Depression, you bitch.

Mental illness is a bitch.  A cunt, even.  Just when you start feeling like things will be okay, she shows up to ruin the party.




Charlie Brown is a fantastic example of depression and anxiety.  If you haven't seen the recent Peanuts movie and want to understand what depression & anxiety is, I highly recommend it.  Here's a guy who can't win, if even only in his mind.  When he doesn't win IRL, that's all the evidence he needs.  Trying to kick that damn football is the story of my life.



I keep trying to be positive.  I keep trying to be successful.  And I keep not.  Then not only have I been unsuccessful (in being happy, in doing something, whatever the case may be), I've completely sucked in my judgement of thinking I ever had any hope of kicking that fucking ball.

I have the world's best husband.  He is unconditionally supportive.  He rarely gets angry with me for being an angry, mixed-state* bitch.



He may have patience for me and he may accept that I feel miserable even if he doesn't really understand.  I can only imagine how difficult it must be to watch a loved one be in pain and not know what do to help.  Today he told me that I had to stay positive.  I'd love to.  That would be fabulous.  And that, my friends, would be the end of the depression.  I can't remember the last time I genuinely felt positive (at least not without immediately having the sensation of the "whoooof" that happened as I kicked the football that was no longer there).

Today I sobbed while my 8-year old daughter held me.  That is so wrong in so many ways.  A child should not be responsible for soothing her parent.  And that thought made me sob harder.  I am constantly apologizing for being and angry and sad.  If the world at large can't understand this, how can a child?

You wanna know what kicked off this downward spiral today?  My son dropped a little dish of ranch and it managed to cover every surface (including the underside of the breakfast bar) as it made its way down and crashed.  I didn't even get angry (for a change).  But I cried.  He apologized and started to clean it up but I knew it would only make it worse.  1) He's 10.  2) He's a boy.  3) His fine motor skills leave much to be desired.

A mess of ranch dressing = thoughts of needing to be hospitalized and thinking about whether or not a suicided (I just made that up, I think it's fitting, sort of like "murdered") mom is better than an emotionally unstable mom.

Life really is unfair and there is nothing that says everyone, sooner or later, will no longer suffer.  Lifelong suffering is possible, very, very possible.

I stick around for H.  It's one thing to have to live with a suicided mom.  It's another thing to have to live with that AND to have no one to fight for you in school or in life.  Today, I just realized the strongest argument I have for sticking around.  I don't see any way around that argument.  Lucky me.






*Bipolar disorder is made up of manic episodes, depressive episodes, and/or mixed episodes.  Interestingly, one does not ever have to have a depressive episode to meet the criteria of bipolar disorder.  I heard Charlie Sheen once say that one of the many reasons he didn't think he had bipolar disorder was because he was never depressed.  He was wrong about so very many things.  Another common misconception is that someone with bipolar disorder swings from high to low very quickly.  Not so.  In fact, a person is characterized as having rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 different mood episodes IN A YEAR.  I think the lay person doesn't understand how deep a mood episode is, with roots, like a deep wave that holds a person hostage.  It's not just a little ankle-biter wave.  A person is said to have ultra rapid-cycling bipolar disorder if they have more than 4 episodes in a month.  I think I'm probably one of those lucky people.  I also never get the euphoria that goes with full-blown mania.  That's probably good because that often lands people in the hospital but I often wish I did, just for some reprieve from the suffocating darkness.  I usually have what are called mixed-episodes.  I found this on a website and it is the most accurate description I've found.  Most places just say that it's an episode where both manic and depressive episodes can be found, alternating.

Mixed state (also called mixed mania):

A period during which symptoms of a manic and a depressive episode are present at the same time. People who experience mixed states describe feeling activated and “revved up,” but also full of anguish and despair. Rapid, pressured speech can co-exist with impulsive, out-of-control thoughts of suicide and self-destruction or aggression. Hopelessness, irritability, uncontrollable swings between racing thoughts and a feeling of “being in blackness” can all happen over the course of minutes.

I teach about mixed episodes and it wasn't until a week or two ago that I really realized I was in the midst of one.  The way I describe it when I teach, and I was probably unconsciously describing my experience because almost nothing ever describes it this way, is having the yucky feelings of depression with the pressured amplification that goes along with mania.  It's like depression on speed.  And lots of rage.  Did I mention that I broke the glass topper on my desk this week?  It's been awhile since I've broken anything so there's that.  Anyway, mixed episode = the opposite of fun.

