It's been a crazy few weeks since I declared it as the Year of Angry Pony. I'm trying to have a new outlook and really be the person that is dying to get out and live. I've been keeping my journal, I've been getting to the gym but the eating better thing is still hit and miss. My attitude, however, continues to be in the dumper. I told The Rug Doctor last time I saw her that I was a fraud. I was pretending to be this person that was positive and ready to embrace all that is theYear of Angry Pony and this person in pursuit of the little black dress. It's bullshit. It's an illusion. I mean, I want to be her, but, I'm not there yet. I believe everything I wrote in that blog, but I don't FEEL it. I'm not buying it. I'm willing to steal it, just not make the investment. What the hell is my problem?
I explained to The Rug Doctor tonight that I am going through the motions. I'm going to the gym. I'm looking up new healthier recipes, I'm attempting to behave. I think I am just programming myself to do the right things, but not really feeling them. Not really behind them. I feel like I should be evolving into this person, I thought I was, but I don't think I am. If I was, why would I be so tired all the time? Why don't I want to get out of bed? Why am I so sad all the time? Will asked me the other morning why I was so sad and I said, "Because I look in the mirror and I am the same girl stuck in the same body as I was yesterday." I can't stop being like this. I go to work and I'm angry and sad and bored. I come home and I am angry and sad. I try and consider others around me and their struggles and think about how my life really isn't that bad, but as the Rug Doctor says, it's okay to feel what I feel and not compare it to others. My feelings are valid. So, suck it, optimists and judgy people with all your happy Pinterest quotes and life how-to bullshit. Get off me.
And Will, that poor bastard, he can't win. For example, last week was shark week, so it was a little intense, I'll grant you that, but strike one was when he stopped and got me ice cream. He was trying to soothe the savage beast. Sharks love ice cream. But this shark likes Rocky Road ice cream. Will got Waffle Cone ice cream. What? Crappy stale chunks of waffle cone with caramel swirls? Are you freaking kidding me? Who eats that shit? That isn't comfort, that is like licking the ground at the carnival the day after they pull out of town. Guh-ross! But, I suffered through and ate it anyway. Strike two, Will asks what I want for dinner. I'm still at work, I'm tired and I can't take the pain anymore, I said, "I don't care, whatever." He says he is getting pizza. Okay, that is good comfort food. I get home and it is this thin crust pizza because he thought it would be "healthier." Are you freaking kidding me? I looked back and forth from him to the pizza, from him, to the pizza....from him, to the pizza. I lost my mind, "How are you supposed to even eat this?! You can't even pick it up?! I was counting on the comfort of crust and now I have NO CRUST!" In a half panic, half rage, Will said he would go get some different pizza. I yelled back at him that he wasn't going anywhere. I was out of control. I knew it, he knew it, but he sure as hell was not going to say it. All other shark weeks up to this one had prepared him for this moment. I ate my crustless pizza in silence. And then I apologized for being a bitch. This is the man I love and for some crazy reason, loves me back and like a shark attacking a surfer in Maui, I ripped his fucking leg right off...and swallowed it whole.
So now, I beat up myself for just being me and then I beat up my man...Shark Bait (and just like that, Will gets a blog name). Rug Doctor and I discussed this tonight and my lingering sadness and inability to pull my shit together. And then she explained the difference between "clinical depression" and "situational depression." It's not like I had never heard those words before. It's not like I had never considered it. But tonight it really, truly stuck. I'm clinically depressed. I know, I know, "duh." I have been my whole life, really. I've always known it in the back of my mind. The Rug Doctor said you can even be both clinically and situationally depressed. Once again, I always get extra of what I need, except boobs. Once again, screwed by shit-house-luck and genetics. The hard part is, I think I can handle all this shit on my own. I think I can overcome it on my own, but I think it is time to face the fact that I need some extra help. And, as hilarious as it is if I eat a few bites of a pot brownie, I don't think a prescription for pot is in my future. I can't walk around laughing and pissing myself all the time. Fun for everyone except me. Fat girls with wet pants aren't really fun after it happens once. I mean one time, it's fun. Beyond that, people start talking about "places you can go" that will be "what is best for you." I'm not ready for that yet.
