Tag Archives: Psycho

No Soup For You

11 Feb

My husband is not the soup Nazi but rather has become the baby Nazi. It began with me getting pregnant with the Chiquita. Even back then he questioned my ability to parent.

The Post Partum Depression only confirmed his fears that I ‘couldn’t handle it’. I think when PPD is talked about (which is too little in my opinion except when they throw a bunch of paperwork at you after your delivery…too bad when I actually said ‘Yes, I have PPD, now please help me’ they put their arms up in question like …now what do we do?) the focus remains – rightfully so – on the mother.

But, in my experience, the fathers are completely forgotten about. My poor husband not only had to deal with taking care of the Chiquita on the days I simply couldn’t do it but also had to wonder every day if I would actually come home from work. Many-a-days I told him I was going to drive into a concrete barrier.

I don’t even think some of my friends know the depths of the depression I was drowning from. I sheltered everyone. Yes, I said I had Post Partum Depression.  Yes, people knew that I had suffered from depression/anxiety since my teen years thanks to PMDD. But, the fact that I hated being a mother as much as I did had to be a secret. The fact that I prayed every night for God to take me in my sleep I couldn’t tell people. No one would understand.

I remember after I had the Chiquita I was like why do people have kids? Seriously. I couldn’t believe that anyone in their right mind would have more than one child. I felt like all the friends and celebrities who said how great being a mother was were lying. Like it was some big scam.

My husband tried to be supportive but my erratic behavior frightened him. I honestly don’t know if he questioned whether I would hurt our baby. I wouldn’t have and I never did.

I remember one time he was sitting in the dentist’s chair yanking the bib off during a cleaning saying he had to get out of there…trying to explain that his wife had Post Partum Depression and was home with the Chiquita…and that he didn’t know what I was going to do.

I had called him sobbing. He had been at work all day and then went to the dentist immediately after. I was on maternity leave and was still recovering from my near-death experience and was dealing with a sick infant (the Chiquita had gotten very sick on bad formula, but we didn’t know so had continued to feed it to her. Eventually we had to get X-rays done…this was all more than I could bear) who had spent the last six hours screaming. I thought I was going to lose it.

I put her in her bedroom and shut the door. She screamed and screamed and screamed. I was losing my mind. I was sobbing. I wanted to die. I called him in a complete panic and he raced home ….

Fast Forward.

Those devastating times are behind us. If you’ve been reading you know that I hit rock-bottom in February 2011. Yes, I admitted to and reached out for help for PPD in as early as September 2010 (two months after the birth of the Chiquita). But, because I wasn’t getting proper treatment my downward spiral continued until February 2011.

At that point I knew it was do or die. I fired all my doctors. I quit writing my blog. I quit drinking alcohol. I started intense therapy. I turned it around because I knew I would lose it all if I kept it up. It was terrifying. It was six months of recovery. Well, that’s an understatement. I’m still recovering to this day, but it was six months of Britney Spears head shaving therapy.

And here I am. I tell you my story because it helps me to forgive. Forgive who? I’m not sure. All I know is for a long time I was really angry. Why? Why did this happen to me?

I don’t know why.

A couple of months ago I started to yearn for another baby. People have asked me time and time again about Baby #2, and my response was this, which is still one of my top-rated posts. I really like this post as well ~ and I still agree with it. Nothing has changed…my husband is still old, my family is still complete, I’m still blessed with an amazing kiddo.

But now I wonder about trying it again. I feel like it would be different. I have a great team of doctors and therapists behind me. I’ve done it before so the whole ‘unknown’ no longer applies. I’m mentally better than I’ve ever been.

I didn't know how lucky I was because I was sick

I didn’t know how lucky I was because I was sick

I was truly robbed of the first few months of my daughter’s life. I was there physically for it all, but mentally, I was not. My brain was in trauma so I’ve actually blocked a lot of things out. I can’t recall many things, and I ache for that time back. I look at pictures, and I cry. I see mothers with their infants, and I feel so deprived.

I approached my doctor about it, almost expecting her to say it was a bad idea. My old doctor had suggested that I not have another child due to all my complications, both physically and mentally. My new doctor – who I love – was excited, supportive and very encouraging. She said that in her experience PPD is not nearly as bad the second time around. She would help me every step of the way and we would be proactive in my treatment.

I went home and told my husband. He said, “If you want to have another baby we can have another baby!”

Many of my friends and cousins are on babies #2 and #3 and here’s me still with one. Not that I’m looking to compete or feel like something is wrong with me, but it’s more that I’ve just officially moved into this next chapter of my life whereas right after the Chiquita was born many of my friends were still without child…and going out and doing all the things I used to do and was longing to do in my depressive state.

Life is completely different now. Life is no longer manicures and bars. It is going to bed at ten o’clock and watching The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. And you know what? That’s fine!

But then a few weeks later on a hard parenting day (those do happen!) he said, “There’s no way we’re having another baby.”

I started fighting with him about it but then left it alone for a while.

I brought it back up this weekend. He looked nervous and uncomfortable. He said that he doesn’t want to have another baby.

I felt hurt and betrayed – he said he wanted another one. What happened?

Was it because I got angry with the Chiquita for hitting me with Mr. Bear and yelled, “If you hit me with him again I’ll cut off his arm!” to which Hubs said, “Hey now…geez…that’s a little Mommy Dearest…”

Mommie_Dearest

Oops, it is?

He must think I’m a bad mother. He’s told me before he sees me get flustered sometimes. I do yell a lot – Italians are yellers. We always agree that we like it two against one.

But why? Why was it yes and now no?

“I can’t go through it again,” he said, suddenly, with my persistence to answer me. He looked into my eyes and said, “The Post Partum. I just can’t do it again. I can’t risk it.”

I wanted to cry but said nothing. What’s there to say? That night I cried in bed after he fell asleep. What am I supposed to do? I’m supposed to support my husband. We are a team. We tell each other the good, the bad and the ugly.

Yes, this is ugly. Yes, this hurts. But I respect his opinion, and I’m going to choose to thank God every day for the Chiquita and will continue to enjoy all the beautiful bundles of joy around me. Not everyone is meant to be a mother. I’d hate to think that I’m not meant to be a mother, but in this case, I think one is truly a blessing.

My blessing

My blessing

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Lighten Up, Francis

10 Aug

Lighten Up, Francis, from the movie Stripes, is one of my favorite movie lines. I’ve honestly never even seen the entire movie; I just know the movie line. My family used to say that to each other when someone was spazzing out about something, which if you’ve been reading my blog you know that can be pretty often since we’re all crazy.

