Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve realized that I’m great in situations that don’t directly involve me on a primary level. Whereas other people freak out, I remain calm and collected. For example:

Situation: Stepdad cut off part of his finger while using the snow blower a few years ago.

Others: He (understandably) came yelling into the house holding his house-of-horrors hand. Mom (who will deny this) freaked out and started running around while the two of them talked over each other and wasted precious time.

Me: Calmly called 911 and described the emergency while also getting ice ready for the “stub” (if found,) ripping up his Mensa application and Googling “How to Reattach a Fingertip for Dummies” and a recipe for a new vegan cheesecake.

Because it wasn’t my finger and wouldn’t impair my ability to eat or do something of equal importance, I was fine. But there are still those “rare” days when something will happen and on a scale of 1-10 in the crazy department, I come in at about “Lindsay Lohan.”

Others: Some sit on the porch and watch the storm roll in while others go about their business in a normal fashion.

Me: OH MY GOD! We’re going to lose power and all of my food will go bad, not to mention that I’ll miss the ballgame and can’t even go on Twitter to complain that we’re going to lose power! (All of this is said while trying to fit into the Thundershirt my mom has for her 13-lb dog.)

Others: Probably forget that they sent/posted it and simply go on with their lives.

Me: Fail to realize that not everyone is as OCD as me, and that they might be busy with “social lives” or whatever. Instead, I assume they hate me and are creating a Voodoo doll of my likeness instead of replying to email or reading my blog (If you are creating a doll though, please embellish the boobs quite a bit. I’ll totally buy it from you.)

Others: Would never notice this in the first place.

Me: Sigh deeply, realizing that now I can never use the last Kleenex in that box because it perfectly matches the interior of the bathroom and that moment might never happen again.

Others: Some people enjoy the view with a cup of hot cocoa while others go about their business in a normal fashion.

Me: OH MY GOD! We’re going to lose power and I’ll freeze, not to mention that I’ll miss the hockey game and can’t even go on Twitter to complain that we’re going to lose power! (All of this is said while trying to create a blankie fort by preemptive candlelight.)

Others: Tell hot gym guy if they’re done using that bench.

Me: Translate that to mean, “I don’t even care that right now you smell like IcyHot and have what is either avocado or a booger on your shirt. I think we should run away together somewhere warm and perfect our slow-motion “Baywatch” jog.

Others: Well, they probably stay away at least 100 yards.

Me: Translate that to mean, “I don’t even care that right now you smell like IcyHot and have what is either avocado or a booger on your shirt. I think we should run away together somewhere warm and perfect our slow-motion “Baywatch” jog.

Overreact? Not this girl, my…OH MY GOD IT’S A SPIDER WHICH MEANS THERE ARE A MILLION OTHERS JUST WAITING TO EAT OFF MY FACE!!!

Ahem. Carry on.

I’m very OCD with my oral hygiene and have only had one cavity in my 31 years, always getting my Polaroid picture on the“No Cavity Kid” wall and picking a cheap plastic toy out of the toy chest or stocking up on free stickers when I was younger.

As an adult this distinction is no longer special.

I don’t get my picture on a wall, but instead get the bill and a “see you in six months.” This follows an hour of poking and prodding in my mouth with sharp metal objects while asking me questions and making conversation, all the while knowing full well I am in no position to answer with their hands shoved in my mouth.

I still try.

And because I will blog about anything, here is a rundown of my last visit:

• Even though I arrived early and had to endure 15 minutes of waiting in the lobby listening to the secretaries make witty banter about the women on “The View,” I was soon taken back to the exam room promptly on time. That was nice.
• I was immediately offered a paraffin wax hand treatment—yes, a paraffin wax hand treatment. The hygienist took me to a small tub of heated wax, dipped my hands and then covered them with plastic and something that resembled giant oven mitts. That was nicer.
• Arriving back in the exam room, I was given a hot neck pad to put behind my head and then immediately fitted with some sort of new space age goggles and the requisite paper bib that hasn’t changed in 50 years. (The fact that I was wearing oven mitts, a paper bib and goggles is the reason why I wouldn’t want a hot dentist. Mine is old and considerably balder each visit I see him.)
• The prodding began, followed soon by a few polite questions that—as I mentioned above—I was in no condition to reply to. Between swallowing and opening my mouth to the precise degree of angularity requested, I somehow managed to tell her that I did floss (constantly for the past week leading up to this visit) and I would prefer mint paste and ALL THE STICKERS!!!
• Several times throughout the cleaning she expressed her awe of my “spectacular home care,” used the words “oral,” “cavity” and “swallow” and made reference to moisture and tight spaces. This caused me to giggle, which resulted in me questioning whether I had really matured since I was 12 years old and requested the bubble gum flavor of toothpaste (and ALL THE STICKERS!!!)
• After slipping the oven mitts, goggles and plastic bib off, I was given a new toothbrush, floss of the mint “easy-slide” variety and a water bottle.

