The longest shortest year

You can’t explain the first year to someone who hasn’t experienced the death of a parent. There are no words or explanations that can give life to the grief, the pain, and the loss that you feel as you navigate your new life.  Everything I’ve ever done that involved my Mom will literally never happen again. Not a birthday, not a Saturday afternoon, not a walk, not Christmas or Thanksgiving, and in that first year, you experience all of those firsts.  The first year of complete void and nothingness in the place where your Mother used to be.

“I just don’t know how you do it.” I have muttered to friends and people I love who lost their Mother, truly believing that I did not know how it could ever be done.  Also, truly believing, that my time to walk that path had to be many years from that particular moment.

How does life go on when the very star, the sun that centered your universe shoots beyond your line of sight and into another galaxy?  I don’t like to say she flickered out because I know she’s shining somewhere, brighter than ever.

How does life go on in the after of complete loss?

It just does.

What was I going to do?  Quit my job and stay in bed all day?  I mean, ideally, absolutely… that’s exactly what I wanted to do.  I wanted to fold into myself and sink into my memories and never come out, never come up for air, and never figure out how to do life without my Mom.  Well, being out of paid time off cured that want pretty quickly and I went back to work.  I was a complete zombie, but looking back, I think it helped.  I know it helped.

You go back to work, you pick up where you left off with TV shows you enjoyed, you visit friends, you go out-of-town… you. just. do.

You don’t “move on”, it doesn’t get better, time does not heal, none of those platitudes are even remotely true.  You just keep moving forward each day and hope you feel a little more able than the previous day.  Grief changes.  It permeates your being and becomes a fixture in your everyday, it becomes as much apart of you as the skin that stretches over your bones and it seeps into your molecular makeup.  You carry grief like a backpack filled with hardback books, all of those books written for and by your Mother.

At first, grief takes the shape of unbelievable sadness.  That sadness extends beyond any sadness you will ever feel.  Then, emptiness.  Emptiness as you wake up, slowly, and realize this world continues to exist without your Mom.  There will, quite literally, always be the before and after.  There is who you are when your Mom was here and there is who you are after your Mom is gone and those people are very different.

I was not okay for many, many months.  Mom went into the hospital on 10/20/2017 (one year ago today) and passed away on 10/24.  She was buried 10/28.  I don’t remember much of the last 2.5 months of 2017.  On New Years Eve I cried because I didn’t want to start a new year without her and I begged Chad to stay home from any events.  I couldn’t imagine facing an entire calendar year without her, though staying home wouldn’t stop that year from coming.  Nothing, not even the death of your most beloved, stops time.

Winter turned into spring and spring flirted with summer and if you’ve never broken down and torn apart the home your Mother lived in, I do not recommend it.  It was the impossible task.  Her sweet little items, her clothes, her cat, the list was endless and it all needed homes and those homes could no longer be in that house.  That house is still an open wound to me.  I dream about it often and she is usually there with me.  Even if you’re an adult and you have your own home, wherever your Mom is, that is also home.  When that home is gone to you, when every home from your childhood is no longer part of your life, you realize the only ties you have to those memories are the memories themselves.  That first time when you realize you can never, ever go home to your Mother again feels like having a heart attack.

It’s been the longest shortest year of my life.  It’s been years ago and it’s been as recent as yesterday.  I used to absolutely love the month of October.  Way before the culture of Pinterest and scarves and pumpkin spice, October was my birth month and I was obsessed with it.  I loved fall, I love the leaves, the colors, everything.  This month, I’ve tried so hard to enjoy those things that I love because Mom loved them, too.  It makes sense that she died on the day the foliage peaked.  I’ve tried so hard to find her in the cooling temperatures, and in the reds and golds that scatter the hillsides.  I know she’s with me, but boy do I miss her physical presence.

Often, I replay the Friday to Tuesday turn in the ICU at King’s Daughters through my mind, trying to remember every single detail.  There were moments of laughter and terrifying moments of fear.  There was not one single part of me that thought I would never her bring her home when I drove here there on this date one year ago.  She was in a great deal of discomfort.  We listened to the Johnson Central/Ashland game on the radio and I tried to distract her and give her Dylan’s stats for the game and for the entire season.  It worked out perfectly that Central played Ashland at Ashland since that’s where KDMC is located.  Tommy and I got her to the ER, Andi soon joined, and we waited.