The exact movie quote goes like this:
Psycho: The name’s Francis Soyer, but everybody calls me Psycho. Any of you guys call me Francis, and I’ll kill you.
Leon: Ooooooh.
Psycho: You just made the list, buddy. And I don’t like nobody touching my stuff. So just keep your meat-hooks off. If I catch any of you guys in my stuff, I’ll kill you. Also, I don’t like nobody touching me. Now, any of you homos touch me, and I’ll kill you. Sergeant Hulka: Lighten up, Francis.

Friday afternoon after a hellish week including a very sick and crabby Chiquita, I was acting a bit like Psycho. Our weekend plans had gotten ruined due to having a sick child, and it happens and I get that, but I was a little disappointed so therefore in a bit of a crabby mood despite telling myself all day to just make the best of it and enjoy myself at the wedding we were attending that night. I’ll have a drink, I’ll relax, it’ll be fine…keep repeating to myself.

I came home and found a package at my back door. Since the Chiquita’s birthday just passed I thought maybe one of our neighbors dropped off a gift for her as we live in a tight-knit neighborhood. Because we were racing to the wedding I picked the gift bag up and set it on the kitchen counter.

Hubs comes into the kitchen and says, “What’s that bag?”

“How should I know?” I respond, annoyed at the question. Just annoyed in general at the day.

Now so I don’t sound like a complete A-hole, I lied in the paragraph above. I lied out of pure laziness. My husband actually got home first. He found the gift bag at the back door. He picked it up, came inside the house, and I’m not even joking, he set the bag on the back stairs. So, how the story actually goes is that I was irritated that I walked in the back door and found the gift bag sitting on the stairs. Like you managed to pick up the package, open the door and walk inside. Why not follow through and bring the package upstairs?

I digress; men do things that I just don’t understand. So, that’s another reason I was so annoyed and being such an A-hole. I’m not a see-thru bags mind-reader, honey. How am I supposed to know what it is?

He looks at me and looks at the bag.

“I don’t know,” I say again, feeling a little guilty about my attitude. Enjoy the night, I repeat to myself. Stop trying to start fights with your husband! “I’m guessing it’s something for Eva.”

“That’s what I thought, but from who?” He grabs the bag and decides to dig in.

Here is what is inside the bag.

For Me.

So here is when Psycho Francis explodes out of me.

“What the fuck is this?!?” I shout at the top of my lungs, my cat jumping off the kitchen bar stool and running to the living room to hide. I think my husband wanted to run and hide, too, but instead he stood there looking at me. I could almost read his thoughts which was something like: OMG, now she’s going to freak out. And I get to deal with it. Thanks a lot!

“What?” He innocently asked. “I don’t even get what it is.”

“What the fuck is this!?!” I scream again. I pull everything out of the gift bag. There is no card. There is only this note.

“Don’t you get it?” I say to Hubs. “Don’t you get that someone obviously thinks I’m a pretty big asshole in need of serious help?! Like who would take the time to do this for me? Don’t they know I can run my own life just fine? And I do go to therapy! God! I don’t need any special help from anyone else.”

I pull out the notes that are inside the “Lighten Up” jar, and I start to read them aloud.

I scream some more. “What is this shit?!? Someone got this stupid idea off Pinterest, I know it, that’s why I hate that stupid website. Stupid Pinterest!”

My husband doesn’t say much, but he encourages me to calm down and go get ready for the wedding. “We’ll talk about it later,” he keeps repeating. I guess he thinks if he keeps repeating it maybe I’ll eventually shut up and listen, but instead I just keep walking around the 1st floor of my house screaming expletives.

I’m not sure why I was so angry about this little “gift” that someone mysteriously dropped off….well, I do know why. Because they were secretive about it. Almost like they knew if they handed it to me in person I’d be like ‘What the fuck is this piece of crap’ which I never would say out loud to their face, I mean, I would think it, but I’m not rude! I would smile and accept the gift, but probably think the person was an asshole for giving it to me.

But, they didn’t even take the chance for me to think they are an asshole. They knew this would rattle my cage so they mysteriously dropped it off at my house anonymously. Someone mysteriously drop me off a million dollars would you, not some “Lighten Up” jar with a bunch of “great” ideas about how I’m suddenly supposed to become a happy-go-lucky person.

And you know what, what is so wrong with me anyways? The world can’t be full of cheerleaders. I remember my mom telling me: ‘the world needs ditch diggers, too.’ So, there, the world has to have some glass half-empties right? Well, that’s me. So deal with it! And frankly, I don’t view myself as pessimistic, I view myself as realistic. See, it’s all how you spin it….

Anyways, so fear not whoever made me this very creative and heartfelt “Lighten Up” box. I don’t hate you. Anymore. I’ve since calmed down enough to look at the positives in my little Pinterest project and to be thankful to whomever took the time to think of me and make me such a special gift.

So, my gift to you is such. I will pull pieces of paper from my “Lighten Up” box, and I will do what they say. I will then write-up my experiences so you can see for yourself that I’m not the asshole, that actually the rest of the world is the asshole.

I’d love it if you, my readers, would follow along and try some of these on your own, too. Let me know how your experiences and/or interactions go. Let’s all “Lighten Up” together. ;)

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King Douche Bag

12 Apr

What do you do when you’re in that moment that you’ve fantasized about over and over?  You’ve seen it in your dreams.  You’ve planned out every single second of the encounter.  You know exactly what you would say to them, and exactly how you would say it, and exactly how you would storm off while they stood there looking like a fool.  You know every detail, how their mouth is dropped open while they stare at you with a shocked expression, and what you are wearing and how you’re having like a really good hair day.

And then it happens.

It actually happens.

The moment you’ve spent so much time thinking about, but never actually thinking it’s going to happen.

It’s a moment that I’ve had nightmares about.  It’s a moment that I’ve worried about.

And it happened to me on Saturday.

Saturday morning after taking the Chiquita egg-hunting at Dominick’s Food Store at 7:30 am the fam and I decided to head to Starbuck’s for coffee.  It was me, Hubs and Chiquita, of course, and then my mom, aunt, uncle and cousin.  Yes, we were that family that all went to watch Chiquita Easter egg hunt and took pics the whole time.

Not to mention I had Chiquita all dolled up in her Juicy Couture (of course!) and my mom later told me, “We looked like high society at the egg hunt” like she was embarrassed or something, which is hilarious because she totes loves the Juicy bag I bought her for Christmas and uses it every day, so like, whatevs Mom, whatevs.  And can I help it that the Chiquita is a well-dressed tot?

Juicy Couture Baby

So we’re sitting in Starbuck’s when IT happens.

He walks in.

King Douche Bag.  He’s not even a Douche Lord, he’s the mother-fucking King.