Too Much girl. Or worse? Too Much Woman.

First, the age thing.  Let's get it out of the way.  I can't believe I'm technically middle-aged.  When the fuck did that happen?  How do I have a house (that we actually, truly, literally cannot afford) and kids (that depend on us for their very survival) and all sorts of other adult things (like plumbing problems and yard problems and appliance problems)?  I can't believe it.  It wasn't until I kept dropping pop-culture references as I taught undergraduate psychology classes from Seinfeld, Friends, When Harry Met Sally, The Breakfast Club and all the rest, which were almost uniformly greeted by *crickets* that I realized I, myself, am no longer a college student.  It never occurred to me that I was not of the same generation of my students.  Holy shit.

But on to the main course.  Too Much girl.  That's me.  I think I might be the poster child of Too-Muchness.  I am always worried about being too much for everyone in every way.  If someone doesn't respond to a message or email, it must be because I'm overwhelming.  I'm needy.  I'm Too Much.  I am constantly walking on eggshells, pulling my punches, because I don't want to suffocate anyone with my Too-Muchness.  I wonder if many people, particularly women, feel this way or is this yet another one of the fall-outs from my mood issues.  Even that very thought reveals my fear of being Too Much.  I wonder if people who don't feel this way can even understand it.  More importantly, do they have Too Much people in their lives?

This poem brought me to tears.  No, I take that back.  I don't mean "tears" unless you understand that "tears" is a euphemism for ugly crying.  I don't identify with the romantic partner aspect but I can easily sub in any other relationship in my life.  I have lost friends who I know I overwhelmed.  I was Too Much for them.  Not tons.  Not enough to make me decide that I am the problem but enough to make me seriously question it.  The thing about someone who is not comfortable in their Too-Muchness (though I suppose such a person might refer to themselves as Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully) is that they probably never question themselves.  They probably readily write off that friend as having missed out on having a Just Right or Passionate or Living Fully friend.  I, on the other hand, go back and forth, analyzing every conversation, every interaction.

"Fuck.  I know I shouldn't have made that snide comment."

"Christ.  What's wrong with me?  Why did I say that? I sound like I'm having a middle-age crisis and no one wants to be around that person."

"OH MY GOD.  No one shares in that depth.  They're going to think you're nuts."


Along those lines... I am the kind of person who is honest to a fault.  I mean, I tell white lies.  I would never hurt someone's feelings for the sake of being honest.  But regarding myself, you'll get the unedited version any day of the week.  I once lost a group of very good internet friends, a mommy board, because I was Too Much, I think.  I was too honest about myself.  We had a conversation about whether or not we ever have thoughts of harming our young children.  I said that, of course, I did.  I said that anyone who said anything differently was defending against something unconscious.  I said that I thought such a person was unwilling to let themselves acknowledge having such a thought.  This is the thing:  I cannot imagine how a person could live with a needy, ungrateful being, who is demanding nearly every ounce of your being for survival and (often) rewards your servitude with shitty children behavior, and not have flashes of shaking them violently.  I mean, I remember saying to my kids as they fought and cried against diaper changes that I was the one dealing with their shit, in the very literal sense, and they were the ones who were upset?  I told my husband that it felt like I was bending down to tie someone's shoelace and was rewarded with a kick to the teeth.  I also remember thinking after the birth of my first child, as I suffered from severe postpartum depression, that I was a person with tons of resources.  I'm intelligent.  I'm not poverty-stricken.  I have the world's best husband (and father - truly).  I have the support of my parents (we actually were living in their home at the time).  Yet I still had flashes of shaking that fucking crying, non-sleeping, hurting my fucking boob, sucking the very life out of me little shit as if he were a motherfucking maraca.

