Analyze This

Since my post yesterday, and after reading the link in its comments, I’ve been thinking of how to describe, for myself, what my mental status is like.

Depression seems so black and white.

Anxiety seems so alarming.

Let’s see…

I am the kind of person who is unable to hear or remember or absorb much of anything other than the negative comments made to me, about me, within me.  I will obsess for weeks over a grammar flub or a misplaced giggle during someone’s venting.  I can’t turn that off.

So, then I try to turn it out.  I focus negativity on those around me, people on the road, at the grocery store, my husband, my kids.  But that just makes me feel even more like a horrible person, and so I just retreat altogether.

Through reading, writing, drinking, watching TV or movies, sleeping, eating…  Anything that will blank out my own thoughts and feelings.  I’ve always had an elaborate fantasy life (and I don’t mean that I play RPGs or that I have a closet full of fetish gear).  I mean that since I was a little kid with imaginary friends, I’ve been taking day dreaming to an art form.

I think that’s what most writers do, and it makes so much sense to me that so many writers suffer depression as well.  It’s escapism. 

This doesn’t mean that I don’t find enjoyment in those things, because of course I do.  This doesn’t mean that I don’t put on my best Scroogy Face and interact when necessary, even doing a fairly passable job at socializing.

It’s just a shell.  An act.  Like I’m on autopilot.

Soon, I look around and realize it’s been a week since I’ve swept or vacuumed and my laundry remains unfolded in the basket and my kids are running rampant and my husband barely says a word to me.

I realize that I haven’t been there. 

That’s what I mean by dark, lost, shapeless.  Undefined. 


I know that this too shall pass, that there will be brighter days.

But in case yesterday’s post was less than clear, there ya go…




I’m tired

I’m tired of being…  of being…


I am tired of being…

Yes, that’s it, I guess.

I’m just tired of being.

No, I’m not suicidal (I’m WAY too nosy to kill myself).  I’m just not sure how to end that sentence appropriately.

My brain mind soul psyche sits ready to unleash a stream of vitriol to end that statement- words that feel right, but are just wrong.  I know LOGICALLY they are wrong.

Mental health is so puzzling.  I was feeling pretty good just this weekend.  And now, I feel so lost and dark and shapeless. 

Yeah, shapeless.  Undefined.

I’m tired of being undefined.


Mommy Finished

This past weekend was significant in Scroogyland, not just because it was Mother’s Day, but also because my daughters saw me cross the finish line of my first 5K.

It brings tears to my eyes to think of it, Peeps.

Me, Scroogy- far from athletic- finished a run.  (Well, more of a walk/jog- heavy on the walk, but still…)

Lala and Loopsy waited for me, with their grandparents and their Daddy, at the finish of Saturday’s Color Run here in Baltimore.

They witnessed their Mom -television addict, usually found reading novel after novel on the couch or spending hours on the computer writing or playing Candy Crush- finish something she’d set out to do last summer.  Mommy got ready for, and ultimately finished, a 5K.

Without having a heart attack or passing out or spraining anything.

I’ll never forget how proud I felt when I saw them and heard them calling for me as I jogged under the inflatable Finish arch, covered in layers of colored dust, sweaty, and a little red in the face. 

Girls, if you read this one day, this is what I want you to remember:

Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t or that you shouldn’t.  Not even yourselves.

Don’t let people judge you for your size or your looks or your past.  Not even that voice in your head.

If you work hard, if you stick to anything, you can finish what you start.  You can do or be anything.  You can beat any odds, meet any goals you set for yourself.

I love you girls.  This 5K was for you.

The next one is for me.



Medicated Mommy

*sigh* You guys.  *sigh*

I’ve been in therapy for a couple of months and my therapist suggested I see a psychologist for a medication evaluation.  I knew this day would come.

Part of me is like, “Sweet!  Finally!  I can be a functioning member of society again!”

Another part of me is like, “Nooooo!  I am Scroogy!  I can handle this ON MY OWN!!”

A third part of me is hiding under a blanket and refusing to acknowledge it.

