Chaos Digitized

I realize that this private, anonymous blog should be the perfect place for me to be able to say just about anything I have on my chest, but I'm worried that H will find it somehow and use it against me. Even spending time running errands is being used against me, so imagine if he were to find out something really juicy - like me spending time *gasp* writing on my book. Or worse, meeting with people that might give me attention, a laugh, a smile, and constructive criticism on my book.  I asked for a date. Suggested something he might like for after a 15 minute appointment to get my new piercing. No dice. Then he asked why I didn't go out and get my new piercing anyway. It's not something I want to do alone. But he went to get his first tattoo alone, he says. It's not the same. I'm not you.  He tells me to ask my flakey friend to go with me... she won't cancel if it's a piercing and then he says lecherously that maybe SHE'LL get something pierced too. ...

I'm also not ok. My med levels aren't quite where they need to be.  Or maybe my life just stinks like that. If I'm all of those things, my partner should see it and take advantage of it. Instead of being so into the damn commercials during the football game that he doesn't even glance at my amazing rack when I'm changing. I'm finding little joys and comforts where I can. Stolen moments between work and home. Lunch time siestas at the river. Weekend mornings with my novel.  Sitting in the same room with my family - them watching inane bullshit while I write Хайку. It's the little things. Too much of my life is the inane overarching drama. So, new year, new me. No more drama. I'm standing up for myself.  Maybe the new year will find me being more outgoing, bettering myself, and just enjoying the little things in life when they come. Screw the drama. Now somebody help me find a good vibrator because my lack of erm...activity lately has caused...

My poem includes a reference to a new group I've joined and ... worse... a reference to making eyes at the first person that greeted me. Talking about flirting.  And (quite obviously) mistaking his friendliness for flirting or interest. And now I have a dilemma on my hands. Do I share the poem in the group?  I'm back to being the nerdy teenager in English class sharing a poem about how I'm in lurve with the captain of the football team because he helped me pick up my books (that his girlfriend knocked out of my arms, vicious bitch that she is) and we locked eyes over the chemistry book. Yeah, that never happened to me because I never fell for that kind of guy in school... but you get my point. I'm sure I could edit that part out - but that actually adds to the feeling of the poem. I could just keep it to myself too... Probably should. But dang,  it's good. 

I'm quite tempted to give up on life as I see it. Sounds suicidal,  I know,  but please don't go off and call the people with the nifty strappy jackets. I'm not suicidal. I'm depressed, but it's more feeling like I've wasted so much of my life rather than wanting to curtail it. I want to be happy. I want to come home and be excited to be around the people who are there. I want to be loved... or at least not loathed by the person who shares my bed. I've had a couple of friends offer to help paint (one of which promptly took back the offer, stating that painting is best outsourced) my new bedroom. I'm planning on hitting up target for the things I need to make my bedroom my own this weekend. Hopefully. My stepson's mom thinks that I'm overreacting. But everyone else in my life thinks that I underreacted upon hearing the news that I was going to have a stepson. So I guess it's a wash. So here's to the next big adventure C.D.

I miss the man I fell in love with.  The one who opened doors for me and would fall asleep while I was talking to him and who would put the goddamn toilet seat down. The one who actually used to like me. This guy who replaced him is kind of an asshole. Does any guy ever stay in that new love mode of taking care of the woman in his life? I'm talking about simple stuff... walking between his girl and traffic. Walking beside his girl. Opening doors. Putting the toilet seat down. Taking your girl out on a date. Holding hands. Watching movies that make your girl happy just so you can see her smile. Closing the goddamn bathroom door so I don't have to smell the rancid effect that your mother's cooking has on your bowels??? Seriously bro, if it has to do with the toilet, please retain some mystery. I want the sort of love that you used to feel for me-before you stuck your head up your ass and started looking for more sex (rather than asking for more sex). Coz guess wha...

It's Florida,  so of course the actual weather is moderate and beautiful...or rainy. Whichever. We don't really get chilly until January or February.  But I'm not talking about the actual weather. Things are chilly between me and H. He's not even trying. So I'm not either. I've been trying for the last few years and not really getting any response to him. But I want to talk about good chills.  Those chills you get starting at the back of your neck that travel all over you when you find something really ridiculously pleasurable. I have had chills recently and will likely have them again very soon. I get chills every single time I hear the national anthem. Other songs do it to me - normally tight harmonies - but nothing gets me every time, every artist (key word, artist -don't get me started on Rosanne Barr,  grrrrrr), except the national anthem*. There. I've said it. No shame. So obviously the best part of sporting events for me is the nation...

