It’s like that Wilson Phillips song. You know, the one about the chains.

You know, on any other ordinary Wednesday afternoon, I’d be looking out this window behind my computer and thinking that it’s kind of a shitty, rainy day. I’d be thinking that I’m tired after being gone for three days at a sort-of-useless conference, that I haven’t posted to my discussion board in three weeks and that I don’t know what’s for dinner, nor do I really care.

But today is no ordinary Wednesday afternoon; today is the day I met the woman who plans to fix me.

As you know, my well-documented struggle with panic and anxiety has been rapidly spiraling into deeper, darker waters that also are starting to include symptoms of major depression. I’ve been so wrought with overwhelming terror and fear that I haven’t been able to leave my house for days – until, thankfully, Monday morning, when my boss literally carted my ass to a different city. She watched over me and took good care of me and made sure I medicated myself thoroughly, and then she brought me home today so I could meet my new drug dealer psychiatrist who – are you ready for this, Internet? – is going to MAKE IT ALL BETTER.

I should note here that I have placed an inordinate amount of confidence and trust in this woman, and if she disappoints me then I might just have to key her car. But for the first time in my life – EVER – someone sat down with me today, asked me relevant questions about my disorder, gave me a tour of my brain and it’s innermost faults and laid out what Brian likes to call a “battle plan” for my recovery.

It turns out that I am neither fruitbat nor nutbucket crazy. I am not weird, strange or otherwise odd. (Shut up, people.) I merely have some faulty circuits rattling around in my noodle and with the proper medication and cognitive-behavioral therapy, I might be able to rejoin society as a productive citizen.

THIS IS HUGE.

Well, it is. Granted, most everything to me is HUGE because I like to USE CAPS LIKE THIS and GENERALLY EXAGGERATE things and MAKE THEM DRAMATIC and GO APESHIT over the mundane. But today I’d like to think that HUGE is deserved.

There is a bright bare yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling in my tunnel. The graffiti along the walls has changed from words that cause me terror to words that give me hope. There is someone walking with me in that tunnel, offering me a hand – a hand with a whole lot of degrees and years of experience – and today for the first time I can see my way out.

Thank you for sticking with me, for standing by me and for reading to find out what happens to me. It is with your support that I get through each day, which is why I feel like GOING APESHIT RIGHT NOW WITH THE CAPS LOCK BECAUSE HOLY HELL someone is going to fix me and THIS IS HUGE.

I’m off to do the hokey-pokey now. It’s that kind of day.

A fairytale fit for a baby

Dear Future Ward of the State,

Don’t get all judgy right away, kid, your mom told me to call you that – (“please refer to my unborn child as I do, as “Future Ward of the State”) – see? Anyway, I’d like to tell you a little story.

Once upon a time, there were two lovely girls named . . . Margaret and Erin. And they were the best of friends who did most everything together, things like smoking cigarettes (which they so don’t do anymore) and drinking PBR top shelf beer, and writing papers together until the wee hours of the morning. They would talk and talk, and plan their political futures together and occasionally they would sober up and show up to class. One day Erin became very important and she was in charge of Margaret’s living quarters. And she tried  very hard to make sure that Margaret followed all the rules, except she couldn’t. And Margaret broke her ankle on her 21st birthday, and Erin laughed and didn’t call the cops. They were best friends.

One day Margaret called Erin with the most exciting news: “I’m engaged!” she said. “I’m marrying this wonderful boy and I want you to be in my wedding.” Erin cried with excitement and anticipation as she imagined what beautiful dresses she would wear and what charming parties she would attend. When Margaret got married, Erin gave her a silver charm bracelet that had everything from crutches to flip flops to a picture of her grandparents’ wedding day on it. She melted. (Literally and figuratively: it was hot as blue blazes that day.)

Margaret lived happily ever after until the day she learned that Erin, too, had found her Prince Charming. (This is the part about your parents, so try not to barf just yet.) Margaret was so beside herself with glee that she packed her bags and flew down to New Orleans to watch them pledge their undying – if somewhat injured – love to each other. There were twinkly lights and lace dresses and blue slings and flowers and lots of love. It was a magical night. Margaret knew right then that Erin was destined for a life of happiness (with your dad) and that only good things would come to her.