He walks in wearing designer jeans, a black hoodie with a skeleton on the back and construction work boots.  His hair is short and brown.  He’s tan and has a scowl on his face as he walks through the door.

He looks exactly the same as I remember him but maybe a little thinner than the last time I had seen him.  He walks the same way though, like the arrogant narcissist that he is, with his chest puffed up and his muscles tight.  He’s a 40-year-old who walks like a 20-year-old frat guy ready to start a fight over the last Mad Dog in the refrigerator.

The last time I saw the King was my last day of employment as his office manager personal slave in 2007.  I walked out of his office with my head held high.  I knew that my decision was saving my life.

Needless to say, the King was not happy about my departure.  Yet as he handed back to me my letter of resignation he spit into the mud we stood on and said, “Well, that’s OK, I was going to fire you anyways.”

Unbelievable, I thought, as I had prayed that he would tear up my resignation letter and terminate me immediately.  Anything to get away from that man, that stress, that nightmare….

Two weeks later I remember putting my key and my pink hard hat on the table and turning to look at the office I was leaving for the very last time.  That office was full of so many memories….full of fear and hatred, full of laughs and cries…

I walked away from a life that benefited me financially but was killing me inside.

For months following my twisted and psychotic employment I had nightmares and anxiety.  I imagined the moment of running into the King soooo many times.

Sometimes I would punch him in the face.  I would knock him out cold and his 6 foot 200 pound body would crash to the floor.  Like a cartoon he would have stars circling the top of his head.

Sometimes I would yell at him.  My screams would come out in fluent Italian, and he’d stare at me with a bewildered look of shock and hurt.  The words they escaped my lips would come out like harsh but riddled poetry with hatred spilling from the depths of my soul.

Sometimes I would stop dead in my tracks at stare at him.  Too afraid to speak.  Too afraid to move for fear that I might actually kill him.  I’d envision cops being called and spending a night or a lifetime in prison.

Io non sono male, sto appena disegnato in questo modo

But when I saw him in actual reality on Saturday morning at my suburban Starbuck’s I did none of the above.

In reality I panicked.  I froze.

What do I do?  Do I say something?  Do I say nothing?

I simply sat there in awe over the King who stole so much from me and yet I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

And here he is right in front of me.  I just sat there.  I was shaking.

Minutes later he walked by with his coffee in hand and a smug expression on his face as he walked out the door.  It was like we were two strangers.

Have I changed that much?  Have I become a complete wimp?  Or is it that I realize he’s not worth the air from my lungs?  Is it that I’m trying to provide my daughter with a good example?  Is it that I’m actually afraid to confront the evil King?

Maybe it’s that for the first time in my adult life I know what I have.  I’m surrounded by people that I love and people that love me.  Yeah, he stole money from me and that sucks but I realize he actually gave me the greatest gifts of all.

#1 – King Douche Bag taught me about the kind of person that I don’t want to be.

And #2 – King Douche Bag is the perfect antagonist for my nearly finished book, Concrete Boots.

Come on now, you didn’t think I was going to let him off scot free now, did you? :)

So maybe I sat there and didn’t speak a word, yet sometimes silence speaks volumes.  There he was bitter and alone while I sat there with my family surrounded by happiness and love.

It was also the fire that I needed burning inside me to get me to finish editing this book that has been sitting on my desk finished for over a year.

Thank you, King Douche Bag, for giving me so much material.  Thank you for giving me a best seller.

And my promise to you Readers is that I will give you an excerpt by the end of the month! :D

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#5: Does It Make Me a Bad Mom If – You’re Snooki

1 Mar

Snooki preggers???

My boss comes into the office [yesterday] and asks: “Is Davy Jones dead?”

I stare at him blankly.  “WHO?”

I’m mixing up Davy Jones, Davy Crockett and Leif Garrett.

“I guess you don’t know then,” he responds, which is true, I don’t know.

“Well, the news of the moment that I am concerned about – [I clear my throat for this rather large announcement] – Word on the street [I start again, do they even know how BIG this is?] – is that SNOOKI IS PREGNANT!”

My office explodes in laughter.  I’m not sure if they are laughing about the possibility of Snooki being preggers or if they are laughing that I even care.

Here’s the thing.  I pretend to dislike Snooki, and maybe I sort of do seeing as though she pretends to be Italian, but really isn’t, all the while giving Italian women a questionable reputation, but I think I really do sort of like her given the fact that I actually dressed up as Snooki for Halloween.

And, truthfully, I guess I shouldn’t even go there considering what the Mob Wives do for Italians.  I watch that show and thank my lucky stars my family isn’t “that kind” of Italian.  We’re the Bill Cosby of Italians.

Honestly though, if they had cast me on Jersey Shore say five years ago I’m sure I would maybe be a disgrace to my family – and all Italians for that matter – because let’s face it, alcohol and video cameras don’t always display people at their best of bests.  You know what I’m sayin?  Remember JUST STOP TALKING, thank the lord there were no cameras to film that train wreck!

So, sorry I’m not sorry that maybe I sort of actually like Snooki.  Not those fugly shoes she was wearing though.  Yuck!

Don't you dare go to http://www.SnookiSlippers.com

But what are your thoughts on her being a mother????

I have to admit, my first thought is:  Omg, that poor kid has a short degenerate alcoholic for a mother that humps her friend in a rabbit suit.  I mean, right?  Pretty sure I saw that on a preview during Teen Mom 2.  I watch Mob Wives and Teen Mom 2, but I don’t stumble so low as to watch Jersey Shore. ;)

But, then I think of Kendra, Hugh Hefner’s former girlfriend, and another of my fave celebs (besides Giuliana Rancic, of course) who famously told her mom she was pregnant at her wedding shower on an episode of Kendra and the world (well, maybe not the world, but definitely E! and her fans) were SHOCKED.

I’m sure there was speculation of what kind of a mother can that big boobed, blonde haired former Playmate actually be????  And if you watch her current reality show and have read any of her books (I plan to post on that later) you will know that she is actually a good wife and mother.

No nanny for this mama

And then I think of me.  I was raised in the good ‘ole Midwest, sure my parents divorced before my 1st birthday, but they both remarried and had children by the time I was 4 thus making this lifestyle very normal and giving me a great big family with two different viewpoints and opinions on raising children and on life.

I like to credit my two families for giving me a more balanced outlook on life because of these varying viewpoints and opinions.  It made me see what different families can be like on the inside.  My dad and stepmom were pretty laid back parents who never grounded or spanked their children, while my brother and I were often getting grounded, spanked, soap in the mouth, whatever it may have been to encourage straight As and good behavior.

I once jokingly said “You’re such a Focker!” to my brother (after the movie Meet the Parents came out in 2000).  I was saying it referring to my brother as a dork, and my mom nearly had a heart attack trying to tell me that Focker was a swear word.

