Awwww...... s-h-i-R-t-s dammit. SHIRTS.
And yep...this is how I am coming back from a bajillion month disappearance. Talking about typos.
Soooo.....how've ya been?
This feels like one of those times you run into an ex-whatever and it's all awkward and everyone tries to be all "everything has been AWESOME" and then maybe you hang out once in that we-should-grab-coffee kind of way and then inevitably one or the other of you start to think that maybe the other person likes you again but no one wants to be the first to say it. (worst sentence ever written)
So here goes......
I like you guys.
And this is what happened.
So a few months ago I posted about how I was all teeming with anxiety and how things get really really overwhelming sometimes. That is something that has always been true for me. I get all jittery. Like my insides don't fit. Like everyone is staring at me and making fun of my shoes. Like I am walking around with a booger hanging out of my nose.
But after that post I got all stern with myself and was all "You need to start taking care of yourself. You should go to the DOCTOR!" So I made an appointment with a gynecologist. Of course. Because when your head is messed up you definitely should go to a vagina doctor. Plus I figured that this was probably all due to menopause. (at the age of 37 and for issues I have had for my whole life- makes total sense) So I made the appointment with a gynecologist.
A new one. (Brilliant. But I had no choice because we moved to Cincinnati 7 months ago.)
I go to the new girly doctor and I make it through the whole blood pressure and weight taking part/torture. The doctor comes in and we are in the "getting to know you before I ask you to remove your pants" part of the appointment. He was nice. He seemed intelligent and caring. I held it together for approximately 3 minutes. Then he asked me if I had any concerns. I said that sometimes I feel anxiety. And then I started sobbing.
I'm not sure anyone has ever been Prozac-ed so fast in all of history. I think he would have wrestled me to the ground and shoved it down my throat if he had had any emergency Prozac on him.
The good part is that it helps. Some.
And then I spent the last few months playing. Mostly with these freaks.
I haven't talked about them much. I didn't talk about anything much because I was so afraid of getting pigeon-holed as a mommy-blogger or that chick that bitches about her teenager-like angst all the time or the lady who waxes philosophical about marinara sauce and sunsets.
So I played with these guys.
And I drew some stuff.
And I took some pictures.
And I am trying to remember that tiny piece of me that knows how to scream FUCK IT at the top of my lungs.
Except for at the library. They frown on that there.
