Well, I just plain suck.

Has it really been three months since I last wrote a blog post?  I apologize.  I assume that you all have been sitting on pins and needles waiting to hear how I’m doing.  Have you checked my blog every day hoping for some indication that I have not been checked into the loonybin?

Honestly, it was touch-and-go for a while there, but you’ll be pleased to know that I am still among the not-yet-institutionalized faction of society.  Is that one of the factions in the Divergent books?  If not, it should be.  They could be called “Wackness” and their symbol could be a straightjacket and their members would be ALL OF US.  I think that as we age there’s probably a justification for all of us to be committed for one reason or another.  I can think of about 10 reasons right now that my sisters and I could commit my mother.  We could commit my father for not yet having my mother committed.

Kidding.  My father could be committed for many other reasons.  When he eats an English Muffin, he puts a blob of jelly in the middle of the muffin but he doesn’t spread it around.  It just sits there like a clot.  And he eats condiment sandwiches.  Bread, relish and mustard.  That’s it.   He power walks in jeans.  I could go on.

Over the past three months I learned that Ativan gives you amnesia.  How do I know this?  Well, it turns out that when I was on Ativan I had full access to my computer, iPad and iPhone.  At some point during my month of stupor, I sent emails and Facebook messages to several people who would best be described as acquaintances.   These messages were unsolicited by the acquaintances.  These acquaintances did not ask me how I was doing.  They did not know of my breakdown.  So I can only imagine their reactions upon reading the overly weepy, brutally honest details of my life.  I shared things with these individuals that should have NEVER, EVER been shared.  I ran into one of these acquaintances at Target recently, so now I can’t go to Target.

I really blame my caretakers for this mortifying development.  How could they let me have internet access knowing that I was high?  I imagine that all of the residents of Colorado are deleting their Facebook accounts like I did.

Anyway, I’m good.  I’m still seeing the therapist and the psychiatrist.  I am no longer hiding in my closet doing sold-out performances of period dramas.  Mostly they were sold out because my closet is such a mess that no one can fit in there but me.

I’ve started eating from cans without fear of botulism.  I am able to walk through the canned-goods aisle at the grocery store without anxiety and then purchase (still undented) cans without first fondling them to make sure they’re perfect.  I still won’t eat home-canned goods because I’m pretty sure that most home-canners are idiots.  Do you can?  Then I think you’re an idiot, no offense.

I’ve started being brutally honest and tacking a “no offense” onto all of my potentially offensive statements.

I’ve started ordering food at restaurants without first thinking, “What on this menu is least likely to poison me?”

I’ve stopped cutting my underwear out of a fear that they will cut off my circulation.  I so wish I was making that one up.  I contemplated going without underwear, but I was convinced that spiders would nest in my lady parts and that I’d give birth to a demon of Brown Recluse spiders.  (“Demon” is the scientific term for a group of spiders.  Or birds.)

I’ve started sticking my face in the shower water again.  Did I tell you I haven’t done that for over two years because of my fear of the brain-eating amoeba?  And now when The Beast sucks bath water up his nose, I can let it go.  I used to not let it go.  Now, like Adele Dazeem, I let it go.  (I know that story is old, but did you not just pee your cut-up underwear when you saw it?)

So, other than the amnesia and having to hide from certain people, I’m good.  I honestly haven’t felt this good in years.  I don’t think I realized how bad I was until I got better.

I’m no longer on the Ativan but I’m still on the Zoloft and plan to be for the foreseeable future.

I’ve found energy that I didn’t know I had.  I’ve been cooking meals more regularly and The Beast is no longer asking me daily, “What’s Daddy picking up for dinner?”

I’ve started eating again.  I lost about 10 pounds when the funk set in.  While the skinniness was lovely from the aspect of my clothes fitting without any extra fluffiness, it wasn’t a mentally healthy skinny in that my depression and anxiety made me want to decapitate my children’s Christmas puppy.  The puppy is still alive and I’m back to having my upper butt (the fat that sits above my actual ass).

