Why Am I Doing This?

Why am I writing a blog? What has possessed me to sit down and discuss my personal mental health issues and life experiences on a public platform? Who the fuck knows, actually. Maybe my persistent isolation and crippling social anxiety have pushed me to engage with the world in a more removed and cossetted way? Or maybe I feel like my daily and constant struggles with depression and anxiety will comfort someone else? Maybe its the fact that I know I'm not alone in my mental health battles which bolsters me to discuss them openly? Maybe I'm just yelling into the dark recesses of the interwebs in place of therapy? These are some of the questions that I don't have an answer for. And that's okay. I don't need answers for them. Maybe I just need to talk and type for the sake of doing so.


I have a fuckton of hobbies. All of which I use as coping skills to maintain sanity and stability in place of less favorable, more destructive preoccupations. And here I will chronical said hobbies/coping skills for others who are interested in the same activities. I really resonate with the phrase "jack of all trades, master of none". I know that was originally meant to be an insult, as in "you can do a little bit of everything but you kind of suck at all of them", but I don't take it that way (unless I'm being particularly self-deprecating). If I have any skill to be proud of, it's my ability to pick up new skills. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to talk about all my various hobbies, obsessions, coping skills, and lifehacks that keep me going despite my mental health hurdles.


Welcome.

Green Gazpacho and the Big Red Self Destruct Button

You're probably wondering what on earth cold Spanish soup and self-destruction have in common? You'd be right to wonder. I'm not entirely sure what they have in common either other than their paths crossing during the routine of my day.

I've often described my life with depression and a history of an eating disorder as being perpetually followed around by a giant red, flashing, sirens wailing, in your face, self-destruct button. It's just right there. All the time. And sometimes it's so inviting, and tempting. Like a really fun but really shitty friend that you know you'll regret hanging out with, but, man, she's persuasive. The kind of friend that's horrible to actually be around, but when they're not there you start to fondly reminisce about your time together.

If you were to press the button you'd be back in the throes of self-loathing, binging and purging, and trying desperately to scabble up the steep slopes out of hell while wearing the dead horse that is depression on your back. And yet, while the button is just floating there, eyeballing you, you think, "that wasn't so bad... maybe it was even enjoyable?" And there it is, the constant and perpetual daily struggle between healthy behaviors and self-destructive ones. Viva la mental illness.

So, there I was staring blankly at my spinning wheel, alpaca wool in one hand, and a bobbin in the other (another important coping skill in my arsenal) with the eternal battle raging on in my head when my husband asks, "What do you feel like for dinner?". What a practical and innocent question to pull me from my macabre revery. What DO I feel like for dinner? It was way too hot to contemplate cooking anything, I was already sweating just existing on the couch. The thought of driving to town and seeing other humans was repugnant and draining, so that was out. Oh, there's that fucking button again telling me I should just skip dinner because it's too hot anyway. More blank staring at the spinning wheel.

Time to make a decision. Am I going to listen to the tempting button? It is really hot. I could skip dinner. It would be a totally acceptable excuse. Or am I going to utilize my hard-won skills to make myself dinner and make it one more day without pressing the button?

Fuck you, button, I'm making gazpacho.

The realization that I could make cold soup from my garden veggies to circumvent self-destruction and nourish myself on a day hotter than Satan's scrotum felt like a personal victory *insert maniacal laughter*, one that I wish to share. It's a completely non-traditional recipe, 1) because I can't/refuse to(?) follow directions and 2) I relied heavily on whats available in my garden right now. At this point in the summer my marrow plants are pooping out marrows faster than we can even think of recipes and our tomato plants are heavily laden with unripened tomatoes. So these two ingredients are the base of my cold summer soup. Don't turn your nose up at the unripened tomatoes, they're doing their best. This is a great way to use up proliferate marrows as it offers the necessary moisture for the soup without actually tasting too much like marrow.

This recipe should fill a standard blender and serve 4-6 people depending on how hangry you are.

The Ingredients
- 3 cups of green/unripened tomatoes diced
- 1 mammoth or 2 large marrow diced (roughly 3 cups)
- 1 green/yellow sweet pepper diced
- 1 small onion diced
- 2 large cloves of garlic grated
- 1 tbsp ginger grated
- 2 inches of lemongrass smashed or 1 tbsp of lemongrass paste
- 1 tbsp chili paste or 1 jalapeno or to taste (I like it with a serious kick)
- 1 fistful of basil
- 1 juiced lemon
- 1/3 cup raw apple cider vinegar
- 1/3 cup unsweetened plain yogurt
- 1/3 cup olive oil
- 1/8 cup of soy sauce
- 1 tsp sesame oil (optional but recommended)
- salt and pepper to taste

- croutons and scallions for garnish

Instructions
- Throw that shit into a blender and blend until its as smooth as you want it to be. Obviously, don't blend the garnish, that would defeat the purpose of garnish.
- refrigerate at least an hour, this soup should be super chilly.

- Serve and eat with fistfuls of croutons and feast without remorse. If this soup doesn't make you feel better about your life... I completely understand because mental illness can't be cured with soup. But, you know, one step at a time. And for me, this gazpacho has been one of those steps.

Cheers! Here's to making it through another day.