I had my first therapy session this week.

I knew I was going to cry, but I was surprised at how quickly I was able to gain my composure. I was able to say some things out loud that I've been keeping in my head and that felt better than I expected.

I've already been given some tools to help change my thinking patterns and been presented with the idea that perhaps some of this is persistent because of OCD. I admitted to some OCD behavior and came to realize I had more than I thought I did (nail biting, skin picking, counting, and now potentially obsessive/repetitive thoughts). It makes a lot of sense.

As a mother I'm still feeling incredible inadequacy on a daily basis. Some days are really good and I get glimmers of confidence. Some days are really bad and I throw things and scream. (Yep. If you know me you're probably having trouble picturing this, but it's true. I've also punched a few walls. Yay overwhelm!) In my mind I'm constantly questioning myself and my competency. I'm still convinced on most days that Norma would be better than me.

Who is Norma?

Norma is the fake woman in my brain that my family would be better off with, and the reason I often think about driving away forever or into a busy intersection. She's basically perfect and 'normal,' hence 'Norma.'

Her heart expanded and her life had a hole filled when my baby was born. She couldn't imagine life without her. She knows what to do when baby won't stop crying and she has all the patience in the world. Her presence is soothing and loving. She is naturally nurturing and confident. She recovered brilliantly from childbirth and she loves babies. She has never regretted having a baby. She's basically a manifestation of everything I think I lack.

I try really hard not to think about Norma.

As a wife I feel useless and like I should probably be replaced. Having a child is exhausting and being anxious and depressed is exhausting and by the time I've gotten kiddo to sleep, dried my tears, and calmed my racing thoughts... there's nothing left. There's nothing left for him and there's nothing left of me. I'm an empty shell that falls asleep on the couch at 8pm. I don't understand what he could possibly be getting from me and our relationship at this point.

I love him. So so much. He is so incredibly supportive of me despite everything... If he cheated on me I would totally get it.

Norma would have the energy for sex.

As a human being I'm holding on. I'm taking steps in every right direction I can see because I don't want to feel this way. I've quit most social media, I've started reading about women who have been where I am, I've started meditating, I've started therapy. I'm attempting to simplify and I think it's starting to help.

I want to get to a point where I can say, "Fuck you Norma. I got this." Where I can visualize myself, as imperfect as I am, and know that I'm the best thing for my family.

I just need to stop telling myself I'm awful.

I've always been torn between being extremely guarded and being extremely honest. As I've aged, the honesty keeps slipping further and further into the most guarded places of my heart and mind.

I think that's my new definition of growth.

As a Mother's Day gift to myself, I'm going to allow myself to grow a little more.

Please, let me start out by formally announcing that I absolutely love and adore my daughter. It's likely that it may seem otherwise after reading this. I assure you, that is not the case, I love her as intensely as I have ever loved anything. 

Onward.

I was pregnant.

I didn't have a glamorous pregnancy. I didn't have a particularly complicated pregnancy either. I think it was a pretty standard, run of the mill pregnancy.

Then, I gave birth.

I didn't have a glamorous delivery. I didn't have a particularly complicated delivery either. I think it was a pretty standard, run of the mill delivery. 

Now I have a baby.

Somehow, the hospital let me leave with this thing. I mean, I had to prove I could make it gain weight and that I could change diapers, (both mine and the baby's), but they totally let me take her home. I'm still shocked by this. 

6 weeks later.

This is just baby blues.
The baby blues should be gone.
The baby blues aren't gone?
I'm not depressed, this is just new.
This is hard.
She's just being difficult today.
I'm just tired.
I can't sleep.

I don't think that anyone would call me an overly emotional person, but I am someone who knows how they feel despite the fact that I rarely express it. I was expressing it all over the place. I didn't realize to what extent, and I didn't realize how abnormal for me it was.

My husband's friend was the first to question my mental state. My friend, his wife, had been through this, and he recognized similarities in me. He mentioned this to my husband, who mentioned it to me.

