I'm 1000% sure I'm not OK right now

This is the inside of my brain right now. Or a famous painting. Close enough.

"That's the thing," I explained to the doctor at the walk-in clinic as I sat in her office yesterday. "I have an anxiety disorder, but normally it's triggered by something. I don't have anything to be stressed out about. Life is fine."

Except I don't feel fine. Anxiety has been eating my brain like a tiny famished zombie for the last few weeks.

Nothing pisses me off more than when things are totally sweet and I can't enjoy them because I'm too busy worrying. That's like having Charlie Hunnam lying naked in your bed with Hershey's Kisses all over his torso and you should be overjoyed but instead you're just worried the chocolate is going to melt and make a big mess and how do you get that stuff out of duvet covers anyway and hey isn't there a load in the dryer that needs to be folded and does everyone have clothes for school in the morning and have you made a meal plan for the week yet because money's kind of tight right now and STOP FUCKING TOUCHING ME, CHARLIE, I'M TRYING TO IMAGINARY COOK THINGS IN MY HEAD RIGHT NOW.

Basically just like that.

I haven't been able to calm my brain down. It runs all the time like a speed-fuelled hamster. It obsessively frets over everything. My heart constantly feels like it's pumping adrenaline. I can't read a book, let alone a magazine article. I can't write much of anything. I can't follow a recipe. I can't focus on a conversation or sit quietly for more than a minute or two. I can't complete simple tasks, talk on the phone, make appointments or add even one more thing to the to-do list. Everything is too overwhelming. It's unbelievably frustrating to feel so out of control all the time.

"You mentioned you moved this spring. That sounds pretty stressful," the doctor inquired.

"Stressful, but for the best. We love it here. And my son needed medical support we couldn't get unless we moved."

"What kind of medical support?" She asked.

"Oh, he has depression and anxiety, so--  I can see your little doctor gears spinning from here, you know."

"You seem very intuitive." I like sarcasm in a doctor. This one was totally on her game.

"Almost as intuitive as I am good looking," I grinned.

She laughed then, and so I spent about 10 minutes after the appointment trying to figure out if I was really funny or really ugly. Did I mention the anxiety?

She looked at my file on the screen. "And you were here last month for heart palpitations. Do you still have those?"

"Daily. But I'm 1000% certain they're related to anxiety."

She gave me a look and smiled. "1000%, huh?"

"Shit. Did I say that? I didn't mean that. Now I sound like one of those women on the Maury show who say things like 'I'm 750% sure he's my baby's daddy' and they're always wrong. Ever notice that? Oh, come on. Everybody watches that show, even doctors. Also, I'm a writer with an IQ of 138. I know you can't get above 100% of anything, ever. I don't even say, 'I gave 110%' because THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE. Please don't quote me in my file."

"Oh, I'm definitely writing that in: 'Patient says she's 1000% sure heart palpitations related to anxiety.'"

"... I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

"You really DO worry a lot, don't you?"

She ordered a 3-day Holster monitor that I'll be wearing next week to rule out the possibility of tiny zombies eating my heart too. She also gave me the name of a good psychologist. We talked medication, but decided on trying the talk therapy, more exercise, meditation and supplements first (I started taking St. John's wort a few days ago.)

"I think you've been through a lot more than you realize over the last few months and you're having a delayed reaction to everything that's happened. That must have been a hard move for you, even if the outcome has been good. And you've been pouring all your energy into helping your son get better. But what about you? You need to take care of yourself, too."

That's when I tried not to cry. And I didn't until I got in the car and drove away. Stupid me. Stupid, stupid me. It's not like I didn't see the signs; I just chose to ignore them. And not in that martyr way, but in that mom way.

I am the poster child for parents everywhere who ignore their own shit to deal with everyone else's. What a bad thing to be a poster child for. I'd rather be the one for parents who have great fashion sense and can cook good too or parents who find Charlie Hunnam in their bed and don't kick him out for wasting perfectly good chocolate by melting it into the sheets with their naked body heat.

Anyway, you don't need to worry and cry yourself to sleep tonight, everybody. Anxiety is an insidious bitch, but I think I'm starting to climb out of it. I have a plan. I have doctors. I have St. John's Wort (which is doing a great job, by the way. Not that I'm recommending everybody go buy some right now because I know it has mixed reviews, but I've been doing better today than I have in a long time and I'm pretty sure that's why.)

I will find my way back soon. And then hopefully I'll write decent things again with more regularity instead of awkward conversations with a doctor who probably flagged my file with things like "patient definitely has anxiety issues, bad taste in talk shows and quite possibly a learning disability in mathematics."

Why I've Never Been So Happy to be So Wrong

Gutsy, enjoying the cottage life.

