Shaved Heads and Social Anxiety

My blogging sure has slowed down since the kids got older; a product of being a different kind of busy, and, perhaps, a lack of insane poop stories a la 2012-13. (I'm okay with that part.) 

That said, it's time for my annual blog entry. But we'll have to forget about the horses (who have since moved on) and other developments in the last few blogs for today. Tonight's is a less comical blog. I need to break from the usual sunshine and roses and discuss mental health, for my own mental health. It's still appropriate content for a blog titled "Lyssophobic", aka the fear of going insane. Kidding not kidding. 

Most of us, myself included, present only the most happy and beautiful bits of our lives on social media. It makes sense, of course—why air your dirty laundry? Nobody wants or needs to see that. However, it paints the picture of a perfect life, of having it all together. Beautiful family, beautiful home, fun adventures: the highlight reel. It fosters jealousy over false realities.

So here's my little break from that. I need to lay it all out. I need to help you, the general you, understand. And I need to seek validation from others who might feel the same, to help me feel less like a crazy person, specifically regarding impulsivity, depression, guilt, and social anxiety. Even without feedback, writing about it is my therapy session.

Have you ever suddenly wanted to chop all your hair off? Or go party at a club even though you hate clubs and parties (and you're probably way too old to be in one)? Or make a dramatic and immediate career change? Or run away on an impulsive road trip? Or get a tattoo or buy something extravagant or adopt a new pet right away? What is the motivation behind these urges?

People say chopping off your hair is a demonstration of your need to exert control over something, maybe when you feel like the rest of your life is out of your control. I don't disagree, but at least for me, it is more about an urgent need for dramatic change. The desire to cut my hair is the same need I feel to take a trip or get tattooed or get a dog. (Not to be confused with my normal, everyday desire to go on vacation and get dogs, of course. Hair cuts, trips, and pets are all very normal wants.)

What is the urgency all about? Do I feel trapped? Trapped in my beautiful mountain home with my beautiful loving family? Trapped by our spoiled first-world lifestyle? How disgustingly ungrateful. How pitifully self-centered. I'm pushing 35. An early mid-life crisis? No, because it's not a new feeling by any means. What is this void? What is my subconscious telling me? I mean, I'm certainly depressed and anxious about the current state of this country, but that's a whole other ball of wax.

Maybe it is just a need to control, but also a need to escape, to break free from the norm. Maybe it's just a normal mom experience. Maybe it's just a normal depression-anxiety experience. Maybe it's all of the above.

I need to vent. I've been feeling inexplicably down and wholly disconnected, all wrapped up in the guilt of not appreciating all the wonderful people and things I have. I feel alone. Overwhelmed. Lazy. Unmotivated. Lost.

I had a particularly draining social experience the other day. Other people with social anxiety will understand: you prep yourself mentally for days ahead of any event, and then need more days afterward to recover. I think this one caught me during this general period of blah-ness, and it amplified both. What might have been a typically awkward-yet-tolerable gathering was excruciating. So much lingering alone, awkardly aware that strangers were awkwardly aware of my presence; guilty knowing they might be feeling guilty about my aloneness, compiled with the awkward guilt when they leave their friends to talk to me out of polite obligation. Just a lose-lose situation for everyone involved.

And there's the anxious overthinking. Where do I go? Should I sit or stand? Would it be weird to closely follow the one person I came with? Would going back to the food table for a third time seem greedy, like who is this stranger eating all of our food? Oh but I need something to occupy myself and eating is a good distraction. I can't just look at my phone the whole time because that would be rude. How long can I look at my phone without seeming rude though? Oh thank god there's alcohol. Did I seem to eager accepting the offer for beer? How much is acceptable for me to drink? How many times can I go to the bathroom, and how long can I hide in there before people start wondering? Should I introduce myself to those people I haven't been introduced to, or loiter at a distance hoping the one person I know comes back? Where did he go anyway? Doesn't he understand what I'm going through? Why isn't he here for me?

It's amazing how alone you can feel, even at a fun party full of lovely people, sometimes even with friends and family. It's amazing how much stress can accompany a casual gathering. And it's very isolating to feel like no one gets you.

