Category Archives: coping strategies

Self Love, Raccoon Style

“We all need some fire in our belly to get us through those days when the garbage truck has been by, and the bins of nourishment are empty.” – Critter, on coping with depression on Valentine’s Day.

My morning alarm slips a cold, wet finger into my ear. It trickles into my listening holes with tinny plink-plonks that irritate the hell out of my brain.

I open my eyes to a dark February morning. I am NOT feeling the love for this day.

The dream is over, my heart whispers.

What dream? I wonder. I close my eyes and try to remember.

Then, my face spreads in an involuntary smile.

Oh! I think. THAT dream.

It was one of my escapist dreams, a fantasy that always comes when I’m feeling extra worthless.

In last night’s iteration, a long ago crush revealed he had always wanted me. I became his. I trailed along behind this half-remembered he-man, aching for the moment when we would dive into reckless oblivion.

But then my fucking alarm butted in. Goddamn fucking piece of electronic trash.

Back in my bed, I sigh and try to raise my thousand-pound body. I’ve got shit to do: two small kids need me to wake and dress them, feed and fight with them. I have to herd their catlike brains while mine strains with rage, and resist the urge to drive off a bridge on the way to daycare and school.

Dread steals my breath.

“I can’t do this,” I groan to no one, and bury my face in the pillow.

“Sure you can,” comes a rodenty voice out of nowhere.

I crack an eyelid and turn my head toward the movement beside me. I can just make out the silhouette of my imaginary raccoon.

“No, Critter,” I say. “I can’t. And I don’t want to. I just want to go back to that dream.”

“What was so great about the dream?” Critter asks.

I sigh.

“It was delicious,” I say. “I was supercharged with anticipation and totally self-assured… the opposite of my real life.”

Critter nods and smiles gently.

“You smell like excitement and sadness,” she says.

I frown.

“It wasn’t a sad dream,” I argue.

Critter tilts her head.

“Did you… achieve fulfilment?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“Why not?” she asks.

I close my eyes and think back… Mr. Spectacular was holding my hand; my palm was dry. I was blissfully free of the constant, nauseating self-consciousness that usually oozes from my pores.

We were at the beefcake’s office, and he was hiring me to help his business grow. He wanted ME to make HIM stronger. His faith made me giddy.

Then, my childhood best friend appeared. She was being super bitchy, and kept asking irritating questions like, ‘What are you going to tell your husband?’ and, ‘What’s going to happen to your kids?’

I said to myself, “Damn, she’s jealous!” and tried to ditch her. But she kept hounding. My Hot Beef Sandwich disappeared as I scrambled away from the guilt-trip. That’s when I woke up.

Now, the tone of the dream shifts in my memory. My heart flops.

“Aw, shit, Critter,” I say. “I’m a whore, aren’t I?”

Critter laughs out loud.

“HA!” she says. “A whore? I WISH. Our conversations would be much more interesting.”

I cross my arms and harumph.

“Fine,” I grumble. “I’m a boring whore.”

“Well, now you’re a pouty, boring, whore.” Critter counters. “But seriously, what makes you think you’re a prostitute?”

I take a deep breath.

“It’s because I am empty inside, I would sell anything to fill my hole,” I explain. “I am desperate to be validated and I fantasize about destroying my family. I’m fucking pathetic.”

I pull the sheet over my head.

Critter gently tugs, and I give in and lower the cloth to my nose.

“You’re not as reprehensible as you think,” she says. “In fact, you’re making a characteristically human mistake.”

I frown beneath the sheet.

Critter sighs and shakes her head.

“Your species has a strange mythology around sex,” she says. “You tell endless stories about how intercourse proves your worth. But sex can’t do that.”

I consider this quietly.

“Do you think we’re too obsessed with sex?” I ask.

“Not at all!” Critter cries, rolling her eyes. “Good lord. If anything, you humans don’t think about it enough. You don’t see sex and respect it for what it is.”

My heart aches.

“I wish someone saw ME and respected me for what I am,” I say.

Critter’s eyes widen and she shakes my shoulders with both hands.

“You NEED to be seen!” she exclaims. “And accepted, and embraced. But you’ve got the process backwards. You think it’s all your partner’s job.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Well, where does this magical approval come from, then?” I ask. “Are you going to say I need an audience?”

Critter covers her face and laughs into her tiny hands.

