with yours.
I send you hope and serendipity.
Love to all,


Bri



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Self Care: Episode 2 -- Diet

Before any of us can do anything truly remarkable or glorious in this world, we have to learn how to do one simple thing. We need to learn how to take care of ourselves. A person can’t give the best of themselves or create their best work if they aren’t operating at their best. Do you think that Michelangelo could have painted the Sistine Chapel on only 2 hours of sleep and a granola bar? I certainly don’t think so.  

In a little creative play and experimentation, I created a collage of words with Watercolor Pencils on the topic of self-care.

I’ll address each of the things I came up with in subsequent posts.

Diet

Self-Care: Episode 1: Sleep

Before any of us can do anything truly remarkable or glorious in this world, we have to learn how to do one simple thing. We need to learn how to take care of ourselves. A person can’t give the best of themselves or create their best work if they aren’t operating at their best. Do you think that Michelangelo could have painted the Sistine Chapel on only 2 hours of sleep and a Granola Bars ? I certainly don’t think so.  

In a little creative play and experimentation, I created a collage of words with  Watercolor Pencils on the topic of self-care.

I’ll address each of the things I came up with in subsequent posts.

Sleep