But I digress... back to my internet friends.  I think what happens is that most people edit.  Most people only tell others 70% of their truth.  I do not do that.  I tell it like it is.  I hold back much more than others do.  I think that terrifies people because 1) maybe it makes it sound like I'm in control of my shit and 2) they think, "Fuck!  If I hold back the worst of myself and that's what she's saying, what must the worst of her be??"  Ummmmm.... that's it.  That is the worst of me.  But they assume I'm even worse.  Not only that but by sharing that kind of scary stuff (as in the thoughts of harming one's child), it forces them to actually think about it for themselves.  They can't help but have a flash of it.  It's like when someone tells you not to think of a pink elephant.  People get pissed that I made them feel like shitty mothers.  #sorrynotsorry

I mean, I'm not sorry.  I say it because it makes others feel not alone.  I can't sugarcoat things because that perpetuates guilt and feelings of Too-Muchness in my fellow mommies/women.  I frequently get messages from friends who are so relieved to hear me say the things they are thinking but never say.  That both breaks and warms my heart.

Back to being Too-Much more directly, it's a constant fight within myself.  I know, cognitively, that I am not too much.  But I'm, emotionally, afraid that I am.  Reading this poem felt like sort of like I've been suspicious about a man being behind the curtain all this time and finally someone ripped the curtain back.  I feel like I need to read it every day.

P.S.  I'm still too scared to share this blog with anyone I know IRL.  There are things in my life that I am still too afraid to share.  I  hope that one day I can but for now, I can't risk it for my kids' sakes.  I'm sure that eventually people who are conditional friends (or acquaintances) may read this and I'm afraid that the effects of judgement and stigma will trickle down to my children vicariously.  Not cool.  So until then, I suppose you really are only just getting a part of me.  Even if it is a huge part, my fear is that that last part will officially bump me over the edge into Too Much.  This, my blog-reading unconditional friends, is the epitome of my Too-Muchness feelings.  :-(

“Life is complicated. I am tired of hiding.”

“Why are you hiding?”

“Because I’m ‘too much’ girl”

“Oh. I know that story. All too well.”

“I just had a long distance lover dump me because I’m too much. And it hurts. Fuck it. No more.”

+++++

Listen to me. Right now.

You are right. Fuck it. No more. Never again.

You are not too much. You have never been too much. You will never be too much.

The very idea is preposterous. Because you were born to be you. All of you. Not a tiny acceptable sliver. Not a watered down version with colors dulled and edges softened.

No. You were meant to be every last pulsing-bleeding-loving-crying-feeling bit.

And if someone tells you that you are too much for them, the only truth you need to remember is this:

It is highly likely that they are not now, and never could have been, near enough for you.

Because you, my girl. You are the sun and the moon and the stars. You are the force that pulls the tides. You are the unrestrained howl under a wide-open moon. You are the essence of what it is to dance into ecstasy. You are the heat and the sex and the sweat and the burn and soft and the grace and the grit and the ocean of tears.

You are all of everything.

You are the mother of us all and the daughter of the universe.

You walk through shadows and light.

You burn down and rise up and hold captive the pulse of the world.

You make the gods tremble.

And that, my dear, is bound to make some people crazy uncomfortable. It will make them pull back and push away. Because the way you dance with your shadows and your steadfast commitment to your light will push them into spaces that are fascinating and compelling and utterly terrifying. Your very being asks them to step into places they may not be near ready to visit, let alone stay.

Because like the depths of the ocean that calls you home, you will never be easy.

But darling, you were not brought here for easy. You are here for so much more.

Because you are a boundary pusher.

You’re a truth seeker.

You’re temptation and seduction and heat.

You’re a mirror and a sorcerer and inside you swirls the power of the ancients.

So no, you are not easy.

But in the space of that truth – please also know this. Do not get this confused with the notion that you do not deserve the deepest ease. Don’t for a minute let them convince you that you will not know the grace of a lover who does not require that you constantly translate yourself or diminish yourself or quiet your storm or tone down your extravagant love.

Because that, my girl, is bullshit.

Because out there somewhere there is a love who will never dream of calling you too much. Who speaks, like you, in poetry and candlewax and stardust. Who runs outside on stormy nights to howl at the moon. Who collects bones and sings incantation and talks to the ancestors. And that lover, when you find him or her, will see you and know you – just as you are and just as you should be.

And they will say yes. Yes, you. I will go there with you. I have been waiting for this.

And so while you are waiting, I want you to do this. For me, and for every last too much girl out there.

You take all that too much and you channel it. You gather every last ember of your too much broken heart and you light that flame. And in doing so you will call forth the others and you sing the song that brings us home.

