Blogger Recognition Award!


Rules for the Award:

  1. Thank the blogger who nominated you and provide a link to their profile  ✔
  2. Write a post to show your award ✔
  3. Give a brief story of how your blog started ✔
  4. Give two pieces of advice to new bloggers ✔
  5. Select 15 other bloggers you want to give this award to ✔
  6. Comment on each blog and let them know you have nominated them & provide the link to the post you created ✔


I would like to thank the Catalysts for Change for nominating me for the Blogger Recognition Award! Check out the blog for inspiring posts on mental health and sexual abuse.

I started my blog in order to meld my two passions in life: writing and psychology. I am hoping to one day in the future combine the two into a career and am blogging to exercise my writing muscles until that happens.

Two pieces of advice:

  • At a writing seminar the speaker imparted on me not to write about what you know, but to write about what you love. While psychology may not be the most popular topic to blog about, it is what inspires me the most and I couldn’t think about writing on anything else. If you write about what you love then people will love your posts
  • I’ve only been blogging for a month, so all I can say to you guys is quality is better than quantity and never stop blogging!

My Nominees:

  1. Idealistic Rebel 
  2. Discovering Sooz
  3. Amongst All Else
  4. Woman Determined
  5. Mike Kuplevatsky
  6. CalicoJack
  7. Lindsay Davis
  8. Mindfump
  9. mapcando
  10. reallifeusblog


Thank you to all of my followers, likers and visitors for joining me on my journey to becoming a  better writer! I will have more original content for you soon.

To the Men Who Don’t Understand the Women’s March


On Saturday more than 500,000 women gathered outside the White House in DC, more than 3 times the amount of people in attendance for Trump’s inauguration (not if you ask Trump of course). More than 600 sister marches occurred concurrently in other cities in the US such as Chicago, Atlanta, Los Angeles, San Francisco and New York as well as the world in cities like London, Toronto, Sydney and Paris. I was unfortunately not able to go, but my sister made the long trek for the protests in Washington. Upon viewing pictures she sent me and seeing live news coverage on television I cried numerous tears. The first tears of joy since the election.

I remember November 9th 2016 just like it was yesterday. My uncle had passed away two days prior, so we were on an epic road trip from New York to Missouri for his wake. We made sure to stay back until the last second in order to vote, to vote for the first female president, hoping to silence the bigotry Trump spurted throughout his campaign. We live in Rochester, NY home of Susan B. Anthony and I remember seeing dozens of “I Voted” stickers plastered on her grave, pictures with comments that people were voting for Clinton in honor of Anthony who championed for women’s suffrage. Electing the first female president was the only thing keeping me going after my uncle’s death, but unfortunately death comes in three: first my uncle, then American democracy, and finally, my hope in the common American citizen.

Traveling throughout red states was especially hard. We crossed Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana (our homophobic vice president’s home state) and finally Missouri making pit stops in each. In one way being trapped in a car was a saving grace: I had no internet access to hear about the newest travesties that Trump would bring along with his presidency. No one in the car talked about the election; we were all in a state of shock and it took a while to sink in. We had all seen Trump condone sexual assault, make fun of the disabled, call Mexicans rapists and drug dealers, and threaten to take away the reproductive rights of women. How could anyone vote for him?


The days after the election was when I fully understood that being a women is a disadvantage. The fact that 50 million Americans thought that it was no big deal for Trump to commit sexual assault, threaten to take away health care coverage for birth control and assure that he would make abortion illegal was a slap in the face. Did 50 million Americans really declare that women are too stupid to make decisions regarding their own bodies? Did 50 million Americans award a man that has repeatedly said that a woman’s success is directly tied to appearance and breast size with the highest office in our country? Did 50 million Americans condone sexual harassment and sexual assault?

Of course there are voters out there that will say they voted for Trump because he was different, because he wanted to bring back jobs, because he wasn’t Hillary Clinton and to that I say bullshit. If you can overlook a person who looks at women with predatory eyes, and not just overlook them, but put them in charge of our country, in charge of making laws that effect the livelihoods of women then you are as asshole, plain and simple. And it is not just women. Mike Pence has repeatedly supported legislation that makes it okay to discriminate against the LGBT, the Trump camp wants to deport millions of undocumented immigrants who have been living in the US for years, Trump is single-handedly trying to destroy the press, put guns in schools,  cut off ties with the rest of the world. If you voted for him and cannot look in the mirror and see that you are misogynistic, bigoted, and xenophobic then you can at least call yourself selfish. Why do you think that your tax breaks or minimum wages are more important than the livelihoods of your fellow countrymen? Your mothers, your sisters, your friends, neighbors and coworkers?

When the shock from the election wore off, pure terror began to sink in. While returning to the safety of my blue state of New York, I still had to travel across Trump’s America. I couldn’t even look people in the eyes at rest stops. All I could think when seeing men at the stops were: “does he think its okay to assault me?” “does he think I am a lesser person than himself?” To be honest, I thought to myself this must be what it feels like to be black. To always wonder who is your friend and who is your enemy, to wonder who I would have to be careful around, to wonder if I would ever have it as easy as other people. To want to be seen equally as white men would be a common dream between women and blacks and all other minority groups. We were finally at the cusp, and then it was thrown in our faces.

This was not the first time where I had experienced feeling like a lesser person than men. While at my summer job in college, a coworker proudly declared that “you will always be inferior to me because of your chromosomes”, because of what is between my legs. I stood there shocked, and actually hoped that one of my male coworkers would step in, horrified by his declaration. I stood there, in silence, waiting for help that would never come.