We waited what felt like an eternity.

Around 5:00 am, she was finally given a room in ICU.  Stage 4 cancer with pneumonia certainly warranted intensive care.  The nurse asked Mom a million questions, and finally, asked her if she had a living will on file with the hospital which is a standard question.  She burst into tears and said, “I’m just so tired” and I said, “I know, Mommy, we’re almost done with the questions and then you can rest”.  I will never forget the look on her face and how she wilted, and even more so, how apparent it was that she was ready to rest.  She was so ready to rest.

Some of the memories I have from those four days haunt me.  The memory of her sweet face looking at each and every one of us as if she was memorizing our faces gets me every single time.  She wanted to go home, but at the same time, she didn’t want to leave any of us.  I remember feeding her her last good meal, baked potato and salad from Wendy’s.  Tommy, Melissa, myself, and Chad surrounded her bed and she commented how handsome Chad is with a beard and was in the best spirits.  This was Saturday night. With Sunday came saturated lungs that only worked at 37% anyway, ever complicated masks to help oxygen flow, and ultimately the bipap mask that sealed the deal.  It was horrifying.  That mask was miserable and I couldn’t and wouldn’t ask her to wear it for one more second to accommodate an arbitrary date.

She was everyone’s everything and that is not an exaggeration.  She wasn’t the same Mother to me as she was to Tommy and Andi — she was what we all three needed.  She wasn’t the same sister to Sharon and Pam — she was what each of them needed.  She was everything.

The fruition of my Mother’s faith came to pass on my 31st birthday.  That’s a beautiful and absolutely truthful way to put what happened that day, but it doesn’t begin to encompass the feelings I have since navigated.  I have been very angry.  Not about my birthday, but losing her in general.  I get very mad at the choosing of my most precious, wonderful person and not someone else who I feel deserved death more.  But, that isn’t even close to how it works.  She was ready.  That 110 pound shell was done.  Even still, coming to terms with the how and why is extremely difficult.  But, I think I have found that peace or I am at least actively working toward it.

As I sit 4 days out from that anniversary, the marking of the first year and my 32nd birthday, I chose to write and post this before the exact date.  My Mom would not want me to dwell on the sadness on that day.  If she could have changed it, I know that she would have chosen to pass on another day, but that isn’t something you ever get to choose.  And honestly, that’s okay.  It’s okay.  It was a special day to her before and it is the most special date to her now.

There will never be a day that I don’t miss her.  Not one.  But, I know that she isn’t here in this unexplainable void and sadness.  She is in the sun, she is in the leaves, she dwells in goodness and light, in the voices and faces of my siblings, her sisters, and my niece and nephew.  I find her in the mirror, sometimes.  I find her in my own voice pretty often.  I find her, always.

I will find her always.

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I have no idea why I picked this hill.


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This is not great

If we’re keeping it a buck, I don’t respect Donald Trump.  I rarely use the title of President in reference to him, not because he isn’t my President (I am an American, so technically…), but because I’m petty.  Not “I’m a whining libtard that’s mad that he won” petty, but I think he’s a disgusting, vile, garbage human petty.  He doesn’t deserve my respect.  He never will.  I would also tell you that I respect the office of President far more than he ever has or will.  Don’t @ me.

Still, I’m not trying to see a mock up of Donald Trump’s severed head float through my news feed like I’m watching Game of Thrones.  Not because I respect him, but because I do have a shred of humanity left (barely) and I try to leave any and all severed heads to Ned Stark in the land of white walkers and make believe.  It’s not a great look, it’s not art (I don’t know, do I get to decide what ‘art’ is? I’m guessing no…), it’s actually pretty revolting.

That being said, it’s Kathy Griffin’s right do whatever in the world that Kathy Griffin wants to do.  If this is her art, she gets to do it.  There are typically consequences to garbage like this, just like ol Kathy found out, and that’s part of it (ask the Duck Dynasty dude about saying stuff and getting fired).  See, that’s how freedom of speech and freedom of expression works.  You can sever Donald Trump’s fake head and show it off to a camera, but that doesn’t mean that people aren’t going to call you an asshole for it.  It simply means that the government cannot come after you.