I spent an entire evening processing, crying, researching, crying, writing, crying, crying, crying. 

It didn't click at first, until it did. One visit from those caring friends and one doctor's appointment later.

I opted to get some medicine to help me while I determine what other help I might need. It worked quite well at first. I cried less, and my mind didn't race as much. The little voice inside my head became less negative and more forgiving. I felt a positive clarity, one that I didn't even have before all of this.

I'm glad someone pointed out to me that I wasn't okay. I'm glad I know myself well enough to recognize that they were right. I'm glad I'm not scared to admit that I need help.

I have Postpartum Depression.

I say have, because I still have it. It hasn't gone anywhere. 

The medicine I'm on isn't working was well as it was. I'll be addressing that with my doctor shortly. 

Right now, I feel as though I am present, but nothing else. Majority of the time my head feels like a quiet, absent place. I feel like if I were to walk on a marble floor with stilettos on, I would make no noise. Feeling like a noiseless version of myself isn't the worst thing, but my mind likes to make me feel like shit for it, and then I go dark.

When my head space goes dark, it's brutal. I wanted to type out an example of the thoughts that run through my head, but I'm in a decent, noiseless spot right now and I don't particularly want to spill the negative stuff all over it.

What's important here is that I'm smart enough to know that the things I'm telling myself are false. I know, logically, there isn't a reason for me to feel what I'm feeling. There isn't a reason for me to be so critical when I have evidence that I am doing well. 

I fully intend on working with my doctor and adjusting my medication until it works for me. I'm also coming to the realization that I probably needed therapy before all of this and that if I want to pass this hump in my life, I'm going to need to talk through some things.

I said it before, but I truly mean it:

Learning to take care of my daughter is teaching me how to take care of myself.

I believe I was exiting the Sonic drive thru, or entering it, or approaching it, or imagining it, or sitting idly pre or post order... OKAY, so I obviously don't know exactly which part of the purchase I was in, but I was somewhere between leaving home in a car and arriving back home in... the same car. #corndogs #listeria #shutup

None of this matters.

I was in some kind of Sonic process, (can we please take  a minute to appreciate how cool 'Sonic process' sounds?), when I told my husband that I feel savage. This is my one word recap of the first trimester of pregnancy.  Anyway, I believe the conversation went a little something like this:

What I mean by this is that I'm a monster, and I feel utterly and completely out of control. 

"But Lauren! Pregnancy is ​a #blessing and just, omg it's going to be so fine, and no, none of the terrible things you read will happen to you... except some of them! Only some of them! Look at the bright side, at the end of this you get a baby THAT YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO TAKE CARE OF, BUT I'M AN EXPEEEERRRRTTT ASK ME ALL THE QUESTIONS!!@!!@!!$!!" (Obviously this person's voice becomes deeper and deeper until the end of the sentence, at which point we all discover that it is none other than Satan). 

Yea, other moms, you are Satan now. Congrats. No exceptions, all of you: Satan.

Onward, there are bullet points needed after all.

• Get up, come on, get down with the sickness. Oh wa ah ah ahhhhII'll be honest, I haven't puked. I understand that may make me lucky. Yay, luck. I did, however, get nauseous every. single. day. Basically it went like this...
  
  Wake up, drink some water. Nauseous because I didn't eat yet. Eat. Nauseous because I ate too much. Wait. Nauseous because I'm hungry. Eat. Nauseous because I didn't eat enough. Fall asleep on the couch. Wake up. Nauseous because why the fuck not, always nauseous. Nauseous. 
  
• Hibernation. I didn't realize that in order to create a person I had to be in 'off' mode. I understand that eyeballs and toes and weird all-over baby fur takes a lot of time and energy to produce, but c'mon. At one point I'm pretty sure I was sleeping 12 hours a day. At least. That's not productive, and I found it to be an incredibly inefficient use of my time.
• ​Whose body is this anyway? I was not as 'up to speed' on the changes that my body would endure during this 'short' 3 months as I believe I could have been. Nobody told me that 6 weeks in I would become a gas giant and I would have to borrow pants from the planet Neptune.
  
