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PLANTS. PANIC. PARANOIA™

Sunday, April 27, 2025

Post 2 – Dirt Therapy & Mental Clarity (Heavy on the Dirt, Light on the Clarity)

DIRT THERAPY & MENTAL CLARITY
(Heavy on the Dirt. Light on the Clarity. Zero Apologies.)


Spring Awakening—in the Garden and in Me
        The last cold snap has finally packed its bags, the wind stopped screaming like it just got dumped, and now? The birds are out here straight-up auditioning for a Disney reboot. It’s like The Voice: Backyard Edition, and these feathered freaks are going full Broadway. And me? I’m just standing in the garden, dirty hands on my hips, muttering, “Same, bro.” Because just like the soil, I’m waking up too—but my version ain’t as photogenic. Winter dormancy for humans doesn’t look like a cozy tulip nap—it looks like depression, grief, scrolling until your eyeballs vibrate, and wondering if that spoon is silently judging your life choices. (Spoiler: It is.) We’re Seasonal, Just Like the Soil, Soil rests. Trees chill. Bears basically do Hot Girl Hibernation without paying rent or answering texts. Why do we treat being tired like a personal failure? Maybe you’re not broken. Maybe you’re just… seasonal.

        This year, I’m taking my garden prep personally. Like, “might cry while mulching” levels of personal. The garden’s cluttered, the soil’s tired, and something’s gotta give. I’m yanking weeds and emotional baggage at the same time—because spoiler alert: nothing grows in chaos. (Ask the ghost of my 2019 houseplants. They died so dramatically I had to apologize.)


Prepping My Garden & My Soul
       I was out here trying to heal like a cowboy in recovery—journaling under the moon with whiskey breath and wildflower seeds. Meanwhile, my trauma was in the corner lifting emotional weights and getting real shredded. I thought I was rewriting my story, but really, I was just giving my pain a six-pack and a damn podcast mic. Healing ain’t cute. It’s not always crystals and candles. Sometimes it’s sobbing in your car outside a Dollar Tree, wondering if your inner child needs snacks or an exorcism.

Step 1: Soil Test — CSI: Garden Unit
        I scooped that dirt like I was starring in CSI: Garden Unit, whispering “Enhance” while dramatically squinting at the test strip. Boom—pH 8.5. Translation: too basic. My soil’s sipping iced lattes and preaching essential oils on Instagram. Most plants want a pH between 6.0 and 7.0, slightly acidic and ready to party. But mine? Passive-aggressive AF—hoarding nutrients like a toxic ex. Fixes? Pine needles (thanks, messy-ass tree), and rainwater (if it ever decides to fall in this desert wasteland). Adapt or die, plants. BMC doesn’t do hand-holding.
Step 2: Nutrient Check — Feeding the Soil, Feeding Myself

Nitrogen (N) = Low
→ Pale leaves = plant depression. Fix with coffee grounds, alfalfa meal, or Shake ‘n Feed. Precise measuring optional. Vibes only.
Phosphorus (P) = Decent
→ If yours sucks, try bone meal or bat guano. But for the love of mulch, don’t smoke the guano. You’ll hallucinate a raccoon named Steve giving life advice.

Potassium (K) = Holding steady
→ If low, try wood ash or banana peels. But don’t overdose or you’ll summon a cursed tomato spirit that haunts your garden but never fruits. (True story.)


Zooming Out: The Mental Health Parallel
        Soil needs compost, sunlight, and a good stir. So do you. What are you feeding yourself? If it’s nothing but doomscrolling and “I suck” monologues, you’re basically watering your soul with lukewarm sadness. Try this fertilizer instead:
“I am capable.”
“I am resilient.”
“I’ll get my shit together… eventually. After snacks.”
You’d be shocked what starts blooming with just a little mental Miracle‑Gro.

Testing Yourself: What Are You Low On?
        Me? I’ve been feeling like a human piñata—hollow, fragile, one hit away from a full collapse. I let other people fill me with garbage: regret, toxic nostalgia, and emotional takeout containers. But not anymore. This time, I’m holding the trowel. I decide what goes in. I decide what grows.

Clearing the Garden = Clearing My Damn Mind
        My garden’s a mess—dead plants, busted trellises, maybe a haunted Barbie leg. My mind’s not far off. So I’m ripping out weeds while telling that toxic voice in my head to shut up and sit down. Letting go isn’t weak. It’s compost. You’re not throwing it away—you’re transforming it into something stronger.

Ask yourself: Does this serve me? Does it help me grow? Would I let this live in my house and eat all my snacks? If not? YANK IT, PLANT‑WARRIOR. That trauma‑dump friend? That self‑doubt monologue? That fear of being “too much”? Compost it.

“We don’t bloom overnight. But we do bloom. One weed at a time. Now your turn—what’s one thing you’re ready to rip out?”



Audio Player Snippet
Audio Image
Mitch’s 180 Seconds of Truth, Dirt, and Probably a Raccoon
💬 SOUND OFF BELOW:
- What’s your garden (or life) cluttered with right now?

- What emotional weed are you finally yanking out?

- Ever cry while mulching? Be honest. I won’t judge.



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