Things are deteriorating at home.  I'm sure it's my fault for wanting more than I've ever taken for myself. I want time to do what I love.  Nope, you get enough time between work and the commute... grumble grumble growl. But you have football and a kid you had outside of the marriage.  I've had the football tickets since before I met you... grumble grumble growl. But the kid? I've said I'm sorry for that in one of the TWO counseling appointments I went to... grumble grumble growl. Speaking of counseling?  I've told you I don't like going there because it's too one- sided... grumble grumble growl. So one sided in my favor is a no go,  but one sided in yours is perfectly cool?  (No response)  grumble grumble growl.  I'm tired. I never get sleep... grumble grumble growl. I need time alone for a little while. I had to keep the little guy during my normal nap time... grumble grumble growl. I'm done. I wanna go home. I miss being a...

 He was tall, dark, kind of thick and muscular... big strong rough craftsman's hands, deep rich voice,  thick southern accent. *swoon* He looked about 10-15 years past being a carpenter from a romance novel. And he,  without fail,  called me by a pet name... Darlin', Sugar, Sweetheart. He made me melt every blame time he walked into the office,  called,  or texted me (first client I EVER gave my cell number) .  I had a MAJOR crush on him and the lady that was an admin there and who had known the client for years and years said that he lit up around me and had never been like that before (seriously though,  how many people light up when they get their taxes done? ).  Co-worker admin would always say that he had as major crush on me. There was one time when I actually considered acting on it.  The stage was set.  I needed an estimate on some water damage in my home.  I was all alone at home.  He drives up and... the god...

I'm not writing like I should.  I'm making no progress. Every time I go to work on my writing, I get called away. I have to help with schoolwork.  I have to do everything. I'm  already treated like a dick for working and driving. And now I'm treated like a dick for doing anything for myself. I don't need this. I need to be supported in my goals. I need to be respected. I need to be treated like I'm not the worst person alive for the mere fact of my existence. Anyone want to go on a cruise with me? I won't bite (unless you ask me nicely), I sing in the shower (really well too!), and I don't hog the covers. Seriously, who's down? (Echo echo echoooo) Nobody? Fine... y'all be that way C.D.

 My novel for NANOWRIMO begins with a feverish search for happiness. The happiness is nowhere to be found. My character (me) is unable to feel anything at all. She resorts to self-harm as a way to feel anything. But how far off is that from any other day in my life when you really look at it? I stay in a marriage where I'm obviously not loved. I am loyal to employers to a fault. I even tried to spend time with my deadbeat dad long after most kids (including my siblings)  would have given up. Who is the patron saint of lost causes? That really strikes a chord with me. When my best friend was dying of cancer, struggling with a life-changing diagnosis for her older boy and just fed up with life in general, I told her that if she was fishing for a break, she's using the wrong bait. So is that my problem? Am I using the wrong bait?* I'm not looking for someone else to being me happiness.  That's my job.  It'd be awesome to share happiness. Been trying that for...

Lately I've had trouble sleeping. So imagine my shock when I caught myself dozing off and - wait a second - tripped over my own feet lying on the couch and woke myself, just before the dream faceplant  would have surely broken my perfect dream nose. I did get to sleep once I made it to the bedroom.  And when I did, I was in a large ballroom with hundreds of other people. Coupled off... there were all sorts of different couples there, a beautifully dressed lesbian couple (white western suit,  short purple hair on one and a long prairie style dress on her partner) stood out, literally,  because the majority of the dancers were dancing in the round (synchronized, choreographed steps) ,  but they were dancing their own, enjoying each other's company and the music. And I was dancing too.  Slow two step,  same as the other special couple, following my partner's lead. I can't be certain of who it might be leading me,  but he felt strong,  confid...

I've noticed that I form closer attachments and feel more loved when someone shares things with me that they think I'd enjoy (and bonus points if they're right). Ultimate love is a book recommendation. I formed a HUGE crush on a former coworker when he recommended Ready Player One (and brought it in for me to borrow) and discussed it with me. It didn't hurt that he has a smile that lights up his whole face and has those cute little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. I digress... So, if you can tell me something like "I read this book and it sounded like something you'd enjoy," it gives me an insight as to what you think of me. It gives me a connection to you.  And if I do truly love the book, it makes me love you a little too. Thoughtful gifts are also wonderful. Just that you're thinking of me makes all the difference in the world. You see cool socks that you think I'd love and pick them up?* Sweet! You snap a photo of a sunflower field bec...

