It’s February in Iowa, and I’m depressed. Not in the funny-ha-ha way you mean it when your favorite restaurant closes. I’m really, truly, and clinically depressed. Which is terrifying to talk about in such a public way. But I’m not giving up.
Why does Facebook feel the need to bombard me with reminders of all the horrible things that could befall my children? I did not ask for this information, so STOP TELLING ME, because I’m going insane.
I have an inner voice, and she’s a Mean Girl. She tells me lies, makes claims without proof, and seems to know everything. I call her Regina George. Here’s some of the bullshit she whispers in my ear.
Do you ever feel like you might just lose it? (Face it, moms. We all have those moments.) So why don’t we talk about it? This is me, mid-meltdown. In all its ugliness.
Even when my hands are full of diaper bags, an infant car seat, and a toddler, I struggle to accept help from my friends. Why is it so hard to do something so simple?
She’s obnoxious. She’s distasteful. She’s a sociopath. And she’s usually drunk. She also represents something that no mom can avoid.