  Nobody told me that my boobs would launch into a growth spurt so unreasonable that I can only conclude that they are each having a baby of their own. (I'm up 2 cup sizes and growing. Rapidly. Someone help me. Heeeellllp). You might think, 'Hey Lauren, be positive, I bet your husband is stoked!' You would be right, if he could get anywhere near them. They are basically radiating heat while being as sensitive to touch as an open flesh wound filled with maggots who hiss and whine at you if you so much as look at them. So yea, I'm basically an angry maggot filled radiator. I'm not calling my baby a maggot, I'm calling my own boobs maggot infested. I'm grossing me out, and you. It's over now. It's okay.
  
  Basically, I don't recognize my own body, it's all large and plobby and belongs to someone else now that I don't even know yet. It hurts at random, and I never know if it's normal or not. I have to Google my weirdies and figure out if I'm broken or just experiencing another symptom I didn't know existed.
  
  I've gained stretch marks that make me sob quietly to myself in the mirror. Mirror crying at your own body is very depressing, not only because you're own body is making you cry, but because you're also watching yourself cry, which makes you feel even uglier than your body did. ::Wipes nose:: I'll be fine...
• My mind's telling me no, but my body, my body's telling me... also no. My sex drive left the country. (I'm assuming it drove, because that's just fun wordplay).  I don't need to tell you about my libido and get all into shit that will make you look at me weird at work or the grocery story, but just know that my sex drive before all this... well, it EXISTED. It was real. It was something that I had and I could navigate to in my mind space. Then I got pregnant and my body took my sex drive and converted it to boob meat.
• Senses. I can smell all the things. Your bubble gum, the Bengay the overweight guy in the kitchen has on, the Ethiopian food the ENTIRE company ate for lunch and left on the counter for the rest of the day... I can smell it all. It's like the worst super power ever. I also have the super weakness of not being able to eat iceberg lettuce (or as I now call it, 'dirty wet paper'). Nobody even likes iceberg lettuce anyway. Good riddance, iceberg lettuce. Fuck you.
• Feels. Outside of random crying early on and mirror crying at my own body, I've been pretty even keeled. Except 2 days at work. On those days I wanted to kill someone, empty their organs, crawl inside their skin, and then ruin every relationship they had while I pretended to be the worst version of them. A slippy, gross, skin-suit version of them. There is an unprecedented evil that these hormones like to cling on to, but I can hide it, so shh. 

Overall, I give the first trimester a 2/10. Hands down, this is one of the most unresearched and questionable decisions I have ever made. I don't regret it, I know the end result is this whole family thing that I want. It seems to be getting better, but I will require heavy convincing and/or bribery to go through the last 3 months again. Fuck that shit.

As true as the heartburn coursing through my chest, I am currently pregnant. 

Yep. Just over 2 months into my sentence. (You can try to get me to speak in terms of weeks, but I'm not a fucking lunatic. I'm a grown ass woman (1568 weeks old!) and I'm converting to the greatest unit of measure, like I always have).

I understand, after reading every article I could find on the topic, that determining when to tell people you're pregnant is a very delicate thing. Everyone has different advice, and that advice, try as it might, will never be right for everyone. I'm guessing that is a common theme with everything to come... hooray opinions!

For me (us), the right thing is to put this out into the world. 

Since everyone seems to love posts where I do bullet points. Here are the main things you should know or might be curious about. Save me a conversation, you know I don't really care for those if I don't know you well.