“Oh my acorns,” she says. “THAT would knock your insecurity loose. You’re hilarious.”

I frown as my imaginary raccoon shakes with silent laughter. When it passes, she wipes her eyes and sighs. Then, she looks kindly into mine.

“You need to masturbate more,” she says. “All humanity needs to get better at pleasuring itself.”

My jaw hangs open.

“Are you serious?” I stammer.

“As a forest fire,” Critter nods.

A red wave of embarrassment splashes over my face.

Critter points at me and haws.

“Look at you!” she says. “You can’t even talk about buttering your muffin. How do you expect to master the art of dialing your rotary phone? Visiting your safe deposit box? Auditioning your finger puppets?”

I cover my eyes and chuckle. Critter smiles.

“It’s not like I don’t know how…” I say, my cheeks glowing medium-rare.

Critter slaps her forehead.

“But you’re doing it wrong!” she says. “Consider that feeling you had in your dream, when you thought you were about to have a Meg Ryan-worthy moment with someone that you worshipped.”

I recall the delirious thrill that eclipsed my self-doubt.

“Now,” Critter says, “imagine you felt that way about paddling your pink canoe.”

I try to imagine it. The idea seems odd… but strangely liberating.

“Don’t you see?” Critter cries. “Pleasure isn’t a gift from a steaming hunk of man-meat. It’s something that you own, and you can touch it any time you want.”

I rub my forehead and chuckle.

“Good lord,” I say. “So, you’re saying that if I feed myself pleasure, my emptiness won’t devour my life?”

Critter’s eyes crinkle warmly.

“Exactly,” she says. “You just need to make yourself feel beautiful.”

That feels kind of right.

“Do raccoons need to feel sexy?” I ask.

“Of course!” Critter says. “We all need some fire in our belly to get us through those days when the garbage truck has been by, and the bins of nourishment are empty.”

“Wow, Critter,” I say. “Raccoon sexuality is weirdly uplifting.”

Critter grins and says, “Now you know why they always say, ‘You can’t pour from a leaky cup; you have to fill your own hole.”

I laugh.

“That’s not how that goes,” I chuckle.

“Sure it is,” she says. “You just never realized it.”

Then with a wink, my imaginary raccoon hops off my bed and disappears into the dark hallway. I slide onto my feet, smiling now, and get ready to face my day.

However YOU want to interpret Critter’s Self-Love Sermon, we hope that you start to see your hole in a kinder light. May you fill it with pleasure that gets you out of bed on your dark mornings.

“And whenever someone says ‘self-love,’” Critter adds, “I hope you giggle. Because if you’re not enjoying it, you’re doing it wrong.”

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Serenity Prayer for Mental Illness

“God, grant me the clarity to recognise what I can control and what I cannot, and the imagination to walk through my own warped storylines like a badass.” – me, right now.

“Is this hell, Critter?” I groan to my imaginary raccoon. I am sitting up in bed with the light on. It is 1:00 am and my two-year-old is cough-howling in the next room.

I lay George RR Martin’s A Clash of Kings face down on my bed. In the back of my mind, I can hear the spine silently straining and feel the glue threatening to let go. I picture the pages of this well-loved tome creaking toward the same heart-rending explosion that befell my worn-out copy of Fall on Your Knees by Ann-Marie MacDonald.

My heart sinks.

“Please… hang on!” I whisper to the book.

I paw frantically through tangled layers of blanket to find my bookmark while my sick baby chokes and wails next door.

Jesus Christ, woman, GO! A clear-eyed version of me shouts to myself.

“Fine!” I say out loud. I rush around the end of my bed, but take the corner too fast and whack my thigh against the edge of the frame. That’s gonna leave a bruise.

“Ow! Fuck!” I hiss.

I stumble the few steps into the hall, then wrench my little one’s door open and drop to my knees at her bedside.

“Shhh, shhh, sweetheart. Mommy’s here. Shhhh, shhh… come here, just breathe, Baby,” I mutter as I scoop her up.

My little lovey buries her face into my chest and hacks and howls. It takes two or three minutes before the obstructive goop works itself free in her airway. When she can finally breathe, she sucks in a lungful of air and pushes it back out as a piteous wail.

Jesus Christ, this is awful, I think.

A few days ago, I’d sat in the doctor’s office with my little pestilence culture on my knee describing these scary plugged-chest episodes.

