When Mania, Depression, & Creativity Collide

There was a moment this week that will help me define future episodes with mixed cycling mania and depression episodes.

Can Creativity Happen When Mania and Depression Hit?

It has been an exciting week for me both as a writer, being a human being, and someone who is manic-depressant. I have been able to write and be active this week, but not at the level I would like to be at some days. In the past, my creativity has always taken a backseat to my depression especially winter months, but I am always striving during the summer. I recently have had a great look at what happens when my creativity collides with my manic-depressive side— which has given me insight into my creativity during this time.

Entering into August my creativity has been at its highest levels over the past three months. It was the right choice to take the summer off before starting my master’s program because I have found my creative side that was missing for a while. I have been writing new content and it has helped grow my blog along with my collaborative writers (which has made The Bipolar Writer a true mental health collaborative blog.) I have felt really great to be moving towards publishing my memoir.

Life is good, but there will always be days.

I have an easier time being proactive during the summer months, and it is easier to not let my depression keep me from my goals. To be honest, I have achieved a lot this summer, and as I draw near putting my memoir together for publishing, I feel great. My blog is growing, and it has been a good almost year since starting The Bipolar Writer blog. Still, I have seen what happens when my creativity and being manic-depressant can make for some weird times in my life in recent weeks.despo-potamou-4189-unsplash.jpg

The past few weeks have been a struggle with my growing mania, but I have also been cycling between mania and depression. It means my creativity is really great when I am manic, which I have been in an increase in writing new original content for my blog. I have continued to focus on my memoir. At the same time, there are days like this past Saturday where I feel less creative. I have experienced some differing emotions in my weeks recently where things are good one moment and sad the next. This is my mixed cycling episodes (mania and depression) that I often see in the summer months.

My creativity has been excellent. I wish at times that writing every day can be a reality, but there are days where it is impossible. I have to take a step back and realize that life cannot always be reaching perfection. I have this issue where I think everything must be perfect, but it rarely is that way. There will be days where you just lay in your P.J.’s all day and lose productivity. When I look at my whole week, I was very productive, so I am learning to not be so hard on myself. It is not worth it!koushik-chowdavarapu-682187-unsplash.jpg

As I go forward this week, I will continue to work towards productive days and the day or two where I can relax. I know I have a busy week and I hope to stop cycling between depression and mania so that I can find some balance. The good thing is seeing my psychiatrist this week which should help me with finding out if changes will be made in my medications.

I will keep writing about my summer mania and depression this week. It’s great to talk about and share with my blog! Stay strong.

Always Keep Fighting!

James Edgar Skye

Photo Credit:

Lost Co

Koushik Chowdavarapu

Koushik Chowdavarapu

Less is More

Something I have learned over the course of the last 17 years in struggling with mental illness, is the application of the principle in the title: “less is more.”  Learning how to do this was not easy for me, but it has helped me in so many ways.

The old me–the me of not that many years ago, lived with a different mantra: “If less is good, then more is better.”  I had this idea that the more elaborate and complex something was, the better it was.  Also, the more time and effort I spent on the something, the more value it had, and the more value I had.

Let me give you some examples.  When my older children were small, I would read to them often.  Reading to children is good right?  Well, I made it better.  I didn’t just read, I made it fun.  I did all the voices and sound effects.  And I didn’t just read a couple books, I would read a whole stack.  “Less is good, but more is better.”  I’m sure my kids really liked this, but I felt exhausted afterward.  Present day me knows that if something makes me exhausted, it’s probably a good idea to tone it down.  However, at the time, this was proof that I loved my children and wanted to do what was best for them.  I had done more than the bare minimum, therefore it was better.

Here’s another example.  When having family over for dessert, or planning a family get together for my son’s birthday, it was not enough to grab a cake mix and some ice cream and call it good.  That would never do.  This is my family, we’re talking about!  Only the best for them.  That means everything baked from scratch.  This meant hours in the kitchen, preparing not one, but multiple dessert items so that there would be options.  More is better, remember?  Exhausting work, but–had to be done!  The more I work, the more love goes into it–right?

Another example: I was asked to serve in a position at church that would involve me overseeing all of the children, including their Sunday and weekday classes and activities.  It was a big responsibility.  This was the perfect opportunity to really dig in and put everything I had into making this the best run children’s program ever!  Was it enough to do the bare minimum?  Are you kidding me?  Of course not.  These kids deserved better than that!  I went the extra mile in every way possible and ended up completely burnt out after serving just shy of 2 years in this position.