Take that in again. Read it one more time.

In the same way that you have the right to be offended by this, that, and the third, Kathy Griffin has the right to express herself freely, without worry of persecution from the government.  I mean, the secret service totally has to come to her house and make sure she’s not a real threat, but nothing should be done to her.  She should not be arrested or ‘locked up’, as I have seen so eloquently expressed on the book of Face.  That’s not how it works according to the Bill of Rights and if you don’t like that, you gotta call 411 and get the number for Jimmy Madison and the boys.  These are facts only.

Personally, I don’t feel like we should be in the business of depicting the death of anyone, much less the current US President.  Not everyone agrees with me and that’s cool, I don’t really get that, but I digress.  Anyhow, I figure if you are mad online about this picture, you were surely mad as a hornet when all the pics of Obama being hanged, etc., popped up in your timeline, right?

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This, too, is not great

Right, guys?

I don’t know, I guess I missed that outrage.  Maybe I was off the internets that day.  Maybe you kept it to yourself and didn’t feel the need to write a post about it on your wall?  Maybe I’m just Facebook friends with folks who didn’t get amped up over Obama slander. Who really knows?  Also, I mean, there’s also the subject of the history of lynching black folks in this country and how racially charged those effigies were, but I’m sure we don’t want to touch that.  It’s kinda uncomfortable since you were maybe super disgusted and outraged by this Trump picture and not so much by Obama’s likeness being hanged.  Yikes.

I didn’t even know Kathy Griffin was still a thing or relevant until this, so I guess she got her wish.  Truth be told, I imagine getting her own name back out there is what this was really about anyway.  Perhaps that is a bit cynical?  Do I think she hates Donald Trump?  For sure.  Do I think she hoped it would be a huge story and get her name out there?  Yup.  Do I think she’s really sorry?  Not a shot.  And I don’t care that she’s not.  I don’t care if she really is sorry.  She doesn’t matter to me.

The thing that really gets my goat is the righteous outrage regarding this bull and the silence when it’s someone that you don’t like.  I’m here to tell you I don’t like the picture, I think it’s awful.  And if you didn’t think it was disgusting when it was Obama, then Lord have mercy, why have you bothered to read this far?  Do we have anything in common at all?  I would guess not.

I’ve been extra, super good about not posting on Facebook about Trump, unless my comments on news stories show up to you, and in that case, I’m sorry — I have to have an outlet.  So, I took this to my blog and if you chose to read, yay, hi!  You probably regret it.

But, hey man, I had fun writing it.

light bulb moments & other ramblings

Hi, my name is Alena, and I love pizza. And ice cream. And Doritos. And wine. And cheese! And… and… and…

The list, it goes on and on and on and on.  I freakin’ love food, y’all.  People who are all ‘Nothing tastes as good as being skinny feels’ are lying to you and themselves and just no.  No, guys.  Coupled right there with folks who say, ‘Oh, I forgot to eat’ — LOL!  What?!  I literally plan my whole day around food.  Seriously, the night before, I plug all my food into my macros app and I’m like OH THANK GOD I GET TO EAT PIZZA TOMORROW or HOLY COW I CAN’T WAIT TO HAVE ICE CREAM and that is just me and that is who I am.

I love food.  But, I’m writing today to talk about my relationship with food and how it used to dominate my self worth through a number.  I want to be honest with y’all about how much I used to not like myself and how much I still struggle with what I see in the mirror every single day.

Okay, so the first thing I do when I wake up is obviously pee, and then weigh myself.  Every. Single. Morning.  I weigh myself and it is literally never the same as the day before.  Then, I go to the mirror in my bedroom and lift my shirt up and look at how ‘bloated’ my stomach looks that day.  On January 1st, I promised my husband that I would stop talking poorly about myself and I would stop my negative thought processes.  So, I still do my morning routine, it’s my thing, whatever.  When I used to roll my eyes and sigh heavily, I now literally laugh at myself (because this routine is honestly kind of silly) and pat my stomach and say something nice about it.

Does that sound crazy? Hear me out!