“Nu-uh!  It’s a dude’s last name!”

Needless to say I never said that again.

I went off on a tangent though.  My point is such that I was raised a very well-balanced, respectable, nice young woman and look at me now, the crazy still managed to get me.

Back when I got pregnant I thought I was going to be this fan-frickin-tastic mother who was dressing her kid in designer kid clothes and sipping cappuccinos at the local Starbuck’s while my baby sat in herSilver Cross Balmoral Pram baby carriage, which according to The Most Expensive Journal, is likely the most expensive stroller in the world, priced at $2,900.00.   And how hilarious (or depressing) that Snooki can actually afford one!

It's not even cute!!

I never thought I would be the one struggling, or the one suffering from Post Partum Depression, or the one writing “Bad Mom” blog posts….

This is not to say I think I’m a bad mom, but more to say everyone is a mom in their own way, to the best of their abilities, and influenced (whether positively or negatively) by their own lifestyle and upbringing.

Who is anyone to judge?

The “Bad Mom” stories are silly and funny and are meant to remind us that no one is perfect.  We all have meltdown moments.  And what’s a “Bad Mom” to me may not be a “Bad Mom” to you.  I mean, we can all agree I’m not talking about crazy people who lock their kids in attics that you see on the news.  Those people weirdos need to die.  I’m talking about those of us just living life day by day, trying to be good people and trying to make it in this big crazy world.

As for whether or not Snooki will make a bad mom; I guess it depends on time and your bad mom criteria.  According to The New York Post, despite Snooki’s denials according to sources she IS in fact preggers.  Read Snooki Lied – She’s Preggers  and MSN’s Wonderwall for the info.

And remember that many people might think that Madge is one of the best mom’s out there, but I would BEG to ask Lourdes that question.  For one, Madonna doesn’t even let her kids watch TV!  Wonder if Snooki will let her bambino watch Jersey Shore?

If Snooki is in fact preggers I have my Halloween costume for 2012 – Pregnant Snooki! :D

Don’t be shy…please share your “Bad Mom” stories?  Or if you’re the perfect mother afraid to share what sticks out in your mind as something your parents did to you???  Email me at jlee5879@live.com.

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Reason #26 Why I’m Crazy

6 Feb

I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety my whole life.  Well, not my whole life, really since I was 15.  I like to blame my parents for it, you know, because of my genetic make-up and the fact that they were so hard on me during my teen years.

In hindsight it’s probably a good thing.  Who knows what would have come of me if I wasn’t grounded every other weekend of sophomore year and permanently grounded from sleepovers from 15 until I got kicked out of my house at 22.  Yes, I’m dead serious.  Grounded from sleepovers for life!

I remember walking around my house with a nervous stomach and loving going to work at Dan’s Pizza.  It was my only saving grace.  I would beg people to let me take their shifts because work and school were the only places I was allowed to go.  And I preferred to be anywhere except home.

My parents scared the shit out of me.  I wasn’t raised with hugs and time-outs.  I was raised like an army recruit.  Sir, yes sir!

You don’t sleep past 8 am on weekends.
You don’t swear in our home – and swearing includes saying ‘what the hell’…
You were never – ever – late for curfew.  1 minute late is still late…
You are allowed only 1 C per quarter or NO driving until the next progress report 3 months later.  We strive for excellence in this house…

I’m not saying whether this is good or bad parenting.  As a mother, I know that I will be tough on the Chiquita because I don’t want her to end up a 15-year-old prostitute working for crack.  Yes, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but we have addiction in our blood, and I think that’s why I always steered clear of drugs.  I knew if I tried it I would probably love it.

I think I’m like most kids-turned-parents in that I’ll take with me some things I learned from my parents and other things I just choose to go to therapy for.  One thing I’ve learned since becoming a parent is that parents are only human.  They are bound to make mistakes.  I pray I don’t damage the Chiquita in some way, but I’m sure she’ll have some story to tell, just like we all do.  We all have something that our parents did to us…it may not be abuse or neglect….but I’ve never spoken to anyone who says they’ve had absolutely the perfect upbringing.

And while I wish my parents weren’t so hard on me, and I wish they would have given me more hugs and encouragement from time-to-time I know I didn’t make things easy on them either.

I’ve always been a very emotional girl.  Why do you think I started a blog?  I have a lot to say and a lot of feelings to go with it.  I needed some kind of an outlet, and a journal just wasn’t cutting it.  I do journal, yes, but more out of necessity than desire; it’s a chore for me, something that I have to do.  I put the really crazy thoughts in my journal…Haha.

But something that has taken me years and years to figure out is that I have PMDD.  I have officially been diagnosed with PMDD, which is Premenstrual dysphoric disorder.  I find that PMDD is relatively unknown.  It affects 3% – 8% of women, and like PMS, follows a cyclical pattern. 

According to Wikipedia:  Emotional symptoms are generally present, and in PMDD, mood symptoms are dominant. Substantial disruption to personal relationships is typical for women with PMDD.  Anxiety, anger, and depression may also occur.  Click here for more information about PMDD from Wikipedia.

Why am I sharing this with all of you?  For two reasons:

#1 because a lot of women thank me for my openness and honesty about suffering from and overcoming Post Partum Depression.  It absolutely warms my heart to know that the hell I went through can result in me helping another woman get through it, too.  Maybe someone out there has PMDD and doesn’t know what it is and why they are going bonkers.

And #2 because for one week (to 10 days!) out of the month – every month – I go absolutely bat shit crazy.  Not normal PMS crazy, I go mad scientist crazy.  Many of my friends know about it, and I’ll explain any more than usual craziness with a simple “It’s a PMDD week,” (Que nods and ohhhh that explains it…) but others (Facebook friends, for instance) don’t know why I become such a whack job.  So here you have it – during a PMDD week I get very angry, crabby, inpatient, sensitive, emotional, feelings of being stressed or overwhelmed…basically for one week out of every month I’m just not myself.  My evil twin, Jsux we’ll call her, makes her appearance.

Jsux during a PMDD week…YIKES!

Doctors are bad about diagnosing PMDD and would rather just say you’re depressed and throw you on antidepressants.  I take a wide range of natural herbs and vitamins with hopes of controlling my mood swings during this time of the month.  Some months are better than others, and some months are so disruptive that I find myself hibernating so I don’t lose all my friends.