And that is where I find myself this Therapy Thursday, resigned and a bit sad, but I guess they make a pill for that. Lucky me.
I explained to The Rug Doctor tonight that I am going through the motions. I'm going to the gym. I'm looking up new healthier recipes, I'm attempting to behave. I think I am just programming myself to do the right things, but not really feeling them. Not really behind them. I feel like I should be evolving into this person, I thought I was, but I don't think I am. If I was, why would I be so tired all the time? Why don't I want to get out of bed? Why am I so sad all the time? Will asked me the other morning why I was so sad and I said, "Because I look in the mirror and I am the same girl stuck in the same body as I was yesterday." I can't stop being like this. I go to work and I'm angry and sad and bored. I come home and I am angry and sad. I try and consider others around me and their struggles and think about how my life really isn't that bad, but as the Rug Doctor says, it's okay to feel what I feel and not compare it to others. My feelings are valid. So, suck it, optimists and judgy people with all your happy Pinterest quotes and life how-to bullshit. Get off me.
And Will, that poor bastard, he can't win. For example, last week was shark week, so it was a little intense, I'll grant you that, but strike one was when he stopped and got me ice cream. He was trying to soothe the savage beast. Sharks love ice cream. But this shark likes Rocky Road ice cream. Will got Waffle Cone ice cream. What? Crappy stale chunks of waffle cone with caramel swirls? Are you freaking kidding me? Who eats that shit? That isn't comfort, that is like licking the ground at the carnival the day after they pull out of town. Guh-ross! But, I suffered through and ate it anyway. Strike two, Will asks what I want for dinner. I'm still at work, I'm tired and I can't take the pain anymore, I said, "I don't care, whatever." He says he is getting pizza. Okay, that is good comfort food. I get home and it is this thin crust pizza because he thought it would be "healthier." Are you freaking kidding me? I looked back and forth from him to the pizza, from him, to the pizza....from him, to the pizza. I lost my mind, "How are you supposed to even eat this?! You can't even pick it up?! I was counting on the comfort of crust and now I have NO CRUST!" In a half panic, half rage, Will said he would go get some different pizza. I yelled back at him that he wasn't going anywhere. I was out of control. I knew it, he knew it, but he sure as hell was not going to say it. All other shark weeks up to this one had prepared him for this moment. I ate my crustless pizza in silence. And then I apologized for being a bitch. This is the man I love and for some crazy reason, loves me back and like a shark attacking a surfer in Maui, I ripped his fucking leg right off...and swallowed it whole.
So now, I beat up myself for just being me and then I beat up my man...Shark Bait (and just like that, Will gets a blog name). Rug Doctor and I discussed this tonight and my lingering sadness and inability to pull my shit together. And then she explained the difference between "clinical depression" and "situational depression." It's not like I had never heard those words before. It's not like I had never considered it. But tonight it really, truly stuck. I'm clinically depressed. I know, I know, "duh." I have been my whole life, really. I've always known it in the back of my mind. The Rug Doctor said you can even be both clinically and situationally depressed. Once again, I always get extra of what I need, except boobs. Once again, screwed by shit-house-luck and genetics. The hard part is, I think I can handle all this shit on my own. I think I can overcome it on my own, but I think it is time to face the fact that I need some extra help. And, as hilarious as it is if I eat a few bites of a pot brownie, I don't think a prescription for pot is in my future. I can't walk around laughing and pissing myself all the time. Fun for everyone except me. Fat girls with wet pants aren't really fun after it happens once. I mean one time, it's fun. Beyond that, people start talking about "places you can go" that will be "what is best for you." I'm not ready for that yet.
And that is where I find myself this Therapy Thursday, resigned and a bit sad, but I guess they make a pill for that. Lucky me.
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