Back in the fall my therapist told me to start talking to myself in the mirror every day and saying positive things.  I laughed and never did it.  Because how silly, right?  Around the same time, I was starting my journey in an online fitness community and I really started to get into feeling strong and good about myself.  Then Christmas came and I ate 234234023478234 cookies and you know, I did the ol typical reset on January 1 deal.  But, I meant it this time.  ESPECIALLY with positive self talk.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had setbacks, but with the encouragement of my trainer and the people in that group, I feel like I am finally getting somewhere.

I do not have a perfect body.  For several years I took Wellbutrin and I lost about 20 pounds easily because it is a stimulant and yay for me.  When Wellbutrin stopped working and made me an absolutely unbearable human being, I started taking an SNRI and may God himself please bless my metabolism.  It’s awful, and here we are.  Where I used to be able to eat Wendy’s a couple of times a week and run every once in a while and weigh 140, I now workout 5/6 times a week and consistently weigh about 150/155.

Let’s take a quick timeout: I’m being honest about numbers here in the spirit of complete and total transparency and I am not attempting to trigger anyone.  Listen to me, everyone’s battle is different.  Just because you think I look great, doesn’t mean I think it, and you have no way to gauge with is going on with me psychologically.  One of the most hurtful things is belittling someone’s struggle because it doesn’t mirror yours.  Don’t do that!  Don’t be that guy!

So back to loving food, etc.  While I am really working hard on self love, I’m also really working hard on getting stronger physically.  My body isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty freakin’ awesome if you ask me.  I can squat heavy weight, I can run a couple solid miles, I can walk for days, I can lift heavy things, I have SO MUCH endurance and you know what doesn’t measure those gains?  A scale.

Stop right now and say it out loud, say it to yourself, look at your significant other, look at your cat and/or dog and say it — A. SCALE. DOES. NOT. MEASURE. MY. SELF. WORTH.

Your body does awesome things.  If you are reading this, your body might be something you don’t love and I am here for you, I get that on a spiritual level.  But, you are strong, beautiful, intelligent, and so worth the love that you undoubtedly give others!  Just take a second and look in the mirror and find something you love about you.  You being you is an awesome thing.

A couple days ago I was talking to my friend Jenn and I showed her a picture of a woman I follow on Instagram who is recovering from an eating disorder and is a body positivity activist (I don’t really know if that’s the right word for it).  I seriously adore her and her posts. I capped a post and said, “I think her body is beautiful” and Jenn said, “It is, but I don’t understand how you can see her and think she is beautiful and not think the same of yourself.” and dude, that resonated with me.  I stared at that picture and I thought, why on this Earth do I hate myself so much for just being me?  It was like a light bulb went off in my head.

For the entirety of my life, I have tied my self worth to a number — either the number on a scale, or the number on a label.  I claimed that I conquered that demon when those numbers were what I thought were ‘acceptable’ and then, poof, I was back to real life and hating myself more than ever. The bucks stops right here.

I am here to tell you that I struggle every single day.  I love food, I want to eat every minute of every day, I eat when I get bored, I eat when I’m happy, I eat when I’m sad, I just like to eat.  A restrictive diet is not an option for me.  I never plan to diet again, honestly.  Ever. My goals are to be healthy and enjoy life.  So, when I say I plug my food into my macro app, I am telling you that choose whole foods and sometimes I choose pizza.  My life has been so deeply devoid of balance, and finding that balance has given me a new lease.  A new outlook.  A new appreciation for loving myself and most importantly, what my story can do for you if you’re reading this and feel like I feel or have felt.

You are not alone!  I am a 30 year old woman with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder who is not scared to admit it. Not every day is great.  Honestly, the last 4/6 weeks have been hell.  But, sometimes, you have these moments of clarity and you decide you’re going to do the damn thing, whatever the ‘thing’ may be.

Whatever it is, you’ve got this.

**not proofread, don’t judge me**

 

We’re planning.

Oddly enough, I remember Christmas 1989.   My Dad was sitting in the kitchen talking on the old, wall mounted rotary phone at least once, and that is important.  I can remember how many gifts we got that year, and it was odd, because we never really had much money, so we certainly shouldn’t have gotten those gifts.  I was only 3, but I can remember so much about that particular Christmas.  Not too long after Christmas, my Mom noticed a long distance call on the bill and called the number back, asking for my Dad.  The number originated in Alexandria, Virginia, where my Dad was working at that time.  A woman answered, naturally, and I could tell you that was the beginning of the end of their marriage, but honestly, it had been ending for quite a while.  Nail in the coffin that was already six feet under ground is probably far more apt a description.  Since then, it’s always been the four of us.  The picture below always struck me because at that moment, did my Dad know that this was going to be it?  Was it as simple as there was no one else to take the picture?  I can’t ever really know what was going through his head, but this picture is equal parts heartbreaking and fascinating to me.