I used to be that person who was firmly against medicating children with anxiety or depression. It seemed like a good stance, because who wants to mess with a developing brain? They're all spongy and still learning words and manners and shit.

And then there's all the side-effects, such as how a drug that might help a child not feel suicidal can, like, possibly make a child feel suicidal. What's that all about? Then there are the less frightening, more common things like dizziness and nausea and fatigue. Maybe some spots or a lizard tongue or something.

That opinion seemed like a pretty good one to have: kids' brains are vulnerable, medication can be dangerous, therefore, childhood mental illness should be managed in more natural ways. In my mind, it was a safe opinion like anti-apartheid is a safe opinion, or how there never should have been a Ghostbusters 2. And it feels good to know you opinion is right.

I knew I was right.

Ghostbusters 2 should have never happened. (Oh, and I felt very right about the anti-depressant thing, too.)

And then my kid got sick.

Really sick.

He could not cope with life and we didn't know how to help him.

I figured we were doing something wrong. I figured we were parenting poorly. We were clearly missing a dietary sensitivity, or he was being bullied and not telling us, or he had low B6 or B12 or B52's, or he needed more sleep or less sleep, or more therapy or less therapy, or we were making too big of a deal out of things or not enough of a big deal.

I even tried hiding the Ghostbusters 2 DVD.

We really didn't know how to help. Feeling helpless is pretty much the worst feeling a parent can have, by the way. It's like finding out you're out of coffee on a Monday morning after the baby was up all night times a thousand. And while crying.

I've written a lot about our journey with Gutsy on this blog, most recently here and here. In the last post, I talked about how we were choosing to try medication and how hard that decision was for all of us. I wrote about my fears of side effects and judgment. But mostly I wrote that, at this point in the game, we are willing to try things we never would have considered in that safe place we used to be in before our child became unwell. 

When you're in the eye of a hurricane, you most definitely see things differently than when you're looking at it on radar.

I have been dying to write this post. Like, dying. And yet I've held back because I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I'm now ready to say it: 

You guys, we have our son back.

(Ouch. I teared up when I wrote that and my new mascara dripped into my eye and holy mother does this stuff hurt. When I pick up the kids from school later I'm going to look like I have pink eye. which is only slightly better than having two irritated eyes and going for the crystal meth look.)

He is on the lowest dose of the first drug we tried, and he is doing remarkably well. He's had no side effects whatsoever. His body has taken beautifully to the medication. I know this can change with time, but for right now, it's working.

We had our very first wonderful summer. We took two mini weekend getaways and had no meltdowns even with some big scheduling changes. Given that the boy used to lose it on the daily just a few weeks ago, this is nothing short of a miracle. Normally, by summer's end, I'm dying to get them back to class and end the constant fighting and chaos. Not this year. This is the first year that summer went by all too quickly and I was (almost) sorry to walk them to school this morning. I now know how the other half lives.

As the layers of worry and sadness have peeled back, we're finally starting to see the amazing ten-year-old Gutsy is. He smiles and laughs those big belly laughs daily. He tells great jokes. He has a calm yet powerful energy to him and oodles of creativity. He's sensitive and inquisitive and kind. He's good to both his brothers now that he's not lashing out under stress all the time. He does his chores and helps out whenever I ask - and sometimes when I don't. He never used to have the mental or physical energy to do much of anything.

He tells me all the time that he loves feeling good in his skin again. He takes his medication religiously because he knows, more than anyone, how much it helps him.

Gutsy has an illness and, like many other illnesses, sometimes the body needs a hand to get better. I'm not ashamed or upset that he takes medication. On the contrary, I'm amazed and grateful to see him bloom with the right chemical balance in his brain. The depression seems to be gone completely. The anxiety is still there, but at a very manageable, more typical level. Now is the time when cognitive therapy might become more effective. We don't have a longterm plan yet, but I know retraining the brain to deal with stress more effectively will be a big part of it.

It took five years, lots of researching, advocating, learning the system, and even an inter-provincial move in search of better services to get our son the help he needs, but it's been worth every step. He is such an awesome kid and I think he's going to have an awesome life. This is the beginning of something wonderful.

I'm going to sit back and enjoy the wonderful for a little while. It's been a long time coming.

We have our son back. 

Shit. There goes the other eye.

The day I stopped waiting to be beautiful

There it is: MAGNUM! (That's a Zoolander quote. If you haven't seen that movie please stop what you're doing and go watch it immediately.)

I am the perfect candidate for low self-esteem.

In fact, if I was handed a checklist called Stuff That Happened To You A Long Time Ago That Can Cause Self-Esteem Issues, that bad boy would have so many X's it would need a second job to cover alimony payments. I am, quite honestly, a poster child for some serious self-hate.

