I'm having a sad day. Nothing particular happened though. It's just one of those run of the mill depression days that started with waking up from a nightmare starring Francis our studio daddy long legs mascot, a cat jumping on my very tender ovaries, and then listening to an interview podcast of one of my extremely successful singer/songwriter idols who basically said there's nothing more I, as an artist, can do to be more successful. One can only work hard to a point, but then it's all luck to get you to the 'next step'. Well, I'm never downloading another one of that artist's albums ever again. I mean what she said is probably true, but it's also very hard to hear. And fuck you successful artist person. So yeah, it sent me on a mental spiral down under the waves. That's where I am right now. And I will definitely download her next album. But fuck her anyways.

Because of my recent egg donation, I haven't been able to be active. A large part of my mental health regimen involves going to the gym or running (aka the begrudged hustle), but due to my recent surgery jostling of the lady bits is prohibited. I am super excited that eight of those eggs fertilized and are currently dividing like good little blastocysts. However, I'm anxious to get back into my routine of the begrudged hustle.

Speaking of which, I have this theory/mantra I want to share with you. Like most of us, I have a lot of loved ones in my life who struggle with anxiety and depression. Many of them struggle more than I do. My own sister has been in and out of the hospital for the past month because of her anxiety. She's battling some fierce dragons right now, and my heart breaks for her. We keep cheering her on, but I know how a broken brain fucks up your perception. I gave her and my mom (because our dragons run in the family) a copy of Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson. It is a beautiful, irreverent memoir that deals with her mental illness head on with humor, sass, and taxidermy. You should read it, though I know many of you already have. I am sadly behind the times which my guitar students remind me anytime I try to teach Katy Perry's 'Wide Awake'. I just love that music video.

ANYWAYS, back to my theory. I call it Putting on The Pants. It's like, basically the first step to Putting on the Ritz. You clearly need pants for that. And some sweet spats. When I am in the depths of the depths, I can barely muster the energy to even make eye contact with other human beings. I know that for me, getting outside of the house, and being active is the start of swimming back to the shoreline of mental health. And before I can do that, I need to put on my exercise pants. For you, it might be something different. Maybe it's updating your blog. Or fixing your broken pottery wheel. Or just texting a friend to acknowledge that you could use support today. Or buying some fucking shoes. Or regular shoes. Either way, there's is one step between you and that action that will start to chip away at the wall that your asshole brain has built. Putting on The Pants is that first step.

I have a hook on my bathroom door where I leave my gym clothes. It stares at me when I get up in the morning, when I go to the bathroom, and when I brush my teeth. It says HERE ARE YOUR STRETCHY GYM PANTS. ARE YOU GOING TO PUT THEM ON TODAY? If I, at the very least, put them on, I am one step closer to helping out my brain for the day. If I never put on my gym pants, there is no way I will ever make it to the gym that day. They will just stare sadly at me, and I will feel guilty and neglectful. If I can suit up in the pants, put on the sneakers, and squirm into the pièce de resistance, the sports bra, I can probably get my ass out the door. If I can get my ass out the door, I may as well go to the gym because I'm dressed like a bum. I can't justify the pants all day long if I don't do something sweaty in them. If you are dressed and ready for the show, you kind of have to do the show right?

So this is the psychological game I play with myself in order to do the thing that my brain fights against on a daily basis. I'm never going to scale that wall. I'm never going to win this battle with my brain. I'm just going to do the thing that allows me to chip away at the wall, at whatever thing seems insurmountable and says "what you do doesn't make a difference". Sometimes I write. Sometimes I sit still and hold Melon. Sometimes I play music even though my brain says it doesn't matter. And it's best to chip away at a wall with pants on because you don't want wall bits getting on your own bits.

Since I started writing this, my sister put on some pants. She used to be a potter, but she hasn't made anything in years because of her grad school obligations. Her major was bio tech and it left zero time for creativity. This has also been a source of her dragons and illness this month. She texted me yesterday and told me she finally fixed her broken pottery wheel. And she wedged some clay. She didn't make a thing, but she took a tiny step. A tiny step that enabled her to do something fulfilling when her spirit is ready for that bigger step. She even sent me a picture of her pants with clay on them. This put the biggest smile on my face, and in turn, lifted my spirits. I put my pants on today, and I feel a little better than yesterday when I started writing this. So I want to encourage you too, if you have literal or metaphorical pants, put them on. Tell me about it. I want to know what small, seemingly mundane actions you take to lift yourself back up. Maybe together we can be a kinder, more understanding, pants wearing community. -xos.