I could go on and on with examples because this was literally my guiding star.  If I didn’t almost kill myself to do every little thing in my life, then it wasn’t good enough.  Oh sure–it was good enough for everyone else.  But it was not good enough for me.  I could not accept it—I could not accept me, if I wasn’t going above and beyond.

Then, deep depression hit–you know the story.  After my youngest son was born everything came crashing down.  Not only could I no longer go the extra mile, I couldn’t really do much of anything.  And I can honestly say, especially when discussing this particular topic, that I am so glad depression slowed me down.  I was forced by my circumstances to do a complete reset on how I approached my life.  I got to start over.  I got to learn a new way of living that helps me be a much happier, much more balanced person.

How was it a reset, you ask?  I couldn’t function in life. I could barely get through from minute to minute.  I was doing the barest of bare minimum efforts required to keep myself and my family alive.  As I got feeling a little better over time, I had to be careful, when adding things to my life, that I didn’t overload myself.  So I rebuilt my efforts from the ground up.

Now, instead of going above and beyond, I ask myself, “What is sufficient?  What is the simplest way to do this?  How can I expend the least amount of energy and still get the job done right?”  This is a much more relaxing way to approach life.

I learned a lot through this process.  Among other things, I learned that I could read a couple of books to my children when I have time, and that would be good enough.  I figured out that I really dislike entertaining and so avoid doing this these days.  When birthdays roll around, I reach for the cake mix and ice cream.  And I figured out that when given a task or assignment, I don’t have to make it bigger than it is.  I can just do my best to do what needs to be done and that is enough.

I find it much easier to manage my bipolar symptoms with the philosophy “less is more.”  I now have minimal amounts of stress in my life.  Because I am not killing myself to get things done all the time and trying to “wow” everyone with how hard I am working, I have more down time.  This translates into living at a slower pace, which I find very beneficial for my overall health and happiness.

“Less is more” can be applied to so many areas in life.  I have also benefited from using this wisdom to guide me when making purchases, or decluttering.  “What is sufficient for my needs?”  is a great guiding question that is helpful in these circumstances.

How have you benefited from following the philosophy “less is more?”  Do you ever find yourself caught in the trap of thinking you have to go the extra mile all the time?

As always, I would love to hear your story.  Comment below to share your experience.

Maybe I Shouldn’t Care so Much

I have been talking to my husband in recent days about the struggles I am still having with depression.  I confessed how I often feel bad that I haven’t done something “good enough,” or that I worry if I may have inadvertently made someone else uncomfortable by something I said or didn’t say.  I often worry if contributions I make are really valued by others.  I wonder if my efforts at church and in my family and even on the blog are really helping anyone.  I get down on myself far too often.  These is one of my biggest and most persistent negative thought patterns that I often have to work through.  It isn’t always easy to remember that I am enough–even though I know it is true.  It’s a battle I seem to have to fight almost every day.

Whenever I talk to my husband about this, he always half-jokingly says that I need to not care so much–I need to be heartless, like him.  This always makes me laugh because he is the furthest thing from heartless you can get.  However, I have watched a change in him in recent years.  He went from being more like me–always worried about not doing things just right and trying to accommodate everyone’s every need–to being his own advocate.  He speaks up for himself.  If he doesn’t want to do something, he says he doesn’t want to do it.  Instead of losing himself in a sea of worry about whether or not he’s meeting his own expectations and everyone else’s, he just does what he wants and does so confidently and without worry.  I love this and want so badly to emulate it, but I’m not sure how!  And– I guess I am afraid to.

I am afraid if I’m not focusing on doing everything just right, that I might make a big mistake.  I am afraid if I’m not focusing on how everything I do affects others, that I might hurt someone.  I suppose, overall, I m trying to prevent failure.  I don’t move with confidence through life.  I carry a heavy burden of self-doubt and self reproach.  And I’m tired of it.

Maybe I shouldn’t care so much.  Maybe I shouldn’t care at all.  If I really think about it, my dream would be to move through life the way I see best, without caring or worrying about failing–without caring about the expectations of others.  I need to be my own advocate, like my husband is for himself.