Oh, and did I mention I'm fat? Actually fat, not just "I think I'm fat" fat. And it's the kind of stubborn fat that would require me to inject myself with lettuce sweat and eat twigs to shed.

With my shaky backstory and a society that hates on big girls, I spent entirely too long feeling quite badly about the way I look. Oh, I felt badly about other things, like how I never finished high school and how some days I can't seem to parent my way out of a paper bag. But mostly my weight and my insert-random-body-parts-to-pick-apart-here were put on trial every single day, year after tiring year.

But this isn't a post about me hating on myself.

This is about that time I stopped waiting to be beautiful.

And just decided I was beautiful.

On a day of no particular significance, I got tired of feeling ugly. I got tired of trying to be a single-digit size with long legs and a specific set of graceful features. I got tired of constantly being compared to a narrow set of guidelines I would never meet. I will not be that model or actress or pop star, ever.

I decided I simply had to be a beautiful human being. That was the easy part. Then I had to figure out what that actually meant. That was the hard part. (If I had known there was a hard part I might have just said "screw it. Pass the Costco bag of M&Ms" and been done with it.) I write a lot about that here and here.

What I discovered is that beauty - true beauty - comes from the inside and works its way out. It's excavated, raised and delicately polished until it shines.

Beauty is about attitude and confidence, kindness and love. (For example, if you're currently thinking "Whatever, Maven. That's what ugly people tell themselves so they can feel better" then you are shallow and you need to keep digging. But do enjoy those great legs of yours.)

Beauty is about realizing that everyone is beautiful, including me.

Beauty is about a life lived, not wasted away wishing I was someone else. I'm not someone else. I'm not ever going to look like or be someone else. No matter what I do, no matter what changes I make, I will always be her, and if I don't find her beautiful at every stage of life, how can I be ok with that? How will I live fully if I'm always hiding from myself?

Self-esteem makes the beauty inside me shine. Unfortunately, confidence can be a bitch. It can be about as as fickle as the weather, and there are occasional days when the clouds are so thick it seems like no light can get through. Those are the days when the negativity creeps in, when I compare myself to girls half my age with hips half my size. Those are the days when I study each wrinkle or frown at each unruly curl. Nothing I wear or apply helps me feel any better. I want to avoid the mirror and I want to eat all the comfort things. Thankfully, those days are also extremely rare, and generally only happen a day or two before my period.

These a couple of my social media profile pictures.

I, um, take a lot of pictures.

Like, a lot. Of myself. And I switch them up fairly regularly. (I'm not a narcissist, but I play a good one on the internet.)

Some would think I post these in hopes of getting a positive reaction. That's a fair assumption on account of me being the mega-super-skank of attention whoring. I do enjoy the comments and the likes; I'm only human, after all. I'm glad you appreciate them and/or hope you'll make it into my will by telling me I look good. (Smart move, by the way. Being a mediocre writer, I'm bound to be very wealthy by the time I die.)

However, the big secret that is no longer going to be a big secret because I'm sharing it on the interwebs is that these pictures are not for you. They're for me to remind myself of who I am on the days when reality has checked out of the hotel and Emo Maven has checked in. They remind me that I am beautiful, even though I'm not a perfect 10. That reminder can do wonders for me.

I had a lot of this post mapped out in my head for the last few days, but I've been struggling with some writer's block and couldn't quite get the words out. A friend posted this on Facebook this morning and it perfectly summarized what I was trying to say:

I high-fived my screen (an awkward moment) and squealed like a four-year-old at a teddybear factory. That's it exactly. Gabourey is a mighty girl of awesome. She also takes a mean picture, meaning we have a lot in common.

The thing is, we live in a world full of marketing designed to make us feel like we're not good enough as we are. This crafty system tells us we need to buy into a multi-billion dollar industry to have any hope of being happy and confident. Well, this overweight and imperfect girl says fuck marketing and fuck the system. Seriously.

It appears we have been lied to. Beauty has been inside of us the whole time. Can you believe that? The only thing we have to do is realize it's there.

I'm Officially a High School Student. Again.

Photo credit: Betterment.com

So, I enrolled in an adult high school program today.

The last time I set foot inside a secondary school classroom was in 1996. I was 19, and, after a few setbacks, I told myself that was the year I was finally going to graduate. I was going to do it.

And I did do it. 

In fact, I did it frequently and not very carefully, which is why I got pregnant and dropped out to have a baby.

My baby is now 16 and two years away from finishing high school. That means that in a very short period of time, he's going to have more formal education than his mother. I tried to tell him that it's fine because I have a PhD in Street Cred, but he rolled his eyes at me. So I decided to piss off The Walking Food Inhaler and go back to school next month so I can graduate before he does.