I am writing a novel. My blog may suffer for it, but when it comes down to it, I feel like it will be therapeutic. I'm doing the things I need to do to make myself happy. I'm becoming more outgoing. Trying to anyway. I spoke to a stranger in the car dealership the other day. Probably terrified him with just how forward I was.  But I  thought he was kinda (really) cute (seriously, what is it about redheads that makes me all giddy?!?) and he might do my novel cover for me! Squee! The piece he was working on was fabulous and I think that style would fit my theme perfectly. I know this isn't my best writing - my novel is for sure getting that treatment. My words are emotionally charged.  I'm not making the progress I'd like to, but part of that is that I'm getting more snuggles and love from the most awesome little dude in the world.  And I'm living! Time with family, time with just my guy, quality time. And that makes all the difference in the world. So I...

It's depressing how much I associate Halloween with...him. I love the holiday.  Spiders and black lace and kitty cat ears and cute little kids walking around in cute little costumes. And now it's HIS son walking around in a cute little costume. His. Not mine. When we first started dating, we went to the mall to watch the little kids in their costumes on Halloween. It's how we really started to know we were on the same page as to wanting kids and a family. And that became the tradition ... to the mall to ooh and ahh over the cute kids in cute costumes. And then it became OUR kids in those costumes. And now it's not just OUR kids. It's our girls and his son.  And I love his son like he's mine, but I keep getting reminded that he's not mine. And now I don't even get to see him in his costume. I'm not mama. So I don't matter. So I love the holiday,  but I'm starting to hate it too. Screw this. He decided to start another family, why d...

I think I've decided that my sanity is much more important to me than being the only one to try and make this marriage work. It terrifies me, but it is important. So now I'm going to start purging those things that don't bring me happiness. I'll start with my too-full closet.  Maybe someone else's life can be blessed with those things that are good but just aren't good for me anymore. The more I purge, the less I'll have to move when the time comes to sell the house that I love. That hurts me almost as much as the thought of leaving my marriage. I have no illusions that H isn't a good person in general. He is a great dad, a hard working employee, and very good at routine.  But he isn't the caring loving man toward me that he used to be. Maybe it's my fault. Maybe I broke him? Or maybe he broke me.  Either way, I can't fix myself and fix him without his consent. So I've got to settle for fixing myself. Saturday afternoon was really ...

I don't just need tacos... I need hella good tacos delivered by a super hot fireman to coax me out from under my desk.  Do things ever just get too heavy for you?  They've been super heavy for me for a while.  And now I need that super hot fireman to convince this kitty to come out of her hidey hole.  This weekend is going to be busy.  And hello, Halloween is almost here.  I've got to keep going or else I'll collapse. Or maybe I've got that wrong... maybe I'll collapse if I keep going.  So. My homework... I'm going to color in my coloring books. I'm going to write down the things that I'm grateful for. I'm going to love on my kids and embarrass them. And I'm going to hold out for that incredibly hot fireman with the tacos because I really need mouth to mouth... rawr.

My best friend encouraged everyone to look for the silver linings and things to be grateful for when life gets them down.  I'm working on that. 1. My kids love me and are as fiercely protective of me as I am of them. 2. My silent editor. He's a great sounding board and even if I don't follow his advice, I know it comes from somewhere in the area of the left hand side of his chest*. He cares about me and thinks I'm the dumbest smart person he knows but he still cares. 3. My step son.  He and his mama are my smile some days when I don't have a lot to smile about. 4. Those stupid adult coloring books that people are all about these days.  15 years or so ago, I'd hit the 99 cent store and pick up some fuckin Scooby Doo and Batman coloring books and cheap ass crayons and it would last me a week at best. Now they are better quality and last a bit longer. And snobby ass bitches (like myself, thank you for invading my mind, Silent Editor) don't judge you for dri...

This, beasties, is the most wonderful time of the year. This is when my people do all of their home decor shopping because...sugar skulls, black cats, Tim Burton, and the list could go on for days. The teen is very much like me.... she begged and pleaded for fake spider webs,  made spider push pins (super easy: hot glue, plastic spiders and thumb tacks), has purple Halloween lights all around her room and is begging for more creepy shit for her bedroom. She is why I'll be going broke during Halloween getting her Christmas gifts. And now that the weather is cooling down a bit, I'm able to open the sunroof (that was the only thing about my most recent car purchase that I wouldn't budge on) and really enjoy the cool breeze and the sunshine that is, somehow, softened by the fallish air. Don't group me in with the pumpkin spice basic bitches... I'm a little more metal in my choices. Coffee black as my soul (which is more a creamy caramel than black) and my boots-not u...

