Excuse me, Brain? Can I have that one back with the caramel waterfall and the awesome party?

Here I am. There you all are. It’s just barely Saturday and already I wish my weekend was over. Wish that I could still sleep through my weekends. They are lonely and boring and filled with nonsense unless I have my kids here. Then they are silly and filled with whimsy and fun.

This utter lack of a social life is really getting to me. I feel like I am beating my head against a wall- back in middle school, with my small group of close friends who all have lives that involve doing things other than sitting with me when I feel like a loser. I HATE my brain. It’s utterly ridiculous, irrational, completely overrun with stupid emotions that I don’t like and more than anything, it’s broken.

The part of my mind that comes out when I sleep is the best. I dream beautiful, intricate, insanely euphoric movies of which I am the star. The most talented cinematographer and screenwriter may barely scrape the surface of what I see when I sleep. When I am asleep I see myself as I wish to be. Strong. Beautiful. Powerful. Filled with hope and supernatural abilities.

The other night I dreamed that I was doing every thing I have ever done in my life that has brought me pleasure, virtually simultaneously. Freud would probably have quite the field day with me.  I think what struck me the most, that is, what I miss the most about that dream, was that feeling like I was loved and a part of everything and everyone around me. And I could fly. That is always a part of my best dreams. Flying.

Sometimes in my flying dreams I have wings, sometimes a hang glider type apparatus, and sometimes, the best of times, it’s just me and the sky soaring upon high. Through the clouds and over the world I travel, landing here and there and being filled with such a feeling of wonder and peace, serenity and acceptance. It’s a feeling so elusive that I often wake up crying because I miss it so.

(This is not at all what I came on here to talk about.)

At any rate, lately has been a…synonym for struggle that is a much stronger word. Like in that book where is says we must “smash the delusion”- my life is like a giant tornado of shit covering everything in foul and disgusting funk.

Now I am exaggerating a lot.

I just don’t know what to do with myself. The to do list is never ending and ever growing. Yet working on it seems like an exercise in utter futility. Like trying to talk to someone who really doesn’t want to talk to you but they don’t want to be rude because, like you, they are a people pleaser. I prefer frank honesty to bullshit banter.

And maybe I am talking/thinking about someone or a particular situation or maybe I wish my To Do list would crumble itself up and bounce off of my head as it puts itself in the trash because it knows, as much as I do, that even if I do everything I am supposed to, and everything I should, life will still be completely fucked up.

Once upon a time I thought I would have a fulfilling life. From where I stand- well, sit, at the moment- I see a vast desert. Depression is a real asshole.

Nights like these I wish I had a nice warm body next to me, so that when I lay down a strong arm would wrap around me and lips would kiss the top of my head. A comforting voice would say, “I love you.” and I would drift off, with hope for tomorrow.

I have none of that. In my mind I pretend I know who that warm body belongs to, but I know about as much as what’s good for me as the average person knows how to successfully build and launch a rocket into space.

There’s a quiet part of my brain, it reminds me of a little card I was once given as a gift; it contained the following text:

        “…acceptance is the answer to all my problems today. When I am disturbed, it is because I find some person, place, thing or situation — some fact of my life — unacceptable to me, and I can find no serenity until I accept that person, place, thing or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment.
        “Nothing, absolutely nothing happens in God’s world by mistake….unless I accept life completely on life’s terms, I cannot be happy. I need to concentrate not so much on what needs to be changed in the world as on what needs to be changed in me and in my attitudes.” (Alcoholics Anonymous, pg 417, 4th Edition)

From what I have experienced, this is true. If I can find a way to let go of all of the nonsensical bs that constantly inundates my thoughts and just tow the line, smile, and help another person, I will feel better. Overall, the cosmic chain reaction from that is a positive one, and eventually things fall into place. Unfortunately I am impatient, selfish and self-centered. Each of these defects are parts of me that I work to lessen, however on nights like tonight, when I engage in exercises in futility and spend entirely too much thought and energy trying to get what I want- and ultimately fail miserably- I wish that I could just let it go. Permanently. Let the fantasy and (however warm, fuzzy and comforting) memories of times past go.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

All I can feel is the warmth of your arms and the scent of your skin. We are alone on the planet for just a moment. I feel safe and comfort unlike any I had for many years.