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Andi, please don’t be mad at me, your hair is glorious.

My Mom is the center of our universe. Tommy, Andi, and I all have very different relationships with her, but we are very, very close.  It’s no secret if you follow me on twitter or Facebook that we’re likely facing something difficult in the coming months.  When I was 10, Mom was diagnosed with cancer.  At that age, I had no real grasp of her mortality.  I very vividly remember her saying, “I’m going to be fine.” and if Mommy said she would be fine, she would be fine.  And, you know what, she was.  She made it.  Just like she survived my Dad leaving, she survived cancer.  My entire life I’ve known that if my Mom puts her faith out there, whatever she is believing for will come to pass.

And for some reason, we’re likely looking at this cancer thing again.  I don’t know why.  Of course I don’t believe anyone deserves cancer, but selfishly, I especially don’t believe my Mom should have suffer with it twice, but twenty years later (almost to the day), we’re visiting doctors, having scans, having biopsies, and begging God for mercy and for the best news possible.

But, I’ll be honest, and maybe you’ll bristle at me saying this…. I’m pretty aggravated at God. Mom says I should be mad at the devil, but I’m just… maybe I’m just mad at everything. I’m mad at biology and cells and this ridiculously savage, unrelenting disease.  I wish it were me because I’m strong, and I’m able, and I could do it. I wish I could take it from her, but then I know it would destroy her to watch me go through it.  There’s a verse that comes to me even when I am angry, I keep hearing, “All things work together for good to them that love God, and for them who are called according to His purpose” and I try my best to find some shred of good.  Not in a trite way, because I hate that. I absolutely hate platitudes and all of that, but because I have to stay positive and I can’t let this negativity and anger consume me, I’m trying my level best to find the good.

So, we’re planning.  Last night when I was talking to her, I said, we’re not planning your funeral, we’re planning life.  We’re planning Thanksgiving, Christmas, and going into the new year.  We’re planning how to transition her into a healthier, more active lifestyle.  We’re planning on watching Bekah and Dylan get older and maybe adding another grandchild to the mix someday.  We’re planning.  We’re not going to let any of this get the best of us or take what time is here, because we believe deeply, no, we know this is not the end. There’s still much left to be done.

If you pray, please pray for my Mom.  She is my heart walking around outside of me, my rock, and any tiny shred of kindness and good in me, I owe to her.  I am everything I am because of the way she has taught me to live my life, loving relentlessly, even when life is not fair, good, or kind.  Pray that the prognosis is good, pray for strength, and if you feel so inclined, pray for a miracle.  I am.

 

sunday evening coffee break

Evenin’ y’all.

Last week, I said I was going to start a weekly reflection series and I’m totally trying to stick with that.  However, last week, I called it Sunday Morning Coffee Break, and I’m gonna be real — I’ve barely gotten out of bed until this evening.  Not because of depression (as outlined in my last update), but because I decided to take the day for lazy.  There’s nothing like doing literally nothing, and even though I’ve cooked two meals and been to Walmart, I’ve still had a solid reset which I desperately needed.

On Friday I started bi-weekly therapy and I feel really good about it.  One of my biggest fears in talking to someone about my ‘problems’ is them thinking that my problems aren’t real or they are stupid.  I hate feeling stupid.  Ask Chad, ask anyone that knows me really well, I will NOT do anything that makes me feel dumb.  It’s a huge complex that I have and it correlates with not being good at something (whatever the task may be).  If I am not good at something, I will literally never try it again.  It’s maddening.  And silly.

Anyway, I can’t tell you how many times I said to my therapist, “I feel so stupid” and she would gently assure me that whatever I feel is valid, and it is certainly not stupid.  I told her how difficult it is for me to be honest with people about what I struggle with because outwardly, I seem very together, and people often dismiss me and move on.  That’s one of the most painful things you can ever deal with in mental illness and insecurities, someone saying, “What do you have to be so upset about?” — it feels like a knife in the chest, especially if you REALLY love that person.  You honestly have no real idea what someone is struggling with internally, and a gentle, “I’m here for you” is far more beneficial than criticism and harsh words.  Ahem.

