Biting the bullet

I've never been an advocate of better living thru pharmaceuticals. After I got clean, I fought hard to stay that way regardless of my mental state. That meant a lot of self-harm in the past, and instead of hard drugs I turned to alcohol to numb the pain. Alcohol and I have never been friends; it always made me more destructive towards myself and towards my relationships. Right before I got pregnant with Thing 1, I quit drinking cold turkey. I also decided that it was time to ask for help. I made an appointment with a doctor to see about getting on medication.

I've been diagnosed with a ton of different things, depending on what doctor I go to. Profound anxiety disorder, bipolar dissociative disorder, garden-variety depression, psychosomatic illness associated with the constant pain of the neural degeneration from SLE, seasonal anxiety disorder, ADD, ADHD. You name an acronym and chances are they've thrown it at me in an effort to label this monster inside me.

And then I found out I was pregnant. The day my first psychiatric evaluation for medication management was supposed to take place turned out being my first prenatal appointment for Thing 1. So I cancelled my appointment. I wasn't going on medications with such teratogenic effects if I could help it. After I had him I would get help, I said.

Thing 1 is now almost 4. I suffered though a bout of the most profound post-partum depression with absolutely no help, medical or emotionally. I stretched myself to the breaking point and beyond. I worked 14, 16 hour days and went to school to try to give the boys a better chance at life than I had. I stretched and stretched and stretched, and almost broke too many times to count.

I've made the decision Monday morning that I'm calling and I'm setting up another appointment for medication management. I deserve to not hate myself every day, and others around me deserve to not have to put up with me at my worst. I can't show my sons how a strong, capable woman is supposed to act if I'm not a strong, capable woman. I also don't want them to grow up with mental illness having a stigma attached to it. I want them to see that help is available everywhere you turn, and that there's no shame in asking for it if you need it. Help is there, but you have to be brave enough to take the first step.

I'm taking that step Monday for my children, for my husband, and most of all for myself.

Totally true conversations, part 1

Scene opens, via text

BFF: So I hear you're starting a blog. You gonna be a writer?
ME: Maybe. I kind of want to write a book. This blong thing is more stress-relief I think.
B: Telling people what's kicking around in your twisted little mind is stress relief? WTF is wrong with you? I've been in there. It ain't pretty.
M: I know! I told 'em. I think the only people who'll wind up reading it is like all my moms. They know how fucked up I am and still continue to take my calls.
B: Another case of fuckery. Anyway. Book?
M: Yeh. Maybe. Naah. Possibly.
B: What would it be about?
M: I dunno.
B: Well do you have any ideas?
M: Not really.
B: Do you even WANT to write a book?
M: Yeah, I think I do.
B: But you have no ideas at all about what.
M: HOW THE FUCK SHOULD I KNOW WHAT THE BOOK IS ABOUT?! I HAVEN'T WRITTEN IT YET!
B: Sweet baby Jesus, woman. Chill out!
M: ...
B: Ok. So. Why do you want to write a book?
M: Why do I do anything? The wind blew my hair wrong. The cat winked it's asshole at me on the way out the door this morning. I don't know. If I had to think about everything I do my brain would explode.
B: Wait, you got a cat?
M: Kind of. Part time kitty.
B: Jesus woman, you tell me nothing!
M: Hey B?
B: Yes?
M: I got a part time kitty that showed up at the door and Thing 1 and Thing 2 fell in love with her so I kept her but she goes outside at night because cat boxes are fucking disgusting boxes of death. I also took a shit this morning that smelled really really bad. This vegetarian thing is messing with my guts.
B: Goddammit I hate you sometimes.
M: I love you too. Wanna go get a beer this weekend and talk about my new book?
B: Fuck you. But yes, yes I do.

*Et Fin*

People are so touchy these days.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I've become hyper-sensitive to the plights of others. Maybe people just bitch more today than they did in the past and the level of offended-ness (shuddup, it's totally a word) is the same.

I can't help but notice the sticks up everyones asses though. They look like they hurt an awful lot.

I don't know if it's been since I've had the boys, or since I've dealt with outright lies at court hearings slandering me, my family and the way I rear my children (and being able to do nothing but keep my effin' mouth SHUT), or if it's just the calming effect of aging and maturing, but I find it hard to get offended now. As a result, I find I'm offending people more and more. I don't mean to offend (usually), but it's like there's no social filter now. Those of you who have been out drinking with me understand this, and you know to make sure you know where the exits are AT ALL TIMES OMG SHUTTHEFUCKUPSTEPHANIEYOU'REGONNAGETUSKILLED. I can't help it. It's like a word-vomit of brutal honesty. Once it starts coming up there's no stopping it until it's purged.

I try to be delicate with those I love. I try to tiptoe around certain subjects and ideas that may not be acceptable. I try to filter my content to make it appropriate. Unfortunately, all that's gotten me is a lesser form of misery. I'm not happy pretending to be someone I'm not. And now that I've figured out a better idea of who I am exactly, I'd like to share it with those who won't get butthurt because I use the word "fuck" alot or because I make inappropriate "your mom" jokes. All the time. Try it, it's fun.

"Man this day sucks!"
"YOUR MOM SUCKS!"

See? It's an awesome stress reliever.

I guess The Moral Of The Story is this: Be kind, but be kind to yourself too. You do yourself no favors by not laughing at a poop joke. Life is serious enough and hard enough as it is. The stick up your ass only makes it that much worse.

Disclaimer, part two

Since people may actually start to read this drivelly shit now, I figure I should pre-empt a shitload of hait-chu-mail and just apologize now.

Today is one of those days

We got girl scout cookies a couple nights ago, and I'm sitting here at work all stressed out and ready to strip down buttassnekkid and roll around on the bed gorging myself on sweet delicous thin mints.  And not sharing with the kids. Or the goddamn husband. I'mma lock the door. AFTER I pour myself a Big Gulp size glass of wine.

It's been one of those days.

I think I could probably function better if I could get in a shower on more than a weekly basis. It's kinda gross, I know, but I also know all you Mommys out there know what the fuck I'm talking about. DON'T PRETEND YOU DON'T, JUDGY MCJUDGERTON! You know exactly what I'm talking about. I wash bits and pieces on a regular basis, but as for a whole body immersion in water with soap and no prying eyes or fingers under the door waving at me screeching "MAMA! MAMA! WHATCHADOIN'?!", it's a rare and far-between luxury.

So someone told me today on my SpaceFaceTwatterBox that I needed a blog. My reply was "Yeah, like I need a fuckin' hole in my head". And then I thought about it for a minute.

Fuck. I already have a blog.

And holes in my head.

I'm seeing a pattern form, and it revolves around me being wrong on a regular basis.

And I swear to Jeebus next person who tells me "Oh! You should have said something! You KNOW I'll take the kids WHENEVER!" is gonna get sporked in the muthafuckin' eyeballs. Possibly the trachea too. Depends on if I break it off in your orbital or not.

O Hai!

So this is blogging. Hm. Well, here we go. Hold on, sit down, and shut up. But totally don't shut up, cause I'm here for your amusement (and hopefully, some advice).

Here's my disclaimer:

-All names will be changed to protect privacy. Cause there's some DUMB SHIT you're about to hear and if it was me doing it I definitely wouldn't want you to know my name.-

That being said, ON WITH THE SHOW!!!!!