Ok, so maybe that's not exactly why.

I've had a lot of shame and regret surrounding being a high school dropout. Let's face it: we're not exactly viewed in the brightest light and our world is not usually filled with financial opportunities. But no one has been harder on me than, well, me. I've been beating myself up longer than Justin Bieber has been potty trained.

Believe it or not, I went to seven different high schools. 

Let me say that again: seven different high schools. 

Why? Because life, that's why. I left all of them for different reasons:

School 1: Left due to extreme bullying. I was tormented every day and then lit on fire in the school yard. We decided it wasn't a very safe place for me anymore at that point, so I transferred. 

School 2: Expelled for missing too many classes. Oops. My alcoholism was in full swing by this time. Shortly after leaving, I went to a six month drug and alcohol rehab. I then returned home and back to the same school, newly sober. Shortly thereafter, I unexpectedly moved from Gatineau, QC to Ottawa, ON. That's just across the river, but in an entirely different province. I had to re-enrol at a school in Ontario.

School 3: Great downtown school with very cool people, but I was fairly transient at this point and was only in the school's catchment area for a short time. I was sixteen and living at no fixed address. I stayed at the YM/YWCA, a halfway house and a few other choice places. And by choice I mean scary. It was during that time I realized how much I love to write.

School 4: I asked for special permission to attend a school across the city from where I lived (in my very first apartment with my then-boyfriend-now-husband) because it was the only one that offered an English Writing program. There I met the teacher who changed my life. I walked into her class with purple hair and a leather jacket. Ms. Wagland could have written me off right then as a lot of other teachers had, but she didn't because she's awesome. She saw something in me. She believed in me, pushed me, and encouraged me to embrace my writer's voice. We moved to the suburbs after that year, however, so I took Ms. Wagland's teachings with me and went to a new school.

School 5: What happens when you're 17, living on your own, and going to school alongside suburban kids? You leave because those kids are really annoying. They think you're really cool because you live on your own and they want to hang around you all the time when all you want to do is go home and figure out what $12 is going to buy you for meals this week. Their parents are afraid of you because you're probably on drugs (even though you're likely the only sober kid in the entire school.) And you drop out quickly because you feel more out of place there than you ever felt anywhere else in your life.

School 6: Screw that noise. I decided to try my hand at a year-long upgrading program at the local college. If I finished this, I could apply as a mature student to one of their programs the following year. I loved college life! I loved the people and the energy and the fact that I was treated as an adult. I was two-thirds of my way through the year when I was pulled into the administrator's office. She tearily told me that, effective immediately, the government was cutting funding to the program for anyone under 18. I would either have to pay out of pocket for the rest of the year or I would need to withdraw. I broke down in her office and walked out with my things. With no way to apply for a student loan for that particular program, I simply couldn't afford the tuition.

School 7: I was at an adult high school and totally kicking ass up until the time I started throwing up. I left in my second trimester. 

Life got busy. I made choices. I don't regret those choices, nor the life experiences I've had. I've been sober for 22 years. I have a great husband and three adorable kids (Yes, even the bottomless pit who rolls his eyes at me.) I have full belly - a little too full, actually. I own a home in a safe neighbourhood. I drive a car that doesn't terrify me. I work for myself doing something I'm passionate about. I suppose I'm your typical, middle class suburban mom.

I am balls out happy, you guys. I really, really love my life. I'm grateful every single day for what I have because I remember a time when I thought I'd never have it.

But I never finished high school, and I hate that I never finished after all that work. I tried so hard. But the kicker is that I know I could have tried harder. I just gave up after a while and threw myself into parenting. Now it's time to do this for me.

So this is my year. Do you hear that, Universe? This is my fucking year. By June I will be a high school graduate and I will put blinking lights around my diploma and giant bedazzled arrows pointing to my name on it. It will go in my front hall and I will call random people off the street to come look at it. Also, my husband has been informed that he is to throw me a big grad party. It has to be ballin'. Don't worry, he has a few months to plan it.

My major goals this upcoming school year are:

- Finish these 4 credits

- Rule the school (look into how to do this while attending mostly online classes.)

- Setback: No cheerleading program, so can't be head cheerleader. Therefore, aim for valedictorian

- Inquire into getting credits "just for being awesome." (This could happen.)

- FOR FUCK'S SAKE DO NOT GET KNOCKED UP.

Oh, and one more thing:  Hold your head high no matter what. It's about time to prove to yourself you can really do anything you set your mind to. 

You're The Maven, after all. 

Are You Suffering from Internet Hipster Troll Syndrome?

Image by: Patricio Mena Vásconez

Remember that video you posted last week of the Mexican donkey hee-hawing Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You"? That was pretty sweet, right? You loved it. Your Facebook friends loved it. Everyone was having a laugh while simultaneously complimenting the donkey on its ability to hit the high notes.