As I was typing this post up, this quote came into my mind:


“There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask “What if I fall?”
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?”
― Erin Hanson

I desperately want to be a more confident and happy me.  I am tired of keeping myself down.  Maybe I need to stick this quote to my bathroom mirror, for starters.

As for my next step–I’ll keep you posted.  I need to tackle this one thing at a time.

Is there anyone else who has struggled with this?  I’d love to hear your thoughts and your story.

The Challenge of Self Love

As my depression has lifted over the last couple years, and even with it’s dips every so often, I am learning I have a final hurtle to conquer to really free myself from continually cycling down into depression.  For me, it is this: learning to love myself.  When I discuss this, I am not only referring to feeling love toward myself, but treating myself with love–or in other words, love as a verb.

It’s difficult for me to share this with the world.  It makes me feel vulnerable to lay my private thoughts out for all to see, but I believe in the power that vulnerability gives us to make connections, to help others and to find healing within ourselves.  So, here goes.

I am, among other things, a person with high ideals and standards for myself.  I believe in the ideal.  I strive to work toward it, in my family and personal life.  It’s not possible to always reach it, but I have felt blessed by reaching toward it.  I would also say that I am a very compassionate person.  I will bend over backwards to help someone in need, be it friend or stranger.  I give people the benefit of the doubt and see the good in others.  I’m not perfect at this, but when I find myself being critical I am able to change course.  I don’t hold grudges.  The interesting, and sad thing here is that I find it very difficult to extend that same love, compassion and kindness to myself.  What comes so naturally in my interactions with others, is absolutely not natural in the thoughts and feelings I have toward me.

I know this is not something unique to me.  I know others struggle with this same phenomenon.  And so, let me share some insights I have had as I have embarked on this journey of self love.

First, I realized that it is important to notice my own thoughts and feelings as they pertain to myself–this is known as self-talk or one’s inner dialogue.  This took me a long time.  I actually didn’t even recognize that I had a negative inner dialogue until quite recently.  I didn’t realize how poorly I treated myself, because I didn’t take time to really notice my thoughts.  When I did notice them, I was surprised at just how hard I tend to be on myself.  When I did a task, I would inwardly berate myself for not doing it better.  When I interact with someone else, I feel badly about how the exchange went, thinking I should have said something differently, or acted differently.  I basically realized, that I did not give myself credit for anything I did, I criticized myself at every turn and put myself down for my perceived shortcomings.  In my mind I was never enough and could never measure up.  Much of this inner dialogue is automatic and occurs in my sub-conscious thoughts, so it really took some pondering and quiet reflecting to realize just what I was actually doing.  But when I did realize, I knew I wanted to change that.

I am a person of faith and believe that I am divine in nature because I am a daughter of God–the Creator of the universe and Father of us all.  But my thoughts have not reflected this belief.  Nor have they come close.  I have been constantly grinding myself into the dust, but no more!  So, if step one is to notice your own thoughts, step two would be to combat them.  I believe that we can rewire our thought processes and by so doing change how we feel and how we approach life.  I have been working on doing just that.  So how am I combatting the negative dialogue within me?  I have been working on loving myself–and I’m not talking about producing a feeling of love for myself out of nowhere–I am talking about the verb love–love as an action word.

What does love the verb look like to me?  It includes being gentle with and kind to others, giving people the benefit of the doubt and not being overly critical.  This means when critical thoughts arise about myself, I must be gentle and kind.  It might look something like this: “I didn’t finish my to do list today.  I barely got anything done.”  This is something generic I might typically say to myself.  Notice how focused it is on the negative.  I am focused here on what I didn’t do.  I have learned that to love myself in this type of instance is to change my focus to the positive, or what I did do.  “I read books to my son today.  I was there for my kids.  I exercised today.  I cooked for my family, etc.”  This sounds so simple!  And it is–but it is not easy.  Not at first.  Not when you have subconsciously been putting yourself down for years.  It takes practice, practice, practice.  But I can tell you I have already made a lot of progress here and I haven’t been doing it for that long.

Another important aspect of self love is to remember this simple slogan: “Treat yourself the way you would treat someone you love.”  Being a mom to 4 special kids, it is easy for me to see how I treat people that I love.  I am not perfect, but I try to be gentle with my children by helping them to see all the good they do and all the good they are.  Not only this, but I want my children to be happy!  I want them to work hard and grow and progress, but I also want them to have joy in life.  I want them to do things they enjoy every day.

