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I’m sick of feeling like a failure at parenthood, marriage and my career.  I’m sick of the all encompassing fear and anxiety I feel on a daily basis.  I’m done trying to appease members of my own and extended family.  I feel like I’m on a sinking ship and the pain every day is getting less and less bearable. 

I want…no, I NEED to be happy.  I have  a great little family full of people I love dearly.  I love them, and that’s why the little voice in my head is such a SOB. 

That little voice tells me what a complete and utter failure I am.  It convinces me of my unworthiness in my family. 

I hate that voice.  I wish that voice would just go right to hell.  I wish that voice would say something nice or positive for once.

Most of all though, I wish there was no voice.


Sitting in the dark

Somedays it takes all of my energy to get out of bed, and not just because I’m a sleep deprived mother to a almost two year old who seems to be regressing and waking up in the middle of the night again.

I still suffer from post partum depression and anxiety disorder.  The two in combination are horrible and anyone who has one or both will testify to that.  The anxiety eats you up until you can only see the things that can go wrong in a day.  The depression tells you that all of those things will be your fault.  There’s no milk, because you didn’t get any while you were at the store two days ago.  The bills aren’t paid yet, because when your child takes a nap you use that time to cook and clean.  Your husband is having a bad day at work, because you’re a terrible wife and mother and he’s stressed out because you need to go back to work to make ends meet again.

And being alone during this internal dialog and debate would seem like a blessing but its not.  There is no one to tell you you’re wrong, but that also means no one to confirm that you’re right.

I wish I could believe that “this too shall pass,” but at the beginning of the fear, dread and gut wrenching loneliness you never believe it will end.

I don’t know how other mothers get out of bed to care for their children while feeling like this.  I don’t know how anyone gets out of bed feeling like this.  Putting on a brave face and pretending to be normal while this is happening is the hardest thing I think I do all day, because I have a child who needs me. 

I tell myself to go to bed at night and I will myself to sleep, only to wake up with my insides churning and twisting until all that is in is out. I will myself to go back to bed and sleep, so I can take care of someone else in the morning. All while trying to decide if this world is really a better place while I’m in it. While I try to figure out if my loved ones lives are better because I’m here.

I go through these days waiting for the light at the end of this horrible, miserable tunnel to shine.

Until then I’ll wait here in the dark, with a flashlight so I don’t feel so utterly lost and alone.

September 11, 2001

Everyone is talking about their memories of that day.  Sadly, one of my four readers was actually involved in one of these attacks.  I realize my story is tame by comparison and would never ask anyone who actually went through it to tell me about it.  Some scary things can’t be shared with someone who has no idea what it could possibly be like to live in that fear in the moment that it’s happening.

The morning of September 11, 2001 was a pretty normal one.  It was a Tuesday, and Tuesday meant that I closed at the library that night.  I’m a morning person by nature and instead of doing something healthy and productive with my 23-year-old self, I sat down on the couch drinking a regular coke and eating pop tarts.  Ten years ago MTV and VH1 still played music videos and I would use my free weekly morning to catch up on anything recent.

God forbid I go work out, or watch the news or something useful.

So I’m watching one of the music channels and all of a sudden the news cuts in.  MTV and VH1 are based out of New York, so if something interesting is happening in New York their local news will occasionally cut in.  But, only if it’s really important.

I looked up in time to see that a building was smoking.  Apparently a plane had crashed into it.  I figured it was just a small private plane.  I wasn’t listening to the tv, simply watching.  My brain couldn’t comprehend what was happening, so I changed the channel.

News was on every station, except the movie channels.  That was the moment I realized something was wrong.

I headed over to one of our local channels, probably channel 5 which is NBC for us and I trusted them to report things accurately.  I turned it on just in time to see the second plane crash into the second tower.

I remember gasping, and sitting on the couch with my hand over my mouth in complete and utter shock.

I started to think if I knew anyone who was traveling that day.  Was my dad and step mother home or were they traveling?  My future father in law travels over seas a lot, was he home or was this a travel day?  Yet, I couldn’t get up the courage to call anyone.  I was too afraid to find out.

Eventually my husband, at the time boyfriend, came out of the bedroom.  He also had a late start that night, but he usually worked nights.  He wandered out, kissed me on the forehead, looked at the tv and asked me what movie I was watching.

That was when it hit me.

I looked at him and told him I was watching the news.  Planes had crashed into the World Trade Center Towers in New York.

I can’t remember when the news about the Pentagon came on.  I watched though as the towers fell, one after the other.  I just went numb.  And then the flight in Pennsylvania crashed.  It just felt like the hits kept coming.