Back in the real world, sitting here alone, for whatever reason, despite vague and insincere flirtation, I can tell that to you  I am practically invisible, or worse- an annoyance. I don’t know for sure why. I have an idea, but without a conversation I can not confirm. And since my desire for conversation (or any of the fun other stuff I pretend will happen) it’s apparently not going to happen. Le sigh.

In this very moment, however, I would love a surprise visit, a simple explanation that doesn’t make me feel like a loser, and more than anything? Your arm around me as we lay next to one another. Silence is ok, but some sort of random existential discussion (or one about our ‘Happily Ever After’) would work for me.

Am I sounding pathetic? That is surely not my intention. I simply wished to share what a moment in my brain before I fall into sweet, sweet sleep is like.

    …

NOTE: I seem to have dozed off for a bit there. When I woke up I hit publish instead of draft so now this bad boy is out there on the interwebs for ever and ever and ever, amen. Whoopsie! Folks, that is why you don’t blog when you’re half asleep. It is  like drunk dialing without the awfully awkward calls and texts from every person you either told off or that you love the next day.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the read. I shall now cut open the beautiful pineapple that awaits my knife. Since I’m awake again. And hungry. And trying really hard not to eat ice cream.

 

My shot at altering the space/time continuum has been towed.

My shot at altering the space/time continuum has been towed.

 

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Stop the Stigma of Depression and Suicide

This.

Tranquila Mama

Lifeline-English-454x500 Numb, in shock and finally acceptance.  Like many mental health advocates, the news of Robin Williams hit close to home for me.  Suicide touched my life when I was in high school when a dear friend of mine committed suicide.  I tried to blog about this earlier, but my brain could not wrap itself around forming words for the many emotions that a suicide brings up in me.

I remember the feeling of helplessness.  How could someone who was so loved and so kind feel like she was all alone?  I knew in my heart that this struggle ran deeper than just normal teenage stress.  If I could go back in time, I would talk to my friend more.  I would help her pull down that facade of being the strong, smart and in charge one.  I would tell her what I now know to be true.  Asking for help is…

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The Most Obvious Co-opting of #BringBackOurGirls I’ve Seen Yet

Cultured State

Ramaa Mosley is attempting to co-opt the #BringBackOurGirls movement, and I am not here for any of this.

Yesterday, ABC News (of the United States) made up a profile on the newsmagazine Nightline of Ramaa Mosley, and essentially credited her with creating the #BringBackOurGirls hashtag—for those wondering, it refers to the 234 girls kidnapped by Boko Haram in Nigera weeks ago, that haven’t been found as of yet. And I have a problem: the claim just isn’t true.

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That post I mentioned…

I’m not entirely sure what this button does. So I’m pressing it. I hope it doesn’t make things explode.

alitlmonkeemaker

The other day I started writing. I was really proud of myself, because I had been thinking about writing for about two months and never sat down to do it. And then, I DID IT. It felt wonderful. So I figured I’d keep a good thing going and make some use of this nifty WordPress app on my phone, and keep writing. Also, I figured out how to post pictures within my text, and was feeling a bit savvy. I worked on that post for a good portion of the day.

At one point I realized that switching from computer to phone and back was ineffective and I had to redo a lot of editing. I decided I was way less savvy on this app than I thought, and decided to stick to my computer.

A little later I realized I was writing about the same thing I had just…

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Feelings aren’t facts but are they food?

