Self care is a forever thing.

Even though it’s shit, it’s true. Self care is a forever thing. We need to do that shit all the time. We can’t just take a bath once in a blue moon. We need to have baths all the fucking time. We need to eat fruit and drink water. We need to find an exercise that doesn’t make us want to chop our own feet off. We need say ‘I’m pretty fucking wonderful’ to ourselves every once in a while. We need to go to bed without our phones. We need to freeze. Close our eyes. And breathe. Even if your on the Victoria line at 7 am on a Monday morning. Even then. We need to ask for some more help please and give more help when it’s asked for. We need to moisturise. Self care is a forever thing. A daily thing. Or in your most sacred of places you brain place will have a panic party. And it’ll go like this:

I’m having a panic attack because I can’t find the right book in the library. Number 371.271. The numbers. I hate this horrible day. I can’t find the n. Fucking. The. 371. What. It’s too hot. They’re not helpful. 37. Point. What. Coal on my tongue. Swallow. Too hot. I’m having a panic attack because I can’t find the book. And everyone’s looking at me in the wrong way. I could kill someone. I hate. This. 371 point 361 it’s no good. Hard luck. I need to leave. I need to remember to breathe. It’s. I. It’s a stupid fucking system and the carpets stupid and. Where the fuck is the fucking. 

I’m having a panic attack in a library (my sacred place) because I forgot self care was a forever thing. 

So today I had a bath and before that I did some yoga. It was cosy and soft and even though my brain didn’t fully switch off. And the dragon in the chest was still fucking about with its wings and fire. I feel a little better. And I know. If I do it more. I’ll feel more like me and less like I’m trying to hide a dragon under my tits.