And this brings me to my next point.  I have learned that if I really love myself, not only do I have to change my thoughts, I have to change my habits.  In this busy world where we are encouraged to go go go and constantly be connected and be productive, we can be caught in a trap– and that is, a life without joy and happiness.  I often get caught in this trap.  I want to be productive, I want to get many things accomplished each day.  But often I do this at the expense of my well-being.  I don’t take breaks, I push myself to work until I am exhausted and at the end of the day, I have not done one thing that I love–not one thing just for my own enjoyment.  This is a recipe for unhappiness and does not reflect any self love.  Would I encourage someone I love to run themselves into the ground like this?  Of course not.  So, I have lowered my expectations of what I should accomplish each day–a lot.  I have made the to-do list smaller and I have remembered things I enjoy doing.  I love to read.  I love to be outside.  I need quiet time to think and ponder.  I am trying to give myself this kind of time every day.  My final counsel is to slow down, and get to know you.  Find out what you need to do in life to be happy and then do it–every day.

This is my ongoing journey with self love.  I am not sure why this has been so hard for me, but I know I am worth loving and so I am trying every day.  This is a part of my fight.

And I will keep fighting it.

Let’s Talk About Our Bellies

Let’s talk about bellies.

Specifically, our lady’s bellies. Now, I’m not trying to put guys out, nor their bellies; but I am a lady, and I can only speak and write about my own belly and therefore, my generalized assumptions of other ladies’ bellies. But should you – a dude – find yourself inspired by these words, please share them far and wide with your dude-bellied friends.

As I stuff my face with an office danish I nonchalantly just stole, I am reminded that summer is almost here, and so is our ridiculous obsession with the long-sought-after “summer body.” The problem here is that once summer arrives and we’re confronted with bikini weather, we’ll haul ass back to the gym to start furiously working on looking presentable.

Repeat after me: “Summer is coming. I have a body. Therefore, I WILL have a summer body.”

All of this obsessing has got to stop, but before I tell you why (like you don’t know), I am going to empathize. One summer a million years ago, I went back to the motherland for a couple of months to see family, sneak some booze, party it up with my girlfriends like only a few 16-year-old’s can do…you know, regular summer stuff. This happened to be the one and pretty much only summer where I really expanded. Growing up, I was a skinny girl. I didn’t know to be proud of it, because I had never battled weight problems, so the idea of being skinny and gloating about it never really crossed my mind. When I started to develop, I started noticing that getting boobs wasn’t going to come without a disclaimer, and before I knew it, that damn muffin top started to rise like yeast. Along with it came other weight gain in uncomfortable areas, and I think that was the first time I discovered how God-forsaken chaffing was. So, when it was time to vacation like a boss and squeeze myself into a bikini, I hit that proverbial, teenage wall – nothing fit and I look like that can of biscuits when you pop the lids on either side. What I didn’t know was that I was still growing and developing, and although I ate like a raccoon, I was simply at that stage of girl-hood where I had to sit with my awkwardness for a little while longer.

My mom was always skinny, as well. She grew up eating like a linebacker, never gaining a single pound. Contrary to me, she owned every piece of that spotlight, and she made sure you knew it. My mom is, by nature and her own choosing, a brutally honest and loud little beast. She has never cared whether her words will lift you up or bury you, and that’s something for which I’ve both admired and resented her. That summer of bikini-not, she made sure I knew where extra parts of me were growing, whether I wanted to hear it or not (I didn’t). Regardless, I began to look at my body as something apart from who I thought I was, like some alien life that took a different route somewhere and started to grow all wrong. I didn’t know anything about eating healthy or God forbid, moving my body and sweating out the crap I ate. All I knew was that I was somehow fat, and that fat needed to go. Immediately.

I dieted. I failed. Oh God, I failed so many times. I hated the way jeans made my belly puff out in the front. I hated how every shirt I used to wear back when I was skinny was now a dooming reminder of a body I used to have. I hated how I bought and picked my outfits based on how much coverage there was to hide my problem areas. And I absolutely hated how I subconsciously hid my belly in pictures when I was at the beach or anywhere where my belly was exposed. I remember pictures of me with my hand on my belly, trying to stand taller in hopes that this will make me look skinnier. And that summer was the breaking point – I came home to my mom’s honest demand – lose weight. It was like a punch in the throat.

