Ever had a panic attack?
Well, not to boast, but I've had LOADS of them. Hundreds, probably.
I know. I've shouldn't have gone and made you so jealous this early in the post, especially since this is supposed to be an apology of sorts. But as I'm already on this humble-brag train, I'd like to point out that my panic attacks are as fierce as Beyonce's dance moves. When anxiety hits me, I'm down for the count, huddled in a ball, so focused on forcing myself to breath that I don't even mind that my cats are lapping at my leaking tears.
Normally I can be all like, "Welp, this sucks, but the cats' tongues are rough, so I technically just got a free facial, and the fetal position is basically child's pose, so I technically just did yoga. So, yeah, I've got my shit together."
And if my contrived optimism fails me... well, there's a reason that if I were forced to needle point something on a pillow, it would be, "And God said, 'Let there be Xanax,' and it was good."
But sometimes no amount of good thoughts and/or good meds can make me stop shaking. Can make me stop crying. Can make me get out of bed. Can make me stop wishing and praying that today be the day I stop being a failure. That I stop being a disappointment. That I stop being the flawed mess that has come to define my perception of "me."
My point is: that is why I haven't blogged lately, folks. Anxiety won for what seemed like ages, and I just couldn't even (insert anything of import here, including writing for y'all). Oh, and then my apartment flooded, and I didn't have access to my computer for FOREVER.
No, really, water like whoa:
(This is my home after the ceiling caved in when my upstairs neighbor "fixed" her pipe. It's all good now, and all my stuff is safe, except for one area rug my husband HATED, which seems a bit too convenient, so of course I'm suspicious that he caused all this, but in the end, it's cool, because the apartment company felt so bad about the inconvenience that they threw money at us, and now I have adequate funds to secure an even BIGGER rug that my husband will DESPISE.)
So, I was already panicked (for reasons I will share soon), and then Floodageddon happened. And when everything got put back together and after I had swallowed enough pills and spilled enough tears to finally be like, "I should write again," I discovered "Making a Murderer." For real, y'all. Have you SEEN that shit?
Anyway... the reason I panicked and fell into a funk: There's the long story, which I'm not going to subject you to, and then there's the short story, which is that I encountered a setback in November in my "fertility journey," which is apparently what all the cool kids are calling their efforts to get knocked up. And at the same time I got the bad baby news, I talked to my younger sister, Carrie (who just had her fourth child in as many years.) During our conversation, she mentioned that the legal guardians she and her husband had chosen for their children weren't looking so hot anymore.
I jokingly-but-not-really-jokingly said that I'd be happy to be the children's guardian, because I'd parent like a goddamn rock star, and she said she wanted someone who shared their beliefs to raise their children. To paraphrase, I'm not Christian enough.
Y'all, I want to be exceptionally clear: I do not begrudge my sister the right to choose whoever the hell she wants to be the (potential) future parents of her children. Since I'm not a parent, I literally can't imagine how absurd it is to face that kind of decision. For shit's sake, I still haven't determined who would be worthy to be appointed the guardian of my cats if something were to happen to me and Chris. And they're just cats.
Okay, I can't fucking believe I typed that last sentence. Of course they're not just cats. They're the living, breathing embodiments of my heart. Who would love them enough to get them new bow ties for each holiday? Would anybody understand that Mycroft likes the hard treats while Khaleesi prefers nibbles of cheese and dole out munchies accordingly? Would they continue the tradition of themed couples costumes each Halloween?
(In case you doubted me, here are the kitties' 2015 Halloween costumes, where Khaleesi is a sailor and Mycroft is a mermaid. He has a mermaid tail, too, but you can't see it from this angle. Sorry about that.)
Again, y'all, to my point: These are cats. My sister's kids are humans. Also, to be fair, I'm the one who asked her why I couldn't be the guardian. (Although, I'd argue it might not be the best idea to tell your infertile sister that she wouldn't be the most awesome parent ever. Lie a little, even if it's not entirely the Christian thing to do.)
Logically I knew that my sister's choice doesn't mean that she doesn't love me or that she thinks I don't love her children. But emotionally, it was one whopper of a sucker punch to my already bruised soul. I made it through the conversation, and then I collapsed in a broken heap.
And I cried. And I cried. And I cried some more.
And the cats licked my tears. And they licked my tears. And they licked my tears some more. And because I recognize the fact that my precious furbabies might be the only babies I get in this life, I praised them for being so sweet and promised them Bernie Sanders bow ties for President's Day. But no amount of cat-licks could convince me that being deemed an unfit guardian didn't translate into me being an unfit human.
Was I being dramatic? Sure, but those were my feelings, and you can't stop feeling the feels just because they trend toward the hyperbolic. Depression and anxiety are sneaky bastards, and they only confirm the worst things you fear about yourself.
So, while I was feeling like a gigantic blob of human-shaped suckage, no, I didn't feel like blogging. Because who wants to read something from a gigantic blob of human-shaped suckage? Not me. That's why I don't read my blog. I just write it. That is, I write it when I'm not otherwise occupied as a gigantic blob of human-shaped suckage.
Now, this blog is not me looking for you to be all like, "Your sister is a bitch," or "You are neither gigantic or suckage of any shape." Seriously, y'all, my sister and I are cool, and I know that there is more to me than the depths of despair. Rather, this post is me saying, "Hey, sometimes I face problems that I can't immediately overcome, and these past few months was one of those times."
But I'm back now, and I'm totally going to inundate the shit out of you with blog posts about how my sister-in-law is trying to seduce her priest, how all I want for Valentine's Day is a labiaplasty, how I literally broke my ass saving my nephew's life, and how my husband got so damn excited about chicken nuggets that he threw up from joy.
So, you know, there's that to anticipate.
Let's do this year, y'all!
True story: Life would be super swell if we all embraced our OMG side instead of living a Facebook-friendly existence. So, let it out. How has depression/anxiety fucked with your bliss? What's the worst thing your sister has said to you? What's the best pet costume you've ever seen? Feel free to disclose details. You're safe here.