I'm tired of fighting for someone who won't fight for me. I'm tired of hearing the same shit over and over from people who don't take their own advice. I'm tired of not being able to sleep. I'm tired of having to take meds just to function. I'm tired of being taken advantage of.  I'm tired of being around people who don't even like me. Do you realize that I used the same rhetorical device that MLK Jr did? Of course his was about social injustice and mine is just a bunch of bitching and whining. I highly doubt that mine will stand the test of time for that reason.  So.  Fuck the negativity. I'm going to list things I'm thankful for. 1. A job.  I've been without and I don't wanna go back there. 2. My kids. They're smart, funny and they love their mama. 3. My bonus baby. He's so damn cool. 4. Caffeine. Nuff said. 5. New socks.  I'm a maaaajor sock whore.  Good thing my pimp-daddy pays me in sock...

Just call me a walk in closet.... ...coz I got me enough hangups to keep the laundromat in bidness. There's a park in my town (like most towns, I'm assuming). There's a dog park, a couple of playgrounds, disc golf, hiking trails, a little bit of everything. Baseball diamond, even, if you're one of those odd ducks* that is into that particularly foul◇ game. It's where they hold concerts, do fireworks, and any number of community events. It's where I have had and attended birthday parties. It's a great park. I haven't been back there since my stepson was born. Not because I don't want to take him to the park to play. Not because the girls wouldn't enjoy hiking the trails or taking their bikes there. I don't go there because of my own hangups. "How the fuck can someone have hangups about a park?!", you might be thinking. Or you might realize, like you should have from the first inkling I ever really revealed to you, that my han...

We can't do our job without sufficient info from you.  If you hide things from us, it'll come back to bite you in the refund. And it'll take more of our time which, if you remember the adage of "time is money," costs you more money. Just tell us the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth*, so help you [whichever deity or demon you choose to call out to as your higher power]. Seriously man, the truth shall set you free°. B.T.Dubs, perhaps that honesty should extend to your spouse too, from a tax perspective at the very least. If your spouse is the point of contact with the IRS, hiding a notice from them is the same as hiding it from your CPA. And I don't like not knowing relevant facts. Like the fact that my spouse knocked up a (really sweet, awesome) girl (that I now consider to be my friend)? Totally relevant to the financial picture, not to mention my sexual health,  my mental health, and my self esteem. But I digress. Tell your CPA your bidne...

I have been having problems sleeping lately.  You know who has been kind of a dick so I've been reluctant and in some cases,  anxiety-riddled with just the thought of going to bed.  Like requiring anxiety meds just to crawl into bed,  turn my back on him, and count sheep. Because of his funky schedule, he goes to bed before I do.  Key word bed. I'm not the asshole* here.  Why the hell should I be expected to sleep on the couch just because he goes to bed first? I'm starting to drift a bit here.  We have two couches.  Neither is particularly comfy.  One is a sofa bed ('nuff said),  the other is a bonded leather monstrosity that 1) has come unbonded and sheds little bits of leather everywhere, 2) has suffered from my enormous ass sitting on it,  so it isn't particularly springy or cushy and 3) it has a bar that presses across my lower back when I sit on it. It's still preferable to the sofa bed, but not by a lot. I don't want to s...

Oh yes, my friendly neighborhood blog reader.  I'm a fortune cookie.  Crumbly and stale and confusing as fuck when get me to open up. But I give you lucky numbers and teach you random words in a foreign language. Oh wait. Crap. That's not where I was going with that. I write in riddles that can be interpreted in many many ways.°  °Especially if you add "in bed" to the end of them. When I was in high school, I wrote a poem. Described an event, albeit in poetic language, that changed my life. Basically exactly as I saw it. I can still recite the poem, and when I do, the visions, the textures, the heat, the emotion, EVERYTHING comes back to me.  You've probably guessed that it wasn't a positive event in my life.  It was terrifying. It still feel the profound effects of that event. But since it was (I thought), a good poem, I let a teacher read it. She wanted to put me on suicide watch. I figured she was nuts and was projecting her crazy onto me, (I ...