I’m trying to just let the idea sink in a bit.  Trying not to have unrealistic expectations for pharmaceuticals.  Trying not to feel like I’m surrendering to the big, bad, Dark Side.

I have an inkling that I’ll have more motivation to get out of the house, off the couch, to step away from the TV or my laptop and really live.  I hope that I’ll be a better, more present and focused Mommy.

But what if I don’t, Peeps? 

What if it’s NOT clinical depression and it’s just that I suck as a human being?

What then?

First Blogiversary!!!!

One year ago today, Peeps, I entered the wonderful world of blogging.

Last year I was yearning to find myself again, feeling hollow, lost, alone, and scared.  I knew that my mojo was out there somewhere, waiting to be reclaimed.

I’m glad to say that thanks to the soul searching and creative lift I’ve found here that my mojo is back.  It could also have something to do with being free of that terrible Mirena and its evil hormones.  Or because I finally am seeking treatment for my anxiety and depression.  Or that I made it to 38 after all.

But thanks, my faithful Peeps, for being there on the other end of the interwebs.

Cheers to my second year of blogging!!!

Taking stock

I am not perfect.  And I am learning to accept that it’s okay.  I am learning that I am worthy of good things, of love, of affection, of nurturing and care.  It’s a rough lesson to learn when all my life I’ve been my own worst enemy.

Here is a list, dear Scroogy, of all your wonderfulness.  Please read daily:

  1. You are creative.
  2. You are intelligent.
  3. Your soft arms and legs and belly make for great cuddles and hugs.
  4. You are a reader.
  5. You are open-minded.
  6. You are thoughtful.
  7. You have great skin and eyes.
  8. You can be funny.
  9. You made two amazing babies. At the same time.
  10. You keep going.

Mid-scroogy Crisis

I don’t know if it’s the late thirties emotional meltdown or the 5ish yrs post childbirth hormonal shift, but Heavens to Betsy, Peeps, I’ve been so emotional lately.

I am sobbing over everything, unhappy with the world, wanting to run away (literally and figuratively).  I’ve been escaping my problems with all of my go-to crutches- food, booze, television.  I’m a mess.  Gah.  Not too sure lately if I’m cut out for this “adulthood” deal.

I feel so unaccomplished and unimportant.  I make it a point to note my daily accomplishments and gratitudes, but lately it all adds up to squat.  I’m not who I meant to be.  I don’t know who I am.

Oh, and before you ask, that therapist never called back.  I know it would be easy to look up the name of another counselor, but, anxiety makes me all itchy and twitchy about the unknown.  So, I have yet to receive professional help.  It’s becoming clearer and clearer that I need it.  I promise I’ll call someone tomorrow.  Probably.

I’m not posting this to get sympathy.  I just need to admit it.  And if there’s anyone else out there going through this, I want them to know they are not alone.

Depression’s a bitch.

So, a commenter on Monday suggested that to start becoming the person I want to be I should be focusing on what I already do right.  So, here goes:

  1. Nothing.  (just kidding)
  2. Write a blog to vent on a variety of topics I find interesting or important or those which are otherwise clogging my brain.
  3. Create meaningful and fun learning opportunities for my kids.
  4. Keep up with my peers through a variety of social media.
  5. Have thoughtful and loving conversations with my daughters about any subject that interests them, no matter how difficult.
  6. Apologize when I’m wrong and strive to do better.
  7. Make strides in becoming a better home maker.

Well, that’s a start.

I’ve been thinking lately that instead of thinking of my “weaknesses” as crutches, I should find a way to use them to my advantage.  Like in regards to my rambling, in-depth TV Tuesday post yesterday, I thought, hey, I should write for a TV or Entertainment magazine/journal/blog.  Lord knows I have a lot of experience watching television.  Or maybe I could turn my tendency to overanalyze and correct outward and work in research or editing or something.

This blog post has no coherence at all.  Sorry.  Brain-fried today.

If anyone’s reading this, thanks for letting me vent.  Getting it out helps.  Even just this little smackerel of my issues!