I’ve started getting things done around the house.  Not the laundry because that sucks.  But I’ve been sweeping my kitchen daily.  That may sound ridiculous, but I used to not have the energy to do it.  (The split infinitive in that sentence is driving me nuts, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how to fix it.  It’s not the only one in this post, but it’s the only one that’s bugging me.  Someone fix it and get back to me.)

I’ve taken to organizing porches.  I cleaned the screened porch off of my bedroom, bought a wood glider and put that sucker together.  I used tools and everything.  Virginia Slims Man did help at the end, but only because he got home sooner than I expected and I wasn’t quite finished and I think it was physically painful for him to watch me attempt to use his tools.  He said, “I’m impressed you got the right wrench.”  I didn’t tell him that it said on the box what size wrench you needed and that I tried to use several incorrect wrenches before getting the right one.

I’ve started spending more time outside.  We planted a garden and I spend time there every day.

I’ve discovered that the act of picking up dog poop is therapeutic.

Yeah, that one’s kind of weird.

And in all of this I’ve learned that we all need help.  Sometimes it’s from friends and family, sometimes professionals, sometimes medication.  There’s a stigma attached to mental health issues, and there really shouldn’t be.  We are complex individuals with miraculously powerful brains, and sometimes things get out of whack.  I joke about being committed, but I’ve realized that even if I had been committed, there is nothing in that to be ashamed of or embarrassed by.  Mental illness deserves sympathy, not judgment.

The point of all this is to say thank you all so much for your kind messages and thoughts.  I’m doing so much better.  I would say that I’m still weird, but now it’s in more of an “Oh, she’s delightfully odd” kind of way rather than a “Dear Lord, what the hell is wrong with her?” kind of way.

And that’s progress.




23 thoughts on “Well, I just plain suck.

  1. I love this: “We are complex individuals with miraculously powerful brains…” what a perfect way to put it. When are you coming to see us? And by the way, you have always been delightfully odd to me… that is why I love you so much…

  2. You are so truly awesome!!! I love reading your blog and I’ve missed it…..I love this post especially because people do judge if you have to take medicine…..but I can tell you after my husband left I struggled so much about getting on medicine because he always said I was crazy and just needed to get over my depression…..it was a battle for awhile but thankfully I did take my mom’s advice and went and I’m so glad I did……with 4 kids and being a single mom it’s too much sometimes and I’m glad there are people saying it’s ok to need help…..it’s better for everyone…..thanks for sharing your story you rock….keep on being awesome!!!!

  3. I appreciate your post, from another crazy mom that probably should be on an anti-depressant/anti-anxiety. When I read what you’ve written, I find the strength to keep on being the “mom”, I don’t feel alone, I sweep my floors and scrub out my tubs, I smile, I make dinner etc. You are a form of zoloft. Thank you for that. I wish you well and I truly appreciate your honestly. You make me feel like I am okay.
    Thank you for everything. I know how hard it must be to put it all out there on the internet, but it does help those of us who need a hand up.

  4. Yes, as a matter of fact, I have been checking several times a week to see if you’ve posted and wondering if all was well. Occasionally a tweet would show up in the sidebar and I would know that you were still doing “ok”. I am happy to hear that you have found some relief from the inner turmoil! Keep writing, it offers therapy for us all!

  5. You know I love you sweetie and I’m so glad you’re doing better … But.. Is it bad that I got a chuckle out of Closet Theater? Love ya

  6. What’s so bad about power walking in jeans? I could really embarrass you and pull the jeans way up so that the waistline is just under my rib cage. So watch what you say. Thrilled that you are feeling much better. Love ya.

  7. Cymbalta is my anti-anxiety drug of choice. I’m pretty certain that without it, I would have broken down long ago. So thank you for sharing. And I am SO glad you are doing better. xo

  8. I can’t begin to tell you how happy it makes me to know you’re doing so much better. This news makes me smile. I also found myself looking for a “like” button, as I read all the comments. I miss you being on FB. You should come back.
    You make me laugh. Miss you tons!!!


  9. I’ve been checking for posts every other day and was so happy to see one today. Glad you’re feeling better…it can be tougher than people realize to come out of that dark place and I’m happy that you’re enjoying the sun again.

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