There was a time when I hated my PMDD and hated that I got stuck with this weird and unknown disorder, like why couldn’t I just have something “normal” like ADD?  But, now, I look at it like I look at the parenting thing.  Everybody has something.  No one’s life is perfect.  I’m fortunate enough to have a great husband who is so supportive and loving that I really don’t deserve him, and obvs the Chiquita and my bonus daughters, and I have a good job, and I have a nice home and nice “things”, and I have a wonderful support system of friends and family who all love me and care about me despite my craziness, so I guess this is my thing.  My thing is that once a month I go bat shit crazy and sometimes act like an insane person.

Here’s where if you could see me while I write this you would see I’m shrugging.  That’s my “thing”.  [Shrug.]  This is God’s plan for me.  Just like my PPD, which I will tell everyone about and shout from the sky to help other women (and maybe Book #2???), my “thing” is PMDD.

What’s your thing and how do you stay strong to overcome it?

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#2: Bad Mom Says “It’s Common Sense Really.”

23 Jan

My weekly “Bad Mom” post isn’t really taking off the way I had hoped. 

Apparently there are just no bad moms out there!  I actually have been a pretty good mom lately, if I do say so myself, and I haven’t really had any stories to share.

I’m proud to say I’ve been keeping it all together.  I think I’m just more of a psycho before the holidays so now that we’re into 2012 I’m a little more content.  I’m not content about the belly bulge I noticed this morning when putting on my skinny jeans, but I digress.  I really can’t do it all, and I’m starting to be OK with that.

So my brief Bad Mom moment occurred this morning while I was driving the Chiquita to Bubbe’s house.  It’s freezing in the car even though I warmed it for about 15 minutes before we left the house.  We’re both bundled up with the heat blasting.  Chiquita is in the back in her car seat sucking on her paci while she holds her bottle and hugs her baby; a black fleece blanket across her legs.

We’re not even down the block when she throws Baby across the backseat.  Then she starts whining.  Ugh.  Soo annoying.  I haven’t even sipped my coffee yet and I’m trying to listen to Kiss FM’s “Dirty on the Thirty” celeb gossip segment and she’s in the back going, “oooh…ahhh….ahhh…ma….” trying to say to me, “Hey, lady, I dropped threw my baby now pick it up for me.”

Diva Eva wants it NOW!

How many times do we have to do this?  I turn around and say, “I’m driving right now.  Don’t throw your baby.”

She follows up with, “oooh…ahhh….ahhh…ma….”

I turn around again and say, “I’m driving right now.  When I stop at a red light I will get your baby.”  And then I turn up the volume to hear “Dirty on the Thirty.”  Nice mom, huh?

At the red light I turn around and grab Baby off the backseat.  I hand the baby to her and say, firmly, “Don’t throw her again because I’m not getting her for you next time.  You’ll have to wait until we get to Bubbe’s.”

She smiles and hugs Baby.  Awww so cute….for about three seconds.

Three seconds later Baby is on the floor again.  I hear, “oooh…ahhh….ahhh…ma….”  I think to myself, we have a seven minute ride to Bubbe’s and I feel like I’m going to kill this kid.  I tell her no and continue to drive despite her rebuttals. 

Seconds later her bottle has ended up been thrown on the floor and this infuriates her.  Where in the hell did the Chiquita get this bad temper?  Certainly not from Moi! :D

Now she’s really pissed and she’s letting me know it.  A tirade ensues complete with pointing at me and kicking her legs.  I want to laugh at this kid, but I don’t. 

I turn around and say, “Hey, I told you not to throw Baby and your bottle.  I’m driving.  I can’t reach it.  You’ll have to wait until we get to Bubbe’s.”

We’re going to be there in one and a half minutes.  I really wish kids understood patience!  She continues with her tirade and finally I’m at my wit’s end.  How many times do I have to tell the Chiquita NOT to throw Baby and/or bottles on our drive to Bubbe’s?  This isn’t a new phenomenon.  She wasn’t born yesterday.  She knows the drill.

Finally I begrudgingly turn around as another tirade ensues and I say (very nicely, actually, I’m not even yelling), “Listen.  How many times do I have to tell you not to throw your bottle?  I can’t pick it up off the floor while I am driving.  How about you just don’t throw it?  I mean, it’s common sense really….”

"It's common sense, Timmy!"

The words escape my mouth, and I think to myself, Wow.  That’s wayyyy f*cked up.  I just told my 18 month old she lacked common sense.

And this just after I argued with Hubs on what a “compassionate” person I am.  He goes, “You?  Compassionate?  The person who thinks everyone is ‘sooo stupid.’  Hilarious.”

 

What are your Bad Mom stories?  I can’t be the only one who is the occasional Bad Mom!  Write me at jlee5879@live.com.

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Jlee’s Review – Drew Peterson: Untouchable

22 Jan

The Official Drew Peterson

Who hasn’t heard of Drew Peterson, the handsome and charming Bolingbrook Police Officer famous for being infamous?  Drew Peterson became a household name and media sensation following the disappearance of his fourth wife Stacy Peterson.  He is suspected of killing his third wife, Kathleen Savio, as well as Stacy Peterson.

Bolingbrook, a suburb of Chicago, is close to home for me, and I’ve followed this story since Stacy’s mysterious disappearance on October 28, 2007.  I’ve had friends who’ve spotted Drew Peterson at local bars and an acquaintance who said that Peterson once was in his home during a drug bust.  The word I heard both times was that Peterson was “creepy.”

Funny that’s what I actually thought of the movie, Drew Peterson: Untouchable.  The movie – and Rob Lowe – were downright creepy.  Rob Lowe was a very believable Drew Peterson, it does help though that Rob Lowe is wayyy hotter than Drew Peterson and I have a penchant for older men with gray hair.  Seriously.

Lose the stache and you could be sexy

According to MyFoxChicago.com, the Lifetime movie network says “the movie is based on a true story and follows the fascinating tale of former Bolingbrook police sergeant Drew Peterson’s fall from grace after the mysterious disappearance of his fourth wife Stay Peterson.”

Drew Peterson’s attorney Joel Brodsky calls the movie “hysterical” “filled with inaccuracies” and “bogus.”  I call it hilarity. 

And it’s only hilarious to me that A. Fox also reports that Drew Peterson DID watch the movie from Will County Adult Detention Center where he is currently being held while he awaits trial for the murder of Savio.  Can you imagine watching yourself in a Lifetime Movie – watching Rob Lowe talk about your supposed big dick and refer to you as “Big Daddy?”  Yeah, wtf is right.  And B. It’s just sort of funny watching this jerk believe that he is hot shit, the song “Sexy and I Know It” running through my head.  Sorry, but any man with a creepy stache is soooo not sexy.  Duh!

Rob Lowe did manage to capture Drew Peterson in a chilling and intriguing way which made me wonder if I got pulled over by Sergeant Big Dick would I be flirting with that stache in hopes of getting out of a ticket?  Possibly, but I have enough sense not to get charmed by these narcissistic whackos….well….I do sort of get a hard on for Rod Blagojevich.  Seriously.