When you give up the world for someone, you wind up without the world and without the someone. I had a panic attack/nervous breakdown this afternoon. I can barely breathe... and I don't want to double up on my meds in one day because I don't want my whole life to be dependent on "as needed" meds. I'm not eating (woohoo, weightloss), drinking as much water as I can handle and taking something to help me sleep (OTC only because the stronger stuff makes me sleep through the next day and that doesn't mesh well with a full bladder). The moral of the story is that, because of the circumstances that triggered the attack,  I  couldn't talk to H. I tried getting up with a couple of friends,  but I haven't seen them in forever and they're busy anyway. That leaves family.  My mom.... my siblings... Oh... Wait... I don't have them anymore. My best friend? Nope... gone. I'm alone. So I took the long way home and cried.  Nobody missed me. I...

I have this compulsion to bake when things get tough...or good....or when people need love,  or comfort,  or congratulations.  Basically any excuse to bake. Well the amazing grocery team at publix busted it to get their neighborhood ready for Hurricane Irma, so I figured who needs comfort and appreciation more than them.  So I baked a cake. Or I tried to. I've pretty much perfected my execution of grandma's pound cake and I don't even have to look at the recipe anymore. Softened butter goes in the mixer,  I preheat the oven and start sifting the dry ingredients... It's all muscle memory at this point.  It's a ballet. The oven is perfectly preheated right as I finish pouring the batter,  basically. Then I have 90 minutes to get the kitchen cleaned up,  and relax.  This was awesome for enforced studying back when the CPA exams were looming.  A 90 minute block where I couldn't doze off for fear of burning that perfection. Grandma's...

The entire state is prepping for Hurricane Irma right now. People are freaking out,  leaving the state, but practically camping (in motor homes, no less) just across the state line. They seem to think that the wall that South Georgia built* to keep the snowbirds that fly down for the winter out of Georgia will do nothing to a HURRICANE, despite it being named after a lovely 83 year old grandmother who bakes the most delightful oatmeal raisin cookies on the planet.☆ So I'm driving home this afternoon, against the grain, and thankfully we have bread, milk, canned goods, batteries, water, yadda yadda♡... I feel like we're almost prepared.  I just have to get home.  From work.  Where I'm not successfully getting anything done because... Hurricane and people freaking out.   So I'm kind of sitting here, listening to the animal lover of the bunch talking about how she's going to ride around town when it's flooded on an air mattress to rescue dogs that get left...

Things are most quiet here either early in the morning or late at night.  Early in the morning is NOT my jam.  I'm a late sleeper anytime I can help it.  Snuggled into my cocoon and hanging onto the dreams of the night.  I'm a vivid dreamer and it's a good way to work through my problems. I don't know how many tax and accounting issues that have plagued me during the day, only to be solved at the edges of a dream. For some reason I'm up early today. I should be able to sleep in. It's Saturday.  My plans aren't until tonight. But the quiet early daylight is good for me. I'm having breakfast in peace.  I'm listening to the cardinal nagging me about god knows what.  I'm just feeling peaceful. That doesn't happen all that much in my anxiety riddled life. I still miss my friend.  I still feel the crushing weight of a failing marriage.  I still feel as though my life is in need of a major reboot. But the quiet is calming those things a bit. I m...

Seriously.... 80s love songs that I used to think were sooooooo romantic to skate to (with the boy I had a crush on and who also never knew I existed, much less enough to skate holding hands with short, tubby, introverted me) at the small town skating rink where kids would share crappy pizza and make "Suicides*" to drink at the soda dispenser make me wistful and nauseous in a single measure.   Back then there was hope that one day, I'd skate with that boy and he'd hold my hand and smile at me like Bad English was practically begging him to do on my behalf. But now I see him (not the adorable sk8er boy with pale blue eyes, but the man I gave my heart to) trying to get someone else to love him and take care of him and ignore me more and more... and push me away more and more... I miss being loved and I miss being able to look forward without the loss behind me destroying my outlook. I miss having hope for more than a good day. I miss the ring that he forgets to put on...

There is no joy greater than a little boy's upon donning his first pair of real cowboy boots. Even if he is not a) a Texan, b) a farmer's child, c) an equestrian's child, or d) the son of anyone else who actually wears boots for work or play. It's just this instinct. Boots aren't like sneakers or sandals or those fantastic learning to walk shoes that my older girls wore out (with the completely flexible grippy soles and the soft leather uppers). Boots are substance. Boots are adult.  Boots make noise! For this reason, every boy needs a pair of cowboy boots sometime around the time he begins to walk. Nothing is more satisfying to a tank of a child than the clomp clomp of a pair of brown leather Justin boots. To the soundtrack of squeals of approving laughter from his mom, step mom (me, of course, and...in case you're wondering...yes I squeal, ain't no shame), and favorite big sister, our little guy experienced his first pair of real cowboy boots last night...