• Yep, it was on purpose. It's true that I've said many times that I was unsure that I wanted kids. (Typically followed by a casual joke about if it happened that it would probably be an accident. Lol, wow, Lauren you're so fucking witty). Truth be told, I just don't like people to know things about me. I've known I've wanted kids since I was 19. It's been on my bucket list since then, I just didn't tell you, because why would I.
• I'm due in January. Super happy I'm not plump-o-licious during the summer months, but feel free to tell me how lucky I am. Seems to be a thing that people like to say. 
• I don't care what gender it is. I also don't care what gender it identifies as or what bathroom it chooses to use/not use. I just want it to be a healthy, and not a ginger. (There is a real and true ginger risk here folks).
• I feel mostly fine. Aside from wanting to create physical distance between myself and my own boobs, I'm doing great. All the normal shit is happening and I'm considering myself lucky I haven't been cursed with the vomiting I always heard so much about.

Now, to end this on a positive, here are all the things I've cried about so far.

1. The Beach Boys are too happy. On this day, I had to think of what group has a sound that would never make anyone cry. So, I got ready to Cypress Hill. It was effective.
2. I don't want big nipples. Self explanatory.
3. All the songs on my way to work had acoustic guitar. Happy chords.
4. A woman in the video about bloating had a really fucked up looking belly button. ​It was gross.

Dear Lauren,

If I'm right about you, (and I am, because I am you), you're probably wondering, 'How the fuck did I get this letter from myself?' You didn't. This letter is just a symbol of my relationship with my past self and a reflection on how I've lived my life. BUT! If through some magical event this gets this into hands of the internet dwelling insomniac I was at 19, I'll write it anyway. Plus, Facebook told me to, (yea, social media is still a thing and yes, you're still hyper-addicted to it. It's a problem).

Anywho, Lauren, I'm almost 30. Not the 'almost 30' that a 27 year old says, but the, 'my birthday is literally in less than 20 days' type of 'almost 30.' You know, the scary kind that makes you question if you're who you want to be and all those other fun, existential things. Oh wait, you don't know, because you're 19. Fuck.

Being almost 30 is not by any means, a logical reason as to why you should listen to me. 

I know that you're expecting a long rant about all the terrible choices you made up until now, and a how-to guide on avoiding them all. You won't be getting any of that.

You saw The Butterfly Effect more recently than I did. I don't want this letter to be the demise of my alternate future self. Though, technically, I suppose writing this letter at all is a risk because its existence, should it end up in your hands, could very well be the thing that throws off all of the other things...

No, you haven't stopped overthinking anything. That's still going strong.

Here's my advice: Don't do anything differently.

• Break up with the people that hurt your heart, even when it hurts you more.
• Drink when you want to be drunk. 
• Buy ALL THE THINGS on your credit card. (Seriously, go buckwild on this one).
• Quit your job when you're above it.
• Force your one week ex to drop your Heroes season DVD off on your parent's doorstep so you don't have to see him one more time.
• Be selfish when it comes to love.
• Keep writing in your Livejournal well past the point of it being relevant! 
• Dye your hair like fire.
• Stop shaving your arms after 17 years, turns out your insecurities from 6th grade aren't at all justified!
• Get adult braces.
• Buy a French Bulldog. 
• Definitely keep cursing at your cat, she doesn't get any better.
• Apologize to everyone you've wronged, even when you know they aren't ready to forgive you. Even Tommy.

I could keep going, because I'm not convinced you should change anything. Every single bit of everything you do brought me to where I am. 

Where I am is pretty fucking solid.

Love, 

​Lauren

First and foremost, it is important for you to know that I hate shopping.

I don't get a sweet buyer's high from copping a sick deal. I don't enjoy sifting through a rack only to find that the one shirt that looks like the shape of my torso (oblong rectangle) is completely sold out in my size. I don't like searching for my size and finding that JUST KIDDING, this brand does things differently and now I'm a totally different size. I don't respect how 99% of women's pants are sized (what the fuck does 'long' mean?! We picked the stupid imperial system for some reason, why can't we use it to sell pants?! Last I checked I measured shit in inches, not in simple adjectives. 'Hey. How long is that broom? 'Oh, this broom? This broom is regular. Just a regular broom, regular length.') I don't want to take my clothes off in a tiny room and pretend that my pasty white skin looks good in fluorescent lighting.