“I know it sounds like she’s dying,” the doctor had said, “but really, she’s fine. It’s just a nasty bug. It will take at least a week to work itself out. Bring her back if she’s not starting to get better within two weeks.”

What if I can’t make it two weeks? I had wondered.

My husband had just left on a work trip. I was getting tag-teamed by my most dreaded foes with no backup. If I had had a nickel, I wouldn’t have risked it on my odds of victory.

I was struggling as a solo-parent, night nurse, and freelance professional. The past three days had been excruciating: my oldest daughter had overwhelmed me with a constant flurry of infuriating arguments, while with my youngest (the human petri dish) bawled and clawed at me 24/7, begging me to let her crawl up underneath my shirt.

I had a deadline tonight. The client had emailed three times today to touch base and add new thoughts to her project. I was straining for every word on her piece, with my brain running on the fumes of four hours of sleep in the last two nights.

It felt like infant care all over again. It felt like hell.

Back in the baby’s bedroom, I stand beneath the dim blue stars projected by her night light and hold her tiny hot head against my skin. I rock for her comfort, and for mine.

What the fuck am I going to do? I wonder.

“Whatever needs doing,” comes a whisper from my shoulder. “You’re the mom. Just do what needs doing.”

It’s Critter. She has climbed up next to my ear and is gazing at the top of my little one’s head with melting kindness.

“She’s having a rough time,” Critter says, and strokes the baby’s soft hair exactly the way I do.

“She’s SO miserable,” I whisper. “I need to make her feel better. I need BOTH of us to feel better!”

Critter turns her soft green eyes to me. She touches my cheek with her delicate black fingers and breathes deep.

“I know,” she says, “But you can’t. You can’t control this. It sucks. But she is okay. And so are you. You just gotta ride it out.”

A tear swells in the corner of my eye.

“I don’t think I can, Critter,” I whisper.

“One thing at a time,” she answers. “Let’s start with some Tylenol. I think she’s due for another dose.”

I check my watch, and as usual, Critter is right. The last dose was at eight o’clock. Maybe another mouthful will give my baby’s battleground body some relief.

I cuddle my hairless gorilla child under my chin and Critter rides effortlessly on my shoulder as we descend the dark stairway.

The baby flinches when I click on the hood light above the stove. Then she sits up eagerly when I grab the familiar bottle of ache-relieving suspension.

My left arm starts to go numb with her small weight on my elbow. I manage to shake the bottle and fill the syringe mostly one-handed, without dropping anything or anyone. The little one drinks her dose and sighs. At least this is one task that doesn’t give her pain.

Next, I dip a Q-tip into a mix of antacid and anti-histamine and dab it on the sores lining her lips and mouth. For a “harmless virus”, this bug has been vicious.

Then, I stand in the dark kitchen and cuddle and sway my sick girl until her breath starts to soften and slow.

I carry her back up the stairs and lay her gently in her bed. I curl up next to her in the converted crib (yeah, I’m that short) and listen to her suck her thumb and whimper until she falls asleep.

I carefully peel myself out of the bed and slip the door closed behind me. As I crawl up onto my own bed, I find my freaking bookmark. I slide it between the ruffled pages of my abused paperback, and press hard on the covers as if this will straighten out the kinks and waves. I put the book on my dresser and stare at it.

“Aren’t you going to bed?” asks Critter. I had forgotten she was there. She hops down off my shoulder and arranges some folds of mussed-up blanket into a nest. Then, she curls her grey-brown body into it, sighs contentedly, and looks up at me expectantly.

“God, I wish I could just shut down and go to sleep right now,” I say. “I know I need to. I just can’t. My brain is fried.”

Critter considers me.

“I know this isn’t really hell,” I continue. “It might be if the baby was seriously ill. Or if my husband wasn’t coming back.” I start thinking of the people I know who have been through these trials, and worse.

And then I think of my friends who have infants and are living this kind of constant, gut-wrenching demand month after month.

Then I think of my loved ones who have had recent devastations, and ones whose nights of heartache and bleary-eyed torment have lasted years.

“This is nothing,” I say. “But it feels like doom. I’m fucking useless.” My heart goes thud-a-thud in my throat, and I can hear myself screaming in the back of my mind. I am too strung out to cry. I just stare, and rub my burning eyes, and feel the pressure building behind them.

“What do you need?” Critter asks.

