Hi. I’m Amanda.
And I’ve started this blog 2,389 times and have no reason to believe this start with be any different that the other starts, which ended with lots of weird spam comments about buying handbags in China. But I’m hopeful.
I’m a bulimic and compulsive eater with Major Depressive Disorder, generalized anxiety, and an ICD, or Impulsivity Control Disorder (which is a very fancy way of saying I bite the shit out of my fingers/fingernails until they bleed). I’m an ex-girlfriend who finally went No Contact last year from an emotionally and psychologically abusive relationship with a narcissistic personality, a suicide prevention advocate who has spent more time than I’m comfortable admitting suicidal, and an actress who recently ditched Hollywood’s bullshit standards to work on healing and actually liking whoever I am when I’m not who my agents told me to be.
This evening, January 14th, 2017, after a particularly bizarre and confusingly emotional day, I sat in bed with my dog snoring next to me trying to figure out what the hell I needed to do for myself at the moment. I didn’t figure out what that thing was but I did come up with 4 things as alternatives:
- Go to Barnes & Noble and buy one of the books from my ever-growing book list.
- Eat something. Anything, really.
- Drive with The Lumineer’s Ophelia playing as high as it’ll go.
And then, I did all of the things.