Sexy and I know it....

I found the movie to be quite entertaining despite Rob Lowe’s weak Chi-town accident.  We don’t sound like that!  Especially while saying the coveted phrase: “I’m untouchable, Bitch.”

Sadly, Peterson’s fourth wife, Stacy, is still missing and though I don’t know much about her I found Kaley Cuoco’s portrayal of her only drew me in more, wondering about this innocent young girl who was charmed by a sociopath and thinking things like, what got her there?

Stacy Peterson - Don't forget the victims...

You know Lifetime will probably play this movie a thousand times over so I would highly suggest recording this masterpiece to watch on a Sunday afternoon while you’re laying on the couch nursing a hangover.  Be careful though, you might vomit from all the references to “Big Daddy’s” member, I know it almost made me lose my dinner a couple times and I watched it sober.

This brings about a great idea to me – how about a drinking game based on the number of times Drew refers to his manliness or sexual prowess in two hours minus commercials?  Every time he refers to “Big Daddy” salute ladies, salute.

When finally arrested Drew even tells his former co-workers he knows they just want to get a look at his goods.  WOW!  While going down he still manages to think his charm, his stache and his dick will get him out of this mess.  Just like a true narcissist.

 

"I'm Innocent..." says Big Daddy. I say BULLSHIT!

 

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Don’t Walk in My Choos

8 Dec

I know these shoes are amazeballs, but I guarantee you don't want to walk in these Choos....

I’ve said before I wouldn’t wish Post partum depression on my worst enemy.  It is isolating and debilitating.  It is scary.  And it is misunderstood.  How is it that this illness is so misunderstood in today’s day and age when people actually talk about depression and Post partum depression unlike in previous generations?  I think it is misunderstood because it’s “the middle of the road depression” so to speak when it comes to new mom’s suffering from some form of depression.  The three forms of mommy depression are:  Baby blues, Post partum depression, and Post partum psychosis.

What do I mean by “the middle of the road depression?” On the one hand, it is very common for new moms to suffer from the Baby Blues.  Because (according to www.americanpregnancy.org) “approximately 70-80% of all new mothers experience some negative feelings or mood swings after the birth of their child” it is very commonly talked about by doctors and hospitals as well as by other mommy friends and mommy groups.  The baby blues generally last up to 14 days after delivery and consists of tears (often crying for no apparent reason) and feelings of helplessness and irritability, often due to lack of sleep and severe hormonal changes following childbirth.

Then wayyyy on the opposite end of the spectrum are those women you read about in the news.  The ones that are at their breaking point and sadly all too often kill themselves or their babies.  Post Partum Psychosis occurs in only approximately .1% of births, according to www.postpartum.net, but usually becomes news.  Post partum psychosis involves delusions, hallucinations and paranoia.  While it is very rare, it is taken very seriously and women who find themselves in this unfortunate predicament are well monitored by doctors and hospitals.  Post partum psychosis is temporary and treatable, but demands immediate medical attention.

But, I was one of the “middle of the road” rarely discussed Post Partum Depression sufferers.  I was one of the approximately 15%, also according to www.postpartum.net, of women who experience significant depression following childbirth.  I was actually even one of the 10% of women who experience depression during childbirth, which is referred to as Perinatal Depression, and is honestly new to me from doing some research for this blog post.  I just thought I was a raving lunatic during my pregnancy.

Now when I say post partum depression is “rarely discussed” I’m sure some of you went…what?!?  Yes, Post partum depression is often discussed…and obvs by me, but I’m bitter because of what I went through.  My experience has taught me that PPD is very misunderstood because no one knows what to do to “fix” it.  No one “gets it.”  You’re either “normal” with the baby blues, or you’re bat sh*t crazy with post partum psychosis, and therefore hospitalized, but what do you do with women who are simply depressed? 

I know my fellow blog readers and friends all know about my post partum depression, and I know I incessantly discuss it, but the reason I bring it up today is because two things have recently happened to me which have made me decide to nominate myself as a spokeswoman for this sickness or um, illness, I’m not a doctor, so I’m unsure which term to use.

But, in nominating myself, here’s what I want to do: I want to take away the whispers about it, the “what’s wrong with her, she has everything”, the “Why can’t she just be happy?” and the “Get over it” ’s that may or may not have been said to or about me.  I’m sure there was some “What a drama queen’s” and “Wow, she’s gone bat sh*t crazy” in there, too.  Or maybe not?  Maybe there were just a lot of prayers for me????

To the ‘why can’t she just be happy and get over it?’ comments, which I did get, I can tell you this.  I don’t know.  I wish I did.  I tried soo hard to just get over it for a long time.  Finally, once I resigned myself to it, once I was able to stop saying, “Why did this happen to ME?” I was able to heal.  It took a lot of time and work on myself, as I detailed in “Mother is God” to get through this trying and difficult time.  I prayed to God many nights to take me in my sleep, “I’m no good here,” I would reason with him.

No, I never wanted to or ever thought about hurting Eva.  But, I did think about hurting myself.  I would imagine what would be the easiest and least painful way to kill myself.  It depressed me even more that I knew I didn’t have the guts to do it.

Now that I am on the other side I don’t want other women to feel as alone or as completely hopeless as I felt.  And what’s so crazy – and makes me so bitter! – is that they repeatedly ask you in the hospital how you are feeling before they send you home kick you out after two days.  They hand you a yellow piece of paper that’s probably been photocopied thousands of times and is crooked and spotted on the sheet.  The paperwork has information about baby blues, PPD and post partum psychosis.  They give you help numbers to call in case you find yourself suffering from one of the two latter post partums. 

Well, what happens when you look at the sheet and finally admit to yourself that something is wrong?

NOTHING.  That’s what happens.

You call your OBGYN who almost killed you, oh wait, that’s just me (see Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door), who tells you to call a psychiatrist, who wants you to see a counselor, who sends you back to a psychiatrist, who says you’re “f*cking neurotic” who then wants to dope you up on all kinds of anti-psychotic medications and then starts throwing bi-polar around – WTH!?!  And then, after all this, sends you a $1,000 bill that more than 1 year later you are still fighting.

This is what they do to new mothers after they kick you out of the hospital within 48 hours when new mothers are in a state of shock, both physically and emotionally, and it pisses me off!  This really upsets me because I could have been a news story of some poor soul who decided to stand on the train tracks at 2 am.  I live 6 blocks away….

But I got through it! :)

And here I am to tell my story.  And now, here I am watching someone I love go through these same hardships.  I don’t know her exact story, nor is it my place to disclose such details, but I do know she is struggling and it scares me.  It breaks my heart.  I want to snap my fingers and fix it for her.  I want my friend back because I love and miss her so much.