I spent the next couple of hours or so crying, trying to get my managers attention that there was a problem, but no one would help. Other men there had made sexist comments that I would never make as much money as them, that I should just get married instead of going to graduate school, that I was weird for not having a boyfriend. I am ashamed to admit that some of these people were my friends, that I just shrugged these comments off. I should have be awoken to the misogyny then, but nothing woke me up faster and more effectively than this election.


If you ask women around you they will probably share the same sentiment. That they had experienced some kind of misogyny or assault in their lives but they thought that the problem was contained to themselves. I personally thought I would never meet another man like the one who told me that I was inferior to him for being a woman. Then I saw Trump. Millions of women, not just Americans, saw the worst qualities of men they had interacted with exist ten-fold in Trump. I am sure Trump brought up painful memories of ex-boyfriends, bosses, and Facebook friends that women had to deal with.

The problem is that we expected people to be on our sides. For me, I expected one of my best friends who was present when our coworker proudly said that I was a lesser person than him to step in and do the right thing instead of doing the right thing myself. This election, if anything, taught us not to rely on the common American to stand up for what is right and speak up for women. We have to speak up for ourselves. The first thing I did upon returning to my home after the road trip was to write a letter to my friend and the “man” who harassed me, telling them both to shove off.

This women’s march goes well beyond a Trump presidency. If one good thing were to come out of the election it is that we are no longer ignorant to the fact that a sizable amount of Americans do not hold women’s rights as important, that they are selfish and look out for themselves before the good of others. That we have to stand up for what is right even though we are in the minority. That women are strong and should be respected. That we will not give up silently.

For those men who cannot take strong women, who do not champion for equal rights, and think they are better than anyone else we say: grow some balls.


Uprooting the Problem: My Struggle with Trichotillomania


The average woman loses between 50 and 100 strands of hair per day. For me, on a bad day, this number can climb up to 200 individual hairs. No, I do not have alopecia, Lupus, or cancer. I do this to myself.

Three years ago I was professionally diagnosed with Trichotillomania, an impulse control disorder that lies on the obsessive-compulsive spectrum in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM for short). For as long as I can remember at times of stress and anxiety I would enter trances in which I would pull out hair from my scalp, eyebrows, and private regions one at a time. Sometimes these trances last for hours; I will pull out hairs one at a time, placing each one on my arm to the point where my limb will be shrouded with black strands, with no flesh peeking through. In fact, I am playing with my hair as I am writing this.

So why would anyone in their right mind pull out their own hair by their own volition? Well, it not entirely voluntary. When these trances start, it is almost as if my brain shuts off: I can do nothing else besides pull and it is as if the entire world stops while I am going on a plucking spree. In fact most times during these trances I have moments of intellectual clarity: I briefly perceive what I am doing and tell myself to stop but it is no use. It is not until I pause to see how much hair has collected on my arm that I am able to distinguish just how long the pulling episode has lasted. How much hair have I ruined? I ask myself. Do I have any hair left?




A permanent scar on my finger from pulling too often.

Often times no, I do not have any hair left. Luckily, my pulling is targeting at my eyebrows so holes in hair coverage are easy to conceal with makeup. I grow out my existing hairs to cover the holes, so thank God that Cara Delevingne has cultivated the on vogue bushy eyebrow trend.

Obscuring holes with makeup however is sometimes not enough to keep my disorder hidden. Often times the compulsion to pull penetrates my daily activities in public, the worst of these while being enrolled in University. The constant stress of exams, papers, and figuring out my future (which I have yet to do to this day) was more than enough for me to pull at the library, during class, and in my co-ed dorm. One of my friends would constantly yell at me to “leave your eyebrows alone!” when we studied together, prompting me to consult with the on campus psychiatrist.

During my first appointment was when I heard the magical word “trichotillomania” for the first time. Everything became crystal clear in that moment and I reveled at the fact that my affliction is something that is an ailment to others as well. She immediately prescribed an antidepressant (the other magical word: Prozac) as I had described that pulling episodes commenced during times of peak restlessness and worry. She also imparted one other morsel of wisdom in combating compulsions and errant behavior. She had explained that it may be beneficial to wear a rubber band around my wrist.

Of course being an athlete and millennial female I never leave the house without a hair tie around my wrist, whether intentional or not. Finally, a cure that was feasible! All I had to do, she said, was snap the hair tie whenever I am feeling the urge to pull, similar to classical conditioning experiments. I would soon learn to associate pulling hair with a painful snap of the band, thereby reducing these urges, she explained.


To this day I still never leave the house without a tie around my wrist. While the compulsion to pull is still ever present, my pulling episodes have decreased and are seldom ever public. Of course, being on antidepressants and eliminating feelings of anxiety have worked in conjunction with the band, as many of my pulling trances were precipitated by thoughts of apprehension and panic.

Trichotillomania is often chronic and difficult to treat. Similar to OCD and addictions, it is not enough to tell yourself, or for others to tell you, to stop. It requires a conscious effort and continuous devotion to treatment, not only in combating the frequency of episodes in which you pull, but also in uncovering why you pull in the first place.  Like most other mental disorders, the fight is life long, with roller coaster ups and downs, but is manageable with trial and error. So maybe next time you see someone pull out their eyebrow hairs, or tug at their eyelashes instead of yelling at them to stop, maybe you can offer them a smile instead. Trust me, it can make a world of difference.