A Surprisingly Sane Blog

This is so horribly horrible that it just may be the most horrible thing ever. I’m going to tell you (lucky you, huh?) all about this horrible thing at this disgusting early hour because it is so freaking horrible that I just can’t get over the horribleness and simply must share it with you so you can feel horribly ill right along with me.

My parents don’t know about my blog.  Hell, they don’t even know about my postpartum nightmare-ish mental breakdown, how I almost committed suicide, the fact that I ended up in a crisis center, or all the therapy that followed to make it possible for me to function.  They don’t know that I rely on Prozac, or that I have diagnosed severe depression, an anxiety disorder,  OCD, and trouble with paranoia that the medication pushes out of the forefront of my being, making life bearable and even *gasp* enjoyable.  They don’t know about any of it.

And there’s a reason for that.

They wouldn’t understand.  I mean, sure, with enough time and explanation they just might be able to come to terms with the fact that their daughter was so fucked up that she had to resort to seeing a psychiatrist and a counselor to survive, but it would never become something that they could graciously accept and support.

You see, I didn’t get my paranoia that the medical world was out to get me all by my lonesome.  I was taught from the very beginning that drug companies are evil, psychiatrists and therapists are quacks, and anti-depressants just make one unfeeling and hazy and all that more likely to do away with themselves.

That’s why I refused treatment for the depression I experienced after giving birth the first time, and the very reason I fought seeking help for as long as I did this last time around.  I learned at a young age that resorting to the medical world for depression was shameful and much, much worse than constantly living on the constant brink of I’d rather be dead.

Extremely serious mental disorders run on both sides of the gene pool in my family, but Holy Mother of God, don’t you ever point that out to my parents lest you want to make Hitler look like a saint.  My sister and I have tried so hard over the years to convince our mom and dad that maybe couple’s therapy or seeking some treatment for various issues they have would be a positive thing, but no fucking way would they ever do it.  They’re too proud, the psychiatric medical world is dangerous, and they don’t need any help thankyouverymuch.  Hollywood’s interpretation of loony bins rings too true in their minds.  Or something.

So it’s no wonder that I’ve kept this last year’s mental issues and my very public blog a secret from them, right?

It’s not because I don’t love them with all my heart or that I don’t enjoy sharing my passion for writing and humor with my family.  It’s because their scrutiny and fear of therapy would turn into an instantaneous personal insult to them and the way they raised me.  A day later I’d be dealing a parent in the depths of depression whining, “Woe is me, I fucked my kid up so badly that she ended up in a crisis center on drugs.“  Then I’d be stuck holding them up above water until they got over it while I struggled to keep myself from drowning as well.  Heaven only knows how long that would take.  I know them too well, and I just don’t have the strength to deal with that.

Except this is the part where I tell you the most HORRIBLE freaking thing ever. The whole point behind this morning’s rambling.

Last week, my mother found my blog.

Yes, you saw that right.

It was accidental and completely random.  She did a google search for the Craigslist ad I posted to find our dogs a new home and my infamous blog popped up.

James immediately got a phone call and listened to her excitedly explain that she’d found some strange site with pictures of me and the kids and the funniest, most well-written recap of an email that I’d received regarding finding the dogs a new home.  And I went to church and listened patiently while she explained to me what she’d found.

I know, so right here you’re going, “Holy crap, Tamra what the hell did you DO?“.  And I’ll tell you exactly what I did.

I played dumb.

Then I scrambled home after praying to God during the entire Mass please, please, prettypleasewithacherryontopsmotheredinchocolatesyrup please don’t let her have clicked on a page other than that single posting to check my blog’s stat page to determine exactly how much damage to my soul had been done.

This is where I fell to my knees, melted into the earth with relief, and knew for sure that the Lord does exist and that He loves me much more than I ever imagined.  He answered my prayers.  The only page she clicked on was that single posting, and she didn’t appear to understand that it was, in fact, my blog or that she could read it further and learn much, much more than she ever cared to know about her daughter.  And believe me, she would.  I know this because her friend once told me she admitted to reading my journal back when I was too young and dumb to believe that she could be so horrible to actually intrude upon my privacy like that.  I’m not bitter about that or anything.

Oh right, the HORRIBLE fucking thing that happened.  I’ll get back to it.

So what did I do?  Well, panic, crap myself, and fall over and die clutching my chest right there in the house of God for starters.  But then, once I made a pact with St. Something-Or-Other at the pearly gates (look, I’ll never use condoms again, give birth to my own quarter-Chinese sweat shop if I must, and throw away all my sex toys… just please, please don’t let my mom ever find my blog again) and hit the reality of this planet with a gasp-inducing *thud*,  I asked my computer-genius husband to block my family’s IP address so that they can’t access my blog.  And then, so I can update you regularly from my parents’ house since I’m currently living here, he wrote some kind of Greek nonsense that allows me to block and unblock their IP address using my iPhone.  Did you follow that?  Because I barely did.

Look.  I know I’m being completely retarded thinking that they’re going to live in blissful ignorance of this mess known as A Surprisingly Sane Blog for all eternity.  I understand that sooner or later they are going to know all about my website and the fact that I take Prozac every single day.  I’m not naive enough to think that they’re not going to read all about my vagina on the internet or find out that I still sleep with my “blanky” even though I’m married and have two kids.  Yes, I do.  And shut up or I’ll kick your ass.