I've been having problems getting to sleep lately. I'll just lie there looking at the ceiling forever. I think I've figured it out that it's not problems sleeping, it's problems sleeping next to him. I'm beginning to think that the couch might give me a better night's sleep. I've really got to get my recently vacated bedroom painted and set up for just me. It's not like we're sleeping together anyway. Maybe having my own space will help me get mind in the right place. Or maybe he'll just assume that he's moving in there too. Good god, I've got to learn to speak up for myself.

I experienced pure joy today (well yesterday when I started this blog entry) at my son's accomplishment. I watched him stand up without holding onto anything. I asked his mom when he started doing that. "He's been doing it for a while now." Complete letdown. "He's doing a lot of new things." I haven't seen him in a week and a half because she expects H to ASK to see his son. The last time I saw him before today was because I asked HER to dinner so I could spend time with the two of them while H and the girls were doing church stuff that our boy wasn't welcome at. And while the two of them were so much in love and so much on the same wavelength that they could fuck behind my back, now that I'm in on their little secret, they're having a hard time talking to one another. They can't be adult enough talk to one another about what they want and need for the sake of their child. She and I text. Probably too much... But no more than he d...

I'm trying so goddamn hard to make things work. But sometimes I feel like I'm the only one that is. Why do I frigging try? I'm a glutton for punishment. Or too scared to make a change. Or just a fucking moron. I'm smart.... I swear I am. I'm witty, I'm funny, I'm valuable. I just can't keep myself convinced of that, so nobody else really sees it. Maybe my weekend needs to be compromised of self-affirmations and role-playing. "Yes, [redacted], I think a 20% raise would be a great start! And I really appreciate your hiring of a tall, handsome bookkeeper to work directly under me, if you'll pardon the innuendo." "I'm not a total fake" "I'm not the biggest loser on the planet" Mumbo jumbo fucking nonsense. I need to grow a spine, wise up, and quit giving more of myself than I actually have to give. But yeah, I need a raise in any case. Mama's got bills bills bills bills bills. C.D.

We get the little one Saturday so I'm super stoked about that, but when it comes down to it, I'm either super down or super up lately. Super up me has all sorts of plans and wants to GO and DO and craft and photograph and remodel and pack up crap for a yard sale or goodwill. Down me just wants to sleep and read and be ignored. Down me can't handle my younger daughter (who can sense that I'm down and wants to right up on me all the time) or my dog sitting quietly next to me wanting to be petted. Down me is around way too much and can't handle the grand, wonderful ideas that up me has.  Up me is never around long enough to do half of the things that she plans. So there's another separation in my life. Up and down. Public and private. I'm absolutely pissed that the most awesome little dude has to be a private part of my life because "what would the firm think," "What would the community think," "what would the CHURCH think??!?" ...

I'm taking my mom to dinner tonight for her birthday. Me and the girls. Husband doesn't want to show his face because.. Well... You know. I'm tired of having to separate my life so completely. Right down the middle like I'm hiding a shameful secret from the "good" parts of my life. Things I'm thankful for: a job, a roof, audiobooks Things I'm not too keen on: double lives, commuting, having no real outlet. Things have to change. I don't know how much longer I can fake it. My firm sent out a questionnaire and one question struck me as more profound than it was probably intended. "What animal do you identify with most?" I chose a flamingo. Not because I feel like I'm bright, flamboyant, or in any way special... But because I'm there, conspicuous, balancing on one foot, pretending to be something I'm not (in the case of our pink friend, a harmless plant) just to survive. Maybe I should start painting plastic flamingos l...

I haven't blogged or journalled in years. I've been in therapy off and on for the past 3 years or so.. more on than off in the past year. In the past year, I've lost the support of my family, my trust in a close knit community of women, the belief that my husband wants to be with me, and my best friend.... With all that said, I need an outlet that I'm not paying by the hour. I'm trying to do more stuff for me and this is one of those things I'm doing. Background on me - I'm a thirty something mother of two girls, a CPA, an aspiring novelist, and a long-term sufferer of depression, anxiety, migraines, and just being fat and out of shape. I'm healthy otherwise, I have great lab results, nothing is ever borderline. I'm just big and can't run. I'm doing things to fix my problems. I've got Daith piercings for the migraines and that has been a miracle for me in the last year (I'm speaking only of my own experience and this should not...