So even though I didn’t get my picture on the wall, at least my teeth were clean and my hands were soft and supple.

Plus, she gave me a sticker.

You see, I love Sundays for that simple fact (and because I don’t work and usually don’t wash my hair or do much of anything productive, which is why I usually don’t wash my hair. That would be productive.)

My only true ad interest is in the produce section and my “staple” items, as many of my specialty food purchases rarely go on sale. Boo hiss.  But when my “staples” go on sale, watch out.

Mad woman with a cart* coming through!

*For the record, I’m 2,456,667 for 2,456, 667 in picking the one cart that will be stuck inside another cart, forcing me to get all Jackie Chan on said carts until I admit defeat and just push both of the bastards around stuck together.

I have pride.

Anyway, seeing as I do the grocery shopping for my mom and uncle as well, I become rather familiar with the ad by about Wednesday. At that point I’m more knowledgeable about the products than store staff is and can be found counseling shoppers about how to save on their purchases.

I consider it community service.

I also clip the coupons on Sunday for them and organize them in my little coupon keeper. Every Sunday I weed out the old and add in the new, but sometimes an old one gets missed.

This old one will most likely be the one I want to use on the grocery trip one day after it expired. Seeing as this wasn’t discovered until I’m already in the checkout line, I’m forced to make a decision—try and sneak it through or throw it away? Unless I know the cashier is a badass who’ll bust me, who are we kidding? Of course I’ll try and still use it.

In fact, I should try my hand at high stakes poker because of how good I am at keeping a straight face when knowingly using an expired coupon.

I usually make sure to sandwich the expired one in between two “valid” ones, if those are also being used. In my demented way of thinking, I believe the cashier is going to think, “She’s using two good coupons, so this probably slipped in by mistake! Of course I’ll give her 50 cents off of this cereal! She’s practically a saint, for god’s sake!”

When passing over the expired offender, I also try and busy myself with the rest of my bags and coupons while she tries to scan it in.

Some don’t care and figure the machine is just being funny. Others immediately get all CSI: Coupon and check the expiration date that I forgot to “accidentally” clip off with the scissors.

Again, I assume the internal dialogue of the cashier is running along the lines of, “This coupon is expired, but she looks really busy rearranging the bags I just filled with her stuff—pulling things out to examine them before glancing back up and then rearranging the bags yet again. She needs to save $1 on two cans of chickpeas.”

Of course the situation often arises when I am busted, at which point I put on an Oscar-worthy performance of feigned ignorance about what the date is. (To be fair, I usually don’t ever know what date is, but these cashiers don’t’ read my blog and are unfamiliar with my level of neurosis.)

But I act surprised, tell her to toss it—as if she’s going to keep it for her own collection or something if I don’t—and after paying, raise my head high and push my two conjoined grocery carts out to the car.

I have pride, you know.

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Scene: Job interview at Hypothetical Honesty Office & Co.

Important Company Person: Hello! Thank you for coming in for this interview today. Your resume is quite impressive.

Applicant: Thank you for inviting me! No one is posting jobs that I’m qualified for, so my resume is a complete work of fiction that highlights my creative writing and improvisational skills. 

ICP: Indeed! Now let’s get down to business. We want someone who is willing to work hard for a small amount of money so that the higher ups can work less and make a fortune. We could hire anyone we wanted to come in and do this generic office position, but we want someone with practical skills, so I’m going to ask you a few important questions. Ready?

A: Does this involve a drug test?

ICP: No.

A: Then yes, let’s begin.

ICP: You have CEO listed on your resume. Can you explain what those duties entailed?

A: Well, CEO means “Cleaner of External Objects” to me.  And as CEO, I always replace the empty roll of paper towel in the kitchen or bathroom, as I know that’s a hard skill to master. I also place my dirty coffee cup IN the sink and then wash it instead of placing it NEXT to the sink and leaving it for an imaginary maid.

And at my last job,  I had to fix the running toilet in the office bathroom. Does that make me a hero? Not for me to say. But probably.