Nowhere in my teenagehood did I understand what it meant to be healthy. I never looked at my body as my own, as a living, breathing part of me that only thrived when all parts of me were on track – mind, spirit, soul. The words with which I described my body were mean and cruel and rarely ever honest, but I never stopped myself from saying those things. And so my body took the hits. I remember my lowest point, sitting on the toilet in my bathroom, pinching my belly in my hands and physically yelling at the fat to go away.

If only I knew then what I know now, right? But life doesn’t work that way, and nowhere in our span of time and Universe does a life of a teenage girl work that way. Now, I’m not here to write you a happy ending, where I got some sense and started eating right and doing yoga and losing weight and loving my mom’s brutal and loud honesty. In fact, the reason why I wanted to write this (for so long, by the way) is because everything I later learned as an adult and a yogi has led me to the point of returning to my younger self to tell her (and you!) that:

Our bellies are sacred. They are the seat of our power, our love, our connection to ourselves, each other, our world, and our purpose. They are not meant to be cut down, chiseled into, or shrunken in order to fit jeans, stereotypes, or fear-based expectations. Allow them to grow with nourishment, rise and fall freely with breath, and give life to children, ideas, and even your damn self.

When I went through my yoga teacher training, I was constantly reminded that my belly was where God lived. And because I believed that God existed, I believed She was very much like me – at heart, still some teenage girl with her belly in her hands, trying to grow into her awkward body so that she could finally believe in her wild, overwhelming spirit. And little by little, I stopped pausing in mirrors on the way to try on a bikini, hoping that if I walked a little straighter, my belly would not show. I cut that shit out. I didn’t have time for it. What I had time for were ideas. What I had time for hid in lunchtime sessions of writing and booking trips to Nepal and Mexico and opening my heart so wide to my everything so that I could finally start that book I’ve been meaning to write. I believe in all of these things, because I can feel them, one by one, in my belly – that same belly that puffs out when I eat a danish I stole; that same belly that knows things my mind simply cannot. I trust that belly now more than ever before, because it’s where the seat of my power is, where I can surrender to a knowing that is far greater than any logical knowledge I could learn from a book. It’s the place where I connect my ground with my spirit, two fingers above my bellybutton that I pierced back in high school. I never want to lose or pinch or yell at that sacred space again.

Our bellies give life, whether that’s in the shape of our stories on paper or our children in cribs. Don’t hide it under a tunic or under a sheltering hand. It’s something to behold, something to honor and celebrate. It’s unique to us, and us alone. It shouldn’t be stereotyped or insulted or manipulated to look like someone else’s. Why wish to have anyone else’s power when you can have your very own?

Take care of it. Take care of yourself by acknowledging that you are strong, capable, healthy, flawed, and a standing representation that you will never back away from your own potential. Your duty to yourself is not to explain or justify your body – not even to yourself. And I could say something cliche like – you are perfect just the way you are – but that’s a lie. You’re not perfect. You’re a mess, nine times out of ten, who is trying to keep it all together without overdoing it on wine on a Tuesday morning; but you’re also a badass, divine creation in a meatsuit of a body, destined for much bigger things. Never let a day go by without reminding yourself of this one, true fact.



Girl on the pull…

I’m turning 26 this year, but for 20 years of my life or a little more I have been a girl on the pull. It’s something I try to conceal but I can’t, I am ashamed yet it’s a part of me and all I have ever known. Truth is I’m always on the pull….


‘A mental disorder that involves recurrent, irresistible urges to pull out hair from your scalp, eyebrows or other areas of your body, despite trying to stop.

Hair pulling from the scalp often leaves patchy bald spots, which causes significant distress and can interfere with social or work functioning. People with trichotillomania may go to great lengths to disguise the loss of hair.’


  • Trich o what?”
  • But why would you want to pull your hair out?”
  • “Well that must really hurt you”
  • “Can’t you just stop?”
  • “Stop doing that”
  • “Do it for me”
  • “You don’t want to be bald do you?”
  • ” If you carry on like that you will have no hair left”





All of these questions are something I have faced nearly every day of my life.No it doesn’t hurt, it satisfies me but then I beat myself up after. I twist and twirl strands of my hair around my fingers until I find the right piece and snap. A beautiful sound, one I’m often searching for.I will be on the pull and think ok just one more won’t hurt, oh that was a good one let’s do that again and it takes you several attempts before finally you stop. Before you know it I have a pile of hair on my lap or on the floor that I then must try and disguise. The thing is I do it ok Secret. I panic.I roll my hands over the carpet creating a ball of hair that I analyse and then hide in the bin, throw out of the window or flush down the toilet. The condition is crippling. My hair is un even and my dreams of ever having that sultry mermaid look will never happen. I frequently am able to block the family hoover regardless of how much hair I gather to dispose of. Times of stress will make it worse. And now I am at a point where I am severely depressed and show no signs of growing better.