Which got me to thinking….could this possibly have been what some of my own friends went through? 

There is a line in the movie Overboard that I love.  It’s from when Joanna/Annie (Goldie Hawn) comes back to the yacht and realizes that she’s a different person after being with Dean (Kurt Russell) and his four sons, and she says to Andrew:  “Everyone on this boat thinks I’m crazy.  Do you think they’re right?”

Andrew replies: “Oh no, madam.  Oh no.  You…most of us go through life with blinders on.  Knowing only that little station to which we were born.  But you madam, have had the…rare privilege of escaping your bonds for just a spell.  To see life from an entirely new perspective.  How you choose to use that information is entirely up to you.”

I am reminded of that quote as I decided between giving my friend space, as some of my friends did, and not giving her space because I don’t want her to feel alone and abandoned like I did.  It was at that moment that my heart was able to truly heal, to truly forgive, and my head was able to say, “I get it now.”

Because no one knows what to do with these people – not even doctors.

So, how do we overcome this?  How do we fix it?  I hope that by me telling my story it will help some people to understand more about it – heck – maybe that will be my book #2!?!

The second thing which happened and has led me to nominate myself as a spokeswoman for PPD is that yesterday I took my final step in healing.  YES!  I know, I did it!!  I have been bursting with joy all day.  My final step was going back to bowling.  This post will help you understand if you missed it: Don’t Trigger Me.  The last time I was at bowling I had a breakdown which led me to quit my bowling team.  It was in the midst of my PPD, and I was so angry about it.  I felt robbed of my life.  I was angry about it for a long time.  And even once I wasn’t angry anymore I had extreme anxiety about going back.

-        The people

-        The memories

-        The alcohol

I couldn’t face it.  Some bowling friends emailed me they had an opening on their team.  Finally I decided I was ready.  I decided my time was here, and I could do this; I could face my fear.  I could go back with my head held high.  Walking through the bowling alley I was welcomed with hugs and smiles.  My bowling friends told me how happy they were to see me; how glad they were that I was back.  My heart was bursting.  I can’t describe to you what I felt.  You may be reading this and saying, “All this over bowling?”  LOL, what a loser.  But, it’s so much more than bowling.  It was a statement to myself.  I conquered something.  I am 100% fully healed from a very blessed event (the birth of my daughter) which in turn because of the PPD became the worst year of my life, a living hell.  And here I am, I made it to the other side.

Back in happier bowling days

A gal hugged me and said to me this: “Jen, I am soo glad to see you here.  I read your blog some time ago, and I know that you went through a difficult time, and honestly, it brought tears to my eyes.  And here you are.  Here you are back, and you’re happy, and it’s just so great to see you.”

And that, my friends, is the biggest compliment I could ever receive.  I need to be strong for other women, and it’s clear to me that this was all a part of God’s plan.     

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Seriously!?!

30 Sep

I totally said I wasn’t going to do this.  I wasn’t going to stoop to that level.  I was going to hold my head and move forward.

Sigh.

That lasted one day.

See, I posted a new blog about winning the Versatile Blogger Award.  You might have seen it, titled “I Won An Award B*tches!” In that post I had to pass the Versatile Blogger Award onto 12 other blogs.  Maybe I’m small minded, but sorry I think winning something as cheesy as a Versatile Blogger Award is pretty darn cool.

I’m just a nice Italian girl who wants my blog to get noticed….I have a lot to say.  I’ve also written a pretty b*tchin book that I want to get published (anyone, anyone??).  I’ll gladly accept that award, and I’ll gladly pass it on.  Let’s share the wealth.  Let’s help each other get noticed!

And then this.  One of the blogs that I follow, that I posted in the original article (it’s been since deleted), apparently wasn’t too keen on the Versatile Blogger Award.  Seems she thought I was some sort of crazy psycho stalker.  I mean, I’ve been called crazy and psycho before…oh right, and a stalker.  Yes, in “My Sign of the Apocalypse” when I realized that I was actually stalking my stalker.

Hmm…kind of scary I guess.  But not Norman Bates scary.  I mean, maybe I’m inappropriate at times or I lack boundaries….(remember the “serial killer” comment?) ….

But I have a good heart, and I always mean well despite the “oh no she di’int” moments.

That said I awarded the Versatile Blogger Award to this gal whose blog I had been following.  She seems super cute and nice.  She always writes really inspirational pieces, and I just find her adorable and love reading about what she’s up to.  She lives in Singapore, is probably in her early 20s, goes to school, and models clothing on the side.

Because I subscribe to her blog (or subscribed, now past tense) I got an email the next day that she had a new blog post.  Cool, I thought, What’s she been up to?  I click on the link and it says:  “Password Protected.  This post is password protected.  Please enter the password to read.”

WTF.

Image courtesy of http://www.urshirts.com

The blog is now password protected?  Is this because of me?  Did my cute Singapore friend think I’m weird or creepy or something?  Oh my gosh!

So I’m staring at my computer completely stunned.  Wow, I must have really offended this girl for her to password protect her blog.  I mean, that is the whole point of writing a blog – so people read it.  And to go to all that trouble.

WTF??

So, as much as I kept telling myself, It’s OK, Jen.  Let it go.  Let it go.  You know I’m not good at letting things go.  I mean, I did try some deep breathing exercises, but I kept going back to how can this girl do this?  I awarded her the Versatile Blogger Award!  Of course then I must blame her, as did my friend who said, “Well, she’s just f*cking weird, anyways.  Enough said.”

Agreed, but it was still plaguing me.

I just had to email my soul sister, SzaboInSlowMo, who passed the award on to me.  Did she get any negative feedback?  Am I the only one?  OMG, the anxiety over this!  Then I thought, Geez, this woman doesn’t know me!  There I go again, being all inappropriate.

SzaboInSlowMo’s response was so sweet!  She said of one of the bloggers she gave the award to: “she wrote her next blog kind of talking about how silly the award was and how she didn’t think bloggers should promote themselves. blah blah blah. I figured I didn’t really start it, because people are passing those around and it’s rude to criticize people who are bringing traffic to your blog, but I guess some are snobbish about that kind of thing…thinking they’re professional bloggers, haha.”

Whatev.

Then yesterday as I was blog surfing, I mean working, I stumbled upon this blog post Please Stop Just Sayin’ by TamaraOutLoud.

Intrigued by her title I decided to check it out. It’s a very well-written post – even humorous really – but she basically asks people to stop talking in slang…as in just sayin’, whatev, totes, LOL, WTF, OMG…and because that’s basically my speak I was sort of offended by it.  I mean, to each their own, but just because I talk stupid doesn’t mean I am stupid.