And then he showed up.

You know, him.

And he posts: "Yeah, saw that months ago."

Just like that. He could have added "and it's still just as funny this time" or something, but he didn't.

Or he could have said nothing and instead just let you and your friends have a good laugh, but he didn't.

He just wanted you to know that he saw it before you did. That he discovered that treasure 

way. 

before. 

you. 

And that somehow makes him better. It makes him the winner of an imaginary internet medal. He likes to remind everyone of his superiority whenever he can.

Diagnosis: dude is an internet hipster troll.

Why is he still on your Facebook list? Why isn't he banned from seeing your Twitter feed? I'll tell you why: Because he's your cousin, or the guy who works two cubes over. The problem is that, whoever he is, he's someone who's too close to just take off your friends list without social repercussions, and not close enough that you can ask him why he has to be a total douchekabob. He's right there, sitting smugly in the can't touch this zone. It's fucking awkward.

Internet Hipsters are everywhere because it's easy to be one. I could be one right now. I just have to go on YouTube and find something great that hasn't made the rounds yet. Considering there are thousands of new uploads a day, that's not hard. And then there are blogs and articles and obscure studies that are on the verge of getting a lot of attention, all ripe for the claiming. 

All I have to do is track a few things down, grow a bit of facial hair (this will likely get easier as I move towards menopause), buy a little beret or fedora or whatever, take a picture of me holding something from a microbrewery, maybe move to a slowly gentrifying part of town, and voila! Internet hipster.

Then there's the know-it-all version. You might recognize them as the people who Google everything everyone posts to check its validity. Look, I am 100% in favour of the facts. But I have accidentally posted a couple of things that aren't factual, as have many other people I know. This happens, and I sure am grateful for places like Snopes that take the time to 4-1-1 this shit. I usually check too, but sometimes I forget. So I'm glad when someone points out the fake stuff.

But when I'm in that position, I do it like this:

Hey, so as it turns out, bread made into croutons died from natural causes first, and did not suffer in the drying/chopping/roasting process like this article suggests. You can read about it here.

And not like this:

THAT IS FALSE.

Tact, people. Use some tact. A few extra words go a long way.

They did not suffer.

I used to get annoyed and/or embarrassed by these people. If their comments were directed at me and I was having a bad day, my insecurities would flare up. If they were directed at my friends, I would get a serious case of bitch face. 

But then, one day, I stepped back and thought about it.

If someone has no tact, chances are they're pretty lonely. I'm not pretty lonely. But sometimes I get things wrong on the internet or I'm late to the viral party. I think I'm coming out ahead on this one.

But in case my lack of speediness or facts bothers you, I just want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I missed 6 hours of online time 5 months ago when the Mexican donkey first went viral and/or I didn't check to see if that pumpernickel was truly free range before it was slaughtered and lightly tossed into a salad. It totally sucks when having a life gets in the way of my internet. Maybe I should try and keep up with the times a little more, like you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find a cool hat to wear. Well, not cool right now, but something that's going to be cool in a few months so mine can look all worn and have been in a few profile pictures before you even buy yours.

The Toughest Parenting Decision I've Ever Made

These kind of look like mints and now I want mints. Damn it. (Photo courtesy of Wikipedia commons.)

I used to think all the tough parenting choices happened early on: breastfeeding, co-sleeping, discipline methods, whether you should buy your toddler Baby Gap clothes or make them get a job so they can buy their own (teaching responsibility is important.)

I used to think that once you found your footing in the early years, that momentum would more or less guide you the rest of the way.

I was wrong.

Yesterday I gave my 10-year-old his first dose of anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication, and that is by far the hardest decision I've ever made as a parent.

We met a new doctor on Tuesday - a pediatrician who gets mental illness and is happy to work with Gutsy. (He's also easy on the eyes and that does not hurt at all from a mom point of view when you're making tough choices, thank you very much.)

I went in ready to activate my mama bear super advocating powers at a moment's notice. I'm used to doing this. We spent years fighting against a system that had little understanding of childhood mental illness and a dismal lack of services. We even moved provinces three months ago in an attempt to get our son the help he needs (for those not in Polar Bear and High Octane Beer country: Canada's public health services are provincially run. Good news: we live on the border of two of them, so moving was tricky but not impossible).

And here, finally, we have people who are listening to us, and services available to help our son. Here, finally, we're starting to feel hopeful.

At the appointment, we talked about alternative methods (we've tried many), dietary methods (we've tried those too), exercise (this is ongoing, but he's depressed and not moving much these days), sleep (which is always an issue), and cognitive therapy (which we've been doing for a couple of years). Finally, we discussed medication.