ICP: Impressive and noted—with a smiley face! Now it’s a proven fact that the first 10 minutes of any conference call are spent watching people try and figure out how to set up the conference call. How do you deal with a) phones and b) meetings.

A: I’m more terrified of a ringing phone than I am of a fire alarm, so I let all calls go directly to a voicemail that I never check. And any invitations to attend a webinar or meeting longer than an hour will result in me decoupaging a flask for my desk or faking my death.

ICP: Look at you, Martha Stewart with your crafts! Next question. The other day I yelled, “Don’t you know who I am?” at the printer. Apparently it does, which would be why it jammed. How would handle that scenario?

A: I would do a little karate yell while trying to unjam said copy machine. Not sure it would help, but I’m feeling pretty confident it would.

ICP: Confidence is key. We want our employees to be as assertive as the Adobe Acrobat update reminders.

A: And there was one time I was feeling a bit overwhelmed and then “Eye of the Tiger” popped into my head. Long story short, I weaponized my stapler.

ICP: Random, but impressive, as I often use music to soothe me as well. When a pen runs out, I like to sing “Circle of Life” ceremoniously before placing it gently in the trash. We live in crazy times, don’t we? Speaking of crazy, how do you deal with coworker interaction?

A: Well, my 30s have been less about “finding myself” and more about “finding ways to avoid awkward chit-chat.” So every Monday I would handle general “How was your weekend?” inquiries by making flashcards stating: “Weekend was great!” “Weather is wonderful!” “Can’t believe it’s Monday!” It would cut down on talking by 25 percent.

ICP: Brilliant! I love that idea! It would not only increase productivity and profits, but also reduce stress. Of course you know I will claim it as my own and never give you the credit.

A: Understood. I will also passive aggressively update my Facebook status with a vague reference to that fact.

ICP: I wouldn’t expect anything less! Welcome aboard.

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You see, I’m not a sappy, sentimental person. I always make sure to say what I mean and mean what I say, but when it comes to being openly emotive and mushy?

Not so much.

This is not a trait I inherited from my mom, as she openly proclaims her love for people and things at an almost disturbingly frequent rate, hugging people she just met and tearing up over a random card I might send in the mail.

I used to find this annoying, and to be honest, sometimes I still do. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s often hard to relate to a virtue in someone else that you can’t easily conceive of in yourself.

But as an adult I’ve learned to navigate these differences and approach our relationship differently. She’ll never change who she is—loving, but stubborn as hell—and accepting our differences instead of constantly fighting against them has really been key as the years have gone by.

Which brings me to my point.

I’ve written about my mom’s disability before and if you’re not familiar with what she’s been through, I suggest you click through at some point. Not because I want you to read more of my posts, but because you should know what I mean.

Even though things weren’t “normal” with my mom when I was a kid—surgeries, braces, body casts—she made sure that everything else I knew was. I was raised with the knowledge that I was special, I was smart, I was loved.

And obviously very well fed.

Things haven’t become easier as time has gone on. I still worry about her on a daily basis, and I know she still worries about me. We both have our reasons to worry.

But no matter what I might doubt in this world—myself, humanity, the validity of expiration dates on ChapStick—one thing I will never, ever doubt is the love that my mom has for me.

How she does it—how any parent does it—amazes me.

I would be a mess.

The thought of loving something that much, watching that little person leave my side or feel pain or hurt or sadness in any way, feeling so helpless as to how things might turn out—and doing most of this behind that “mom” mask of strength that so many moms seem to wear—all that would scare me to death.

But this isn’t about me.

It’s about my mom—every mom—who goes through these feelings of doubt that they’re doing things “right.”  Doubt that their children are happy and loved, that they know they’re happy and loved, that they’re protected enough but not overly so.

Maybe it’s because I’m older now or because I hear it from friends or read it on blogs, but I never fully grasped the scope and the depth of the sacrifice you all so willing make every day, most often with laughter and love. 

I thank you.

Because while I’ll never have kids of my own—my level of nurturing and dedication extends only to a (fake) houseplant—I respect the women who do, not just for what they do on a daily basis, but for who they are.

Women who worry. Women who sacrifice. Women who raise their children with the knowledge that they’re special, that they’re smart, that they’re loved and accepted—even if they’re not mushy.

I’m lucky.

I’ve never had any doubt.

Happy Mother’s Day out there!

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This means a) the eternal battle with the woodchuck in my yard has begun b) I can take walks without coming home and molesting the space heater and c) it won’t be long now until I start complaining about how hot it is.