*NOTE* I started writing this post almost two months ago- January 2nd. I would really like to tell you how well I am doing, having accepted the problem, I began working on making the change I need to stop bingeing. However, upon stumbling across this draft, whist procrastinating real work away, I recognized that I still am stuck here. So I share with you my struggles. Maybe this will help me get over the food thing and initiate use of real, and healthy coping skills. Or maybe you will cosign my nonsense and together we can cupcake it up until we can no longer move. *END NOTE*

Having re-read my last couple posts, I see that though not much has changed, everything is different. And not all for the better. As far as my cloth diapers, cloth trainers and anything else fluff related that’s all (unfortunately, sadly, and much to my dismay) had to be abandoned for reasons – at this point – beyond my control. It’s ok though, because when my girls come to visit (oh yea. BIG EFFIN DRAMA) my teeny tiny little sweet baby, Bean, wears big girl underpants. Even typing it I tear up. I don’t know how this growing up shit happened so fast, but I will reiterate that I DO NOT LIKE IT AT ALL.

I must move on. Find some form of acceptance and love and cherish each developmental stage as they come. Or else I will spend my whole life (and theirs) wishing they were babies and missing out on what wonderful young ladies they are growing up to be. Still, I miss the early snuggy baby days, and just keep hope alive that one day I will be in a position to procreate some more. I’m definitely not ready to not make more tiny humans right now, despite what that stupid ticking clock tells me.

I figured I oughta check in with ya’ll, it being a new year and all. I made no serious resolutions other than stop with the cookies only diet. Get back on the balanced diet wagon. Attempt to get myself feeling more normal. Well, like myself. I don’t know what normal even is anymore. Further, I vaguely remember having decided many moons ago that normal was not an appropriate state of being for me, ever. Blah. I figure that’s enough of a job in and of itself that any other improvements I make on myself or to improve the world around me will be a bonus. Also, that’s kinda like the foundation for productivity. Did you ever notice that when you eat well (meaning healthy, balanced and nutritive meals) you’re able to function better as a whole? This is my truth.

When I eat 40 oatmeal cookies in only a couple of days, after eating a pound brick of gingerbread dough and ice cream, candy, and any other sugary carb loaded crap I could squeeze down my gullet, my brain doesn’t work, my body feels horrible, all I want to do is sleep and when I am up all I want to do is yell at people. Its not the best way to operate.

I’ve been doing that horrendous-for-my-everything-thing where I eat my feelings. Any of you do that? A show of hands please… Ahh yes. Thank you. Knowing I am not alone makes me feel much better. There has been an unreal and unreasonable amount of turmoil, upset, shame, stress, horror–name the first five negative descriptive terms you can think of, they apply to my life. So here I am, crawling and clawing my way out of the REALLY deep hole I dug and then dove into, but it’s really hard to climb with all this junk food in my pockets, hands and while chewing. I need a different way to operate.

The whole problem started because I didn’t like feelings and decided I was entitled to not have them. Apparently my brain still feels that is valid, except it’s using sugary foods to numb me. The sugar numb sucks. There’s a way worse hangover to it and I gotta tell you, it’s everywhere. Calling me. Nerds ropes begging to be eating, fire balls with my name on it and a zillion donuts that yearn to get in my belly. And the cupcakes. I musn’t forget the ever-enticing cupcakes. We have become VERY close in the past year. OH, CUPCAKES. *sigh*

How do you stop eating your feelings without stopping eating? And what about when you’re having feelings after you’re already hungry, how do you know when you’ve finished with the nutritional eating and cross into emotional eating territory? Furthermore, can I (and if so, how do I) retrain my brain to stop eating my feelings and like, deal with them? They are HUUUUUUGGE feelings. The kind of feelings that lead to Lifetime Movies. What does one do?

I know some people do the opposite. They don’t eat, and or they exercise a lot. Which leads me to wonder- Can I do that? Exorcise with exercise? That seems to be the ideal idea-Crappy feelings begone. I banish thee to the nether-regions of the Stream of Consciousness (which, in case you’re wondering, flows into the River Denial) with every move I make!  PLEASE SOMEONE TELL ME HOW TO START DOING THIS.

All joking aside, pretty soon, I may be unrecognizable. I NEED to get a grip. This is my public cry for help. Pretend I’m wearing a ridiculous wig and calling people names on Twitter. I beg of you. Deliver me from this sugary hell.

 

OOOOH! Psych is on. Gotta go.