But right now, while I’m living under their roof for a couple of weeks, would be the most HORRIBLE time ever for them to discover all of this. Even more horrible than the fact that my mom found my blog without realizing what it was.

So for now, their IP address is blocked, and I’m still praying that they don’t find it.  Ever.  And I’m keeping my fingers crossed that my mom doesn’t think to do a google search for “Strip Tease Songs” or “Cure For Itchy Balls” at work, since those are other hot terms for pulling up this blog.

*Phew*

Talk about a close call, right?  I might not survive these two weeks living at my parents’ place.

Send positive thoughts my way, please.  I don’t think I could deal with my mom finding my blog again.  Until I’m living under the protective Seattle cloud cover, that is.

Current Mood: Alarmed

*Try* not to get irritated with the inconsistency displayed and spoken by certain members of your family.

You’ll get along better with everyone under this roof if you do.  Trust me.

Smile and nod, smile and nod.

Current Mood: Alarmed

I thought I’d be sad when I saw our lovely Tucson home vacant, scrubbed, and ready for renters last night.  I wasn’t, though.  Instead, it was just a faint sense of well, I guess this is it.  Finality.

Living under my parents’ roof for the next couple weeks is a mixed flavor between deja vu and weirdness.  It feels exactly like the home I grew up in; complete with the stressed, grumpy dad coming home from work, the TV murmuring until a late hour, and the dog’s toenails click-clicking on the porcelain tile floors in the middle of the night.  But the weirdness stems from my behalf.  The fact that I have changed drastically during the last almost-five years that I have been married and living with my husband makes it evident that I have moved on from my childhood.

And that’s the weird part.

Up until I had to go through therapy several months ago, I was still mommy and daddy’s little girl.  Living the life they would have have hand-picked for themselves and any of their offspring.  I was nearly a mirror image of them and their values.  The goody-goody Catholic girl, college graduate, married, stay-at-home-mom-of-two-kids for as much time as I could half-sanely muster.  I moved in with my spouse only after saying “I do”, bought a similarly-styled house 10 minutes away from the one in which I grew up, and only made choices that I knew would never cause any strife with my family.

That is, until all hell broke loose and I nearly stepped in front of a speeding bus back in January.

I couldn’t be a puppet any longer.  It wasn’t my parents’ fault- it’s just that I’d played the role of the “perfect oldest child” to avoid inevitable rebellious conflict for much too long, and I never learned to spread my wings the way my sister did.  They way I should have.

Until therapy pointed me in the right direction, that is, and I had to learn the hard way that the choices (or lack thereof) that I had been making for my entire adult life weren’t healthy for me.  I wasn’t living any of my hopes or dreams, and I had just settled, miserably, into a life that was chosen for me.

Once I learned the pathetic truth behind my mental breakdown (besides the obvious postpartum insanity that I tried so hard to avoid) and began walking the necessary steps to better my situation, my darling husband was able to acknowledge his own depression.  You know what it was caused by?  The same force that was hold me back from becoming the wife, mom, and human that I want to be: settling for the security and safety of what is expected of us rather by everyone else rather than taking the risks we hyper, attention-deficit sort crave.

So being “home” is a bit odd to me, as was the fact that I didn’t feel nearly as empty as I anticipated while the movers piled all of our belongings into the moving van yesterday.  I no longer belong here, and I feel that stirring within me.  Currently, all of our stuff with the exception of a few necessary sets of clothing is somewhere between Arizona and Washington, and although I’m physically staying in my old room for the next two weeks, I’ve already moved on from this place.

While I admit to constantly craving change, I wasn’t expecting to feel this resolved and comfortable about our vast and unknown future in Seattle.  I like unknowns, and it’s funny to think that I grew up in a family that has difficulty deviating from their daily routine.

It’s a good thing, and I’m looking forward to being somewhere new.  Finally.

Current Mood: Happy

As I’ve already mentioned a number of times, I survived eight years of Catholic school.

I learned a lot about how to be a prude, why I was probably going to hell someday, and most importantly, how I should treat the Temple of the Holy Spirit with love and respect. Oh, but orgasms outside of the marital act of intercourse, and only without the use of sinful birth control methods, was considered an abomination of the body’s godly purpose, of course. You know, to set the story straight.

However, since pierced ears don’t appear to be a crime against the Temple, I’m going to have to assume that other piercings aren’t necessarily considered defacing it, either.

My sister, who paid for my latest piercing as an early birthday present, agrees.

And as a side note, I am currently homeless and living at my parents’ place, so cell phone photos and blog updates are just gonna have to do it for you until all my fancy picture-downloading stuff and computer gear is in Seattle and out of storage. Speaking of which, it’s en route the three-day drive as I write. *sigh*

Last night was the last time we would get the chance to sleep in our bed in this house.

I slept like shit, of course.  Would you like to know why?

When April wasn’t waking up crying and disoriented by the sheer darkness and several boxes surrounding her otherwise-empty room every hour, James was eating a grand five-course meal in his sleep.  Complete with the chewing, smacking his lips, and grunts of satisfaction.  I’m not kidding.

My shoves, nudges, and kicks did absolutely nothing to curb his ferocious middle-of-the night appetite, nor did they pull him away from the feast he was devouring.

Yes, he’s the best husband ever, but DAMN, that guy has the most irritating sleeping habits I’ve ever seen.  And I get to sleep next to him every night.

Lucky me.

Current Mood: Alarmed