But first I’m going to complain about something else related to point “b” above —assholes who drive cars and shouldn’t drive cars because they’re assholes who don’t respect the rights of pedestrians.

Pardon my language, but this pedestrian is rather PO’d.

Picture this scenario: A lovely 30-something year old woman is enjoying a walk in the fresh air, probably composing a wonderful blog post in her head that she’ll immediately forget the second she makes it back home.

The next thing you know, some Catholic school kid blasting vulgar rap out of his janky-ass car drives by and honks and/or yells something that no one on Earth can understand. However, the noise still scares the crap out of the lovely 30-something-year-old woman powerwalking up the street.

Why is that a thing?

While I’ve been known to yell at stupid drivers in their cars, the only time I might feel compelled to yell out of my car at a complete stranger walking on the street is if a bear was about to attack them. Even then, I might wait and see what develops from that situation first.

Now I know what you’re thinking: It’s probably because the lovely 30-something-year-old woman is hot and doing some sort of sexy cougar catwalk, drawing attention of all who pass by.

Not so much.

Those days are well in the past. Plus, age knows no bounds with douchebag driver behavior, as you get it from older guys, too (which really just makes it more sad.) And if you think I’m picking on men, let me throw out another scenario that happens with both of the sexes.

A lovely 30-something year old woman is enjoying a walk in the fresh air, creating stressful scenarios in her head of events that will probably never actually happen.

She approaches a stop sign, sees the coast is clear and proceeds to step into the street. All of a sudden someone driving while talking on their phone rolls up and through the stop sign, almost running over our Polish pedestrian.

News flash: Waving, nervously smiling and mouthing “sorry” does not help when you almost make me a hood ornament. One of these times I might throw myself onto the hood of your car and create a dramatic scene, just to freak you out.

Don’t doubt the extent of my crazy.

My point is that a windshield is not a force field of invincibility, and being inside a car does not mean you are outside the realm of normal social conventions. When approaching pedestrians, do not yell or repeatedly honk, and WE SEE YOU PICKING YOUR NOSE.

If you feel the need to verbally express yourself while operating a motor vehicle, might I suggest car karaoke? A few verses of “Dancing Queen” or Rage Against the Machine will surely exercise your lungs and your demons without leaving pedestrians crossed or imbedded in the grill of your car.

I think that’s a win-win for all.

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Apparently she loves dating, but the questionnaire seemed impossible and so she’s just going to keep looking on her own.

Well, I’ve never attempted online dating, but I think I could really help her out with this thing. After all, if weirdo Guy Fieri can find his Gal Fieri, there has to be hope left for Martha.

Username: Martha Stewart

Headline: Lifestyle guru, businesswoman, author, magazine founder and publisher, TV personality and domestic diva seeking companionship and snuggles with someone who appreciates the finer things in life.

Age: A spritely 71

Sign: Leo, which is perfect because I love my Himalayan cats!

Ethnicity: Whitest woman on the planet

Nickname: In prison it was “M. Diddy,” but I would prefer to just go by Martha. Bygones!

Income: Well this is curious! My income range is not represented. No matter. I get by.

Religion: Cleanliness is next to godliness. Also, Dog is my co-pilot. Ha!

Relationships: One ex-husband and several ex-beaus, most notably a software billionaire and Anthony Hopkins, who I had to break it off with after viewing that wretched film, “Silence of the Lambs.” I was unable to avoid associating Hopkins with Hannibal Lecter, a man with absolutely no table manners or sense of proper etiquette.

Children: I’ve had many lovely dogs, cats and horses over the years, but I won’t bore you with those details yet! However, if you’re interested, my two blogging pups, Francesca and Sharkey, have created a photo gallery of all my pets.

Oh, and I have one daughter, Alexis.

Body Type: It depends on what I’m eating, but I prefer an Asti for a light-bodied wine and a Barbaresco for a full-bodied wine.

Celebrity Look-Alike: I’ve been told I could be a mix of that lovely woman who played Murphy Brown (Candice Bergen) and Diane Sawyer.

Smoke: Do you mean salmon? If so, yes. It can make a delightful appetizer when done correctly.

Drink: I love a whiskey sour with fresh juice or a mojito, but it has to be a purple basil mojito and the basil has to be cultivated from my own garden and tended to with painted garden tools.