If that's you, then at least know that I get you. For whatever that's worth.

I'm not sure how the crippling social anxiety relates to my compulsions to shave my head or buy something crazy, other than perhaps they can both be linked to feeling trapped: trapped in awkward social situations or trapped in the day-to-day. Trapped in my own head. Trapped by my mind that prevents me from enjoying said social situations and day-to-day things like a normal person.

In any case, I'm still recovering—two days later. Maybe that's why I wanted to do something dramatic tonight. To help myself get the eff over it? Shrug.

I didn't do any of those dramatic things tonight, you know. I just put a splash of vodka in my iced coffee, finished painting some trim around the window outside, took a deep breath of the evening mountain air, threw some leftovers on a plate, and watched a movie with my kids. I like to consider myself a high-functioning anxiety-depression sort.

I recognize that I have so much to be thankful for. It's just hard sometimes, even if the struggle makes zero logical sense and you can hardly explain it to yourself, much less anyone else. I'm grateful for the movement promoting mental health awareness; these things are real. I have to remind myself that too. 

Insert thoughtful and well-written conclusion. I'm going to bed. 

With a snoring, farting pit bull right next to me. (Speaking of impulsively adopted pets! That's a story for another day though.)

The Mom You Want Them To Remember

It’s no surprise to those closest to me that I sometimes get depressed. And angry. And overwhelmed. And anxious. Irritable and distant and lethargic and apathetic. Short-tempered and impatient. Not just when I haven’t had coffee. Not just if I’m PMSing. Sometimes for no reason at all. I think we all do from time to time.

When I’m feeling that special kind of crappy and the kids are around there’s a whole new layer in this delightful cake called guilt. Because then I am such a mean, boring, awful mom. I am so annoyed at every sound they make and every thing they do. I feel tremendously inconvenienced by them, as though they were interrupting some very very important work, which in fact is usually just mindless phone or computer drivel. I completely tune them out, grunting non responses to their questions and comments. I give super inane excuses when they ask me to play with them; too often I say "not right now", but sometimes I'm too lazy to even make up a lie so I just say no. I snap at them. I am even annoyed when they get hurt. And finally when conflict inevitably erupts between them or they misbehave in any way, I blow up and go absolutely crazy. 

The worst part is I am aware of how shitty I am being while it’s happening. I fully understand how terrible I am when I am checked out and ignoring them, but I am unable to flip a switch and engage. Even while I’m yelling I can acknowledge mentally that I’m overreacting and being a little bit of a psycho b-word. Does that stop me? No. I can’t not be terrible when I’m in my special crapzone. And I feel so overwhelmingly guilty the whole time. 

But then a flip switches, inexplicably, and suddenly I want to play with them. I want to wrestle them and chase them and tickle them and squeeze them and kiss them until they pop. I am overwhelmed by my love for them and I can’t get enough. And it is so much fun and I am so happy and they are so happy and there is so much love and joy and I wonder how I could ever possibly not want this. It's as though the bad time never happened.

And then we sit down to watch TV after eating a hastily prepared leftover medley for dinner, and they both want to cuddle. My 54-pound six-year-old boy on one side and my 31-pound four-year-old girl on the other, smushed together on top of me, melted into the corner of the couch together; nobody is arguing and everybody is content.

I ask them abruptly, “Do you guys think I’m nice more or mean more?”

Surprised by my question, they don’t answer immediately. This shows me that they are really thinking about it and not just telling me what they think I want to hear. But then they each, in turn, tell me I am nice more.

“You’re the nicest, prettiest mama in the whole world!” says my sweet little girl, touching my face with her tiny, perfect fingers. “I love you so much, even when you’re mean!”

I then relate to them, after swallowing the knot in my throat, how I feel sometimes when I am acting grumpy, and how that makes me feel bad and how sorry I am. It’s not the first time I’ve apologized to them for losing my temper, but maybe the first time I’ve talked about my feelings in more drawn out detail, almost the way you would talk to an adult.

My sweet little boy squeezes my arm against him and smiles hugely. “I’m gonna cry,” he giggles, seemingly overcome with emotion, and maybe a little embarrassed. “Can you see any tears?”