I don't like shopping. I don't like shopping. I hate shopping.

Enter Stitch Fix. (THAT is a referral link, because I'm smart).

Stich Fix is this thing of when you pay some magical internet stylist $20 to send you some crap that matches your style. 'But Lauren, how do? How do they know my style Lauren, how?!' Relax, let me 'splain the whole process.

1. Style profile, I said, it always brings me back when I hear 'Ooh Child.' Beastie Boys lyrics aside, after you sign up you go fill out a 'Style Profile.' This is basically like your vital stats and all the questions one might ask when having 'cyber sex' as a 14 year old (act like you didn't). How long is your gams? How big is ya lady lumps? Do you prefer latex fit or garbage bag fit? Do you like this outfit? What about this one? How often do you go to gala events? How similar to Caitlin Jenner is your animal spirit? How show-offy are you with your parts? What's your budget? Do you tolerate patterns? Are you more of a Disney Princess or a normal person? Do you hate color? 
2. Leave a 'final thought' for your stylist. I can't really clarify that any further, so I'll just leave the ACTUAL NOTE I left for my stylist. 'I'm basically the slightly less frumpy 'before' from every chick movie. I'm in decent shape, I want to look cute, but I absolutely hate the way shopping makes me feel and I'm terrible at picking things out. I have issues wearing clothing that draws attention to me, but I'm REALLY seeking to get over that. I'm hoping slowly I can develop a style that jumps further than t-shirts and jeans and feel happy in what I wear. I'm also very pale. I'm not sure if that matters, it's just true.'
3. Pick a date and pump out $20. If you have money boobs, that would be awesome, but you probably don't. Perhaps a stripper does. I mean, technically, she definitely does. Anyway, you pick a date and you pay $20. This isn't fucking rocket science.
4. Wait. While you're waiting you might get an email that's like, 'omg go look at our Pinterest and yay spring fashion,' but you should expect that, it's a fucking styling company. That's good marketing for them. Good job. 
5. Get your package. Now the day arrives, you get your package. It comes in a fancy box and everything is wrapped in tissue paper. You get some papers and some examples of how to wear the shit that came in your box. I got a pair of black skinny jeans that I asked for, 3 tops, a necklace, and a note from my stylist that said, "blah blah blah, yadda yadda pants, ding dong necklace P.S. Your Twitter is hilarious." Why thank you, kind Stitch Fix stylist, my Twitter is mediocre at best, but I'll take your compliment and think of it for the next 4 years as a high point in my life.
6. Pick what you wanna keep. Basically, it goes like this. Keep all the things = total price of all items - 25% - $20 styling fee. It is the best deal. If you don't keep all the things, you pay for the items you keep minus your $20. I did the math and keeping the one shirt I didn't like was cheaper, so I kept it. If you don't keep any of the things, you're shit out of luck on your $20 because that paid the labor costs of your stylist telling you you're funny and picking out some crap and reading through your stupid body type and whether or not you like polka dots. That's worth $20, you're not that interesting.
   

That's the end. You log in and review the items and tell them what you loved or how badly they fucked up. You buy what you want to keep or you toss it in the postage paid bag to send it back. Easy.

Overall, I give Stitch Fix a 9/10. I ended up with a really well fitting pair of black skinny jeans and some shirts I definitely wouldn't have picked out for myself, but that I'm comfortable wearing. The chick who styled me absolutely read my comments and catered the crap to fit my needs. For me, this service is well worth the money, especially considering the alternative: wasting my time going shopping and coming back empty handed, feeling crappy about myself, my style, and all the shapes that I'm not.