And then you – in your infinite, perfect too-muchness – unleash it all on the world. And you go and love too much and you cry too much and you swear too much. Fall in love to fast and get sad too often and laugh too loudly and demand with clarity the exact terms of your own desired existence.

Don’t you dare consider doing anything but that.

Because we need you. Everyone of us, man or woman, who has been called too much. You are our reminder, in the most desperate of moment, that we are exactly as we should be.

Every last too-much bit.

"All of Everything" by Jeanette LeBlanc

Shel Silverstein is either an asshole or hilarious

The Giving Tree.  You all know this fucking book.




You probably have fond memories of it from childhood.  I know I did.  But I've been mulling it over for the years since I became a mother and, you know what?  Fuuuuuuuuck that.

This all came to a head when I read Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn (which I highly recommend - I even more highly recommend another one of her novels, Sharp Objects - did I mention that I'm a book geek?).  The line?  "He Giving-Treed me out of existence."  I prefer the term Giving-Treeing oneself as it takes a willing tree to do this.  Many a tree resist.  I, unfortunately, am not such a tree.  It is but one of my hamartias (again, book geek).

For years, I've been using the example of the Giving Tree when I have talked with my girlfriends about motherhood and the soul-devouring nature of children.  People don't talk about it.  People don't talk about a lot of the things that I talk about.  IDGAF.*  But I feel like The Giving Tree is overtly about the relationship between mother and child.  This would be fine if it ended well but it doesn't.  Mr. Silverstein even seems to know that Giving Trees are not happy.  In the middle of the book, when...







I feel like, "AH HA! PROGRESS!!" It seems like Mr. Silverstein is going to acknowledge the fact that one cannot have one's very core, literally one's core, removed and still be happy.  This is accurate.  One cannot have her very core removed, even a mother by her children, and still remain happy.  But...

Then the boy returns and he is old and whiny.  He bitches and moans and complains about how he can't eat apples or swing from branches or climb trunks or any such nonsense.  So you know what that sweet, sacrificing "tree" (as she is no longer a tree, she is nothing but a mere stump) does.  "Straightening herself up as she could," she offers the boy a place to sit.  Here, Boy... You've consumed my entire being, literally and figuratively.  You've eaten my apples, you've sold my apples, you've stripped me of my branches, and cut down my trunk.  I have nothing left except for what bad tree excavators leave behind - garbage - but please feel free to use that, too.

And you know what the shittiest part of this fucking story is?  These two pages:


And you're thinking and hoping (or at least I am thinking and hoping), "Please dear Lord, Baby Jesus, Master of the Universe, be it He-Man, She-Ra, Mother Nature, whoever, all that is good and holy (or not, whatever, IDGAF*), whatever it is that has control over the matters of us measly humans, PLEASE LET THE NEXT PAGE, THE LAST PAGE, SAY, "BUT NOT REALLY." 

But it doesn't.  Not really.  Not really even fucking CLOSE to "not really."

THIS is what the next page/last page says:




On behalf of all mothers everywhere, or at least the ones with children who are apple-eating, branch-swinging, and/or trunk climbing... fuck you, Shel Silverstein.  And fuck the rest of you that perpetuate the myth that mothers should Giving-Tree themselves to death.  This is where Mother's Guilt originates.  I'm over it.





*I don't give a fuck.  I need this as a tattoo.  It would be my first tattoo.  It's in the running for that honor with a Hunger Games tattoo.  I want "She has no idea.  The effect she can have," scrolled around the mockingjay symbol on the top of my foot.  I've been told it is excruciating to get a tattoo there.  This only mildly scares me.  I had three children without pain medication, with minimal medical intervention (did I tell you I was a bit crunchy, in just a few ways?).  Anyway, the other reason why I've waited is that I've heard the skin on the foot is thin and prone to blurring.  Not good for text.  Plus text is supposed to be a fairly large size if one doesn't want it to look blurry relatively quickly.

