My head hurts. It is full of Blog Posts That Might Have Been, had I actually bothered to sit down and write them out. I just haven’t been able to unjumble anything from the mishmash of ideas tangled up with all the other flotsam and jetsam in my brain. There’s so much stuff up there that it’s been incapacitating.
I have been in a weird place lately. The place I’ve been in is rather murky and mucky. It is full of negative emotion mixed with a little dash of mania now and again. It is confusing, mentally exhausting, emotionally draining, and – sometimes – downright debilitating. I don’t like this place very much. I don’t like that I come back to this place often, and often land here without warning. No sir. I don’t like it at all.
Two of my friends are also in icky places. They are dealing with their icky places via medication. This is a sticky wicket that puts me in another weird place. On the one hand, loyalty to said friends and genuine admiration for anyone who takes her problems by the horns make me applaud both of these friends for their efforts to grapple with their respective issues. (It also makes me write really, really long sentences.) On the other hand, I am a rather holistic person who shies away from medications. I generally try fixing the initial problem instead.
Trouble is, what’s the initial problem?
I also feel, after hearing that, not one, but two of my dear friends are getting help for their own troubles, that I would be jumping on a diagnostic bandwagon. Me, too! Over here! Over here!! I have emotional problems, too! Hey, where’s my attention? Where’s MY therapy??! Yuck. That would be rather icky in and of itself.
I might attribute some of this icky-place syndrome I’m experiencing to postpartum issues, but my youngest is now 22 months. It’s probably not PPD, although anything is possible. However, I was a little wacky before having children, so my bet is that it’s something else entirely.
It’s worth noting that having children accentuates your weaknesses and flaws. And if you don’t notice it, they will notice it for you, before they’re 12. Or even before they’re 4.
Anyway, back to me, because, let’s face it, blogs are all about their writers, no matter what the tagline says.
So. Where were me? I mean, we? Me. Me-me-me-meeeeeeee. Oh, yes. Self-therapy. Right. Ahem. Here is my diagnosis: If I don’t like the way I am thinking, then logic would dictate that I should think some other way. Right? Right. So, I’ve been trying to make myself think differently about things to see if that helps things somewhat.
The first thing I am trying is to change, of all my bad thinking, is my self-sabotaging thoughts. For example: I have this very negative self-image of my physical self. (My brain is awesome. Well, my brain was awesome before pregnancy hormones began macerating it to fuzzy bits. Now, I have trouble remembering my own name, let alone things like what Mark Twain’s real name was. But the brain is still better than most people’s, if you ask me.) But, while my brain is moderately fantastic, my appearance is something I’ve never been comfortable with at any age. I’m not just talking about my body, but the whole shebang- hair, skin, nails, how I stand, where my hands are when I’m talking to someone, etc. Coincidentally, I never got into clothes, or makeup, or doing my hair, or any of that stuff. And this is part of a downward spiral of self-loathing. I don’t like the way I look, so I don’t do anything with the way I look, so then I look even worse, and then I really don’t like the way I look, etc., etc., etc. Bad stuff. Icky places. Solution? I may not be completely comfortable with the way I look, but I can at least do a little bit here and there to keep from looking awful. I’m forcing myself to do things like put a little mascara on in the morning, or – gasp! – brush my hair instead of just piling it on my head with a clip. I’m allowing myself to consider clothes with bright colors instead of always wearing black or grey. It’s actually helping, somewhat. I do feel a tad bit more vibrant. It’s helping, if only just slightly.
So, today is the day to really start. I have somewhere to be in an hour, and need to get ready. Normally, I would sit here at the computer and waste 43 minutes of that hour before getting my kids ready, leaving myself exactly one and one-half minute to dress and get out the door. (One cannot brush hair or apply makeup in one and one-half minutes.) Instead, today, while the kids are still drowsy and cooperative, I’m going to spend just five minutes in the mirror with my dusty makeup case and a hairbrush, and an extra three in my closet, picking out something that is moderately more interesting than jeans-&-bulky-sweater. Maybe a little pride in my appearance, icky as it might be inside my head, will help improve my outlook on other things, as well.
And then, if that doesn’t work, there’s always Wellbutrin.