The news was going on and on about where the next attacks could be:  Los Angeles, Chicago, the White House…nobody knew and the world was just guessing.

Eventually I got dressed and drove into work where it was so quiet.  The library was never that quiet.  Two of my three bosses were in the break room watching the news.  The third was trying to locate family who was supposed to be traveling that day.

When I got home from work that night, I turned on the news again.  I don’t know why, at that point it was like a perverse need to see what was happening.  To continue to watch the devastation.

Ten years later, I can close my eyes and still see people running from those buildings as they burn, as they collapse.  I can still hear the news reporting that civilians took down flight 93 to avoid it becoming another attack.  It breaks my heart.

The only thing that gives me peace, is the idea that I have a child now who may never have to know that kind of fear in this world.  And not because of overly bumped up airport security.  Maybe, just maybe he will never have to watch people fall or jump from a burning building because they have no other means of escape.  Because, while I may not have been there to live it, I watched it.  I saw everything that the news had to offer.

My heart and prayers go out to the people who lost family and friends that day.  My heart and prayers go out to anyone who went through that day.  May your dreams not be plagued every night by what you saw.

We still live in an apartment. 

Funny story:  we went to the bank to see about getting a loan to pay off some of the debt we’re in so we can one day buy a house (it’s a vicious circle, but we figured one big payment instead of 35 payments per month).  When we told the bank person we rented and how much we paid in rent, she looked at us and asked “have you considered owning?”

My husband tells me that the look on my face when she asked that was priceless.  I can tell you what was going through my head…hate, pure and simple.  As soon as she said that (with her knowing full well how bad off we are) I asked her if she would give us a home loan.  She said we’re too high risk.  At that moment I considered ways of killing her.  According to my husband, the look on my face gave this fact away…noticeably.

Our meeting ended rather quickly at that point, and as it turns out, you can’t get a personal loan without some kind of equity…like in a home.

Ha ha ha. 

Oh irony, how I love thee.

So anyway, we live in an apartment.  I was woken up at 3:30 this morning because our downstairs neighbors, who are relatively new to the building (and oh so young) (hush, I’m aware that 32 isn’t old, but I think these two are just barely legal to buy alcohol), started blaring their stereo. 

I fear that I have turned into the kind of neighbor who will go downstairs and pound on their door and demand that they turn the radio down.  I’m already dressed in my crazy finest (in case you were wondering, Nightmare Before Christmas pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and a blue zip up hoodie.  The rat’s nest that is my hair really seals the deal, along with the remainders of the mascara I couldn’t get scrubbed off and need a sandblaster to remove).  Mostly I’m afraid they’ll wake the baby.  I could really care less if they have a radio on or not.  Except that the place where the music is originating from is right below my son’s room.  I heard the music and lyrics quite clearly from my room…and the living room.  When I walked into my son’s room I felt like I was at a concert. 

Yet the child hasn’t stirred yet.

Maybe I won’t have to be the crazy fist shaker after all.  That would be nice.


Ok, so I’ve been busy.  Very, very busy.  I’m sure the five two of you who were reading this anyway are intrigued.

So, I had the baby.  A boy, we named him Logan.  He’s adorable and perfect and everything I could have hoped and asked for.  I never knew it was possible to love someone so much.  With that said, he’ll most likely be our only child.  The combination of time it took for me to concieve him and the events that followed his birth mean that in all likelihood, he will grow up an only child.

I was an only child and I turned out ok…for the most part.

He came early.  He arrived on my mom’s birthday, which was just funny.  I was positive he was going to be born on my dad’s (the two are a week apart from each other) but my boy had other plans.  He was also a C-section due to his size and the fact that I was in very active labor with no progress in the dilation front.

I didn’t like the hat they put on him in the hospital so I had the hubs bring one from home, it says “mmmm…boobies.”

The nurses were more like lactation nazi’s, which doesn’t help make you comfortable.  They were sweet though, especially once the postpartum hit.  And it hit hard.  And then it took me three months to admit that it was bad.  Really, really bad. 

Really, really, really bad.

(For anyone who may be interested, I’ve been thinking about doing a full disclosure post, but since I don’t want to bore the three of you to tears or drown you in mommyhood, I haven’t decided yet.  Guess it depends on if anyone gives a rats ass.)

Anywho, I’m medicated now.  Most likely will be for awhile.  In all honesty, being on antidepressants is the first time I’ve really felt like myself since I was about 20.  I don’t feel so angry and anxious about every little thing.  I’m no longer convinced that my child, husband and family hate me.  In essence, I stopped sweating the small stuff.  Which is nice.  I like enjoying things that deserve to be enjoyed and not sending myself into a frenzy of anxiety and panic over the things that normally get worried over. 