Hobbies: Anything involving a hot glue gun—decoupage, scrapbooking, creating snow globes out of glass from upcycled chandeliers; knitting blankets from the hair of my prize-winning Chow Chows, baking “green” brownies with my pal Snoop Dogg/Lion out of cupcake tins I’ve created from paperclips and aluminum foil; building a billion-dollar empire and tweeting. I love the Twitter!

Who I’m Looking For: Someone who I can laugh with that knows they can use half a potato to unscrew a broken light bulb. He should love animals, personal transformation and organized bed linens. There’s something incredibly satisfying about opening up the linen closet to see not unholy chaos, but color-coded bundles neatly tied in a bow.

Note: Stockbrokers and actors who have portrayed cannibals need not apply.

I think it’s pretty solid and can only imagine that the men would be lining up.  And if all else fails, I’m pretty sure she could try Craig’s List or get cast on “The Bachelorette.”

Martha might just meet her match.

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Sorry if I’m a bit flustered, but I’m actually not the person who was supposed to do this interview. The reporter who was assigned is apparently sick, although I suspect it’s “the bar flu,” if you know what I mean. Ha, ha.

I’m not so much a “reporter,” per se, as a photographer for the pet fashion section of the paper. But I’m a team player. Plus, c’mon, you’re Vanilla Ice! So I was all, “Will I ever stop? Yo, I don’t know. Give me the address, and I’ll go!”

I grew up listening to you, so big fan!

But enough about me, let’s get to the questions. Of course, Dan, who was supposed to do the interview, wasn’t able to give me the questions he was going to ask, so these are some I jotted down on the back of a napkin at Starbucks this morning. I didn’t have a lot of time to prepare, but…

Oh my god! I just realized I was drinking ICED COFFEE when I was Googling you and preparing for this interview. Talk about meant to be!

So, one thing “off the record,” as they say, before we really start. And this might have been influenced by the fact that I was drinking a mocha when I got the call to do the interview, but I think it’s still of general interest: Do you prefer vanilla or chocolate?

I mean, the obvious answer would be vanilla, seeing as you’re Vanilla Ice and all, but I’m thinking that name might just be symbolic of something more. Like maybe by “vanilla” you really meant “bland” in an ironic way, because obviously you’re not bland at all. I didn’t mean to imply that.

Anyway, I guess that’s not important.

Questions. Let’s see…sorry. I’m trying to read these scribbles here. The other day I wrote down “clean shower” and read it as “clean Steve” which would be really awkward if I was around someone named Steve!

Moving along.

Everyone knows “Ice Ice Baby” and that you worked with MC Hammer—how crazy were those pants, by the way?—but I’m supposed to ask you about “The Vanilla Ice Project,” a show you have on DIY where you guys, and I quote from the Internet, “pound nails and call the shots in this room-by-room renovation.”

Is that like a metaphor for something or do you really build things? I once tried to assemble a bookcase from IKEA and almost glued my hands together, so maybe I should TiVo you, huh?

Anyway, they also told me to ask you about “Vanilla Ice Goes Amish?” I thought maybe I wrote that down wrong and meant “danish,” being in Starbucks and all, but I Googled it and found out you’re going to have another show on DIY and, I quote, “immerse yourself in an Amish community in Ohio to learn how they do construction.”

You do know that they don’t have electricity right? What if they ask you to “play that funky music, white boy?” Are you going to be all, “To the extreme, I will pump that butter handle. Light up the room with a waxy homemade candle?”

I just came up with that! If you use it, let me know!

OK, I’ll guess I’ll just watch and see. But I have to know… do you ever walk into a room and say something like “Hey, I’m back!” and your friends and family are like, “With a brand new invention?” And then you chime in with, “Something, grabs a hold of me tightly” and you all have a good laugh?

Well, no matter. What’s that? Our time is done? Bummer. I had some really good questions coming up. I’ll guess I’ll just look for you on TV and I thank you for your time.

Word to your mother!

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You have to put your foot down and assert your domestic dominance, as giving in to an appliance or a dust bunny only shows weakness, and trust me, these things prey on weakness.

Take for example the vacuum, whose job description literally entails it sucking crap up.

Without the suckage, it’s simply a large noisy thing with a light on the front that terrorizes the cat (a bonus feature they really should advertise, come to think of it.) Because of this, I will stand over the vacuum for 10 minutes and force it to suck up a string before bending over and picking that crap up myself.

I did not spend five minutes five years ago picking out a vacuum so that I could pick up the debris myself, good sir!

