I'm not myself anymore, yet I am unlike any version of "me" that I have ever come across before. I have always ebbed and flowed through stages of happiness and depression in various stages of my life, but this weird SyFy version of myself where I lie on the couch watching endless Netflix series, drinking way too much wine, missing endless weeks of work, closing out my family and loved ones, and shutting down the mental capacity to deal with any of it, is something I have never encountered before. They say admitting that you have a problem is the first step to finding a solution. I have admitted that I have a problem before, only for the problem to get worse. Mostly because I was only admitting it to get the people around me to leave me the fuck alone so I could get on with the business of ignoring life. But here I am, admitting my problem to the world so it can no longer be ignored, and I am scared to death. I would pretty much rather stab myself in the eyeballs with sewing needles while listening to the Backstreet Boys on repeat in a room full of clowns. That is how ready I am to get on with the business of living again.
So, here you go world. I am a fucking mess.
I don't know when or why I disappeared, or why I am so afraid of feelings, and reality, and being happy. I have been doing a lot of self reflection (in between all of the self-medicating), and there are so many things that swirl in this wine filled, pill fogged brain of mine. Here are some realistic, selfish and probably deluded theories:
Once the kids got older and I didn't have a reason to run around and have other people to care for, I stopped caring for myself.
Once I was properly diagnosed with lupus, and things started hurting more, starting becoming more real, and I couldn't just "do" what I wanted to do all the time, reality became too much and I checked out of it earlier than I needed to.
In light of certain life events over the last year, the depression that I have kept so closely to the vest, has leaked out like a shitty diaper and stinks up the air around me until neither I, nor the people around can breathe anymore.
My fear of getting fat again has in turn actually had this strange obsessive hold over me that has adversely actually allowed me to gain weight which has then plummeted my already blossoming depression into a deeper hole of despair that just circle jerks itself into a spiral of unending insanity.
Wine is good.
Excuses aside, I have been an asshole. A weak, whiny, excuse hurdling asshole too afraid to take on her own demons, her own mortality and her own life. Aside from cancelling my Netflix subscription for awhile, avoiding the liquor store, and getting my ass off the couch once in awhile, I don't know where to begin when it comes to getting myself back. Maybe I will never be who I was again. Maybe I can be better. I guess the only way I can find out is to take the first gut wrenching step forward.
Normally, I am NOT good at keeping secrets. I get super excited about the idea of keeping them and seeing the look on people's faces when they are revealed, but then I see that person and I just want to tell them instantly. I look like the cat that ate the canary with my big stupid grin and my face is a dead giveaway.
But with the help of one of my very best friends, I finally did it. I kept a secret from my sister for months. And it SUCKED. It was harder than trying to strap your baby to your chest with one of those granola mom loving baby harnesses that have no buckles and the only way to get your child from face planting to the ground is by knowing origami and having a roll of duct tape. Yeah, it was that kind of hard.
For months, we texted and called and Amazon Prime ordered and Etsy'd our asses off planning for this party. It was going to the be the best fake bridal shower planning, Surprise 40th Birthday Party anyone had ever pulled out of their asses. It was complete with gold glitter cat decorations for my cat loving sister, pink and gold glitter e'rthing, booze that would rival a Jay-Z backstage after party and enough food to put you into Weight Watchers meetings for a year.
But when her car pulled up and everyone got into position, the tension was palpable. I could literally feel the heartbeat of every person there pounding in my chest. I don't think I remembered to breathe for a solid five minutes. As she came up the side of the house, our friend Melissa signaled for her son to start playing "Go shorty, it's your birthday", we all jumped out and yelled SURPRISE, she had an aneurysm and everyone went home.
Kidding.
She was carrying arms full of baskets for the shower she was supposed to be planning, along with wine and other shower-like goodies that she almost threw on the ground, and I am pretty sure I saw a trickle of pee come down her leg when we scared her half to death and she instantly started crying. Mission accomplished. I believe her exact words as she rounded the corner were "What the hell is wrong with all of you? That is terrible!" Aw, sweeter words have never been spoken 💖
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I have to say, I haven't seen my sister smile so big, or be as happy as I had seen her that night in a long time. She was glowing, she was dancing, she was hugging, she was being hugged, she was genuinely realizing just how far the people that love her would go to let her know how incredibly special and important she is to them.
And just when she thought it just couldn't possibly get any better than that she started opening up a gift that was signed from a group of us who had donated towards it and came in eight sections. Each piece - things like sunscreen, maracas, a margarita glass with tequila, a Daddy Daycare DVD, a tank top that said This Senorita Needs a Margarita, a calendar and finally - a signed card - told her that she has an all expense paid trip girls trip to Mexico next spring!