Love & Hate, from the mouth of my particular babe

I was reading the front page of the newspaper, an article about yesterday's long-overdue decision to afford all people the rights that up until now only some people enjoyed.  Then I flipped to page three and saw the article about Reverend Clementa Pinckney's funeral.  It showed a photo of our President leading the mourners/ celebrators of life in what was perhaps the most moving rendition, objectively, of Amazing Grace.  I was so struck by the juxtaposition, the love and hate.  So struck.  I was completely overwhelmed by the hate that led to the need for yesterday's SCOTUS decision, the love that led to the decision happening, the hate of racism, and the strength of faith.  I was close to sobbing.  My 8 year-old daughter ("C") came over and asked why I was crying.  I cried harder and tried to choke out and gesture that I was fine but I needed a moment to gather myself.  The idea of having to explain to my child how we, as people, can hate so much that it leads to the need to celebrate the giving of long-overdue equality to one group of people and to the need to mourn the deaths of members of another group of people.  How do I explain such a thing?  It is so senseless that it's hard to find words that would make sense to an innocent.  This was how the conversation went:

Me:  You know how a lot of times men love women and women love men but sometimes men love men and women love women?

C: Yes? (she's still concerned that I'm crying)

Me:  Well, up until yesterday it was not legal for men to marry men and women to marry women.  Only men and women could get married to each other.

C:  *furrows brow*  Wait... What's so wrong with a man marrying a man or a woman marrying a woman?

Me:  *practically sobbing*  Nothing.  But some people thing that God doesn't like it (this is where it gets a bit harder to explain, for me, as we are not at all religious - thank the universe that my kids went to a Christian preschool* and know about God).

C:  *furrows brow deeper* Why would God have a problem with two people loving each other even if they are two men or two women?

Me:  I don't know.  I don't think He does.  That's why it is so sad that there had to be a big deal and a law to treat everyone equally.  It's sad that that even needs to happen.  And then on the other page is a story about some people who were black and they were at their church and a man who hates black people went in and killed them all.  This is a picture of the funeral and of our President singing a song. (I dug up the video online).  It is so sad that there is so much hate and that there is so much hate because of love, all sorts of love.

C:  Why do people hate other people like that?

Me:  There has been a very long history of people hating people, just because they're different than than themselves.

C:  Well, I don't like Star Wars (she happened to be fiddling with a lightsaber) but I don't care if other people do.

Me:  *finally, some laughter through tears* Exactly.

C:  And black people are only different from white people because of the color of their skin and because people treat them worse.



Oh.My.God Universe.  This may be the most poignant/sad/true/wise statement ever uttered by any child.  And she is my empathetic, insightful, ridiculously emotionally intelligent child.  My heart swells with pride and actual hope that our next generation may make bigger strides towards eliminating the ugliness that we see today.  I choose to believe that.  I choose to ignore the fact that elsewhere are children being raised by people who are as entrenched in their hateful beliefs as I am in my belief in equality.  I cannot bear the idea that there may be other, very different, conversations going on in other homes across the country.  I must carry on as I am, teaching my children and my students, in ways that promote love and kindness.  While I very much appreciate those who do more, this is all I can do in my little corner of the world so I will continue to do that.

* Regarding the Christian preschool.  One day my then 3 year-old son came out of school and as I buckled him into the car seat, he said, "Did you know that Mrs. Smith has a friend named Jesus?"  I asked, "Oh, yeah?  What else did she tell you about her friend?"  He said, "She has long hair.  That's all."  Kids are great.

Jailhouse Lawyer, Esq.

Jail•house law•yer (noun): a prisoner who has taught herself  law while serving time, is knowledgeable about technical legal matters, and gives legal advice, especially to fellow prisoners.

I am a do-er. When no one else will do something, I will. A confrontation? I guess I'll do it. A legal battle that a lot of people would take on if they could? I guess that's mine, too. I have so many whines, things I kept thinking I should write about here and now they're all jumbled up. Imma take on one at a time. Forgive my typos. I'm on my phone, in bed, because i can't sleep.

My medical insurance. 

I have taken a medication called Provigil since 1999 for idiopathic hypersomnia (aka primary hypersomnia). It is a non-amphetamine stimulant, not exciting to abuse like Adderall but sometimes abused by college students or professionals seeking to maximize their attention and wakefulness. Not me. I take it so that I won't fall asleep while driving. It is also secondarily used as an adjunct for the depression side of my bipolar disorder. Provigil is only labeled for narcolepsy, sleep apnea, shift work sleep disorder (and maybe MS related fatigue). However it is very commonly used off label for idiopathic hypersomnia (IH). CVS Caremark (CVS) requires prior authorization (PA) for any Provigil prescription. 

