As I have grown older I have been able to more reliably identify, by name at least, my specific brain demons. I have a general anxiety disorder that often manifests in intrusive thoughts of the "the worst possible thing is going to happen" kind.
And while I'm relieved to be medicated now, the pandemic has taken its toll on all of us.
So with all of my time trapped indoors, and these gremlins swirling in my brain, I decided to create. I picked up some crochet hooks and some "fuck around" yarn and decided I was going to teach myself how to make those little crochet dolls someone had bought my kid.
And away I went. I made an absolutely demented looking teddy bear. But I made it! It wasn't perfect, and that was okay.
I'd always been crafty. From learning to cross-stitch as a kid, to scrapbooking with my mom, to bullet journaling and probably a few other things between. I made friendship bracelets in high school and took photography. ART!
There is something about yarncraft that has kept me on the right side of sane. Something about the repetitive motion with my hands, the fact that I can bounce between projects of varying complexities - things to do when the child is running around, or while watching tv, and things do to when you need to focus intently on it and nothing else - and something about being okay with a finished project that isn't always quite perfect.
Since picking up that teddy bear pattern I've made whales, dogs, bunnies, baby blankets, lovies, adult blankets, and hats for me and my kid (things always look cuter on a toddler).
I've poured wine and lost myself in it. And I have survived.
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