I’m being good to myself.

One thing I’ve been told for as long as I can remember is that I’m really, really hard on myself.

And it’s easy to be hard.  But I actually just think I’m strong enough and ambitious enough to navigate life, which is a battlefield.  Didn’t Pat Benatar say that?  Or was that love?  What’s the difference, anyway?

The term “self care” has been bandied about so often, I don’t think any of us understand what it actually means anymore.  As I understand it in its current iteration, self care is about doing whatever we need to do in order to preserve our mental, physical, emotional, and psychological health, which can include: Taking a day or five off work to masturbate and order McDelivery; various pricey spa treatments; lounging about in a onesie for an entire weekend; never denying ourselves those three tubes of Pringles in a row; diving into every existing season of “The Facts of Life,” the latter of which I would never begrudge anyone for doing. Essentially, self care seems like a New Age school of thought that grants us an extraordinary liberty to indulge in whatever we feel we need at any particular time, because we’re all full of PTSD and ADHD and BPD and CHF and IBS and HPV and we’ll implode if we don’t do or have that thing right now.  

Did any of us actually know that the history of self care is rooted in black activism?  As we lick the marshmallow fluff from our stubby fingers in the name of mental health, who could have known that the entire concept revolved around preserving one’s peak optimal condition in order to keep up the struggle for human rights and equality?  

I absolutely wallow in the fact that I’m officially old enough to bitch about younger generations (and hey, as a Gen Xer–or the “forgotten generation”–I am entirely within my rights to do so, considering I apparently don’t exist), and I’m convinced that the dreadful Generation Zedders have taken self care and elevated–reduced?–it to its current state of complete, reckless self-indulgence and excusing every single thing one should actually give effort towards improving and changing by way of various mantras, mostly boiling down to I need to do whatever I want, and I need to do it right the hell now, or my feelings will cause me to implode and add another diagnosis to the list of my only defining characteristics because “neurodivergence” isn’t, frankly, cutting it anymore.  

Okay, honesty time: That generation has been a write-off.  A neurotic mass of failure.  Considering Boomers absolutely refuse to die, Millennials are tautly drawn and impatiently awaiting their turn in line, and Gen X never happened, we’ve got broccoli-coiffed Gen Zed to look towards, and most of us would rather not.  

We’d really, really rather not.  

I’m trying, with all due respect to Yoda, to understand the term.  The way that we know it now, it can mean just about any ding-dong thing.  There’s caring for yourself, which is what everyone should do, but then there’s this self care obsession, which means giving into how you feel at any given time, and which is currently a cookbook of the damned for unabashed self-gratification.  You’re an obese mukbanger on YouTube who is growing weary of viewers hurling abusive comments at you regarding your appearance and ways?  Instead of deleting, ignoring, or turning off comments, you probably need another platter of four-cheese lasagna and a tiramisu cake; it’s what you’re craving.  Your two kids sleep on flattened cardboard boxes and haven’t had anything except Pop-Tarts for a week, and the state is hammering down your door for what appears to be unfathomable neglect?  You likely need another handle of Jim Beam and a binge-watch of “Love Island”; it’s what’s required because it’ll make you feel better.  You’ve got an essay due by 11 a.m. and you haven’t started it because PlayStation sucked you in for weeks, which also caused you to miss most of your classes?  A vape session, a trip to the Burger King Drive-Thru, and maybe even another round of Gran Turismo is what the doctor ordered, even though she didn’t, because you feel it’s what your psyche and body deserve.

Self care appears to have taken on so many interpretations and definitions, we’ve moved far, far past any intense preservation of our beings in the sake of being present for activist and political duties, never mind what the Goop lord has convinced her wealthy doppelgangers they must surely need, the most infamous of which include jade vaginal eggs, vaginal steaming, and billion-dollar candles that are called “This Candle Smells Like My Vagina.”  Gwynnie sure has the sort of fixation on her crotch that I typically associate with men, but I guess we’ve arrived at the age of equal-opportunity genital obsession.

In the name of indulging one’s self and calling it “self care,” virtually anything goes.  Anything.

Absolutely any last thing can be considered self care now.  I mean, let’s take a look at just a handful of things, off the top of my noggin:

1. Going out in my pajamas.  Why put on a pair of pants?  What’s the point?  I’m not feeling motivated enough to remove my sleeping gear and just throw on a pair of jeans, or a skirt, or even some leggings, which are pretty close to pajamas anyway.  Naw, having to actually present myself decently in public is triggering, it’s too much pressure, it kick-starts my Asperger’s, and therefore, I’m not going to bother taking off the items I’ve slept in.  That’s because I’m caring for myself.  These are my comfies, my sleepies, and I need to have them on.  Do I even think about the fact that my pajamas are, nine times out of ten, dragging along the pavement and picking up all manner of filth, saliva, urine, fecal matter, and unmentionable public grime, yet I’m going to go back home and curl up on the sofa and then take those same pajama pants back into my bed with me?  Fuck no.  Why would I think about that?  You’re triggering me again.  

The sandals are a nice touch.

