Just a reminder to anyone suffering from any disorder, addiction, or even just trying to change their diet. Relapses will happen. They will. The key is to Stop, Drop, and Roll. (Yes, that is also what you do when you are on fire. It’s not a coincidence that it is the same advice.) You stop what you are doing, immediately, drop whatever it is that is causing your relapse, whether it’s a bag of chips, or a train of disparaging thought, and you roll on. Because you can’t go back, you can only roll on. Learn from it, but don’t stop. Do not give up the whole thing. Especially if you also have AvPD, because your instinct will be to run. You will want to pretend that you never even tried to be better (or that you don’t deserve to be better.) You do. Everyone does. Except maybe Hitler.
In writing this blog, I’ve done some internet research on Avoidant Personality Disorder in order to help explain myself. Which, you know, is always a good idea. The internet and an anxiety disorder, what could go wrong?
One thing that has been bothering me is the blatantly whinged description of symptoms. And while they’re true, it sees almost rude to describe a person that way. I know, that’s silly. How can a medical description be rude? Like when you describe Irritable Bowel Syndrome you aren’t literally accusing a person of having a crabby intestine, right?
So, why does it feel like the internet is calling me a worm?
Personally, I’d like to set the record straight.
So my Mother’s Day gardening was a bit of a bust.
(For those that didn’t read my endearing Mother’s Day post I had a whole thing on how stay-at-home moms never get a break, and so Mother’s Day was our only work holiday. And with my work holiday I was going to spend the whole day gardening. No Nemo, no diapers, just gardening. Then I gave a nice tribute to my own mom, cause that’s what you do when you’re a writer on Mother’s day. Unless you have a bad relationship with your mother then you probably write some bad poetry.)
But like I said, the gardening was a bit of a bust…
Today is Mother’s Day and I am stoked! When you become a stay-at-home Mom (hyphens and everything) you realize that you literally have no days off. Those hyphens are there because the job NEVER ENDS. No one tells you this, but it’s true. Never Ends. You really only have the one day off. Mother’s day, that’s my work holiday. My bank is closed, the day is mine.
(John just came in asking me to change the baby and make him a smoothie, the baby, not John. John doesn’t drink smoothies unless you count the times the Little Prince flings it at him and he wipes it off his arm with his tongue. Anyway, I shouted “WORK HOLIDAY! The bank is closed!” and threatened to shiv him with my rigidly pointed finger. He looked at me like I was crazy. (I am, but that’s not the point.) I still made the smoothie but only after John agreed to the legitimacy of my work holiday. Some husbands make their wives breakfast in bed for Mother’s Day. My husband tried to foist the eight hours I spent driving back and forth across the state to see his mother as my Mother’s day gift because it was my idea. Nice try, lawyer. Not gonna happen.)
My plan is to garden. Spend as long as I want, outside with my audiobook headphones on. It’s gonna be bliss. Hot, sweaty, composting bliss.
But first I want to tell you about my Mom.
If you have read more than one blog post on this site (and congratulations you may be one of the only ones, except my Mom and Dad. Hi, guys. I’ll try not to say anything dirty this time) you’ve probably noticed that I do not allow comments.
Not yet. I have a somewhat philosophical problem with comments…
Comments give the illusion that every voice is equal.
It’s a real thing.
That’s what I have to say after discussion of literally any aspect of my mental or physical illness. It’s a real thing, I promise. There are more issues than I’d like to admit but like I’ve said before, this blog is about honesty.
Here is a list of the real things that I battle everyday—
The title of this post seems a little illeistic. Honestly, I did not know the word, illeist, until I looked it up, because I didn’t want to say “the title of this post sounds like a douchebag who talks about himself in the third person.” Apparently there are a lot of illeists and not all of them douchebags— Elmo, for one. Have you noticed that he only calls himself Elmo? Sure, he’s got a hand up his butt but he’s definitely not a douchebag. Nixon did this too. Maybe he had the same problem as Elmo.
The point is I love fat.
What about me?
Honestly. I’ve been many things.
I remember meeting a neighbor once. I was about twelve.
(Who am I kidding? I was definitely twelve. I know because social interactions never fade in my memory. No matter how much my awkward introvert heart wants them to fade— they’re solid. Pristine. The truck was blue, the neighbor was wearing plaid. My hair was cut in an unfortunate bob.)
Anyway, I am twelve. (An age I still have not outgrown much twenty years later.) And the neighbor asks me, “So, which one are you?”