Don’t Be a Hero: Being OK with Being Average

Jun 5, 2015 by

40s exercise book

When my depression started to lift after starting a much-needed prescription, I came to the scary realization that certain aspects of my personality and outlook on life were driven by that altered state of mind.  Or rather, those aspects were a part of who I was until I started tinkering with my neurochemistry.

One of my most popular posts on here is about how much I hate cooking – not the act of meal preparation itself as a stand-alone chore, but the fact that it ate into my time and energy and involved more focus and coordination than I felt I could reasonably muster on a daily basis.  Do I still struggle with this?  Sure, somewhat.  But one night recently, I was pulling dinner together and realized that I felt … nothing.  Not gloriously blissful, certainly, but also not frustrated, exhausted, or overwhelmed.  Just … normal?  Is this what normal feels like?  I mean, if you love cooking, you may feel blissful while making dinner.  But if you think cooking is just ok or feel otherwise neutral about it, you will treat it as just another chore.  And you won’t usually be angry or depressed over it unless your brain is wired to trigger those emotions over the event.  That must have been what was happening to me before, because suddenly I am sort of ok with making dinner.

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This is Why I Run

Mar 4, 2015 by

I hate running.


I want to enjoy it.  I want to be one of those people who run to clear their mind and feel free.  But I’m not.  This is what’s going on in my head when I run:

  • Am I almost done?
  • This sucks.
  • I should be folding laundry now.
  • Am I almost done?
  • I think my elbow is sweating.  Is that even possible?  Can elbows sweat?  Because I’m pretty sure my elbow is sweating.
  • I should be unloading the dishwasher now.
  • Why am I always the one unloading the dishwasher?
  • Am I almost done?
  • This sucks.


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Trying to Stay Sane During a LONG Winter

Feb 25, 2015 by

As I write this, it is negative nine degrees.  NEGATIVE. NINE. DEGREES.  I give up, Mother Nature.  You win.


It’s no secret that this winter has been a TOUGH one, and there’s still no end in sight.  The unrelenting snow and record-breaking low temperatures have really had an effect on me, and I’m sure I’m not alone.  “Seasonal depression”, “cabin fever” and all those other not-so-nice words have really taken their toll on my state of mind.  And then there’s the inevitable sickness that comes with the winter months.  My sons have had a countless number of colds, coughs, ear infections, and one (disgustingly awful) stomach bug.  Then cue the ripple effect – all the snow days and sick days lead to missed work days, which in turn leaves me constantly playing catch up and never getting ahead. This past weekend I was snowed in (yet again) with two bored little boys full of energy bouncing off my walls.  There were more than a few times I was close to tears (usually before 9:00am…how are these weekend days SO long?!)

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My Postpartum Depression Story – The Biggest Mistake of My Life

Jan 20, 2015 by

(My story …continued)


Like all forms of depression, there are varying degrees of postpartum depression. It can fluctuate from of a mild case of the “baby blues” to a crippling case of serious depression, or a million situations in between.  To be honest, I don’t know where my case fell on that spectrum as it’s difficult to objectively diagnose one’s self.   I can tell you this: I never wanted to physically hurt my baby or myself.  But I did regret having a baby.  I felt no connection to him.  Only regret.  And hopelessness. I made the biggest mistake of my life and there was no way out.  I wanted someone to take my baby away and take care of him.

When I got home from the hospital, I was still physically a mess.  But that was nothing compared to the paralyzing fear I had of this tiny little person.

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Motherhood: the Good, the Gross, and Everything in Between

Jan 6, 2015 by

Last night I was in full-blown Super Mom mode, multi-tasking like a pro.  Seriously, you should have seen me: feeding the baby, playing with my three-year old, changing diapers, preparing clothes and food for the next day, all while cooking a New Year’s resolution-inspired healthy dinner for Hub and me.  Then in a second it all changed.

 The baby started crying, I picked him up and…

 Explosive diarrhea.  Projectile vomit.  EVERYWHERE.

I stood there in shock for a moment, dripping from head to toe in puke (not even an exaggeration; I have never seen so much bodily fluid come out of someone so tiny).  I looked down at him and he looked up at me.  He looked so scared, so I just held him to my chest as he grasped my soaked shirt.  I held him tight, kissed his wet hair and sticky cheek and promised him he was alright.  Mommy’s here, everything is ok baby.  In that brief, vomit-drenched moment, making him feel safe was all that mattered.  Shhh my baby boy, I got you….shhh.

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