I think therapy is going to be a really good thing.  I am really trying to pull out of this awful depression place and for the last 3 days, I have felt more like myself.  I have often thought that I struggle with Seasonal Affective Disorder, because around the same time every year, when the sun sets earlier and the days get shorter (even slightly so), I tend to struggle.  Hence the the reset today.

On September 1st, I started a bootcamp challenge with Jamison and Emma and I’m super pumped about it.  I desperately want to master my macros, eat better more consistently, and learn some new workouts.  The best news is, I haven’t blown it this weekend with my eating.  I can work out and kill it, but my eating is an atrocity.  Y’all.  I absolutely love to eat, I can never tell you how much.  Eating brings me so much happiness, especially when I am going through depression issues.  It’s the only thing that clicks and even though I can make myself workout, I can’t make myself dial in my eating.  So, making it through this whole weekend and staying within my guidelines has been super inspiring for me.  I’m excited to wake up and destroy a workout in the morning.  I also bought Oreos at the store, so what am I really even talking about?!

Honestly, I hope September is a touch more kind to me than August was.  I struggled with a pulled muscle, depression, and just over all a bad month.  So, I’m excited to see the calendar change and get another shot at the next 30 days.  The first 4 days have been pretty stellar, so here’s hoping.  Well.  Other than Kentucky football.  That’s enough to shove you into depression and make you drink, guys.

Happy Labor Day, everybody.  Enjoy your Monday off.  🙂

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credits to you if you made this and I stole it from you

I want to break up with depression.

I often wonder what it’s like to love someone through depression.  I thank my husband almost daily for sticking with me and never flinching at my darkest moments, my most graphic breakdowns, or when I just can’t participate in life.  Still, I feel extremely selfish.  I know that he loves me and even though I have always been clear about how unwell I can be, I feel selfish that such a good, kind-hearted person is stuck with me.  He chose me, sure, but could he have really known how deep my depression can run?  How debilitating my anxiety can be?  There’s no way to understand the emotional cave that I back myself into, and most of the time, all he can do is watch it happen.

This might scare you, but I haven’t wanted to be alive for the last two weeks.  I’ve tried, I’ve counted the reasons to stay on this Earth, and it always ends with me begging God to just take me.  No, I don’t have a plan to commit suicide, I just don’t want to be here.  I don’t want to wake up and go to my job, I don’t want to participate in social functions, I don’t want to do anything but lie in my bed and wait, knowing that if I didn’t wake up, I would be in a much better place.  Still, it’s extremely scary to feel that way.  I’m getting help, I’m praying, I’m adjusting medications.  This is the truth of a chemical imbalance.  Like it or not, you don’t have to believe in it and you can think I’m crazy, but this is my real life from time to time.

Still, it genuinely tugs on me when I think about what Chad sees.  I’ve spent the majority of my teenage and adult life struggling with these feelings, but only for the last few years have I really considered how it impacts someone else.  I’ve never thought about what it feels like for your spouse to look at you and admit that sometimes they don’t want to be alive.  Chad knows me, he knows that if it went too far, I would reach out and ask him to help me, or to intervene.  But, still.  What a horrible blow to the stomach when someone you love is in so much pain and you can’t just fix it.

And really, that’s the thing.  You can’t just fix it.  You can only be patient and love someone through it.  You can only be present, and say I love you, I’m here for you.  The worst thing you can say is, “you’ll get over it” or “what do you even have to be sad about” — that doesn’t help.  That makes it worse.  For all the times someone has said that to me, it only makes my guilt dig a little deeper for being so broken.  I will not ever feel like I deserve the unconditional love of someone as good as Chad, but I also very clearly realize he is mine because he can handle this.  And I thank God for it.