Two years ago, it took 2 months of fighting. The meds would cost me approximately $3,000 a month to pay out of pocket. In the ridiculous battle that had my arguably expert physicians (one of whom literally wrote the book on this stuff) having to defend their clinical actions to rural psychiatrists who admittedly never have seen a single sleep disorder, I was left without meds for a month, saving CVS tons (not the full $3K I'm sure, but it was a nice chunk of change, I'm sure). I finally won when it got to the external level with the reviewer saying that it was OF COURSE medically necessary and consistent with the standard of treatment. 

Last year when they told me I needed to get PA again, I called in a hysterical suicidal rage and told them that they were fucking with people's lives, that this is a psychiatric med and they know I have a history of psych hospitalizations. I told them that it was clear CVS chooses money over patient welfare and that they had blood on their hands. I asked them if I needed to come down there and show them my blood on my hands for them to see what they were doing to people.  This was at 4:15 pm. The next morning I got an automated call telling me that my request had been approved. What took 2 months 2 years ago took 1 day last year. 

This year it starts up and I find a law that says if my doctor is prescribing led for an off-label use and it is something that has been covered in the past, I simply need to provide 2 research articles that demonstrate the safety and efficacy (effectiveness) of the med for my condition. I researched laws like crazy and I researched drug studies line crazy.  I know all about the laws regarding coverage of medications and I know aaaaallllll about the Provigil research. Then I called to get a copy of my records so I could see how and why I was approved last year. I was told that they would "never" give me my records. 

HOLD UP. 

This is in complete violation of my civil rights as protected by HIPAA. Just as fiercely as HIPAA a protects me from having my healthcare information shared without my consent, it protects my right to have access to my healthcare records. So I started a battle with them over that, filing a complaint with the Office for Civil Rights. I researched the privacy laws, access to records laws, federal laws, state laws, penalties for violations, etc. Over the course of a month, I had numerous reps first tell me that my records were on the way and then ultimately that they were never coming because it was CVS's policy to not release records. Not only that but they knew I was waiting for those records to file my appeal this year and it's not crazy talk to say that it appears they may have been trying to stalk that so theat I am eventually left without meds for a bit again this year. Cases like mine almost without exception prevail once they get to the external review level but they count on people giving up before they reach that point. 

But back to the PA part of this. So I gatheted 9 articles. I wrote a 13 page cover letter that cited the laws that order them to give me my motherfucking medication simply because my doctor has ordered it (as long as I can find 2 articles to support the safety/efficacy). I attached approximately 50 pages of the actual journal articles. 

1) I also have OCD

2) I'm Italian-American

3) I'm a Scorpio

4) I'm smart

5) I'm resourceful 

6) I know how to research (thank you, dissertation)

A few days later I got the automated call that my request had been approved. I called to ask how long it was good for since it has always only been for 1 year at a time. The girl said, "It says here 'lifetime.'"

SUCCESS!!! SCREW YOU, BIG INSURANCE COMPANY!!

After a month of harassing them and making complaints to the Office for Civil Rights, I finally got as much of my records as I think they will ever admit as existing. I'm pretty certain there has to be more to my record but I can't prove it so this will have to do. 

This is really only part one of my jailhouse law education but it's 1:50 am, I suck at typing on my phone, and I'm hoping that im actually sleepy now.  I swear I'll fill in more soon. 

Jumping in with both fucking feet. *gulp*

Okay.

I'm doing it.

I'm writing a blog.

I have literally six other blog titles reserved, keeping my options open but I've yet to write anything.  For years people have been telling me that I should be writing something, anything.  So here I am.  I don't even understand what people write about in blogs but I suppose the title of this blog might give you an idea of where I'm going with this.  I write too much for facebook.  I've had some (*ahem* rude) people comment that I am too long-winded on facebook.  I have had many, many more people tell me that they appreciate and enjoy my ramblings.  So I'm bringing it here.  I am a woman, a feminist, a  social liberal (I have no interest in official politics, though I'm liberal in thinking there, too - so sue me), a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a neighbor, a psychologist, a university professor, and a person diagnosed with bipolar disorder (and OCD, depending on who you ask).  I am also intensely passionate, driven, and stubborn.  If you get on my wrong side, so help you Universe.  I am smart and I am persistent and I will win.  I have opinions and while I try to bite my tongue because one of my worst fears is offending/alienating others, if you get me going, you will not hear the end of it.  And I will never, EVER argue my case without citing research.  This this what you can expect to hear about:

