Simply Tricky

I’ve been having wild anxiety lately, to the point it’s almost crippling me. I find it hard to leave my house. My stomach feels as if a cobra is fighting with a … well, another cobra.

Sorry. I couldn’t really come up with anything else that is quite as horrifying to me. I HATE fucking snakes. Don’t even say snake, always say “fucking snake” around me. I’ve said before that the only snake I like is a snake that eats another snake, feels really guilty about it and commits Hari Kari. I don’t hold that god or satan created snakes. I think they fell here from some strange alien planet where the people freaked out and said “Jesusmurphy, those things are scary motherfuckers! Lets get rid of them!” and herded them all onto a meteor that landed here.

Even as I write this, my stomach is churning. Remember my craptastic adventure? Turns out, nothing was wrong. Nothing physical. I phoned the hubby to tell him the results. He said “That’s good, right?”.

No. It’s actually bad. Really bad. An illness would be simple. If this is emotionally related, mentally related, anxiety related, it becomes tricky.

Trickytricky.

With the anxiety comes the depression. With the depression comes the anxiety.

Trickytricky.

I know how it works. I also know that unless I buckle down and buckle up, do the work and tear the shit I’m carrying away from my psyche, I will get worse. That is unthinkable.

I’m ready. I can do this. It’s not going to be that hard.

Some people will have to be purged from my life. Others (my Soph, my Kathy, my Mary) I will hang onto for dear life. And my hubby. I’ve really never met a better man. He doesn’t pretend to understand. But he gets it. And he believes in me like no other.

I’ll share with you folks what I feel comfortable with as I go through this, in trust that just maybe some of it will help you or someone you love.

And don’t worry. I haven’t lost my sense of humour. I’ll still post my nonsensical bullshit to make you smile. I really love it when you laugh. It distracts the snakes. Well, that and rabbits.

I’m ready. I can do this. It’s not going to be that hard.

Be kind to each other.

p.s. As ever, I’m here if you need to talk. lgmoffat@gmail.com, twitter @gustyduck.

 

 

 

 

Oh So Messy

Someone used the search “PMS makes me a crazy bitch” and found my blog.

Oh, sister. I share your pain. This past week has been as bad as any since I started, which is 31 years ago next month. Did you read that? 31 fucking years ago!!!!!!

The inner workings of my ovaries and uterus have caused great grief since I was 12. I’m not just talking about personal grief. Oh no. That would be too easy. It is grief that has blanketed all who are in my life with confusion and fear. I have even had co-workers and bosses mark on their calendars when the insanity and stupidity of my pms would be arriving.

Shit! What’s the date? Oh, christ. She’s messy!” Yes folks, I even taught them my shorthand for pms. It’s messy. I’m messy. Emotionally and physically. Don’t look at me!!! Waaaahhhh…

It’s been so bad that I have had people in my life walk up to me a week before my period starts and hand me a new box of Pamparin, with the words “I know you don’t know when your cycle starts, Leanne, but I do. Your gonna need this in 2 days. Oh and go buy yourself some pads.”

Shit. you. not.

(As a quick aside, guys? You know the whole Brazilian wax thinga-ma-boober going on down there? Not for esthetic purposes. It’s because no matter how careful you are as a woman wearing a sanitary necessity, you will inevitably get a couple of pubes ripped out by sticky tape. And that fucking hurts.)(I can hear several million women on the cotton pony now, yelping “Sonofabitch! ImagettinaBraziliantomorrow!)

This time around has been incredibly horrendous. I feel like I’ve been attacked by a Period Ninja. Kidney punch – KEEYAH!!!! Tailbone kick – HYAAH!!!! Speed bag boobs –HUMBANAHUMBANAHUMABANA!!!!!

Now, last spring I got sick. of. it. And like a good little girl, I trotted myself of to the health food store and got on some stuff recommended to me by my dear friend Karen of www.karensomethingorother.com. I believe ‘effortless periods’ was one of the phrases on the bottle. Sounded good, as I am really lazy. I took those and some other stuff and the universe and god smiled on my crippled hormonal bitch self and all was good. Until a month ago. When I ran out. And the stupid sales girl in the stupid health store said stupidly “Oh this is just as good. It actually will help you detox ‘bad’ hormones.” Bad hormones? Huh. They really educate you fucking people don’t they?

Anyhoo, I took the stuff. For 3 weeks. And after last week and 3 ninja cramp days, today I got pissed off.