“I don’t know!” I cry. “God, I wish I knew. So many people have offered to help. I just can’t figure out how. The baby is stuck to me like an octopus. It’s not like I can just peel her off and plop her on someone’s lap and go to the spa. By the time I finished explaining about the small handful of things she can kind of eat right now, and the popsicles, and the meds, and the salt-water swish, and the Q-tips and the…”

Critter puts her paw up to stop me.

“I get it,” she says. “Good lord, that’s enough.”

My eyes brim with water.

“I keep thinking,” I say, “about how if someone asked me for advice, I would tell them to make a plan… figure out what you need, and just ask for it… but I can’t. I can’t see past the end of my nose. I have no idea what I need. I need sleep, and that can’t happen right now.”

Critter listens patiently.

Her quiet makes me want to scream. I am bracing myself for a splatter of judgement from her mouth… she’s going to tell me I’m being dramatic. I just know it.

Critter just keeps looking at me, her moss-coloured irises reflecting the lamplight like warm little torches in her soft black mask.

My hands ball into fists.

“Stop looking at me like that!” I shout. “I know I’m being ridiculous. I know it, okay?!? I can’t stop! I can’t! I can’t make it stop! I’m ridiculous! I can’t!!” My cries dissolve into sobs, and I cover my face with my hands.

I feel movement on the bed, and then a gentle touch strokes my back.

“Shhh… it’s okay. I’m here,” Critter soothes. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re going to figure this out.”

I lift my face and wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist.

“Huh-how?” I hiccough.

Critter tilts her head, thinking.

“Bring on the drama,” she says.

“Huh?” I ask.

“If it feels like drama to you, let’s go with it,” she explains. “We’ll save your life with role play. Pretend that you are going through epic hell – like a horror movie. And then become the badass heroine who survives.”

I let this thought sink in. I think I like it.

“Like Michonne, on The Walking Dead?” I ask.

Critter grins.

“Exactly,” she says.

That new frame changes the whole picture.

Suddenly, I don’t give a shit anymore about how other people would handle this mess. The dead crust of shame flakes off my skull, and the shiny pink flesh beneath is grim and determined.

I let myself dive into the reality of it – the hideous way it feels, the non-negotiable things my girls need from me, the degree to which I am handicapped right now, and the tasks I can honestly let go.

My scenario starts to come clear. I know what I need to do.

I’m going to make myself get up and take the big girl to school tomorrow. But I’m not even going to try to get dressed.

I’m going to finish this piece of copywriting work, and then help my client find another writer –  someone who has the time and energy to maintain the intensity her project requires.

And forget dragging the kids through the grocery store. I’m ordering that shit online.

And I’m ordering in our dinner for the next couple of days. I don’t care if it has to go on my Visa. I’ll figure that out when things are better.

Fuck it. Let’s do this.

I’m going to get it done like my favourite dreadlocked ninja.

Here’s why Michonne is my favourite character on TWD; it’s not just because she works a katana like a Cuisinart and is as cool and inevitable as the Columbia River in the face of fear.

I love Michonne because she always dives into the mess, rather than running away.

She neutralised the zombie corpses of the men who took everything from her and used them to walk safely among the dead. That’s not just fucking brilliant, it’s wisdom and courage and clear-eyed honesty. This fictional woman represents unassailable emotional strength, right down to her made-up marrow.

Michonne can admit when things are shit. She can also admit when she’s been too hard on the world, and pry herself back open.

And she never hesitates when the way out of a jam is to plunge your fist straight into its rotting middle. She slimes herself with gore when it gets her where she needs to go. And she gets there. Every time.

I can’t help but wonder if Michonne has a guardian raccoon, too. She certainly finds many interesting uses for rotting meat.

“Alright, Critter,” I say. “I’m going to be a badass. I’ll get through this fortnight of hell. Even if it’s not pretty, I’ll still be standing when the sun comes up. Or when the cavalry shows up in the motorhome. Or whatever.”

Critter stands up and hugs me around my neck.

“Atta girl,” she whispers. Then she turns, and with a wink at me over her shoulder, my imaginary raccoon hops off my bed and trots out of the room.

Here’s what Critter left me with this week, and which we hope will help you, too:

  • Just do what needs doing.
  • What do you need?
  • We’re going to figure this out.
  • Bring on the drama.
  • Become the badass who survives.