Of course I commented.  I wrote: “Wow, you guys take yourself wayyy too seriously.  Chillax losers!!!!”

Inappropriate, I know.  Why do I always do that?

And to make it even worse – yeah, I had a typo.  I spelled too “to.”  OMG.

People seriously need to stop taking themselves so seriously.  Seriously, umkay?

Image courtesy of http://www.raggedshirts.com

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Don’t Trigger Me…

14 Jan
Live, Laugh, Love (In Italian)

One of the common words used in therapy is “trigger.” Everyone has a trigger. Something that just boils your blood….grinds your gears….sends you right over the edge. Makes you want to go crazy.

That’s a trigger. Triggers are intense.

A trigger for a drug addict would be their drug.

A trigger for a gambling addict would be a casino.

But, it also breaks down much further than that. It doesn’t have to be as big as drugs or gambling. Even “normal” people can have very normal triggers; things that remind them of something unpleasant which in turn sets them off.

Say someone got hit by a car. The last thing they heard before they were knocked out was a horn blaring. Now anytime they are driving and they hear a horn it reminds them of that day. It takes them back to that moment right before they got hit by the car. What they were thinking. What they were feeling.

Fear, anger, sadness, pain….in their gut. As strong as the day it was when they got hit, and when they were laying in the street in a pool of blood. This can bring on feelings of anxiety or panic. Now the person is driving around anxious and panicked because someone beeped their horn at Grandma to go when the light turned green.

It can start off as something so small. Triggers can be even smaller than that, something as small as someone snapping their gum, a food, or an activity. A color, a TV show…etc.

Triggers are very unhealthy. They can be destructive. They cause intense feelings and emotions. It’s not healthy to constantly be in a state of anger or panic or anxiety.

How do you deal with triggers? You need to work through your triggers to get over your trauma. If you don’t work through these emotions, this pain, this fear, this sadness, this anger, then every time you are triggered this is how you will feel.

Your heart rate speeds up, your blood pressure raises, your hands get sweaty, you get angry….you start thinking, “I’m going to do this (beat someone’s ass) or I’m going to do that (just go to sleep, walk away)” – or – people like me might think “I need a glass of wine (I’m going to get drunk).”

And where does this leave you? In the morning this just leaves me cold, tired, and hung over. The feelings are all still there, but they are now suppressed. And each time I drink I can suppress those feelings a little more. But the problem is ultimately still there, no matter how deeply it’s been buried.

Are you all thinking about what your trigger is?

Are you wondering what my trigger is? I have a lot of triggers. I’m one of those people that DOES sweat the small stuff, so things constantly piss me off. I’m triggered on a daily basis, though usually most of it is bull shit, and I just have to tell myself to get over it. But I do have big triggers, too. I’m sure everyone has triggers, right? Or is it just me? Am I the only whack job on the block?

I have a couple of big triggers. Things that trigger me that hurt sooo much. And then I get these intense feelings of anger, unhappiness, frustration. Of sadness and pity. Sometimes I want to cry. Sometimes I want to punch something. And sometimes I just want to run away.

I don’t want to tell you my triggers. Especially this trigger because it’s stupid. I’m embarrassed. But, part of my therapy is to detox …. It’s to look at my emotions and try to figure out ‘why do I feel this way?’ ‘why do I do the things I do?’ To “detox” myself of these negative emotions.

Remember when life was easy? When we were kids in first grade in Miss Zurek’s class collecting popcorn kernels? Or in high school gym class watching the PE Leaders (me) do nothing, while the rest of the class (you all) sweated your asses off? Oh I miss those days.

Now here I am.

I’m a fucking mess dude.

I’m so over being a fucking mess.

I’m so over everyone wanting to read my blog so they can laugh at my hardships today.

I’m so over everyone saying I’m sooo dramatic or I just need to get over it or I’m just a fucking psycho.

I’m sick of posting my blog and wondering if people love it or hate it.

I’m sick of submitting writing and being rejected. I remember when I used to write for ME.

I’m sick of doubting my abilities; as a mother, as a wife, as a person, and as a writer.

I’m sick of feeling like a complete failure.

I’m sick of SAYING I feel like a failure.

I’m sick of being miserable and unhappy.

I’m sick of being judged.

I’m sick of being triggered.

I’m just so sick of it all. I want this struggle to be over. Why is God testing me?

And I love the people that say “When life throws you lemons make lemonade!”

Does anyone else want to punch those people in the face?

If I didn’t sound like a whack job before I surely do now. I’m sure you’re all reading going, “Wow, she must not have taken her meds today.”

The truth of the matter is that I did. I did take my meds and it’s still a struggle. Every day is a fucking struggle for me. It’s that every day I face my triggers. Sometimes small ones – like Dunkin Bitch – that I can just roll off my back, and other ones, bigger ones, more painful ones like I am right now that make me want to just throw in the fucking towel and say fuck it.

FUCK IT!

But, I can’t. I won’t! I have a daughter now who depends on me. She needs me more than ever. And all I can do is pray to God, and beg him to please, please God, please, help me find my way out of this.

And that is why I am taking meds, going to therapy, and “detoxing.” So, what’s my trigger?

Bowling.

Yes, bowling is my trigger. Trust me I know it’s dumb. I used to be on a bowling league. A league that I absolutely loved. I sucked as a bowler, but I didn’t care. I got a leopard print bowling ball and my own bowling shoes, and I would go to bowling every other Sunday hoping to break 100. We’d pick a team name and get matching team shirts. It was my time out of the house; my time just for me.

And then I was forced to give up bowling. I was forced to give it up because lots of things that happened to me and that were going on in my life. And it just makes me sooooo mad. It makes me sooo angry that I had to give up something that I love for someone else. Because of someone else’s actions, because of what someone else did to ME, I now have to give up my hobby, my “thing.”

It’s so unfair. Why is life so unfair? But I need to get over this. I can’t hear the word bowling and not get pissed off. But what am I going to do? I can’t never in my life bowl again. I can’t give up something I love because of someone else’s selfish behavior. I just can’t. I need to work through it. I need to move on. I need to step back from the ledge and just remind myself….it’s just bowling…or it’s just Dunkin Bitch giving me an iced latte instead of an iced coffee…

These things happen. It’s OK. Not everyone’s life is roses and butterflies. People get triggered on a daily basis. I’m not the only one. God isn’t out to get me. He’s not doing things TO me; he’s doing things FOR me.

Once I see that I feel like I’m making progress. The fact that I wrote this is progress.

I’m making baby steps towards happiness….look out readers. One day you will see a shockingly happy JLEE, and then what the fuck will you do?

 

 

 

 

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