This is How it Works

Look, I like this word, panophobia. It rolls nicely off the tongue, it's all-encompassing, and perhaps most importantly, it's not a real thing. PANOPHOBIA, as a concept, does not exist. So labelling my personal battles as something almost entirely unreal somehow makes it easier for me; it distances me from my issues. You may have already picked up on the fact that I'm good at distancing myself from problems, having moved across the world by myself to work things out. But the simplest truth I can offer is that, despite my attempts to dress it up in a pretty negligee and make it do a sexy dance for aesthetic effect, I have severe anxiety and at least some form of milder depression. And that is not a fun truth to grapple with. It's hard to admit to yourself that your brain is slightly broken. Because when someone asks, "Are you okay?"                                                 "How are you?"                                                 &

Regina Spektor. Regina Spektor is my favourite musical artist, bar none. Elbow comes pretty close, and there are a collection of other incredible artists and bands that I absolutely adore, because  music is so important to me.  But none of these remarkable people have come  close  to shaping the person I grew up to be like Regina. Her lyrics and musical genius have gotten me through every milestone I can remember, from my parents divorce, to puberty, to graduation. I listen to her music when I'm happy and I wallow in those songs when I'm sad; there isn't a single mood I can be in that at least one of her songs wouldn't match. Honestly, I was going to write something completely different for this post, but after last week, it's going to have to wait. Because I saw Regina Spektor last Tuesday. And it was a big deal for me. She made me cry. HARD. I cry quite a bit, when I'm sad and frustrated and annoyed, but I rarely cry when I'm touched. And god-fuck