 Not like nipples, you're thinking of inverted. 

Introversion. Maybe you've heard of it? Perhaps you haven't. (That's okay, why would you want to know anything about like... 50% of people anyway?) I'm not going to explain it to you, because there are 700 articles about it on every website lately and that's what Google is for anyway.

Regardless, I've been introverted since I can remember. Here I will provide some examples from my childhood experiences to give you proof, because no one who reads this has any reason to believe me.

• At one point many people, including my parent's friends, thought that I was mute because I wouldn't talk to anyone outside of our house.
• I used to carve out corners of our living room as my designated 'office' so that I could escape the dreadful realities of sharing a bedroom with my sister and spend some time by myself. (No, you can't come in. No people allowed).
• In middle school I pretended to be grounded on multiple occasions to get out of hanging out with my own friends. (Becky, Tarah, Lindsey... I'm sorry. This is 100% true. I REGRET NOTHING).

Hopefully, if you know me, this doesn't come as a surprise. I'm predominately quiet, I observe more than I participate, and I quite literally NEVER want to talk to you at the soda machine, in the elevator, or at any time in my existence without a specified purpose. Small talk matters not.

I think I've given introversion a fair run, and I think it's time to give it a review. Let's do this thing.

• ​Thinking before I speak.
  • ​Pros: I rarely say anything that I regret and I usually sound like I know what I'm talking about. Part of the process of coming up with what to say is noting all of your potential responses and knowing how to respond to each of them in a thoughtful way. You're welcome.
  • Cons: I go silent when I'm uncomfortable or emotional so that I do not say the wrong thing, and often end up saying nothing at all.  (My husband can likely attest to my 'silent arguments' where I refuse to go to sleep until it's resolved but take no verbal steps toward resolution). If I DO speak before thinking, I am extremely hurtful. I'll verbally take your soul shattering weakness, shove it in your face like fucking wedding cake, and then show you to your mother while she shakes her head in embarrassment that she raised someone so sensitive.
• ​Not needing to be around anyone.
  • ​Pros: Exactly that, not needing to be around anyone. Take solace  in knowing that if I'm hanging out with, I want to be there. I don't require most social interaction, so if I'm choosing to be around you, you're a winner!  Basically what I'm saying is that my friendship, though limited, is extremely genuine. 
  • Cons: Society (and myself) make me feel like a real shit for not needing to be around anyone. I constantly berate myself for being a terrible friend because I just don't need to see my friends as often as society dictates I should. Most of my friends are fine with this, but secretly I imagine they aren't and they sit at their houses and look at their husbands and say, "You know that Lauren is a real shit."
• Fewer, closer relationships.​
  • Pros: I don't have that many friends. If you think we're friends, I probably don't. It's not because I'm mean or heartless, I just require an increased understanding of who you are and vice versa before I consider you a friend. Basically, if I'm unsure if you've ever done butt stuff, we're probably not friends. My friends are all that close.
  • Cons: I've never had that gaggle of women that most girls have. Or gaggle of any gender really. I've never been part of a gaggle. I'm like the lone rock in the field and the gaggle is over there. The best way to explain this is that none of the 4 bridesmaids in my wedding are actually friends with each other. 
• ​Observing everything.
  • ​Pros: I remember a lot of things, and I pick up on a lot of things other people don't. About places I go, people I meet, the way food tastes, the way things smell. I can tell if something insignificant changes. This also makes me a boss at giving advice to my friends. People trust me because I tell them truths about themselves that I pick up while I'm not blabbing my damn mouth all the time. I know a lot of secrets about people, and most people tell me them because they know I won't tell anyone else.
  • Cons: Hardcore social and environmental burn out.
• ​Burning out.
  • ​Pros: There are no pros to burning out that I have found. Unless you view the statement, 'I'd probably be fine if I were locked in solitary confinement for a week or so,' to be a pro. I do not, because that sounds fucking bat shit crazy,
  • Cons: All the cons. All of them. The only thing in this world I hate more than being socially burnt out is blowing my nose (don't ask, I just fucking hate it okay). FACT: I have cried 4 out of 5 of the times I've gone to Vegas. Vegas is the king of burn outs. (Along with conventions of any kind). In Vegas, there are a shit ton of people, and everything is loud. The carpet is loud, the people are loud, the slot machines, the music, the lighting is LOUD. It's sensory overload, it's terrible, and my poor body doesn't know what else to do so it mentally breaks down, I cry (typically in public), and then I drink heavily.  (Places I have cried at in Vegas in order: Hotel room, Hotel room/lobby, Panda Express, strip club). Truth.