Medication. Medicating our child. I wanted to throw up. But I didn't because I was worried Dr. C wouldn't want us to come back if I'm a parent who vomits.

Gutsy was hesitant and I don't blame him. The idea of flooding your brain with something foreign is a scary one. Dr. C. was great at answering his questions and telling my boy that ultimately the decision is his to make. He told Gutsy to think on it; that he would give us the prescription and we could decide later.

I took Gutsy to Walmart (and saw Wilbur, who looked right through me like I was nothing but a drunken one night stand at a Greenpeace protest. I'm heartbroken.) We walked around, talking. I told him about my hesitation about medicating when I was diagnosed with postpartum depression after Intrepid was born. I told him that medication saved my life; that I had done everything I could possibly do to feel better on my own and none of it worked. That once I started taking the meds, my brain finally began responding to the other treatments, and that I was able to pull myself out of that dark place.

"Look at me, dude," I said to him. "Can you imagine me sad all the time? Can you imagine me wanting to take my own life?"

"No," he said. "You're so happy."

"Totally. And awesome and beautiful and intelligent. It's ok. I'm sure you meant to say those things too. This is who I really am, and who was hidden by all that sadness. My brain was so sick, buddy. It's just like when other parts of your body are sick. Sometimes they can't get better on their own and they need some help. What we want to do is help your brain get better. I know it's scary, but imagine how you'll feel if this works."

He thought for a moment. Gutsy is a quiet, thinking sort. I love him for it. "I really want to get better, mom."

"Then let's do this," I said, relieved.

"And I also want a tent."

"What?"

"A tent. A big tent. We'll put it in the backyard and have campouts. Oh, and I'm going to need an air mattress or two."

"Seriously?"

"Yep."

"You want me to buy you something for agreeing to this?"

"Yep."

"Done."

And that is how I essentially bribed my kid with camping gear so he would take Prozac. Please get my Worst Mother of 2013 trophy ready.

Look, this is scary shit. I'm terrified. Nobody wants to give their child medication with a list of potential side effects longer than my list of attractive qualities. Nobody wants to lie awake at night wondering if they're doing the right thing. Nobody wants to worry about doing more harm than good.

But we feel like we're out of options at this point. We feel him slipping away. And once those puberty hormones hit in a couple of years, the likelihood of uncontrolled depression and anxiety taking him in a frightening direction dramatically increases. I don't want to be that mom who says, "I wish we had tried harder. I wish we had done more." I'd rather be the mom a section of the population will always deem the "Can't deal with her kid so she medicated him" parent. I'll wear that title if it saves his life.

There are no easy decisions with mental illness. There is no map for this. The waters are murky, the jungles are thick, and you have to just trust your instincts out here. In my hands is a precious little life, and I will fight tigers and cheetahs and rabid, uh, sloths to protect it.

I just hope we're on the right path.

Love you, Gutsy.

Today I will not Hate My Body

Today I will not avoid every mirror in the house, nor will I stand in front of them critiquing this part or that one, sucking in my gut or pushing at it with my hands and telling myself if I could just lose this much here, I'd look so much better.

Today I will not change outfits 10 times like a backup dancer at a Madonna concert, getting closer to tears each time because nothing seems to magically hide what I wish it would hide: the fact that I'm a bigger girl.

Today I will not stuff my face unceremoniously with foods void of nutrition, nor will I chastise myself for every single carb. I will eat for health and for taste, not for stress.

Today, because I woke up feeling lower than usual, I will take extra good care of myself. I will treat me like I would a good friend who's having a bad day.

Today I will avoid things that trigger the self-hate on my less confident days: fashion magazines that represent no one above a size 4 or below 5'10", diet company commercials with deep pockets and empty promises, women who are a healthy weight talking about how fat they are, weight loss "specialists" who've never been heavy telling people who are that they're just not trying hard enough.

Today I will exercise not out of disgust, but out of admiration for what my body is capable of doing when I work at it and the feeling of accomplishment that follows. I'm not disgusting; I'm disgustingly awesome.

Today I will not throw lamps at my metabolism. Or chips. (Maybe chocolate.)

Today I will walk tall and smile widely. My eyes, my handshake, my stance will all command respect from others. Because who's going to respect me if I don't respect myself? You won't judge me by my weight because my presence - my essence - is so much bigger than my hips will ever be.

Today I will say two good things about me for every bad thought. Like, if I start thinking about my double chin, I'm also going to think about how I can make a room full of people laugh at my jokes and how I have excellent taste in shoes. 

No, seriously. My shoes are really sexy, you guys.

Today I will laugh a lot, get out into the world, and remember that life is about more than pounds, more than scales, more than dress sizes.

