a clean slate

You know how they say the older you get, the less you give a shit what other people think? Like how Grandma has no qualms telling her waitress she’s got a really pretty face but could sure stand to drop about 130 lbs? Or how Grandpa just farts right in the middle of the grocery store? Well, I’ll try and keep my farts to myself and if there’s one ultimate truth I will uphold it is that I have no right whatsoever to tell anyone they need to put down the twinkies, but I’m turning 40 on Tuesday and you know what? I’m sick of blowing smoke. I’m sick of pretending on the internet like life is fucking fabulous all the time and I've got an unwavering positive attitude and a golden unicorn who shits rainbows & lives in a cotton candy house in my backyard.

I used to write a blog called In My Life I Love You More. I started it when my son was about 3 months old and wrote about things like how happy I was to be his mother and how I couldn't imagine my life without him. Puppies. Rainbows. I wrote letters to him every time he turned another month older and tried my best to perfect my photography skills so I could capture all of life’s beautiful moments….and then post them on the internet, fingers crossed for comments of praise and applause & to become the most popular blogger on the interwebs. Duh. I aim high, folks.

Well guess what? When my son was 11 months old, I had a bit of an epiphany... completely distracted, totally frazzled and in a state of I-don’t-know-the-hell-what, I crashed into a Lexus, started sobbing and couldn't get a grip for about 5 solid hours. It was that afternoon that I finally called my doctor. I was diagnosed with PPD and PPA and promptly put on medication with strict instructions to find a therapist. I had spent over a year (because, while undiagnosed, I know I was suffering from Anti-natal Depression as well) putting on a show, playing the part and acting “as if”, waiting to finally BE. I thought I could do it all on my own. I couldn't ask for help because FUCK YOU, that’s why. Is that harsh? Sorry. Just be glad I’m not farting in the middle of the grocery store.

The bottom line is, while everything I wrote about how much I love my son and how he is the whole of my heart and everything I live for was and is 100% the truth, that blog started to feel contrived. I was being followed by people I felt guilty for saying the “F” word around, I was writing apologetically and censoring myself... “I can’t say that. What if my family reads this?”. Well, that’s no way to write. And writing, for me, is the best form of therapy I know. It’s my emotional brain vomit. I have to get it out to feel better. But getting it out there was not an option anymore because the small handful of readers I had there were expecting puppies! And rainbows! And all I wanted to do was scream the F word and cry for a little bit until I felt better.

I've always thought of myself as a person who tells it like it is. I really, really appreciated Britney’s complete post-partum mental meltdown on Matt Lauer. Does anybody remember that? (Also, if you need a last name to figure out Britney who, maybe you should read another blog. I’m not sayin’....I’m just sayin’.) Like, it was REAL, finally. Her hair was a wreck, her nails were chewed off, she was a little fat and obviously really needed to be medicated and she just started bawling. The pressure, man. Well, that’s sort of how I feel right now….and coincidentally (or not…) my hair is currently also a wreck, I’m a little fat ( a little?) and thankfully, am extremely medicated….So what I’m saying right now is Brit, I feel ya, sister. And you got your shit together! ::::fist bump::: I mean, if Britney can do it, so can I.

:::::::::roundoff back handspring! High five!:::::::::::

So that’s what this next decade of my life is about. That’s what this blog is about.

Fuck this birthday horseshit. The fuss & fanfare and all the bull. I’m so over it. It was a habit of 39 years to make a big deal, have grand expectations and feel deflated and resentful when those expectations were not realized which – obviously – they never, ever were. That’s the thing with expectations, right? They are basically the root of disappointment. I started on that cycle this year too and somewhere around 3 weeks ago I woke up and said to myself “Rach, cut the crap. All you really want for your birthday is clean sheets, new pajamas and a good night’s sleep” and you know what? Once that occurred to me, the monkey on my back wearing the polka dot birthday hat, throwing confetti and blowing a kazoo skulked away with his tail between his legs. He was an asshole anyway.

SO here we are. On the cusp of 40. My 30s were basically one gigantic clusterfuck. (We’ll talk more about that tomorrow. ) But the next 10 years will not be.

I lost control; I’m getting it back.

I stopped living and just existed; I’m not satisfied with that anymore.

Because of my depression, I gained a frightening (to me) amount of weight; that’s coming off.

I will often be happy and excited and motivated and enthusiastic. I will often be angry and hungry and disappointed and deflated. I will always be real. And I will do it all right here. If you’d like to join me, I’d love to have you.

It’s a new year, it’s a new decade. It’s a clean slate. I just love clean slates.