So, he’ll be five months old the day after Christmas.  He sits up quite nicely, just started eating solid foods and is strong.  We had a scare when he was about a week old, but the test results came back ok and the doctor doesn’t seem concerned over anything when he goes for his check ups. 

I go back to school in the beginning of January, and I’m not looking forward to that.  I wish we were in a financial position for me to be able to stay home, but we aren’t.  We aren’t even really in a financial position for me to be in school, but I’ve gotten this far goddammit and I refuse to repay a loan for something I didn’t finish.  I need to get something at the end so that I can make money to repay that damned loan, and maybe get us out of the pickle we’re in right now. 

I won’t whine and complain about how hard things are, because we’re still ok.  Not great, we’re not even really staying afloat, but we have a roof over our heads and the ability to pay for extra things like cable and internet access from home, so I won’t whine.  We’re (mostly) healthy.  Granted I’ve had some health issues, not to mention a trip to a doctor that made things worse before things got better.  Got a second opinion, and that one made more sense so that doctor became my family doctor (woo hoo, lucky her!). 

I have been keeping up with what everyone is writing, I just need to be logged into WordPress to make comments and some days, that became too much effort.  Or I would go to make a comment and the baby would start to fuss or cry or required some kind of attention and when I got back to the computer my session had timed out or I forgot what I wanted to say.  I should also say that the same thing has happened when making myself a cup of much needed coffee. 

Insomnia is the only reason I’m able to make this post now.  And despite the fact that my child sleeps through the night, I refuse to take anything to help me sleep now because of everything else that I’m on (so many other things).  If he does wake up, I need to be able to get up with him and provide for him.  I’ve been on Ambien before, nothing good ever came out it. 

Ok, maybe one thing.

I knew it would happen

I was warned by several people who had babies that it would happen eventually.  I just didn’t expect to feel violated after it happened.

I had a craving (need) for a slurpee today, so I stopped at 7/11 to get one.  I’m standing in front of the machine, trying to figure out what flavor(s) I want to get.  All of a sudden I hear this god awful squealing, to be honest I thought someone was hurt, and felt hands all over my belly. 

This woman had hands more hands than I thought possible.  She was like the human octopus. 

It was creepy.

I felt/feel violated.

The worst part is I didn’t get my slurpee because I just wanted to get away from her. 

My question is this:  what if I wasn’t pregnant?  Has she done this to a bunch of random women?  How many of them were actually pregnant?

Pregnancy is not at all glamorous.  Not even a little.

I’m not a shoe person.  I wear Crocs fer fuck’s sake.  So I have a question for those of you (men, if your wives/girlfriends/partners are shoe people, now is the time for us to meet) who are shoe people.

I have a wedding to go to in mid April, I will be 6 months pregnant.  My dress looks like this:

It’s a maxi dress (if that means anything to you) and is actually quite long on me so I need a little heel.  The sweater I’m going to wear with the dress looks like this (mid April, could be warm, could be cool/cold, I was a girl scout and we’re always prepared):

I’m not entirely comfortable in high heels, the highest I usually wear is a kitten heel.  Unfortunately the heels I have will not go (they are just too silver and I’m starting to retain water…in my feet so my black ones won’t work).  I’m thinking black would be better, hoping for a wedge heel and something that won’t break the bank.  All of the wedges I’ve looked at have the cork heel, is that ok to wear with this dress?  Does anyone out there have any suggestions for me? 

Please help the shoe clueless.

I’m not entirely sure though.  But, my best guess is that if you can handle this…

  1. You volunteer to go out shopping with your friend, and her two small children, who don’t enjoy their stroller…at all.
  2. You find out that your friend’s sister and her one small child are coming with, who also greatly dislikes his stroller…and car seat.
  3. You don’t turn around and run away as fast as you can…

And if you survive those things and then end up at a Mexican restaurant where this happens…

  1. The oldest of the three children (he is 4, and reminds you every 20 seconds) loudly proclaims that he will not eat the quesadilla that was ordered for him (“It’s just like grilled cheese, you love grilled cheese!”) then proceeds to throw the plate.
  2. The oldest child’s brother decides he has had quite enough thankyouverymuch, and then throws his plate because he just saw his brother do it, his sippy cup and then his mother’s plate onto the floor.
  3. The cousin, after witnessing the other acts of aggression, decides he wants to do this as well but luckily the adults have grown wise after two other throwing incidents.  Yet he proceeds to start screaming, loudly, in a very echo-y room.
  4. You cannot order a margarita, or even a shot of tequila.

You may enjoy S&M.