And I’d like to add – Get your food delivered. Critter says she’d be happy to bring you a care package, but I promise, you won’t want what’s inside a dumpster-diving rodent’s Tupperware. You can take Critter’s advice, but not her catering.

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Three Phrases from Critter to Cure Your Fear of Failure

I am in bed on a Tuesday afternoon. My body is shrouded by three layers of blankets hermetically sealed around my chin. I am wearing two shirts and a hoodie underneath. Only two inches of flesh between my upper lip and eyebrows are exposed to the air. The cruel, unspeakable, room-temperature air.

It is physically impossible for me to be this cold right now.

Yet, here I am. Shivering right down to my bones.

“Goddamn it, I’m FREEZING TO DEATH!” I hiss into the empty room.

“No, you’re not.” Comes a snarky reply.

I sigh. I should know to expect this annoying tap on my shoulder whenever I dunk my head into the toilet bowl of self-pity.

Without breaking the blanket seal, I roll my eyes as far as I can. I can’t quite see the indent where my imaginary raccoon has landed on the bed. She pads delicately toward me and finally comes into view. She touches her nose to mine and her furry face blocks my entire field of vision.

“What’s going on under there?” Critter asks; “You look like you’re about to eat the young.”

I chuckle.

“Do you think it would warm me up?” I ask. “If so, I’d consider it.”

Critter rolls her eyes at me.

“You’re ridiculous, you know?” she says.

I don’t answer. Because I know.

Critter waits a beat and then tilts her head.

“But really, what are you doing in there? It’s daytime. You have work to do,” she says.

I groan.

“I know. But I’m tired. My eyeballs just about melted out of my head when I read to the girls at naptime. And it’s soooo freaking COLD!” I complain.

Critter furrows a brow at me, then starts sniffing all around my face. Her whiskers tickle so bad that I need to pee.

“GAH! Enough!” I say, sitting up.

“You don’t smell sick,” Critter states.

“I know,” I say. I look down at the blanket.

“Are you avoiding your work?” Critter asks.

I suck a huge breath in through my nose and sigh. The spot between my chest and my belly aches.

“I guess,” I say.

Critter pats my thigh but doesn’t say anything.

I have steeled myself for her usual smartass bossypants routine, but it doesn’t come.

I look up at her.

“It’s squeezing me,” I say.

“I know,” she answers.

I look down at my hands and watch them wring each other. They are restless. Don’t know what to do with themselves.

They should be typing. But they can’t, because my mind is frozen.

My heart beats, and it feels like it’s too big for my chest. Like my fat waist strangling inside my jeans.

I start to breathe faster as an image sweeps over me. A crush of shame and dread rolls up my body like a rolling pin. Every organ gets squashed. I suffocate. And finally, my soft tissues ooze out of every facial orifice. I am mesmerized by this sad, gory, figurative mess.

Critter crawls onto my lap and puts her little black hands on my shoulders.

“Hey,” she says, “come back. We’re talking, here.”

My eyes rotate in her direction without seeing. I’m panting and starting to wheeze.

Critter hops off my legs, then leaps the gap between the bed and my dresser. The surface is slippery, and her hind paws fishtail as she slides. Her front claws scrabble and dig into the wood, then her butt knocks over a stack of paperbacks. Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art falls into the crack between the dresser and the wall.

Fuck. That’s going to be a pain to retrieve.

I am thinking about the infuriating ledge at the back of the dresser, where things that fall down there get stuck. I can’t quite reach them from underneath, and the behemoth furnishing is too heavy to pull out by myself.

I am trying to count the lost items and hopeless hangers that have been sacrificed to the gods of WTF when something strikes my leg.

It is my aero chamber, a big plastic tube that slows down the spray from my inhaler. Next, Critter pounces back onto my lap, with my blue rescue inhaler between her teeth.

She drops it next to the chamber and says, “Breathe.”

Dutifully, I shake the shit out of the cannister to prepare the puff. The shaking tosses Critter about; she grips into my legs with her claws.

I shout in pain, and the inhaler sails out of my hand and whacks against the wall.

In the next room, the baby wakes up.

I start to laugh. It makes me wheeze harder.

Still chuckling, I climb out of bed and go use the inhaler. Within a few breaths, the thickness in my lungs starts to ease. There is nothing so delicious as those first easy breaths.

As I head out to raise my little one, Critter dusts her hands.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she says.