1. My kids being funny.
2. My kids being jerks.*
3. Maybe my husband being a regular human but I get annoyed with regular humans because I have crazy ideas of how things should be (like knives should not be left hanging over the sink even if you think you might be making another sandwich).   He is the very, very best husband and father in the world.  But he is not perfect.  And he's a fucking saint for putting up with me and our aforementioned children.
4. My struggles with bipolar disorder.
5. My struggles with motherhood.*
6. My struggles with everything.*

Some of these struggles end up reading as being very very funny and sometimes they are not unlike a horrific train wreck from which you cannot look away. See that?  Perfect grammar.  Total Grammar snob.  However, unlike many grammar snobs who say that bad grammar or spelling annoys them, it cracks me the hell up.  I especially "love" the inappropriate use of quotation marks.  That, and the misuse of the word "literal." (I also realize that I use sentence fragments, I start sentences with the word "and" too frequently, and I am very uncomfortable with how many commas I use but I have just decided to let that stuff go).  I also still use two spaces at the end of sentences and I don't care.  I'm keeping it that way.  I don't care if it makes me look old.  I am old.  Speaking of grammar and age... Book nerd here.  I read young adult, new adult, and erotica, sometimes verging on outright smutty porn.  My kindle looks like it belongs to a teenager leading a double life.  I am downright obsessed with a certain YA trilogy but since I have no tattoos, I'm very hesitant to lose that virginity at all, let alone with a text tattoo on my foot that says "she has no idea.  the effect she can have."   My husband has an adorable two-inch dolphin tattoo on his shoulder, you know, where an anchor or a set of pistols or something should go?  It's blue.  It's the cutest.  He got it at 18 and he thinks my getting this tattoo would be the worst idea ever, second only to getting a cute dolphin on my shoulder.  Oh, wait.  That might actually work on someone like me.

*I am honest to a fault.  Not in an insulting way but in such a way that it sometimes makes others uncomfortable mostly because I think it makes it harder for them to ignore the part of themselves that feels the same way.  It leaves me vulnerable and open to attack but I will not/ cannot change.  I am that person that says what others are thinking.  Yes, my kids can be total jerks.  I said it.  TOTAL jerks.  And I think about running away at times because of it (that combined with that pesky mood instability thing I have going on).  The thing is this; I think quite a few people feel this way and they feel like assholes because they think no one else does.  So I say it.  I get private messages on fb from people telling me that they appreciate hearing that they are not the only ones.  So I keep saying it.

That said, I hope this is anonymous.  I don't want my kids' classmates' parents to see this and hold it against my kids.  I don't want my parents to read it.  As much as I strongly believe in speaking out in order to decrease the stigma of mental illness, that stigma is still strong.  Frankly, I worry about losing my faculty position in the psychology department, of all places, because people are afraid of bipolar disorder.  So I hide.  I do share but in dribs and drabs, doling it out based on the reactions I get to the information I'm dropping.  My real friends know all about this.  But school acquaintances do not.  I, unfortunately, need to keep it that way for my kids' sake.  It kills me that I am part of the problem because that violates one of my cardinal rules. 

But I digress, I want to keep this as anonymous as possible which is such a shame because it is my friends who have been hounding me to do this for at least 10 years.  Maybe they'll stumble on it.  Maybe they'll see through it.  Whatevs.  IDGAF.

That brings me to my last two points.  I love internet abbreviations.  They crack me up.  And I cuss like a motherfucking sailor.  Deal.  :-)

P.S. Another point (I often like about last points, like dance teachers with their "last time" bullshit), I hate proofreading.  Sorry.  I used to be able to get away with it but since facebook I've noticed that I can't write two sentences without some really stupid typos.  I think it's because I type faster than I think and my fingers type what they think I'm going to say instead of waiting to find out what I really want to say.  There's your warning and I can rest easier knowing you know that I know I probably have lots of typos.  Phew.

P.P.S.  See, I told you.  Never done.  I've rambled horribly.  I just have so much to say and don't know how to direct it yet.  I'll get better, I promise.  Stick with me.  I know I'm all over the place just like I know I use too many commas and start too many sentences with "and."