Oh my god, you guys. THANK YOU for all of your responses on my last post. Seriously, you guys, I want to open mouth kiss all of you. I hope you don’t mind. Just roll with it. It’ll be over quickly. I’m so happy to know that you’re just as fucked up as I am.
Ahem. I mean, glad to know I’m not alone. We’re all this boat together. *friendly arm punch* It does help me with the struggle a little bit. Also? I feel like I have a free pass to not vacuum, and just kick that toy out of the way when I see it, instead of picking it up.
I had back to back appointments with my psychiatrist (when I grow up, I want to be a pssssssssssychiatrist) and then my therapist. My psychiatrist is basically my meds dispenser and I think she’s a tad frustrated with me. She kind of threw her hands up in exaspiration, told me “here, take these meds, dial down the anxiety. She handed me some samples for Cymbalta, which, I have to say, those crazy kids at Eli Lilly are not stupid. I’ve never seen a crazy med from them come in the form of a tablet. Always capsules, because we wouldn’t want you to get more for your money by halving them, now would we? Also, tier three medication, and I am not about to fork over more money to a pharmaceutical company.
My therapist, who may or may not have read this blog, based on last night’s session (Hi CA!), was like, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, JUST TAKE THE DAMN MEDS ALREADY!” As I systematically picked it all apart in my brain. She said something about knowing too much. I think I’m going to call today and just go back on Effexor. I was on it post Miscarriage of 05 and during the whole fertility hell tour. It worked well, and I lost weight on it. I’d rather go on something I’m comfortable with. I can see my psychiatrist now, banging her head on the desk repeatedly.
I’m done talking about the crazy for now. I actually have a more pressing issue to talk about. And that is, calling your child (not to their face) names.
I was over at girlfiends blog the other day, and someone had left a comment stating that they only came back to see how many times she would call her kid an asshole. She felt the need to explain herself. And dude, there is no explanation necessary. If calling your kid an asshole is a crime, well then, call me a criminal. If you’ve never called your kid a name behind their back, then, give yourself an award for world’s most perfect parent. Because kids can be assholes. Kids can also be many other names, depending on the day. And lest you think I’m a horrible mother for saying such a thing, I challenge any parent of a teenager to say that their child has never called you worse behind your back. I’m not saying two wrongs make a right here, but kids are exhausting and if in talking to your friends, you so happen to call your kid a dick because they’re just pushing every last button repeatedly, then I think you’re a. normal, and b. a better parent than say the one that bashes their kids skulls in, or kicks them down a flight of stairs for spilling a glass of milk.
So tell me, are you a perfect parent? Or are you human?