I shake my head and take care of baby business. Once she and her sister are settled onto the couch with their afternoon snack and tv, I mosey into the kitchen. Heartburn starts to rise in my throat. I know what’s waiting for me.

I grab my laptop and lay it on the kitchen table. I pause to think about how much I love the feel of this writing tool. It is small, light as a feather, and has a delightful aluminum cover with a diamond-patterned texture. I stroke my lovely machine a few times, but cannot open it.

“Do it,” Critter whispers, as she peeks around the doorway. “Just start now.”

“I can’t,” I say. “My words are stuck.”

“Just begin,” she says again.

“But it’s going to be bad!” I say, my voice rising. “My last series of posts was a mess!”

“What was wrong with them?” Critter asks, her eyes boring into me like a laser.

I run my hand through my hair.

“Everything!” I say. “Typos, missing words, muddled thoughts, and pointless points.”

Critter frowns.

“Then edit your work,” she says.

“I did!” I whine, getting frantic now. “At least, I thought I did. I re-read and re-wrote until my eyes were about to bleed. I swear! I literally couldn’t see the words anymore, so I just published. It wasn’t until the post came back to me by email that I saw all the errors.”

Critter rolled her eyes.

“Then get an editor,” she said. “That’s what they’re for.”

I laugh.

“I can’t afford an editor for blog posts!” I say.

But Critter won’t let it go.

“Then ask a friend. You know someone has offered,” she says.

I pause. My lovely friend Dakota has offered to give my posts that essential second set of eyes. And my equally lovely, and relied-upon friends, Sue and Marielle, have also offered their corneas to help polish my writing.

“You’re right, Critter,” I admit, “but it was too much of a burden. I was always behind on those posts and didn’t finish most of them until after midnight. I couldn’t bother anyone at that hour, and I didn’t want to delay the posts any later. So I tried to do it all myself. Bloggers do that all the time. It should have been easy.”

“But was it?” Critter asks, walking toward me.

“No,” I answer, and like a potato sack over my head, the shame comes back and traps me.

Critter hops up onto the table and pretends to peek under the edge of my imagined shame sack.

“It’s okay to need help,” she says.

I let that sink in.

At first, it feels awful, like a bin of leftover spaghetti dumped over my head. I hate that I can’t get my shit together on my own.

But then, those imaginary cold noodles start to melt, and a weird sense of comfort drips down my chest and back.

It’s okay to need help.

Something clears in my head.

“Holy fuck,” I mutter. “There’s an app for that.”

“What?” Critter laughs.

“Editing!” I shout and flip my laptop open. I open two tabs and show Critter what I’m talking about.

Grammarly and Hemingway,” she reads. “What’re those?”

“They are online editing apps,” I explain. “One does a really basic proofread – typos, punctuation, and word usage – and the other highlights sentences that lack clarity.”

“Holy scat,” says Critter. “That is handy.”

“Totally,” I say, and I smile. “They don’t replace a real human editor, but they can help a writer with ADHD filter out the garbage that her brain can’t catch.”

“That sounds like a decent solution for blog posts,” Critter says.

I nod.

“You’re running out of excuses,” she adds.

I gulp.

“Get to work,” she says. My imaginary talking raccoon ruffles my hair, then hops off the table and leaves me to it.

I open up a doc and stare at the cursor for a minute.

Critter’s words echo back inside my head.

Just start now.

It’s okay to need help.

Get to work.

I decide to dedicate today’s post to those three Critterisms, and my snarky, pushy, always-there-for-me friend.

And I smile as I unzip my hoodie. Because I’m not cold anymore.

Critter’s Message for You:

Critter wants you to think about what is holding you back from the stuff you need to do.

You know those jobs that are so important to you, they make you want to puke? What would it take to get them done?

Do you need to let go of perfectionism and just start now?

Do you need to get help to complete tasks you can’t do on your own?

What would release the pressure so you can get to work?

It doesn’t matter whether your help comes from friends and family, paid assistants, coaching, counseling, assistive technology, or medication. Just do what it takes and get it done.

And if it takes a dozen tries to get it right, so be it. Keep going.

Just start now.

It’s okay to need help.

Get to work.

Critter gives you her word as the world’s wisest creature (good lord, Critter!), you can do this.
PS – If you are looking for “words” for 2017, you could do worse than take these ones from an imaginary garbage-eating rodent.