Catherine look at all this hair on the floor, you must not do that do you hear me?” My first memory. Aged 5, pushed into the corner of my bedroom by my mum and grandma. I was scared but couldn’t stop. Teachers would tel my parents I was away with the fairies. I would sit at my desk and pupils in my class would shout at me to stop but I couldn’t and that’s when I started to do it in secret on my own. It seems to be worse during times of high stress. My GCSES and A Levels. I remember standing up to leave the exam hall and seeing a pile of my brown hair on the sport hall floor and everyone looking past and looking at it. My coping mechanism in a way I suppose? I first sought help at the age of 17/18. Having just nursed my terminally ill grandparent at home until their last breath my life would never be the same. Worried what my parents might do and say I chose the CBT route instead of medication. I never clicked with the lady, she had hairy armpits and chose to pin a lot of the blame on my parents, I went twice and never went back.Then again while at university I was having a rough patch and felt such incredible guilt that I scratched all the skin off my chest until it bled. I had to cover my chest for over a week to hide the marks. I had some therapy he was a nice man but I never felt it helped. And recently loosing my dream job and living isolated alone abroad, this time a mixture of my depression, anxiety, hair pulling and alcohol. Not a great cocktail as you can imagine, feeling I had to explain myself every time I went for a haircut. It’s something I have always done.

It’s not just the hair on my head. I have always been obsessed with hair removal. I can’t bear it. I will constantly epilate my legs and underarms, and will be waxed on my bikini line.I take great pleasure after I’m searching for ingrown hairs that I can pick out, digging so deep that I bleed and scab and scar. So no, I can’t just stop. Does anyone know how I can?

When Perfection Get’s me in Trouble

I often struggle with the need to be perfect in everything that I do in life. My blog has to be perfect. Everything has its place and every blog post must follow certain guidelines. It has to be perfect in every way. My writing is like that too. And yet, I am far from perfect.

Where does this need come from? I always feel out of sorts when my life isn’t perfect. Since that I always, it makes me laugh that I always feel like I have to be perfect. Take being a student. Since I started my Bachelor’s degree I have received only one grade lower than an A. That should be good right? It’s not. I often feel like I have to do more and be more perfect. Write the perfect paper. Write the perfect discussion board each week.

Right now, I am going amazing in both Statistics and my Literature class. Still, I stress I am not doing enough each day and that I have to do better. I have to be perfect.

I felt bad this week (it is only Tuesday) that I am falling behind on writing interview feature articles. My list of people who have done their part by answering my questions, I that I have failed them by taking so long. I will get to each person in time but it stressed about it.

I am super busy at the moment. I am of course a full-time student with a full course load every eight weeks. I have this blog. Thank god I have contributor writers if not there would be enough time to write content. I try to answer every comment that I can but even that is getting to be too much. I am working on my memoir, and its a very big task. I took a big freelance project, and while I am moving along at a great pace, I still feel as if I could do more.

I am having to decide each day what is important and things are slipping. I still want to be perfect.


I am so busy seeking perfection that I realized something today. No matter what I do nothing is ever perfect. There will always be days where I have to take a break. I have such lofty plans for my summer, that the need to work myself to exhaustion each day. It comes from my need to be perfect.

It has always been there. I often talk to my therapist about it in my sessions and she always tells me I need to take more breaks. That I need to realize that I can’t be perfect each day. My need to be the best writer I can be, and be perfect, well that can’t be attainable in the sense that I want it to. I need to give myself credit for what I have done. Which is a lot of great things lately.

Can we achieve perfection? I would say no. Things will happen as they do. One day I will find a way to beat my obsession with perfection. Before it get’s me into trouble with my mental health.

J.E. Skye

Photo Credit:

unsplash-logoAndré Sanano

unsplash-logoKunj Parekh