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.
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.
The other day, someone I didn’t know reached out to me and complimented me on how brave it was that I am so open about my experience with postpartum depression.
I was flattered, to be honest. But the only thing I could think to say back, besides thank you, was that I wish someone had spoken out about it before I did.
I know doctors talked about it in articles you could find in mental health magazines. There were some celebrities that had discussed their situations. But no one sat my pudgy pregnant little ass down and said, “Okay, you have a history of depression.
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.
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.
I will start this post with yet another disclaimer. I know that in approximately two years, I will have to delete this or my four year old will hate me for the rest of his life. Luckily, he has no idea how to read yet.
Until then, enjoy this post because he says some pretty funny shit. No pun intended.
The phrase toilet humor made no true sense to me until I had a four-year old boy. Then he learned about poop and I realized I would hear about it every day for the rest of my life.
Maybe we talked about poop too much when he was younger.
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??
I will start this post out with a disclaimer. I am not pregnant and do not plan to have any more babies. No, I am not going to try for a girl. Sorry to anyone that got excited when they read the title.
I have had discussions with many of my friends lately about how annoyed they got that their husband complained the entire time they were pregnant. Or that their husband complained once when they were pregnant. Either way, it was not cool.
It inspired me to share their stories with the world so that hopefully the wonderful men in our lives will get the point and keep their sweet little mouths shut while we prepare to bring a human being into this world.
After ten long months of being pregnant with my first child Henry, I literally could not wait to meet him.
Actually, I don’t know if it was that I couldn’t wait to meet him or that I couldn’t wait for him to evacuate the premises.
I am not a good pregnant person. I gain a ton of weight, swell up kind of like the Hulk and complain ALL.DAY.LONG about the fact that I am angry, hot, sweaty and have somehow busted out four pairs of flip flops in one week.
This is a “sort of” apology to my husband for having to endure my pregnancy madness twice.… CONTINUE READING