Like a crack whore in withdrawal, I went back to that store, looking for “the good stuff”. There was me, pale, shaking, sweating, with a migraine flirting at my temples and my gunt bloated up 2 sizes, looking for relief. As I read the bottles, a lady sidled up next to me. We silently read the bottles and then I saw what the missing ingredient was. “Green tea! Look this one has green tea extract! This one doesn’t. That’s why this shit doesn’t fucking work! Just like everything else in my life, get me?”

She didn’t even smile sympathetically. She just sort of nodded and moved away. Maybe I was loud. Probably. I certainly got through the checkout quickly.

Then I went shopping. Which I should NEVER do when I’m messy. I buy the most ridiculous things right before my period and a few days later when the fog has lifted, I find myself wondering why I bought red skin-tight jeans with red tassels running down the side. Yet today, I found the exact perfect thing.

Yes. Today, yes.

Small issue. My 7-year-old is reading phonetically. He stared at this for a long time, sounding out the cuss word. Later on he said, “I feel like she’s watching me. No matter where I move, her eyes follow me.”

They do, son. They do.

Not Invisible

This is not what I had intended to write. Not at all.

But, I keep getting notice on my stats (bloggy thing) of people finding my blog using the search term, “Am I invisible”. And my friends, every stinking time I read that, my heart just breaks a bit. So, here goes.

No. You are not invisible. You might feel like that from time to time, or maybe you’re feeling it a lot. But trust me. You are not.

Because I see you. I noticed you. Right away. I know you are here. And believe or not, I care that you are here.

You may not believe this, but someone loves you. Likely a few people. Do you think for one second that your presence isn’t noticed by them? Or your absence? I’ll bet in your absence, they miss you. You just don’t notice.

Maybe the world feels against you, no one hears you calling out in your pain. Trust me. That’s a lie. Your brain is very good at lying to you when you are in pain. Don’t believe it.

Not invisible. 

Tell yourself that everyday. Yell it if you have to.

We, all people, are honoured to have you here. We don’t want you anywhere else.

I know sometimes it’s just so hard to get up in the morning and you wonder to yourself ,”Why, why, why do I feel so alone?”

I’ve been there. Mama duck has had her moments, to be sure.

Not invisible.

Even the simple matter of reaching out to your computer renders you visible. If you’ve got no one else to talk to, talk there. Look until you find it. You will.

I see you. And you can do it, Honey.

Hold fast. Hold fast.

This life is beautiful, if you let it be. You can do it, Honey.

This life is easy. And you are not invisible.

If you need me, you know where I am.

I see you.

Not invisible.

The Hood

I have struggled with clinical depression most of my life. Who knows why and at this point, who cares? It’s just  a part of me that I live with. I have done all the things you are supposed to; medication, meditation,therapy,acupuncture. It’s been a long haul.

But sometimes the blackness creeps up and brings with it the veritable smorgasbord of  symptoms that can accompany depression. OCD, anxiety, all that shit. Crippling feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. Trust me, it is quite the little party in my head.

Having son has helped. He makes me get out of bed and get shiny about life. Because the last fucking thing I want in the world is for him to think he is responsible for ANY of this. He brightens my day just through his sheer joy of being alive. Little kids are great for that. They skip when they should walk, they sing about anything. They give hugs, dance and wrestle just for the feeling of moving. It is really wonderful. So is he.

But sometimes all I feel is failure. And you know what? I am not alone. 

I think of the mothers out there who had to set their children loose from the nest too early, just so they could be happy and learn to fly. The mothers of children who have special needs and different abilities, the ones that want to weep at the end of the day, having watched their baby struggle with the simple. The mothers whose children are sick, fragile or just goddamn difficult.

And us mothers? We’re hard-wired to wear every unhappiness our children have. We wear it tenfold. Can you see it? Mine looks like a shoddy second-hand suit.

Motherhood is the Hood. It’s scary, confusing, at times downright violent. You have to have much courage to enter.

If you’re not in the ‘hood, that’s okay. You will be one day, and there is a whole lot of us battle-scarred mothers out there to let you know it’ll be alright.

If you are in the ‘hood, my sisters, don’t let the blackness swallow you. The good, joyous stuff will always out weigh the bad. They will be fine in spite of and because of us.

 And go take off that shitty looking suit!

(To the dudes: I can’t speak for you, obviously, but you’ll be okay too! Now go kiss your mom!)

p.s. More on depression later. You are not the only one. And please don’t take this as a message to have a kid to cure your depression. It doesn’t. And that would be really fucked up.