My name is Eryn and I was once a blogger. I once had the ability to write interesting -to me, anyway- and sometimes even amusing or informative blog posts. I read other blogs, even interacted with the world by commenting and conversing on a regular basis. Then, I kind of, well, stopped.
And, so…Today, I’m going to go on a long explanation/rant/confession spree, complete with several f-bombs, ’cause it’s just been that kind of week- so brace yourself, or click away.
So, here’s where I’ve been: First, as you probably know already, (since like, only my mom is still reading this,) I got sick. Well, sicker. And while I was getting sicker, I started to realize that most of what I was writing was, well, shit. Sometimes literally. And so I thought- “No one really wants to hear about how I got so sick I shit myself in the shower here.” Or, um on Facebook for that matter. (Again, sorry about that, Mother-in-Law, and great-grandpa.)
So, I decided to stop writing here until I had something less depressing to say. Something witty, or informative or… Whatever. Something less shit-related. I figured I’d come up with something good for you eventually. Contrary to popular belief, my life isn’t ALL about the shit.
Though, granted, there IS a LOT of shit involved with the care of that one too. But he is cute, so it is okay.
Anyway… the plan was to write more when I had constructive things to write about that were not about my shitty healthy and my shitty shower escapades. And I fully intended to get right on that.
But then we moved.
And I got new doctors. New doctors that decided that since I’m in chronic pain I MUST be depressed, and therefore started playing a six-month game of what I like to call “musical meds” with me.
I’m no stranger to depression. I was your typical depressed teen for quite some time back in the day. (Fuck, I’m old now too. When did that happen?) Anyhow, I know what it feels like. I know the symptoms. I know when I need help. And I know when to ask for it.
And after I had Elijah and got diagnosed with maybe-probably-whofuckingknowsanymore-RA, I DID need help. When we went in for his month check up and the family doctor asked how *I* was doing, and I burst into tears, we put me on some meds.
The plan was six months of meds, while the PPD hormone storm calmed and I’d adjusted to the new pain level.
And then I’d go off, because really, the last thing I need is a sixteenth medication to add to the pile of toxic shit I have to ingest on a daily basis. Honestly-As long as my pain is controlled, I’m actually NOT depressed much. Sure, I have days, but EVERYONE does. That’s life. I have a wonderful husband, awesome kids, and things really are… GOOD other than MY health. Which I’m coping with.
So, that was the plan and I was ok with it.
And then we moved.
Yes, it always comes back to that.
Moving fucked me. No, really…Moving was awesome in so many ways, but totally set my medical progress back a year, at least.
We got here and the new doctors all had different opinions on what I have/don’t have and should/shouldn’t be on and I swear to the gods they are going to end up fucking killing me or making me kill myself or somemotherfucker is getting a spork in the eye if they don’t all get on the samegoddamnnedpage soon.
(Hmmn. Perhaps statements like that one are why they keep forcing meds on me?)
Pardon, I um, digress.
In all seriousness, I didn’t even realize something was seriously wrong in my head until I had a pregnancy scare and stopped taking the happy meds the latest quack decided I must need. (Sidebar: Apparently not eating for three months can cause you to have a 31-day late period. Who knew? Well, bulimics, probably)
Anyway, without the brain meds I suddenly realized that my mind had been gone for, like at least the last six-months. And I didn’t even realize it. I was walking and talking and acting like a normal human, but inside? I wasn’t home. I didn’t CARE about anything. No passion, no real emotion. So why would I write about anything?
And that, my friend
s, is, pardon the term: Fucking Scary.
Pretty much the instant that I came off of the antidepressants, I WANTED to write again. I want to leave the house again.(working on that one still) I want to…Participate in these global conversations again. Live my damn life again. ( Disclaimer: Some people DO WONDERFUL ON THEM AND NEED THEM. Some people actually have chemical imbalances or other issues, like, perhaps actually BEING depressed. I am NOT advocating anyone stopping any meds here, just sharing MY personal experience. So don’t sue me,
During all of this, I had yet another revelation. I realized that I truly don’t give a fuck if I sound whiny or bitchy or have to many health problems for my, um three-ish readers that are still here. This is my personal blog, uncensored and agenda free. If you don’t like it, go read Dooce or something. Cause I ain’t PC, I say “fuck” entirely too much, I won’t sponsor ads or promote horrendous shit you don’t need to buy on my personal blog. I don’t care that you know I’m a Pagan who has spanked my kids bottoms from time to time and really really hates your stupid bumper stickers. I don’t even care if you think so-called-mommyblogging is exploiting our children.
That’s crap, by the way. (Since I somehow got to THIS subject from um… wherever the hell I was in that last paragraph, I’m just going to go with it) MOST of us writers who happen to also be parents, we do this, not to make a buck, or embarrass our kids,or be attention whores. ( Note the most I had to throw in there) We do this because we have to. If we didn’t,I truly think we’d all be insane. Because parenthood, and LIFE for that matter, can be an isolating, fucking terrifying thing. And the “blogosphere” (Have they come up with a better term yet? I really hate that word.) is a community. We may not all agree on working/staying home, breast/bottle spank/no spank, but so fucking what? I’ve seen what can happen when we all work together and it’s an amazing, awesome thing. Lives have been changed for the better. Motrin has been humiliated. People’s minds have been expanded and enriched. And we gain comfort, in knowing that we are not alone. So, I, my friends am here to stay. In my mind, in my life, and yes, in the “blogosphere” (gag)
My other project, now THAT has an agenda, an awesome one, at that, but here?
Here I’m just myself. Fuck it.