Today I will remember that my body has carried me through so much, including two motor vehicle accidents, three babies and three stomach surgeries. This body is a veteran of both life and motherhood. It is a scarred hero, always growing more beautiful on the inside thanks to all it has experienced on the outside.

So today I will not hate my body. I will love it, thank it, and cherish it as it is.

(The jury's still out on the chocolate, though.)

Wilbur the Walmart Ninja

Last week I went out with my friend Liliane to celebrate our 4-year friend-a-versary.

There are a lot of reasons I'm friends with Lil, not the least of which is because she'll do awesome shit with me like celebrate friend-a-versaries. Essentially, they're a fancy date without having to put out afterwards - a major bonus when you each have three kids and little time to shave your legs. Another reason we're friends? Lil will let me say things like, "Your life must have been a bleak, meaningless existence up until you met me" and not even roll her eyes once. I'm convinced my mom is paying her to help me with my self-esteem.

But the best reason we're friends is because we have amazing shopping adventures together.

After stuffing our faces full of Italian carbs, we made our way to our special place: Walmart. As a general rule, I'm not the biggest fan of department stores. This is both because I love to shop local and also because I'm a pretentious douchecake who likes to say things like "I love to shop local." But Lil and I have had some epic experiences beyond the deeply discounted blue gates, and this time was no exception.

It started with the usual. Lil said, "I have to get a couple of things." And then I said, "I have nothing to buy, so I'll just follow you around." Nothing turned out to be hair dye, a bathing suit, two Minecraft posters for the boys, some chocolate, garbage bags and a t-shirt (I'm always proud of myself when I stay in control.) And she didn't even sneer at me when I pushed her stuff to one side of the cart to make more room for my Nothing, which was rather nice of her.

When the cashier was scanning her stuff at the checkout, she asked if Lil would like to keep the hangers. Lil said, "Yes, please."

I gasped. "You're keeping the hangers?"

"What? Of course," replied Lil.

"You're... You're a person who keeps the hangers?" I asked all shocked-like on account of being really shocked about this.

"And?" she replied, all attitude-like on account of having lots of attitude.

This. Never do this.

I shook my head in disbelief. "I thought I knew you."

"Oh, give me a break," Lil exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "Lots of people keep the hangers."

The woman behind us said. "I keep the hangers."

"I also keep the hangers," a man interjected. "Why don't you?"

I looked around for a soapbox but couldn't find one, so I just stood really tall. "Don't you understand? If you bring the hangers home and put them in your closet then all your hangers won't match and it doesn't look good and that can just RUIN YOUR ENTIRE DAY. Also, I'm pretty sure when you throw them out they land in the ocean, and they're just the right size to choke baby dolphins."

"OMG," said Lil, laughing on account of not knowing how serious mismatched hangers and the death of baby dolphins can be.

Everyone was laughing with her. Laugh away, fools, I thought to myself. Then go home and cry at your ugly closet smeared with the blood of infant sea mammals.

"Some people keep the hangers," offered the cashier, helpfully.

I spun around to her like I was Matlock, interrogating a witness on the stand. "Do more people keep the hangers or not keep the hangers? Because I'm pretty sure I'm in the majority on this one."

The woman waiting in line was giving Lil that please tell me this is your relative and not someone you spend time with by choice look. That's because she knew I was about to hit a homerun on this one and she needed to get all her smugness in before mine suffocated it.

"I'd have to say more people choose not to keep the hangers," said the cashier, who was going to have a lot to tell her family when she got home that night.

"AHA!" I yelled loudly enough for the entire store to hear me. "See? People love matchy-match closets! And baby dolphins!"

And that's when he came up out of nowhere, y'all. 

No, seriously. One minute it was just me yelling at Lil and her posse of patrons for not having OCD, and the next minute this guy is standing in front of me at the end of the cash wearing an employee vest and coke bottle glasses that made his eyes look really big.

"Actually, we have a lot of environmental programs here at Walmart," he said in a British accent.

"Uh... wow. Hey." I replied with my head tilted to the side as I examined this most curious creature.

"We recycle all the hangers people don't bring home," said what's-his-face. I can't remember what his name tag said, but it was something like Adam or Michael, so we'll call him Wilbur.

Lil and I loaded our bags into the cart. Wilbur helped. That was nice of him.

We began walking toward the doors. "If I can direct your attention over there," said Wilbur , and I jumped because holy shit, I didn't even hear him walking behind us, "we also recycle plastic bags in that bin. You can drop them off any time."

"That's pretty cool," I said, now knowing way more about megacorp environmental efforts than I had planned to that day. Lil gave me that you did this to yourself look, and I gave her that shut it, dolphin-choker look.

