Life

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Approximately 35 years ago, I was born. I think I might have come out sneezing.

I am a huge nerd with a long list of allergies. When I was in high school my eyes would swell shut at track meets from the grass. Always an extremely attractive look for anyone I was trying to impress. Or see.

For some reason, my parents never thought that taking me to get tested for allergies was a good idea, so I just suffered.

When I turned into an actual adult, I had enough. I was starting to get migraines and took matters into my own hands because I had good insurance.

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35 is actually knowing who you are as person but still questioning each and every decision you make.

35 is wanting to go to bed but craving time alone to watch Bachelor in Paradise – or something equally as trashy.

35 is spending a night drinking with your friends then spending the next day feeling like shit because you aren’t 21 anymore.

35 is working out in the morning but complaining about your creaky bones when you walk up steps.

35 is wanting to spend all the time with your children but also locking yourself in the bathroom with your coffee so no one will touch you with their grubby hands.

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I have been, and continue to be, very open about my experiences with depression and anxiety.

Depression and anxiety are illnesses that I will most likely deal with for the rest of my life.

But there is one thing that I wasn’t doing that I should have done a long time ago when it came to coping with my depression and anxiety.

I wasn’t going to therapy.

I have been to therapy before, but it was always one of those things that I thought of as something that was nice to do, but not necessary. I would go to a few visits, then ghost my therapist like a bad date because other things in life took precedence.

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I feel like self-care has become such a buzzword lately. It’s everywhere, mostly in parenting blogs, like mine – HA.

“Moms need to take care of themselves! You have to practice self-care to be a balanced human and a good parent and spouse. Blah blah blah.”

But seriously, who has time for self-care? To me, it feels like just another task that has to be completed, and if it’s between me doing the laundry and going to see a movie by myself, I’m going to do the laundry.

I know, the laundry will wait for me. It’s not moving.

No shit, my laundry hasn’t moved without my help over the last ten years.

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To be 100% honest, I don’t know how to start this post. I have been writing about my past issues with depression lately, but today I want to talk about an episode I had with depression just about six months ago.

I am not a doctor. I am not a specialist. But I have experienced depression. And if I can help someone by sharing my story and being real and open, I am all for it.

And to be totally honest, this is not something that is easy to talk about. The only people who really knew I was suffering from depression at the time were my husband and possibly my mom.

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Dear 24-year old me,

I know that you are having a hard time with life right now. You are battling depression and anxiety and sometimes you literally don’t know how you are going to make it through the day. Your mind is full of doubt and racing with worry to the point of having panic attacks.

So you self-medicate and drink. And drink. And drink. You still make it to your 8-5 job with a smile on your face and manage to somehow make it through each day. But you are hiding the fact that you are so hungover from last night’s bar crawl that you have to run to the bathroom to vomit a few times.

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On my Facebook page the other day, I decided to jump on the “How Hard Has Aging Hit You Extravaganza for 30-Somethings Reliving Their Best Life Via Facebook” challenge. I had my profile picture from college next to my current profile picture. The pictures were taken approximately twelve years and one hundred forty-two bottles of self tanner apart.

I could say that having children aged me. Or having a full time job and a mortgage and responsibilities has aged me. But I know that it’s really the fact that I am actually twelve years older that has aged me. And I have cut the tanning bed out of my life.

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For the last four years or so, I have consistently talked about how I need to get my shit together. You know, start recycling, shower on a regular basis, make sure I actually make it to the lunches I plan with friends, do a great job at work, take care of my children, do the laundry every weekend, spend quality time with my husband, find a hobby that doesn’t include alcohol, lose 20 pounds and Marie Kondo my entire home.

How many other ladies out there have felt the same way? Raise your hands, I know you have said the exact same thing.

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Let’s just start out by saying that I am a legit child of the 80’s. Going to eat lunch or dinner at Ponderosa was BIG DEAL when I was six. I mean, that was before my city got a Sizzler, but we won’t go there.

Ponderosa was such a big deal in Owensboro, KY, that we had two of them. They were approximately five stoplights away from each other and are both closed now.

I remember going there as a child and staring at the salad bar in awe. It was enormous. Salad and chicken wings and rolls and mashed potatoes and did I mention the soft serve ice cream machine??

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