self-explanations.

Last month I started a writer’s website for me (although, apparently? according to the last editor I heard from, my writer’s future looks quite dismal at the moment). And then I started this blog to go along with that website (because MySpace has—I know, I know—a creepy rep) (except for the MySpace people *I* hang out with there, of course) and then promptly ignored it.
This was due to the following reasons:

* I was tired. The kind of tired that makes you wake up in the morning and start calculating how many hours until bedtime starts again.

*Nobody was reading this blog anyway and—I’m no fool—I knew it.

*I found out I was pregnant.

Number 3 was a Ginormously Big Surprise. It was one of those big surprises that make you wonder about God, the Universe, and the nature of things that humans just like to tell themselves they know all about. For instance, I will let you know that, last summer, I separated from my husband. It was a long time coming, with blips and burps headed that way here and there, until finally one day I said to him, “I love you, but I can no longer live with you. I cannot breathe around you and I no longer know who I am in your presence.” And he was sad, and I was sad, and then we were apart.

In the meantime, he went to a counselor who told him some things I think I had been saying for awhile, but clearly not saying it in a way that was getting through. The combination of my leaving and her words broke through and shed some sunlight on him and some changes were made.

However, when there are marital (and family and friend) conflicts, it is never one-sided (did you know this? If not, now you do). I was telling myself that if I stayed married, I couldn’t be the free-spirit I believe I am meant to be; I couldn’t find myself and run wild, or just be ME. I needed to be alone, and figure myself out. And then I was. And after that, I did. I did.

And what I figured out was this: I am not good alone. When I am alone, I tend to seek out people who are not good for me (or other people) (or themselves, for that matter) and then I invite these people into my home, my heart, my soul. And that usually gets me off track. And so I figured out that I never really needed to leave home to find me, because I was already there. Kind of like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, but without the hip sparkly shoes.

My problem was that I suck at communicating my needs in most every situation, and so of course I felt like I couldn’t breathe…because it’s so hard to breathe when you’ve sewn your mouth shut out of fear, which is usually followed closely by your heart. And one thing I have learned about my heart is that it is BIG, and that it actually has room for lots and lots of things and different kinds of people. I also figured out that I do not need to be divorced to have this big heart and free spirit, and I discovered the man I chose to live with for 6 years and then marry has just as big a heart and just as free a spirit and if I am to become the kind of person I wish to become, I better start recognizing the difference between a big heart and a big ego.

I also learned along the way that I certainly do not need other people who reveal (in surprisingly disappointing ways) they are greedy and manipulative and have sub-par agendas when giving advice as to how a life should be lived. I learned—the hard way, which is how I like to learn most of my lessons—that some people are actually quite empty on the inside and have learned that what works best for them is to get what they need from feeding off others in emotionally vampiric ways. Do I have time for these kinds of people? No. And so I figured out that I really am my own best thinker and know me much better than anyone else ever will, and so I will only take advice from myself from now on (and possibly a professionally trained therapist or two) (but not Dr. Laura; she's nuts).

And so my husband and I reconciled and got counseling. And it has been thumbs up all the way.
Actually, I will confess now that I have been in double counseling—one for us as a couple, one for just me. And some people make fun of this, the need for therapy. And to those people I say, “You're a big poo head.” Because when you are in the throes of dilemma and uncertainty, and when you know yourself and the path you are on but feel you might need someone with more experience to hold the map and a flashlight, this is when a good therapist is in order for you. Talk therapy simply works and, just like no atheist will ever convince me God does not exist, no poo head will ever convince me talk therapy does not help.

The End (of part 1).

As I came to the end (of part 1), part 2 began. And this is how I know talk therapy works AND God exists: in January, I found my good therapist (just for me). In February, I began talking with her about the possibility I needed Prozac or Xanax or lithium or a prescription for medicinal marijuana or combination of all four.

“I need to exercise,” I said, “but I am exhausted and cannot drag myself off a couch to do this.”

“I need to stay even emotionally,” I said, “but I am up and down, mostly down, and so I do not know how to do this.”

“I need to lose weight,” I said, “but I am eating good things but still packing it on…what the hell?”

In February, my therapist urged me to see a doctor. I, being not only a magical thinker but also magical procrastinator, put it off. And then in March, I became nauseous. For no good reason at all. And there is this one Taco Bell commercial that keeps being shown, like every hour on the hour on every. single. freaking. channel. on regular AND cable television, where they eat these burritos and pull the rubbery cheese out of their mouths. And I would yack every single time I saw it. And so, perfect, I thought, juuuust perfect. Now, not only am I hormonal, depressed, exhausted, sleep-deprived, losing muscle tone by the second, AND eating like a tapeworm, NOW I’ve gone and made myself violently ill somehow. Fabulous.

So I finally called the doctor. I told the doctor what was wrong with me, and asked when she thought I could come in to get my Prozac pills. Haha! Said the doctor. No, what YOU need are prenatal vitamin pills.

Psh, I responded. Clearly, you are not a REAL doctor.

It took three (three!) pregnancy tests to convince me that doctor might truly have a valid medical degree. And then I went in for an ultrasound. “See,” said the next doctor. “Here is the head, there are the arms, and that black beating thing is a heart. Your eggo is preggo, home skillet.”

The doctor did not actually say that last sentence; I ripped it off from Juno, which is on my short list of movie favorites that I quote constantly. But I stole it because my entire life had suddenly started to resemble that movie. Well, except that I am married. And I’m not a teenager. And I don’t think my husband is a geek…until fishing season rolls around again. And I usually don’t have good snarky comeback lines until 2 days after an incident.

I never thought I would be a mother. Because for over a decade I’ve been a teacher to thousands of small children belonging to other people…other people who have shown me (a) what NOT to do, and (b) that certain small human beings are actually insane, and no it does NOT matter they are only 6 or 7 years old…even the insane have to start somewhere.

Everyone tells me I’ll make a fabulous mother, and I’m okay with that. I just hope it’s also okay if I’m the fabulous mother who really doesn’t give a crap what the teacher said or didn’t say…if the teacher said you did it (or didn’t do it), then the teacher wins so go to your room. I hope it’s okay to be the fabulous mother who doesn’t care if you don’t like going to your grandma’s for a week and a half because her house makes scary noises at night…mommy needs a vacation minus children, and if you want mommy not to start screaming at you and never stop, then you’ll pack your little teddy bear backpack, get in the car, put on your seatbelt, and keep your little opinions to yourself until you’re 21 years old, damn it.

Right now, my kid is swimming around in amniotic fluid happy as a little tadpole can be. S/he has no idea—NO idea—what lies ahead. And neither do I, quite frankly. Because—as Forrest Gump, my other favorite short listed movie, says: Life really is like a box of chocolates, and you never know what you're gonna get.

This is why I hope the Universe knew what it was doing when it decided to stop me from checking off that UNDECIDED box next to “Do you want children?” every time. According to my husband, the Universe has nothing to do with it; it was my inability to consistently swallow a tiny birth control pill. But those of us who think about God a lot, and watch the way He works, and tell Him how weird He is like, all the time? WE know: Accidents don’t just happen because a pill got skipped; accidents happen because God is letting you in on how he works. “All that crap you went through back there?” says God. “Yes, I did that to you on purpose because I needed you to land over HERE. Because HERE is where I meant for you to wind up all along. So get used to it, Sea Monkey, because after you’re done HERE, I’ve got a little something I want you to take a look at over THERE.”

And honest to blog, that’s why I was gone for almost a month from here. Battling God is hard friggin’ work, people. And you never, ever win. Never.