Tearing up behind my own smile, next I ask, "Do you think I am a fun mom?"

The response to this one takes a little longer because I am the put-on-your-coat-eat-your-dinner-do-your-homework-that’s-not-polite-wash-your-hands-brush-your-teeth-watch-your-attitude parent, every day. They conclude that yes, as a matter of fact, I am a fun mom. I remind them, and myself, that every day does not have to be a science experiment day or a zoo day or a beach day. And I can't always be a fun mom. And that’s okay. They accept that. 

They seem very pleased to be asked these questions. Honored, even, for their thoughts and feelings to be valued in this context, to be given such power and importance. I was impressed by their thoughtful answers and their enthusiasm on the matter. They were so open-minded, loving, accepting and forgiving. So compassionate and eager to help. Seriously such sweet hearts—not “sweethearts”, even though they are, but “sweet hearts”, because it’s really what they have. At the risk of sounding overly metaphysical, they are such pure souls.

Yes kids are complete jerks a lot of the time, and so are parents, but the unconditional love is reciprocal. Even with the little ones. I still want to be my better self for them more often, but when I get crappy I need to avoid the spiral of guilt. 

I recently read a quote that stuck with me: “Be the mom you want them to remember”. I feel like this is a very valid sentiment (in fact I had it twice on Pinterest), but also puts a lot of undue pressure on parents. I think kids will remember your heart, because I think they get it—if you open it up to them. We don't give them enough credit. My boy doesn’t fixate on the time I came completely unglued on him when he wouldn’t put his shoes on; he remembers that one time, over a year ago, that we went on a “date” to the cookie shop. My girl doesn’t remind me about how I screamed at her when she wouldn’t pick up her room; she talks about that time we played mermaids at the hotel swimming pool. They don’t remember nagging and yelling and ignoring; they remember mud and paint and pillow fights and camping.

I am marveling at how we can go from a chaotic afternoon of yelling, arguing, and crying to such a blissful evening, and trying to puzzle out the magic spell. I am marveling at what amazing little people I have, and trying to forgive myself for not always being my best for them. I am moved and humbled by the fact that they—my babies—understand. And they forgive me. And they love me. 

I am an Angry Zombie

You heard me. I am an angry zombie. At least a lot of the time. Not like the eat-your-face-off kind of zombie, just the type that is totally out of it. The living dead, the zoner. And I am angry because I am always always always ALWAYS reprimanding someone or something. It’s exhausting being a big giant B. Upon further reflection, maybe sometimes I am the eat-your-face-off kind of zombie, like when the kids are running screaming crying fighting loud loud loud LOUD and Dooley just keeps turning up the volume on the TV so the kids get louder too, then TV goes up, kid volume goes up, etc., etc….THEN I would TOTALLY eat Dooley’s face off.

But goodness GRACIOUS am I tired. ALWAYS.  I often feel paralyzed by unwarranted exhaustion and a complete lack of ambition that makes even the simplest household chores incredibly daunting and overwhelming. I’m lucky if I can keep up with the everyday dishes and laundry, and it’s a BIG DAY when I manage to summon enough energy to vacuum. I often wonder how normal this is for someone in my shoes, and how much these feeling have to do with just being freaking stir crazy and bored. Bored but busy, of course. Like that even makes sense. Read over the following list of depression symptoms (courtesy WebMD), and tell me this stuff isn’t inherent in being a stay-at-home mom:

• Fatigue or loss of energy
• Feelings of worthlessness or guilt
• Impaired concentration, indecisiveness
• Insomnia or hypersomnia (excessive sleeping)
• Markedly diminished interest or pleasure in almost all activities
• Restlessness or feeling slowed down
• Significant weight loss or gain (a change of more than 5% of body weight in a month).