​Overall, I give being introverted a 6/10. That's not really a passing grade, but let's be honest, being extroverted just sounds  way fucking better. Dammit. 

It may come as a surprise that I am quite the fearful person (unless we've ever talked at any length about cicadas, seriously, fuck those bugs). I am not proud of this facet of my person-diamond. (For the record, I'm not particularly proud about having this unjustified, deep-seated fear of cicadas either). 

Fear is a strange emotion for me personally in that it seems to elicit those much crappier, long-lasting emotions like: anxiety, shame, and guilt. This power trio is particularly fun to deal with because they are really good at keeping you busy from realizing that you're just scared of something.

Important note: it is NOT juvenile to say that you are scared of something. (Pfft, over here acting like walking to the kitchen in the middle of the night isn't spooky as shit and you're not running back to your bed quick as hell. Get outta here, liar).

​Back to business...

​There. I said it. I have a fear of failure and it has inhibited me in the following ways:

• ​I over-analyze. I will sit and ruminate on a topic forever. I think of everything that could go right, everything that could go wrong, and every single thing that it might affect outside of whatever the decision is itself. You might be thinking, 'hey that's pretty handy' and it usually is... except for the fact that I feel an intense guilt and anxiety about knowing that I'm over-analyzing and putting off the thing.
• I procrastinate. If I'm not 100% sure on how I want to do something or tackle a problem I wait until the last minute so that I have the maximum amount of time to over-analyze. Unfortunately, the analyzing process usually leads to being able to do whatever the thing is much faster because I already thought of all the shit that was going to go wrong in the first place. This is called a negative self-fulfilling prophecy, look at how I feed it to myself! It's so delicious!
• I don't try things I legitimately want to be good at someday. The opportunity to try new things comes up less and less as I get closer to 30. This is probably because my soul is dying, but also because I don't have that many friends. Anyway, the point here is, I won't try something new if I feel that I will look foolish in my attempts EVEN IF I really want to. I hate the thought of failing in front of someone even more than I hate failing itself.
• When I fail, I never let myself forget it. One time at work I told someone that they had scheduled something wrong because they 'hadn't accounted for Daylight Savings Time.' SAVINGS. SavingS. S. I added an 's' to the end of savings, and my coworker called me on it. I literally think about this moment at least a few times a month since it happened... in 2013.

Ultimately, after all of this thinking and putting things off, I usually pony up and do whatever the thing is (or sometimes I don't, HA! FEAR WINS!) But you can bet your sweet ass before I settle into that tiny pony saddle that is decision making, I'm exhausted. I no longer care about whatever I've decided or what I'm doing because I've been sitting in a pile of fear, scrubbing my withered body with oil of anxiety. I emerge wrapped in my towel of shame, dripping with guilt water, and even though I overcame the fear, it's too late to call it a win. 

I am scared of failing, and this is something I need to change. 

So, I did it. I read a book... Okay I lied, I read HALF of a book. 

FUCK, fine! I read 86 pages of a book. Stickler, I read ~85.1 pages. I wasn't ready for the next section, I'm still not ready for the next section. 

I don't want to finish this book.