BOOM! NAILED IT! As much as we looked forward to it, and enjoyed it, I had never been so happy for something to be over. Surprise parties are stressful and I am glad she doesn't turn 50 for another 10 years.
Also, I have a sprained wrist. Long story short, gravity and alcohol (and walls) are not my friend and if I want to sit on the ground after I fall I am pretty intent on doing just that, until I'm not, at which point I will sprint into the house, and into a wall. Good times, good times.
I am available for your Sweet 16's, Quinceanera's, Dirty 30's, Lordy Lordy 40's and Bachelorette Parties for a reasonable fee. Just don't let me drink Fireball on an empty stomach. You've been warned.
So, what's the deal with "thigh gaps"? I mean, I don't think I ever had one. Not even as an infant. Or a fetus. When I was a kid that was just never a thing. Girls didn't aspire to be anorexics or Victoria Secret models. We aspired to have enough Rave hairspray to get us through a weekend of rollerskating and drinking beer on the railroad tracks. We wanted to make sure that we we had enough safety pins for our bleached out jeans and enough batteries for our walkmans. I have always had stumpy limbs and I ain't mad about it because it's not only true that "thick thighs save lives", they also save cell phones from falling in the toilet when you're playing Candy Crush in the morning. They save that last crispy piece of pepperoni from falling on the floor. They bounce babies which create giggles, which is the best sound in the whole world. And they look hella good in a pair of skinny jeans. We, as women, are not meant to look like the 12 year old versions of ourselves. We are meant to look like humans who have birthed other humans. Like women who have loved and lost, and drank dranks, and laughed and cried and lived a thousand lifetimes. So all you skinny bitches eating air and drinking your flat tummy teas for the sake of a "thigh gap", have at it. I will keep saving lives with these thick thighs, and the occasional cell phone.
Another phrase that cracks me is being someone's "ride or die". Like, where are we riding and why do we have to die? It seems really aggressive and extreme. Can I just be someone's "cruise and live"? I mean in the end, I'll still be there for you, and in the meantime we can eat pizza and drink whiskey and take the back roads home, and when we get home we can watch some Netflix and fall asleep on the couch and no one has to give up their life. I say that sounds way better than riding and dying.
I feel like the older I get, the older I realize I am. I am always using the phrase "when I was a kid", or "kids these days". The next thing you know I will be telling my kids I had to walk to school in the snow with no shoes, uphill, both ways while carrying my siblings on my back. Speaking of my back...my poor aching back....
Ok, so it's been a hot minute....or a long year since I have last posted. To be honest, although I have a lot to say, I haven't had the words in me to say them. I'm not even the same person I was last year, or even last month or last week for that matter, so it's hard to know where to begin when starting over. They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. So here I am, taking that first step - or as it were that initial thud back into real life. Because the place where I have been stuck - in my head, on my couch, in Season 5 of Pretty Little Liars, in my sweatpants - isn't the place I want to be anymore. It isn't the place I can afford to be anymore. My mental health, my marriage, my family, and the button on every pair of pants I own counts on me becoming a better version of who I currently am. And I think the reason I am ready to become whoever she is, is because I have stopped comparing myself to everyone else, and to the person I once was, and realized that the only real competition I have is with myself.
So here I stand, a little more wrinkled around the edges, a little harder, a little heavier around the middle, and a little too knowledgeable about four teenage girls on the run from other teenagers without parents and with unlimited resources and hacking skills.
So, today it's raining, and the air is cool (which means my hair is cooperating and I don't look like a human troll doll), and my eyebrows are extremely "on fleek" for the second day in a row, and I am sitting here with my pants unbuttoned (at work - oh please, like you've never done it), and I have made the decision to let Hanna, Spencer, Aria, Emily and Alison figure out who "A" is for themselves for awhile while I get back to the art of yoga, being less of an oompaloompa and reclaiming my life. After all, being lapped in the mall by a 65 year old woman with pink hair, wearing Lululemon's and rocking out to 21 Pilot's is all the shame this 42 year needs, thank you very much.
I refuse to go back to the me from 7 years ago, regardless of how "cute" or "sexy" people still tell me I was. Being 317 pounds and barely squeezing into a size 26 jeans, and asking for seatbelt extenders on airplanes is not the life I will ever return to. I may never be able to run again, but that won't stop me from sweating it out and building up some bangin' biceps in downward dog, or lapping the old lazy me by walking a few miles after work.
Watch out world, I'm back and I'm taking no prisoners. Unless those prisoners are a size 10 peep-toe booties with a 5" heel in nude suede. Then, you can consider me -A. And if you don't get that reference after reading this, we can't be friends.