I don’t know how many people out there have done grown up things, like shop for major home purchases (we will move onto the actual home purchase, some day, I hope), but I assume it has to be a few of you since I’ve seen some pictures that prove that y’all have furniture in your homes.  Then again, maybe you acquired your furniture the same way my husband and I had, by the simple act of shit being handed down to you and a few trips to Ikea (someday I will confess my love/hate relationship with all Ikea products, but not today) to supplement what family didn’t give you.

Over the years my husband and I have slowly replaced things that were once someone else’s.  Coffee table, dining room tables, bookcases…you get the drift.  One of the first things we bought as a married couple was, and at the time I believed this was absolutely brilliant (past me was a fucking idiot), a futon.  We had the ability to purchase an actual couch at the time and we went with a futon.  Seriously?  I kinda wish I could go back in time and punch myself in the mouth.

Well over the last few months getting up from said futon has become a challenge.  Turns out I don’t bend or fold the way that I used to.  Let us say that bending over to tie my shoes is becoming a thing of the past and I look forward to the weather warming up so that I can wear slip on shoes more often.  So, can you imagine what it must be like to get up from a futon?  Has anyone ever owned or even sat on a futon? 

Sure, at first it’s sorta like:  “Hey, this is kinda nice!  The mattress is all squishy and my butt is just sinking into it.” 

Then it goes to:  “Wow, arm rests are kinda like leaning on a piece of wood, must be because I am.” 

Which quickly morphs into:  “Shit, I gotta pee.  How the hell am I supposed to get out of this thing?  It’s like sitting on a torture device.”

Maybe that’s just me.

Keep in mind that when the mattress was brand new, it was great.  We had plans to replace the mattress every so often, but then that went out the window.  Then I was getting annoyed because one side was always drooping more than the other side.  Then I started to hate the cover, and a new cover is kind of expensive even if you buy it from Ebay.  Then you need a ton of pillows to keep from having to lean on the uncomfortable arm rests and before you know it you have more throw pillows than available sitting space.


I begged my husband to concede and go shopping for a new couch with our big fat tax return (not bragging, it really wasn’t that great but it’s the best one we’ve seen since I stopped working).  I could tell he wanted to, but at the same time he must have remembered how bored I got with the process the first time we tried it.  Because honestly, the futon is my fault.  We were shopping for a new mattress (which we had gotten) and I decided I wanted the couch replaced.  Well, as opposed to going to someplace like an actual furniture store, we went to Mattress Mart or something like that, picked out our mattress and I got distracted by the futon.  I decided it was one stop shopping, paid for everything, scheduled delivery and went home.  Lazy.

Anyway, we did it right this time.  My husband actually had to drag me out of the first place we went to because he sensed me settling, again.  I applaud him and love him for this.  Last night, not so much.  Last night I wanted to flay him.  We went to six (count em) places.  I’m fucking Goldilocks because of all the damned couches I had to sit on last night.  The worst part was, he wouldn’t help me up unless I really couldn’t do it.  He wanted to make sure I could get up by myself because he won’t be home every night to get my ass up and out of the couch.  Therefore, my dream of a squishy couch was out.  He sat on everything I liked, and gave me his honest opinion. 

This didn’t keep me from attempting murder at the sixth store when he informed me he liked the couch at the third store the best. 

Long story short (too late!) we bought a new couch.  It’s being delivered on Thursday and I couldn’t be happier.  We got it with stain guard, how fucking grown up are we?  Paying extra money for stain guard…I’m so proud of us.  There was a moment where we were going to get the couch and love seat (OMG, a matching set?!) and then reason returned and it occurred that we needed to have money left over for other things, like food and bills.  But who knows, we may be able to get the matching love seat someday. 

So, anyone need a futon?

I’m a paranoid person.  Not so paranoid that I’m wearing tinfoil on my head to prevent the aliens from reading my thoughts, but paranoid all the same.

How would you react if your once very cold in-laws are suddenly all warm and fuzzy towards you?

Everyone is trying to tell me that babies change everything, which yeah, they do.  I still can’t help but be suspicious of the food that is suddenly being brought over to me, and the flowers that are arriving at my door and offers to buy anything we need for the baby, not to mention the year-long membership to Costco, the stamps for the baby shower invitations and the invitations to random meals (they have never wanted to have a meal alone with my husband and I before, not ever, not even for a birthday).

I want to be the kind of person who can take this all in stride and enjoy it, but…

Part of me wonders if I made it all worse in my head and they weren’t actually that bad.  Maybe they’ve been trying to reach out for years and I was just too stubborn to notice it.  Maybe it was me…

Then again, I just got a phone call from my sister-in-law telling me everything I’m missing from my baby registry, so maybe not.