2. I have a job to do, and I’ve got a deadline and several people counting on me, but do you know what I need to do instead?  Check my social media.  All of it: Facebook, even though nothing interesting has happened on there since 2008; Instagram, because there’s no shortage of nutty Britney Spears twirling and clanging butcher knives together; LinkedIn, because I have to make myself feel really, really bad about my lack of professional accomplishments compared to my contacts who I’m not even friends with; Xitter, because why wouldn’t I scroll through there and read pithy or inane observations; Reddit, because the endless, bottomless well of hive-minded commenters might validate me in some fashion.  I have to do this.  As it is, I need to take several mental-health breaks throughout the day because the emails, the people, the demands, the having to come in every day…it’s too much.  I have to care for myself, and I have to escape.  There’s only one place to go, and it’s on my phone. Where else would I go, and what else would I do?  To care?  For myself?  And never mind my showing up late nearly every day; I have to make it to work on my own time.  Otherwise I might have another mental-health crisis due to the pressure of time constraints.  

3.  Your credit cards are beyond maxed-out, your car payments are overdue, you’re barely scraping along with rent, and there’s been whispers that layoffs might be paying a visit to your company.  The practical thing to do would be to start looking for other jobs, organize a budget, and maybe not order DoorDash six times per week…maybe start buying food in bulk and learning to cook for yourself, quite possibly consider taking public transit, cancel some of your unused subscription services.  NO!  You’re feeling stressed out about your finances and life in general, so you need some soothing.  And nothing defines self care like going out and buying yourself a brand-new, six-hundred-dollar backpack.  Or shoulder bag.  Or pair of shoes.  Or fragrance.  Or coat.  Or even taking a little trip to Whistler for the weekend, maybe rent a sweet Airbnb.  That indulgence, that dopamine rush from spending a wad of dough on something new and beautiful, well…why wouldn’t you do this for yourself?  It’ll make you feel better.  And isn’t that what it’s all about?  You’re taking care of yourself by purchasing a luxury item, because you’re basically entitled to it.  And you’ll feel good for at least a day or two, which is all that matters in the long run.  Aren’t we all supposed to be living in the present, acknowledging the Now, and practicing mindfulness?

4. Fascist, preachy, obsessed radical vegans (and not all of them are this way, by the way) don’t actually care about animals; they just hate humans.  They really do.  And thus, their fanatical ideology means self care. They are wildly disordered anti-humanists who, perversely, scream at the top of their lungs (literally, in many cases) about the sanctity and preservation of precious life on earth while simultaneously vilifying and despising every single living being who doesn’t adhere to their cultish thinking.  They would be ecstatic at the idea of omnivores, vegetarians, and non-fanatical vegans dying slowly in several grease fires whilst being drawn and quartered in a Cambodian prison camp.  Wallowing in their horrifying fixation on, say, comparing the milking of cows to an actual woman being forcibly raped (and they always do; they all have the same violent talking points, they all have the same sick fascination with violent imagery) is, to these appalling anthrophobes, self care.  Their outrageous misanthropy needs to be coddled, they all agree with each other because they’re in a special group consisting of antisocial freaks, and thus, they must face-plant into their unsustainable, hypocritical religion with fervor in order to feel better about their empty, confused, humanity-loathing selves. 

5. My upstairs neighbour is an absolute mong.  Giggling to herself, stomping around in what appears to be concrete shoes, blasting her workout tapes and actually jumping around above me, cranking up whatever unlistenable pop music she actually thinks is good, screaming at her boyfriend in anger when she’s not busy moaning because he’s taking her on a trip to poundtown…it’s all too much.  So you know what I’m going to do?  I’m going to stab her to death.  I’m going to wait for her to come home from her stupid bartending job (I know where she works, I’ve seen the logo on her outfit), and I know she always comes through the alley entrance, so I’m going to put on my balaclava and gloves and OJ Simpson the hell out of it.  I need to take care of myself, my sanity, my comfort, and getting rid of this hag is the best way to do it.  Murder is bad?  Morality is subjective, son.  I’ve got to take care of number one, and she’s definitely not it.  

…you can see how this got increasingly absurd, but I think I’m making my point about how far it’s gone.  I can’t even use the term “self care” anymore without feeling like a complete narcissist (another term that has been abused until it has transformed into simply meaning “self-absorbed,” but which is actually a very toxic, malignant behavioural disorder that causes enormous pain for those affected by it.  As the saying goes, narcissism is the only disorder in which other people have to seek therapy).  Treating myself to a small piece of red velvet cake is not self care, it’s a treat.  Buying skin-care products almost compulsively isn’t self care, it means I like to take care of my appearance, look healthy, and stave off wrinkles as much as possible.  Owning a bubbling foot bath soak isn’t self care, it’s a small appliance that helps me with sore tootsies, and in the scorching summertime, is a godsend when filled with cold water and ice.  

I guess I’m over it.  Basic hygiene, a good diet, exercise, stepping away from social media, healthy personal and professional relationships, a decently-working vibrator, getting medical help if necessary, taking medication if you have a condition requiring some, staying away from excessive consumption of alcohol (or abstaining altogether, since sobriety is a superpower)….all of these things are my personal examples of self care.   

So there.  

P.S. I’ve been very grumpy because writing a book is much, much more difficult than I thought it was going to be.  I am all over the place with it and don’t know if I like anything I’ve scribbled out.  Perhaps I really am too hard on myself. Maybe I should order a car off Amazon to feel a bit better.