He would tell you that right now, I’m not high on a drug called “Brittany”.
He would also say that I’m not a rock star from mars, I’m not drinking tiger’s blood, I don’t have Adonis DNA, and above all…
I’m duh, NOT winning.
Although, I doubt that I would choose to seek help from a therapist whose prescribed course of treatment would involve a brick of cocaine and paying me an obnoxious amount of money to sleep with him.
That would just make me even more of a disaster.
But in reality, I’d never see a therapist in the first place. I have considered the possibility that I might need therapy many times in my life, only to inevitably come to the same conclusion every time.
I don’t want anyone, not even a psychologist, to think that I am crazy.
Even if, maybe, I am.
The truth is, I realized several weeks ago that I was dealing with the postpartum monster all over again. Once my husband figured out what was going on, he asked me if I wanted to talk to someone.
I explained that I didn’t need people thinking that I was crazy. It would only make my emotionally-unbalanced, hormonally-induced condition worse.
Instead, I let my emotions work themselves through.
For a few weeks, insanity ensued. I started out sad, and then I just turned angry, bitter even. I felt like I was going to lose it at any minute. I thought that my very own, personal nervous breakdown was waiting for me around every corner. I was constantly on edge, just trying to hang on.
In my defense, everything in my life was falling victim to the domino effect. My grandmother had suddenly died, and Daegan was born with a congenital eye defect that will require surgery. On top of that, a million little everyday things were going awry, like the stroller getting a flat tire and the delivery date for furniture I ordered getting pushed back indefinitely. Everything seemed like it was falling apart.
And then there was Facebook. It was irritating to log on and see everybody’s stupid happy status updates all the time. I got sick and tired of everyone else having such wonderful lives when mine was really starting to suck. So I deactivated my account.
Needless to say, all the big things that were weighing on me were making it nearly impossible to cope with the little aggravations.
In other words, I was becoming a word that rhymes with witch.
And a really big one, at that.
It’s hard for me to hold on to all that angst, though. In a moment of rationality, I decided that I ultimately needed to focus on the things in my life that I can control as opposed to the things I can’t.
I think that’s my real problem. I’m a control freak with a luggage claim full of excess baggage.
I’m trying to get over it, I swear. Sometimes it helps just to remind myself that things could be worse.
I could be a wreck of a man named Charlie Sheen.