- Working out with a personal trainer suuuucks but it's getting the job done. I'm pretty much sore and aching all the time, but I've lost a few pounds in the last 2 weeks, so I'm encouraged. At this rate, I'll have the baby weight and IVF weight off by Christmas 2016.
- Going back to therapy is a bittersweet thing, because I need it but I also hate that I need it. I'm experiencing some massive anxiety coupled with on-again, off-again depression. Motherfucking yay. I don't know where some of it comes from, other than my poor genetic lot in life and the fact that my family is full of The Certifiable Crazy. We've got bipolars, schizoaffectives, and straight-up depressed. And that's not counting all the personality disorders! It's like a goddamned DSM-IV-TR bonanza! I'm not too keen on being put on crazy pills, but if that's what my therapist ultimately recommends while we keep talking it out, or if I reach a point where I think it's necessary, then so be it. I just want to feel better. Crying for no reason and feeling like my head will explode from panic is not cool.
- And as for the stuff that I do know is fueling it? There's a whole lot of history with my Certifiably Crazy™ parents, that includes some really shitty, dark stuff. I am chock full of abandonment, trust, and self-esteem issues thanks to their crackerjack parenting. It's 100% of the reason I became an academic-over-achiever-perfectionist, and why I become psychologically paralyzed if I can't do something perfectly and can't handle compliments. Nothing weird about that. Anyway, I had pretty successfully learned to manage those issues through therapy years ago, and then the whole infertility beast reared its ugly head and brought it all back to the forefront in a new and introspective way. That's not an entirely bad thing, because it forced me to think very long and hard about how I will parent my child(ren) and break the cycle of Crazy that pervades my family. But now that Jackson is here, and I know with every fiber of my being that I would do anything for him, right up to and including taking a real or proverbial bullet to ensure he is safe and happy and fulfilled in his life, it stirs up a lot of shit about my parents and how they wouldn't do much at all to ensure the same for me. Not then, and not now. It hurts. And it sucks. It hurts and it sucks to know how little I was loved. The contrast of that feeling with the love I feel in my little family -- KB, Jackson, Katie the Dog, and me -- just puts that hurt under a magnifying glass and burns it up until it scars. So, that's lurking underneath every feeling of insecurity about being a good parent, every anxiety about keeping Jackson safe and alive and happy, every worry that my shit will become his shit if I don't deal with it effectively. So. Good times.
- While I wait to hear about a part-time job offer in the next month or so, I'm taking on ambitious house projects. Most are small -- replacing the fugly front door of our house, doing some gardening -- but the biggie is clearing out the basement and turning half of it into a playroom for Jackson. It's already partially finished, so I just need to keep decluttering (or, in a stroke of genius, I've decided I could just pile the clutter to the ceiling and throw a couple of banana peels on top, then call the producers of Hoarders and get my basement cleaned for free). Then I have to clean the floor and window sills (how many winters' worth of dead bugs are on that sunny graveyard sill?). And then put down some cheapie carpet. Voila! Playroom. I figure I can find a little kid-sized table and some bookshelves from garage sales or used furniture stores and repaint them, to keep this on the cheap. And while I'm at it, I'll reorganize the utility half of the basement, where laundry and pantry shit ends up sprawled everywhere without the confines of an orderly shelving system to contain it. It's exactly like me to take on some huge project when I'm hitting crisis mode, and then to alternately let it take my mind off of things and also stoke the embers of the Crazy fire. Because in the process of starting this project, I've begun to realize how much I hate our house. BOOM. Bomb dropped on ya. Yep, I hate our house and I want to move in the middle of the shittiest housing market, like, EVAH. We'll have to save for a year or two (or twenty?) to make up the shortfall between what we owe and what we can make if we sell and another down payment, hope that the housing market stabilizes and possibly (even if only slightly) improves our home's value, and will try to pump up our home's value as much as possible by making the most sensible improvements: basement repurposing and organization, new roof, new driveway, new front door and minor landscaping for curb appeal. This is already a long-ass post, so I'll let it suffice to say that I want a house that doesn't have creaky wooden floors but still has character, and has enough room for us to consider a second baby. BOOM. Another bomb. I'll write about that another time.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Welcome to Crazytown, Population: Me
Well. Where to begin. Let's try some bullets.