Today was big. I’ve done a couple loads of laundry AND I just got up the motivation to clean our bedroom, which was strewn with dirty laundry, toys, and God knows what else, for at least the last…well, few weeks at least. Still hadn’t unpacked from our weekend away—a week ago—and still haven’t put away the clean laundry from several weeks ago. It doesn’t help that Dooley doesn’t mind living in utter filth in the least bit. Holy cow you should have SEEN his “bachelor pad(s)”. UTTER FILTH doesn’t even start to cover it, but I digress. One time, the first year we were married, I left his cup of milk out, as an experiment, to see if he would EVER take care it himself. Needless to say, it got real gross. The only thing that currently bothers him is that I don’t do his laundry. I guess he's probably annoyed that I don't cook either. *Shrug*
Here's our room, before and after. Apparently we swapped dogs too...

Cue scary music.

TAH-DAH!!! Cue angels singing and sparkly sounds.

One of the main reasons I am hesitant to move out of our current house is that we have separate closets. I let him take the walk-in. I know, I know, appalling to let the MAN have the walk-in closet, but it was for my own good. When I can no longer stand scrambling over the mountains of dirty laundry all over the floor, I can just throw them in his closet and close the door. Tah-Dah! It’s knee-deep in there. For Dooley, who is rather tall. For me, maybe thigh-deep. Anyway, I TOLD him I’d be happy to help with his laundry IF he got it down to a manageable ONE-BASKET size amount, like a normal person. That hasn’t happened yet in five years of marriage, so…yeah. I KNOW I’m home aaaaalllll day just PLAYING with the kids and watching TV and sitting around (no he didn’t actually use those words or I would have eaten his face off for sure), so why can’t I just be a good wifey and DO IT already? Because. It’s the principle of the thing. We’re aaaalllll about principle, right honey?

That was an unexpected tangent. I would like to point out, on a related note, what an incredibly amazing and loving husband and father he is. He is so stinking cute (he loves that phrase) with the kids, and just last week got me flowers for no reason. (So what if I had just teased him about how he was sooooo much more romantic when we were dating, possibly prompting the getting of the flowers...!) We drive each other crazy but can’t imagine life apart. If my main complaint is his messiness, then I’m pretty lucky. He works twelve hour days and I don’t even have dinner ready for him when he gets home cuz I can’t cook. So I suck too. Again with the guilt, self? Ugh.

This is Me on a Bad Day, sometime last week, on one of the days I was watching the neighbor's kids:

Bah. Up before dawn. Tuesday feverish and crying. Typing on this silly little tablet with my two forefingers is so slow. Dirt is still sleeping. By the time he gets up, Tuesday might be ready for a nap. Daycare boy is being good and keeping quiet but, still, I really don't like other peoples' kids. Already dreading the arrival of the girl after school. God, she never stops talking.

I feel bad for being such a royal B, but patience and affection for other peoples' kids just don't come naturally to me. Unless they’re the kids of friends or family. Somehow that’s completely different.

Other peoples’ babies and littler kids are not so bad. They don't talk. Or do stuff. They sleep a lot. I can relate to those attributes. Or at least those are activities I approve of and personally enjoy. 
Of course I’ve spent way more time with babies than with actual people-style children, so maybe that will change. I only develop feelings of personal dislike for the ones that run around and get into everything and TALK to me. 
It's like, come on kid, can't you pick up on my cues of disinterest and borderline disdain? Is this completely one-sided conversation really that stimulating for you? Must I remain a part of it??

The main advantage of older kids is self-sufficiency, but that doesn't keep them from bugging me. And again, the guilt for being a raging, lazy B.
Time for coffee cup #85. It's 10am but feels like 10pm. Exhausted, emotional, stir crazy, and sooooooo not in the mood for annoying kid stuff. Fingers crossed that they are nice to me. Or just leave me alone for two forking seconds. They need soooo much attention. I really can't feign excitement today.
I can't even bear to open my mouth. It's like stuck shut. All I can manage is "MmmmHmmm", over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Okay so THAT day was major PMS. I think I drank wine and ate cookie dough for dinner that night, and probably cried when I burned the cookies. Maybe.