And I often find the dustbuster—named as such because it’s supposed to bust the dust—to be more temperamental. It will often passive aggressively push dust around the room instead of actually sucking (busting?) it up.

“Oh, you wanted ME to pick that up? Well, I never….”

Unacceptable. I will run the little bastard until it needs to be charged to make sure that it busts up that one grain of rice it spit out. Suck it up and do your job—literally.

This involves the raising and lowering of said mini-blind with those two little strings on the side.

It seems simple enough, but one wrong pull and you have a completely crooked blind with one side way up to the left while the other sags down to the right. Then you try and straighten it out and the right side goes up while the left side sags down.

Do not accept this asymmetrical configuration of window coverings, my friends. I don’t care if you stand there pulling on each string for an hour like you’re milking a cow. If you don’t even that shit up, the next thing you know you’re literally blinded by the light.

Moving on to the bathroom, I feel the need to warn you that the toothpaste that leaps off your toothbrush like a kangaroo will immediately become as stubborn as super glue the second it hits—and adheres to— the sink.

It can be tempting to let that slide, and you might even consider it “artsy” to have patterns dotting the sink interior. Stop the madness. Nine out of 10 dentists agree that one must immediately scrub the spot in the sink, lest one falls into the cavity of cleaning complacency.

Plus, that crap stays glued on.

This last one isn’t really about cleaning, but I will try and make it helpful by saying you should clean your remote control. I read somewhere that there are 12 teen million germs and probably the origins of the swine flu on the average remote, so Clorox that thing ASAP.

Possible HAZMAT situation aside, my issue is when the remote control simply gives up. The batteries are new, the little red light at the top of it blinks when you maniacally press down the buttons with increasing rage, but yet…no action.

Do not—I repeat—do not change the channel yourself.

Stand up right next to the TV and force that remote to change the channel, adjust the volume or set a reminder to watch Baseball Tonight. And henceforth from said display of power, refer to it only as “the remote.”

Why? Because as with all the domestic dysfunction in your house, you are the one in control.

Never let them forget that.

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It’s enough to make anyone want to crawl in a hole and escape.

But this post isn’t about Boston, Texas or Newtown or the myriad of tragic events that unfortunately, we’ve had to endure. There are others that can speak much more eloquently on those topics, as thankfully, I’m personally removed.

What I’m not personally removed from is depression, something that I’ve written about a million times before, and something that quite frankly, I’m tired of writing about. I like to keep it light, if only for my own sanity.

But events like Boston bring something to the forefront of my mind, something that I’ve heard others who suffer from depression bring up all the time—the guilt.

Ahh…the guilt. That useless emotion.

I have a job, a roof over my head, family and friends who love me and who are still safe. How dare I be depressed when on paper, things look go good? Other people have “real” reasons to be depressed, so what the hell is my problem?

These are the thoughts that go through my head. The guilt—combined with frustration—are what lead me to physically wear myself down to a literal shell of who I once was.

I won’t go into my details again, but when it hits, I can’t imagine how things might change. My motivation becomes basically reduced to: food, exercise, sleep and hopefully coming up with something to write. Anything on top of that isn’t something I have any interest in.

I just don’t want to think anymore.

I simply want relief, and part of me thought (and maybe still thinks) that if I kept physically pushing myself, eventually something would literally give and then I would have a “real” reason, a valid excuse.

Because if I have an excuse, then I won’t have the guilt and there’s something else I can blame for the way that I feel.

In their own way, I hear this from friends who deal with depression themselves. That the guilt is what keeps them tamped down, that they don’t “deserve” to feel anything less than the inspirational quotes and posters that plaster the globe expect everybody to feel.

But you know what?

Sometimes things are completely out of our control. There are mental monsters like that fill our minds with negative thoughts we don’t ask for. Depression happens to good people.

It’s not your fault.

So even though I cringe as I publish this— “serious” equates to insecurity for me—I wrote it because I know I’m not alone, because everyone has shit that they deal with—big, small, internal, external. 

What you deal with is your shit and what I deal with is mine. That’s both comforting and disconcerting, as it means even though we’re not alone, we’re also not unique or the exception to some rule. Everyone has pain.

The only guilt you should feel is if you don’t honor the fact that your feelings are valid and real.

This doesn’t mean you wallow. This doesn’t mean you throw up your hands, say “screw it” and crawl in a hole and escape. This means you fight. This means you endure. This means your guilt is replaced with acceptance and you take the next step forward and deal with your reality now, whatever that reality may be.

You’re human.

That’s all the “excuse” that you need.

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