We were almost at the doors. Wilbur the Blue-Vested Ninja wasn't done just yet, however. "And finally, as you exit this evening, you'll notice the recycling bins just inside the main doors."

"Right there? Gotcha. Well, this has been informative," I admitted. "Thanks."

"Have yourselves a great night, ladies," said Wilbur, who disappeared into the shadows as quickly as he had appeared.

We walked out into the parking lot, speechless for a time.

Finally, I turned to Lil and said, "I think we just got served by the eco-fairy, motherfuckah."

We said goodbye. She told me to go enjoy my matching hangers, and I told her not to murder any aquatic mammals on the way home, and later she sent me pictures of all the mismatched hangers in her house and I just about broke out in hives.

The end.

I'm following my passion, all terrified-like

Imma eat all your confidence.

It's Thursday night and I'm sitting in a coffee shop, blissfully alone. Because summer. And kids. And fighting.

And book.

Right. Did I mention I'm writing a book? I am writing a book. You don't have to say it; It's a ludicrous idea, I know. Everyone is writing a book. Books are a terrifying longshot in a sea full of writers writing books. 

Sensible Maven, my alter-ego who doesn't know I'm sitting in a coffee shop drinking three-dollar americanos I could have made at home for a fraction of the cost, says I should not waste my time penning a memoir and should instead be pitching publications full-time as I might actually make a decent living at that.

Sensible Maven, who wears glasses attached to a fake gold chain and perches them just low enough on her nose to furrow her brow at me, says if I insist on getting into this publishing business, I should just ghost write other people's books because they have a higher probability of success than mine does.

Sensible Maven, who has a briefcase full of receipts dating back to 1997 and only attends potluck gatherings because she's diligently saving for retirement, says I'm a fool to dream big.

She says these things to me every time I sit down to write this damn book. And then I can't pen more than a few sentences because I begin to agree with her.

So tonight I strapped that bitch down Clockwork Orange style and made her watch the Katy Perry movie with me.

Yes, the Katy Perry movie, everybody. Laugh away. Go ahead. I'll give you a moment.

Done yet? 

Ok. Stop laughing now. Seriously. I still have half a roll of duct tape in my hand. Don't make me go there.

Katy Perry has made an entire career out of doing things her way. She fought the system. She fought record labels. She fought the formula. She fought against people who told her they knew better. She wouldn't compromise who she was or what she had to say just to make a dollar. And now she's wildly successful at being authentic.

How do I know all this? Because my kids were all "please watch a movie with us, Mommy" and put it on and then ninjad their way out of the room to eat popsicles while I sat there worried about Katy's and Russell's doomed marriage, that's how. Now I'm the world's biggest Katy Perry fan and they're bitchy because they've had too much food dye.

I have a story to tell, and I need to tell it. In a book. 

Don't ask me why. I don't know why. I just know I have to do it. 

Maybe it's because so many people have suggested I write a book (probably because they're tired of listening to me talk about myself, which is weird because I never get tired of listening to me talk about myself.)

Maybe it's because I believe with all my heart that everyone has a great story to share, so why should I be any different? 

Maybe it's because I've had a weird, wild, tragic, bold, wonderful life, and that by sharing it I could help lift someone up as others have lifted me up so many times.

Maybe it's because I want to honour what is beneath my roles as mother, partner, daughter, sister and friend; there's a whole person in here beyond those labels, you know. 

Maybe it's because I want to heal some of those old, deep cuts and that, by writing about my life with humour, I could laugh my way through it all the second time around.

I suppose it could be all of those things, really. The idea of penning a memoir has bubbled to the surface so many times in the last few years, yet each time I've found a reason to surpress it: I'm too busy, I'm too stressed, it's a bad time in my life, it will suck, I'll hate myself for failing at the one thing I've always wanted to do and years later will be found dead in my hotel room after overdosing on a crateful of peppermint patties.

But fear and worry and doubt are poor reasons not to do something, unless that something is jumping into a pit full of hungry crocodiles. And since writing is nothing like being eaten by crocodiles until the book reviews come out, I need to stop letting those emotions guide me.

Maybe it will suck. Maybe no one will read it, or, worse, everyone will read it and hate it very much. But those are concerns of the ego, and I am not going to be my ego's bitch. Nor am I likely to be Sensible Maven's bitch anymore because I totally forgot she's still strapped to the family room couch with her eyelids taped open, and also because works of passion are not always sensible, Maven.

I have to write this one book - ok, maybe two books because, let's face it, I'm obscenely verbose - and then I can get back to pitching publications and editing other people's works of passion if I have to. But not right now. Right now it's time to do what I promised myself I'd do.

Even though I'm looking down at the crocodile pit, terrified.

And I could really go for a peppermint patty or five right about now.