I would like to take a moment to talk about seasonal depression. Let me start by saying what the fuck?
Every year I tell myself I need to deal with this and then I forget by beer:thirty PM (that's beer-teen thirty in military time). But for two days I have been frozen in a mire of anger and self-doubt. The biggest difference this year is having a toddler with a wonderful, vanilla-smelling mass of dark hair in which to bury my face and breath goodness. But I only get that privilege for a few hours a day and the rest of the time I am trying to figure out how to make enough money to survive while wearing star shine and warm fuzzies on my sleeve because, with the exception of dear darling husband, don't I always seem okay?
Meanwhile, this irritating monster of inexplicable shit storm arrives every November to take over my brain. Is this hormonal? Is it hereditary? Are the gods jacking with me as a sick joke? Do I HAVE to relive every humiliating moment of my life off and on for three months every year? I have learned to let these things go over the years, because the thoughts were making me sick and I finally figured out that I did not have to shape my days and personality around these events. Plenty of people remember me as just that person: sharing too much to get attention, being dramatic to get attention, being reckless TO GET ATTENTION. A horrid insecurity has haunted me my whole life - for good reasons. But I learned about six or seven years ago how to think through this stuff better, cope with it on my own terms, and quit telling the whole world my story.
Insert ironic statement here. Yes, I realize that by blogging I am posting information in a public forum about a problem that I am having and it is therefore considered telling the whole world my story. I am going to keep talking about it so maybe it will go away. Maybe I will have some revelation about the cause or cure. Maybe I will just tell you to piss off because I am crabby right now.
I really am not that person anymore. I am quieter, a bit reserved (enough to be able to hold my tongue when appropriate), and do not expend energy analyzing others' problems to make myself look good. If you can't get that image of me out of your head, I understand. I often can't either.
I know others go through this. I know I don't want to add any more drugs to my regimen. And if one more person tells me to get a light box I am going to scream and throw things. Can you just suggest a good bottle of wine? Better yet, just mail it to me?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
My husband took all three kids to grandma's house so I could get some rest since I've been fighting the Ick for a few weeks. I barely know what to do. If I could have had him take the dog and two cats along, my house would be perfectly quiet, if only for a few hours. The TV is off, no music, no anything. My body will be missing my baby in a few hours but that's what a breast pump is for.
You better believe the bath is running. I haven't taken a bubble bath for five or six months, pretty much since I could lift my own weight out of the tub. Showers are faster and can be managed while Bella naps. Baths are luxury time and I usually can find ten other things to do in that time. See, the gears just started up already. Must. Stop. Thoughts. Of. Cleaning. Going to take a bath, light some candles, finish my book. Since I'm supermom and could do all of the above in ten minutes or less, I'm pretty sure I'll have time for a nap.
Sadly, the only source of fire I could find for my Stargazer Lily Yankee Candle was a lighter from Las Vegas. Shaped like a headless, legless woman (a feminist pisser all on its own), it was a stag gift from my father-in-law that, when opened, has flashing lit boobies and it makes porn-gasm noises. Sigh.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
This is Apollo. He is a husky/lab mix - and I would swear to some greyhound because this dude can RUN. He is probably topping out around 80-90 pounds. We were allowed to bond with him at the humane society only to have some paper pusher tell us the next day that we would not be allowed to adopt him because we already had a cat and he has a "small prey drive." Essentially, they told us he would kill our cats.
Eventually, we were able to bring him home and the cats ARE in charge of this dog, who is generally a big baby that lets the kids lay all over him and pull on his ears. But this morning . . . oh, this morning . .
He is let out to sniff stuff and mark up his yard first thing every morning, generally between six and six-thirty because my little goo-goo head Bella is an alarm clock like that. She and I came down around and I planted her in the highchair, let the dog out and got the coffee started. After a bit, I tried to call him in and he didn't come. This is not unusual, he gets easily fixated and will disappear to various corners of the yard or into the garage or under bushes to chase things or bark at people walking by. But I ususally at least hear the jangle of his tags on his collar. So, getting pissy, I donned some sandals and wandered out into the yard. By now he should be mowing through the grass, ready to race around the yard at full speed to impress me. Nothing.
After a few moments I heard a slight jangle and circled the house, praying that he hadn't gotten out again because he's a runner that must be chased for blocks with bread and other treats, sing-songing his name so he doesn't think he's in trouble. I rounded the corner and saw him hiding behind the A/C unit with something in his mouth. Because he will eat any and all trash food I immediately assumed he had found a hamburger bun or something and was experiencing doggie bliss. It would help to interject that a few months ago we quit giving him any and all people food because he started getting horrible bouts of diarrhea, the smell of which was warfare-quality nastiness. Then I saw a bit of red and thought he had a bird and I started yelling for him to drop it. DROP IT!
Horror set in as I realized what was really going on. Beneath his paw was a headless squirrel and in his mouth was That. Squirrel's. Head. I ran at him screaming in horror - drop it! DROP IT! Now! NOW! Oh, don't you dare eat that omigod omigod omigod as I chased him - because he finally gave up on the parts beneath his paw - I could hear him crunching on the head and -
I had to quit chasing him because he kept running. I had to let him (gag) finish so I could get him in the house. I immediately woke Rich and told him that when Apollo regurgitates squirrel pieces later I will be LEAVING THE HOUSE. I called the vet and she confirmed that we will indeed be revisisted by the squirrel in some shape or form.
I will never be grossed out by a poo diaper again, no matter the volume or consistency.