This book was supposed to teach me 'the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing,' but I'm finding that it's just telling me a really strange story about a girl who terrorizes her family with unhealthy organization habits that has somehow avoided an OCD diagnosis despite some very obvious warning signs.
​
Here are my notes thus far:

• 'Someone I have been wanting to get in touch with recently contacted me.' 'Your course taught me  to see what I really need and what I don't. So I got a divorce. Now I feel much happier.' This bitch takes credit for some MAJOR life events that happen to her clients after she pulls a Marc Summers on their lives. Oh, and I'm sorry, but what the fuck does tidying up your crap have to do with YOUR FRIEND contacting you? You're not even saying that your client became a better, more proactive person and contacted the person they wanted to get in touch with. They just kept sitting on their hands waiting for their friend to do it? Good job. So proud. #impressed
• Apparently I can't keep my house in order because I'm a fucking idiot. There is only one way to tidy and if I'm not going to bother doing it perfectly, then I shouldn't do it at all. Oh, but make it special! (I wish I had sparkle rainbow font for that because she talks about tidying like it's the equivalent to losing your virginity in a sitcom).
• Start throwing shit away. Wait, no, picture yourself throwing shit away. Okay, now throw shit away. WAIT, NO.  Make sure your family isn't around, don't tell them, don't offer them your shit, annnd... okay, go, start throwing shit away. AH FUCK, WAIT! Manhandle all of your belongings, and whisper sweet words of appreciation as you throw shit away. Okay, now, seriously, throw shit away.
• Bitch is all about socks. My socks are very tired you know. All that work they do being inanimate objects is VERY exhausting, and it's extremely difficult to get any rest when you're constantly rolling about in a drawer. WHAT TREATMENT COULD BE WORSE THAN THIS?!

The thought of someone gasping in disbelief upon seeing someone's sock drawer made me want to light this book on fire. Surely there are some great tips somewhere in this book  on simplicity and creating/maintaining a tidy lifestyle, but if I have to subject myself to written criticism of a goddamn sock drawer to get to that information, well, I guess I'll just continue living in my own filth for awhile longer.

Overall, I'd give this book a 3/10. On the joy sparking spectrum, that is very low, so I'll be taking this book's advice, groping it, telling it thanks for nothing, and throwing it the fuck away.

Every weekday, I come home from work and at 6:00 pm a reminder goes off on my phone to clean the cat box. Every. Single. Day. Every weekday, I come home from work and at 6:00 pm, and when a reminder goes off on my phone to clean the cat box, I immediately dismiss it. Every weekday, I come home from work and at 6:00 pm, when I dismiss the reminder to clean the cat box, I feel terrible about myself.

This is who I currently am.

I am the girl (woman?) who comes home and dismisses the reminders for the things she should do, so that she can do the things that distract her from the things she should be doing. I have let my personal laziness levels get so high that I have to physically take action to not do the thing I should be doing. 

I am actively lazy.

Now, I know full well that there isn't anyone to blame for this action-based lack of action but myself. BUT, this isn't about blame. (Seriously, this can't be about blame, Blame is this fun backpack I like to carry around and fill with things that do/don't belong to me. That's another post for another day). 

This is about stepping back and doing something different. Here are our options. Let's go!

1. Do the thing. Just fucking do the thing. Wanna stop feeling guilty about not doing the thing? Probably just do the thing! Is the thing sitting in the back of your mind, just skirting on the inner walls of your skull, scraping like nails on a chalkboard because you didn't do the thing? DO THE FUCKING THING.
2. Accept that you're not going to do the thing. Don't do the thing, and then be cool about not doing it. Don't set up reminders to do the thing when you know you're not going to do the thing. Just don't do it. Easy.

Obviously, some things must be done. So, option two is no good, which is a bummer, because not doing the thing is kind of awesome. However, not doing the thing will eventually bite you in the ass, no matter what it is. So do the thing.

Here is to a new year, a new less lazy version of myself, and doing the fucking things.