The Eternal Sunshine of the Scroogy Mind

So…  I’ve gone and decided to seek therapy for my friggin mental health issues.  Finally.

I called today and asked to make an appointment and the lady took a message.  Is that weird?  Is that how therapists work? I feel like I dialed the wrong number and I’m being punked.  Anyway, just one of the things I’m worrying about as I await the beginning of treatment.

Here’s some more:

– My husband brought home his used tupperware and utensils from lunch and there were three butter knives in the bag that aren’t ours.  My logical mind knows they either belong to the office kitchen or to a co-worker.  My crazy mind thinks they belong to his svelte, smart, funny, adventurous new girlfriend who meets him at lunchtime for leftovers and a little afternoon delight.  I know in my head & heart that he is faithful, it’s just that my ego’s all effed up.  See, Peeps, my Dad was an open womanizer and oh yeah, also the only other guys with whom I’ve had long-term relationships were big ol’ cheater cheater punkin eaters.  Poor Hubby.  He really didn’t know what he was getting himself into.  Good thing I’m smart enough not to actually vent these delusions in his presence.

– I have some lower back pain and something wrong with my left hip (bursitis or whatever??).  But every time I have a twitch of pain, I’m sure it’s The Cancer.    Then I swallowed too much air or some junk when I gulped down my gallon of water a day and therefore have indigestion and then I’m sure it’s The Cardiac Arrest.  (Cause I’m gonna die soon, remember?) Then I start to have a panic attack…  It’s good times.

– I sit here at my desk to use my netbook b/c if I went in the living room, I’d see the giant mess the kids made with their teeny tiny Barbie and Lalaloopsy toys and the menagerie of stuffed creatures that certainly must multiply overnight.  How did we accumulate so many?  And if I really sat amongst all that, and the dust on the TV stand and the dusty picture frames and clock and the goldfish crumbs on my carpet I’d go absolutely bonkers and decide to clean it all up myself and then I’d hurt my back/hips even more (like I did last Monday) and then, well, see the above craziness, and also… I’d get all sad and depressed and self-loathing b/c I have these issues b/c I’m so overweight and I did this to myself and what kind of person does that and…  It goes on and on, one thought steamrolling into another until I just wanna go to sleep or eat a bag of Doritoes with sour cream and onion dip or drink a whole box of cheap Sangria.  Seriously, you guys, the Franzia is calling my name as I type.

– I gave up my job and some glimmer of ambition to go for my MBA to stay at home with my kiddies and now I’m so out of the loop that I don’t even know what a dongle is and I wish that damn Samsung commercial would just shut the hell up.  Surely a dongle isn’t a real thing.  It’s just something Madison Avenue invented to make stay at home Mommies feel like they have missed out on some sort of technological revolution and they’ll never fit back into the workplace.  I mean, it sounds just ridiculous.  Dongle.

-And while I’m ranting about career ambitions…  WTH was I thinking, pronouncing myself a “writer.”  Stupid.  Gah.  I can’t even stick to a goddamn writing schedule.  And it’s something I love.  Why can’t I do something I love to do?

Oh, that’s right.  I’m fucking depressed.

Why won’t that therapist call me back?  Seriously?

Top 10 things I do instead of writing

1. Read tweets from the Real Housewives of New Jersey and Rainn Wilson.

2. Stare at the picture of the bike I want on the Huffy website.

3.  Oh yeah, parenting.  And housekeeping.

4. Watch teaser trailers for the new season of American Horror Story.

5. Google Baltimore ghost stories.

6. Did I mention I have twins?  And I’m waaaaay behind on laundry b/c of my damn lumbar radiculopathy.

7.  Read everyone else’s blog.  is my new favorite.

8. Catch up on Hotel Hell. (side note: As I was waiting for the on Demand ep to start, I got to see the scene from The Hunger Games where Katniss volunteers as tribute for Prim.  If you don’t get a little choked up watching that, well, you’re dead inside.)

9. Spark People.  Need help and support anywhere I can get it.

10. Checking FB and Twitter and WordPress to see if anyone, anywhere reads what I write.  *sigh*