For today, I am on the upswing.  I don’t feel that vacant, empty feeling in my chest.  I don’t feel the weight bearing down on me like a load of bricks stacked tall on my shoulders.  I’m excited about the long weekend, I can’t wait to unwind and enjoy some time at home, and I’m hopeful this downward pattern will not continue. You must know that I don’t choose this.  I would never wish these feelings on anyone, not even my worst enemy.  If you are reading this and someone you love is suffering with depression, don’t give up on them.  Speak gently, love fiercely, and know what they are going through bears no reflection on you or your relationship with them.

sunday morning coffee break

So, I wanna start a weekly blog that I write to recap the ridiculousness of life in a normal week.  I was thinking about this last night before I came home to find that my dog had destroyed another door way in my house, and I came up with “sunday morning coffee break” because I love drinking coffee early on Sunday mornings and kind of reflecting on what happened in the previous week and thinking about the week ahead.  Typically it causes me great anxiety and this is week is no different.  So, this should be fun!

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literally me this entire week

Let’s start with…. Things That Made Me Feel Like A Huge Failure This Week

  1. (I have no idea how many of these there will be) Not being able to work because anxiety destroyed my life on Monday.  Not being able to do the job you’ve been doing for 10 years because you have a mental breakdown at your desk (not even work related!) and realizing that you need to go home and get in bed — that’ll make you feel like you suck.  Using your own paid time off that you’re trying your best to save up for having a baby (thanks no federally mandated paid parental leave, America.  Only first world nation to have this issue) a couple of years from now will make you feel like you suck.  Knowing over all that you seriously just suck at adulting will make you feel like a huge failure.  Thanks, anxiety.  Go jump out of a moving vehicle.
  2. Your dog eating through not ONE but TWO doorways in your house, through the drywall, down to the studs because he apparently has more anxiety than you do will make you feel like you suck. Feeling like a horrible pet parent because you want to get rid of said dog will make you feel like you suck.  Having no answers makes you feel like you suck.  Not wanting to get rid of your dog because you really love him, but you really love your house that you’re paying for for the next 29 years will make you feel like you suck. So, we’ve had Trevor for 2 years.  We have no real grasp of what he went through the 2 years before we adopted him, so I don’t think he can help whatever triggers his anxiety (NEWSFLASH: NEITHER CAN I! I feel you, Trevs).  Needless to say, ol Trev will be crated when we leave the house.  It’s frustrating because we’ve been in this house for almost a year, and suddenly after being perfectly fine, he’s like LET’S KILL EVERYTHING.  I’m not a bad pet Mom, so don’t pet Mom shame me.  I can’t handle SanctiMommy Pet Mommying — I’ll get enough of that if I ever have a kid.
  3. Your period will make you feel like a failure.  Not because I want to be pregnant, but because periods are just horrible.  Enough said.
  4. Breaking down to your psychologist because your SSRI has made you gain weight and thusly triggered body image issues quite literally from the pits of hell.  I can’t tell you all how much I hate myself and how I look.  How much I don’t love myself.  It’s disgusting and embarrassing to discuss.  So, you aren’t alone.  Whoever you are reading this.
  5. Starting to “sell” something because I seriously ADORE the products but I’ve always poo pooed selling stuff.  But, whatever.  Perfectly Posh is amazing and not having huge cystic acne on my chin proves it.  I’m serious.  I don’t “sell” stuff.  I used these products and tripped out because they are so good and so affordable.  So, do this pathetic anxiety ridden wonder a solid and go to https://alenachughes.po.sh/ and look around.  You wont be sad about ANYTHING you buy.  I haven’t used one product that I’m not flipping out over how great it makes my skin feel.
  6. I don’t have a 6.

THIS BLOG HAS BEEN SO NEGATIVE!  But, I had to get it out there.  I had to get it off my chest.  It’s not all bad!  The drywall can be fixed, Trevor is a great dog, my period will go away, my anxiety is manageable (HAHAHAHA), and I’m working on loving myself with hopefully the help of Jesus, a therapist, and exercise.  Not every week is great, that’s my point.  Not every week will be good, and that’s just real life.

I’m gonna get up and get my house cleaned up, listen to some Christian music, take my Effexor, and get this new week started. Can y’all relate that sometimes it just all goes bad and all you can do is sit back and let your husband MJ cry face your picture and go on with life?  I’m sure you can.  And you are not alone!  Well, we are not alone.  This little collection of folks who comes here to read what I have to say, get a laugh, and go on, thank you.

Lets make it through this next week together.  Or with alcohol if it’s anything like last week, okay.