So. Apparently I suck at having a blog?
I always want to write the most perfect post. One that will reach people, but more importantly, will help people–or at least make them think, I’m not alone after all. The problem with that is…I’m a fucked up mess of chaos most of the time. And…well perfect isn’t real.
I was just casually browsing Pinterest, as one does at school while her juniors are doing the mandatory state testing. (Woo-hoo. Enter eye roll.) And I found a quote by the amazing and insightful Margaret Atwood, “If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word.”
Does everything I write have to be a soul-touching, life-changing, world-shaking thing? Nope. In fact, probably nothing I’ve wrote has been. It doesn’t have to be. Writing shouldn’t be about changing people’s lives, it should be about writing your truth. Writing is without a doubt a deeply personal hobby. Now, I have decided to share mine with the interwebs, but…that doesn’t make it any less personal.
When I set out to write this blog, I decided to focus on three things: motherhood, mental illness, and teaching. Three hugely personal topics. The three things that I use–mentally–to define myself at this stage in my life. Two of which are what I use to describe myself publicly. I decided to write about the anxiety and depression because I’m so paranoid about people finding out, I don’t really talk about it with anyone but my shrink, and when I do I feel like people either: deny it, (hey, Mom!), try and fix it, (Mom again! And my husband, the holy fixers in my life. I do love them. I promise.) Or they just get uncomfortable. Which I get. I’m supposed to have it all together, right? I have a grown-up job which makes me responsible for other people’s children, I have a child of my own, a husband, a house, a life that on the outside looks idealistic.
That’s the kicker, though. On the outside, my life is perfect. I have a great husband, family, house, job. But I’m struggling, really bad right now, with depression. (My mom, supreme fixer and someone that just can’t understand what’s going on, thinks I have a thyroid condition, or am anemic; maybe I am, but maybe it’s just everything else.) I’m exhausted. I go to be at 8, and nap after school. And my husband is fantastic, but he says things like, “You’re life is perfect, you have a great life!” I know I do, and that just makes me feel guiltier.
I want to write to help people. But maybe the focus should instead be, you’re not alone. If you have this seemingly perfect life and you lose your shit over one late payment, you’re not alone. (Totally did that last night, totally had a meltdown.) If you can’t handle the mess of your house, or desk, or whatever, but you sure as fuck don’t have the energy to clean it. You are not alone. If you say fuck way too much for the mother of a toddler and a teacher, we should totally be friends, because you’re so not alone.
This turned into a rambling mess of a post. Which fits my rambling mess of a mind lately. So, clearly, my blog is aptly named, and it’s all good.