Luckily the last few days have been good. Here’s a wonderful, completely redeeming moment from earlier today:

Just put Tuesday down for nap. She said she'd rather go to bed than eat the rest of her watermelon, and seemed delighted with her choice. Okay then.
Now it's Dirt's turn. I tell him it's naptime as soon as his movie is over. He says happily, "Okay, Mom."
When his movie ends, he gets nose to nose with me and says, with the sweetest grin while stroking my arm and looking into my eyes, "I'm not gonna go to bed. I wanna hang out with you, because I like you. May I do that? Is that okay? My hang out with you?" Then he closes his eyes and rubs his face on my arm, doing this weird puppy whimper he does when he's being sweet. "I love you so much, Mama."
What am I supposed to do with this manipulative adorable jerk?

And yesterday I took the kids to the beach. Yes, I live in Colorado and it’s now September, but there is this awesome swimming beach at a reservoir about ½ hour away, and it was friggen 90 degrees yesterday! We were the only ones there for a good hour or two. It was heaven. Seriously PERFECT. To steal a phrase, Eau. Mah. Gah. No wind, not too hot, and above all it was PEACEFUL. And QUIET. I seriously think I go nuts just from too much noise. So I got a little sunbathing in while the kids played happily and QUIETLY in the sand. A-MAH-zing. Then I met another mom who was there with her two kids, almost the exact same ages as mine, so we had friends for a minute, and sometimes that’s nice too. We even exchanged phone numbers, like I did with another mom I met at the very same beach awhile back--the one that invited me to lady Bunco night--but the whole mommy-friend culture still weirds me out. Playdates? Bunco parties? All fine and good, and I’ve tried, but it’s so suburban-housewifey, and the idea of becoming new besties on the basis of us both having kids around the same age is bogus.

I think I’m becoming a hermit, or people-phobic, since being stuck at home so often. JUST GET OUT, you say, but we live 30 minutes from everything and most of the time it’s just not worth the effort to get everyone ready and in the car. Or maybe it is WORTH the effort, but I lack the energy to MAKE the effort. Hmmm. Plus now I have extra kids three days a week and I sure as shit am not going anywhere with FOUR children. I know it’s been done with even more kids, but the very idea frightens me.

I seldom have a reason to actually get dressed and do my hair and makeup, and I get super excited when there’s a good reason (you know, besides the stupid grocery store) to do so. The other day Dooley and I went on a date for his birthday. It is sooooo nice getting away from everything together, to be reminded that we are still friends, still in love, and still have friggen personalities apart from work/home/kids. We are real people!!!! 

But back to the hair/makeup, cuz now it's time to be frivolous and balance out the realness of this post… my hairstyle for the last year or so has involved bangs, but I have to strait iron them cuz I have a really wacky cowlick. Of course  when I’m staying home I’m not gonna mess with that, so I pin the bangs back and usually tuck the rest of my hair behind my ears (my hair is short so I can’t do the mom-bun). Anyway, when I went to actually style my hair for the date, I discovered my bangs had totally grown out and I had to do some major trimming before they looked decent. THAT’S how long it had been since I tried to look nice.

Fuchsia-ish?

Blue?

To wrap this kinna bomberific blog up, I’d like to solicit opinions on my next hair. Since I no longer have a “real” job with standards on color, I want to do some fun color highlights. To shake things up. Dooley asked me if I was rebelling against something or trying to control one tiny aspect of my life by doing so, but really, it’s just for fun. For a change. So. Blue, purple, fuchsia, pink, or red (again)? Ignore the styles. Just look at the color. 

Good lord, Bruce (big brindle mutt) has the most foul gas imaginable. I can barely breathe. 

Do I need a genuine poo story too? Okay, here you go: Tuesday woke up mid-nap, very distressed, saying "Poo-poooo, Ma-maaaaaaa!" and I found her with poop on her fingers. Yup. "Bay yutty", she says. Yes, very yucky. Maybe don't put your hand in your diaper next time you poop.

On THAT note, laterrrrzzzzz. (Is that still a thing? Laterz? What ARE the kids saying these days?)

Also...I would like feedback on the following from other moms: Do you think having the symptoms of depression means you have depression, or that you're just a normal mom? Do you get dressed and do your hair/makeup daily? If not, how often? If your partner works full time and you're home full time, do you do all the housework? Do your children try to manipulate you with their cuteness and love?