One cool, September afternoon, Margaret got the most exciting news: Erin was going to have a baby! She and Prince Charming had finally settled down in a small town, with a cute (if somewhat ’70s-looking but that’s just because the kitchen is mustard yellow) house and presumably a yard. Erin was working as a law clerk for some judges there and Prince was . . . well, he’s very important and does lots of secret missions that you shouldn’t know anything about. Erin always knew that one day she and Prince would have a baby, but the question of what to name it, well, that was a question for the record books. Would it be Zeus? Would it be Aphrodite? Would it be Vixen? Erin didn’t know.

So Margaret took to the Interwebs and wrote the new baby a story in hopes that one day it would understand why Erin and Margaret were such good friends. Margaret hoped beyond hope that the new baby would love her as much as she already loves it (I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl yet, kid, AGAIN WITH THE JUDGY). Margaret crossed her fingers that she would have enough vacation days to come down and see the new baby, so she could tell it to call her Al. (That stands for Aunt Lizzie. Not for Paul Simon.)

And Margaret and Erin and Prince Charming dreamed lots of dreams about the new baby, whether it would grow up to be a judge or a doctor, a politician or a scientist. And they knew that no matter what the new baby did, he or she would make all of their dreams come true.

THE END.

Now, run off and tell your mama to call me. We’ve got a college reunion to plan.

Birthday Art

What’s that? You thought Birthday Week was over? PSHAW! You were mistaken, Internet. This gorgeous handmade birthday card, originally seen here, arrived in my mailbox today. Alissa of haley+rose makes beautiful stationery, jewelry, baked goods (well, I’ve heard about them, haven’t tried them) and, oh yes, television. Not only does she produce lovely things, she’s a lovely (and talented!) friend. Thanks for the sweet card, dearest! (And for using a Simpsons stamp – LOVE IT.)

Because I’m a cheese ass

Upon further research, I have discovered that “cheese ass” does not mean what I thought it did. To call myself a cheese ass is to say that I love cheese in excess of most everything else (according to Urban Dictionary). This is true. What is also true is that I’m writing an entire post about how much I love my friends and how much their sweet messages and texts and shout-outs and phone calls and office decorations and breakfasts and lunches and gifts really mean to me.

Because they do.

Last night was kind of a rough night, which I’ll talk about later because I haven’t quite gotten over the embarrassment of it all yet, and so – and this, Internet, is utterly unlike me – I was almost dreading my birthday. I’m the kind of girl that loves her birthday so very much that she wears a crown about town THE WHOLE DAY. A crown made of pink cardboard and silver glitter and perhaps some feathers. What can I say? I am who I am. But this year, since I’m getting older (shh, I’m 31 now, don’t tell), I gave up my crown, wore a shitty outfit to work and didn’t even (really) brush my hair. Mostly it was because of last night, but also because DAMN, didn’t I just have a birthday? One with a BIG FAT NUMBER attached to it? This age thing is kind of getting to me.

Then I woke up this morning, saw my Facebook page (you folks are some dedicated Facebookers, I tell you) and went to work, where I got some love all day long. Tomorrow I will post about my gift from BB (oh, it’s good y’all) and will tell you about various and sundry other things going on, but for now – for NOW! – I will just say that to have the friends and love I have is almost more than my cold, cold heart can bear.

So, thanks.

haley + rose

necklace designed and crafted by alissa harris of haley + rose

I am so thrilled and excited to announce the launch of haley + rose, a website crafted and designed and loved all over by one of my dearest friends, Alissa Harris. Alissa is from my college days, was a beautiful bridesmaid in my wedding and just celebrated her 5th anniversary with a well-known production company in LA. She is a thousand different kinds of fabulous, and I can’t wait for you to see her stuff. Much of her site is dedicated to things she’s found and discovered that inspire her to create her own jewelry and stationery, among many other things. Visit her often – you’ll no doubt find it worth every minute!