What to write, what to write

I seem to always feel compelled to write as I’m getting ready to run out the door. I do have somewhere to be. I have to pick up a friend, we have a place to be in 35 minutes, yet here I sit wanting to pour my heart about about something. I don’t know if I want to share my joy that I just spoke to my sweet babies or my extreme disgust and ire at the whole situation. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry that my life is actually like a Lifetime movie.

I really want to talk about American Horror Story. Do you guys want to talk about American Horror Story and how bummerific it is that it’s not on tonight?

I think that’s a good topic. By show of hands- likes? RT’s? Shares? Comments? Idk. Let me know. Let’s communally obsess over Coven. I love hyperanalyzing good tv and film.

I’ll be back in a few hours. Be ready. 🙂

Quickie

Just a quickie because I realized it has been about 6 months since I’ve even given ya’ll a nod and thought, “How fucking rude am I?”

So here’s my nod, I love you guys and promise to catch you up (prepare yourself, it’s a long one, I may have to sub-divide) as soon as I can. That may even be later tonight. In the meantime, check out this other blog, leave me some feedback. I’d appreciate it.

OTHER BLOG

Grazie.

Gotta run.

Dagnabit!

Here I had this great spot where I was gonna post all kinds of things regarding cloth diapers and all related paraphernalia and OTB pics of fluffy little babies.
Guess what. While life continued happening all over me, my tiny little one has grown (not so much in size, but in maturity) and started potty training herself.

 

W-W-W-WHAT????

 

Yup. At 13 months she knocked on the bathroom door and said “Mommy potty!” I put her on it, lo and behold, she peed right on it.

Now she’s almost 2. Not out of diapers yet, but steadily indicating that she needs to use the toilet and more often than not is correct. It amazes me.

 

So what does this mean for my love of all things fluffy, cute and tushie covering?? Am I going to have to quit cold turkey? What shall I do with my stash? And how will I channel all of the obsession for cloth diapers into something else???

 

Then it came to me. Cloth trainers. There are lots to try, and many are beyond adorable. *huge sigh of relief*  I have a little longer to indulge, thank goodness.  I’m really not ready to give it up yet.

 

Makin’ Moves

*HUUUUGE SIIIGHHH*

Finally sitting down. My mom and I have been steadily making progress for about 5 hours.
Ok that’s not true. My mom did awesome. I pouted for a while, had a temper tantrum, played with my phone, and wandered semi-aimlessly around my living room and picked apart my coat closet, replacing and tossing random stuff I haven’t been able to categorize for the past two moves.

Here I go. Moving again. Back home. With my mom. And my two little monkees. This should be interesting.

The good news is, I have a part time job, my mom is an absolute saint, and I finally feel like I’m getting out of this bad relationship-depression-anxiety-stagnation rut I’ve been in.
The bad news is, I’m still totally freaking out. My acceptance level is very low, I’m bitter and resentful and acting like a brat. I need to get over myself. It’s not about me anymore. I have two little angels who need me to be strong and loving and help make this a smooth transition. It’s hard enough on them that they don’t see their dad every day. It’s hardest on my older daughter. It breaks my heart. It makes me second guess myself.

In my heart I know this is right. I know we will be better for it. Everything will work out. I just need to keep reminding myself and being reminded by all of you wonderful people.

I’m taking my tired old butt to bed. Moving sucks.

*THUD!* (head hitting pillow)

Sweet Dreams?

I think I get the bizarre dream of the night award.
At one point I had been banished to Hell. It was very gory and I’m pretty sure Otto from Sons of Anarchy was repeatedly biting off his tongue.
Then, somehow, I escaped only to discover that demons or something had escaped and turned Tom Cruise into a zombie. (Which really, he probably is anyway, except he kept climbing in bed with me and trying to convince me he wasn’t a zombie.) Also, important to note, he was terrible in the sack.
So there I am, trying to fight off Sex Crazed Zombie Tom Cruise, and now I’m in a pool in a meadow full of flowers. Someone had de-zombified the zombies and Tom Cruise was back. I had a really pretty flowered dress on and great hair. We hopped on his Harley and drove off.
The end.

I wonder what Freud would have to say about this.

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