Those of you who know me and follow me on social media know that I’ve been singing the praises of “minimalism” lately. And while I’m sure it makes me sound like some sort of combination of preachy bitch and millennial vegan hipster, I can’t help it – it has been a total game-changer. (Check out my 7 life-changing tips for living more minimally here).
I’ve posted often on my struggles with depression and anxiety. Part of it, I believe, is because depression and anxiety are genetically encoded in my DNA. I have a strong family history of depression, and I unfortunately inherited the gene. Part of it may also have to do with my less than ideal childhood. I won’t get into details, here, but suffice it to say: I didn’t get the love I needed as a child.
I’m tired of social media justice. We’re all guilty of it. Whoever shares the most compellingly-worded Facebook post wins. We share another GoFundMe page or ask for another electronic signature on a petition that probably never gets read. It’s hashtag justice at its finest. Let’s all pretend we care about the issue by acting as though we’re outraged on social media. If you’re silent, you’re deemed to be complicit.
Just the other day, I came across an article written by a well-meaning Mom who had–like so many of us before her (myself included)–fallen victim to Motherhood Martyrdom. She was looking forward to the birth of her child so she could experience a “post-delivery vacation.” In the hospital. While I admittedly don’t know what kind of hospital she was referring to, unless it was some sort of tropical resort, this is maybe the craziest thing I have ever heard. Not because she doesn’t deserve some peace and quiet (Lord knows we all do—but especially Moms who have just birthed a human), but because she felt she had to visit a medical facility to get one.
I spent the early weeks of my daughter’s life on the same spot on the couch. To this day, the cushion serves as a stark reminder of those times: worn out and significantly flattened by its many hours of use. The cycle went: wake, cry, eat, cry, eat, cry, eat, cry, sleep. Repeat. And for the first time in my life, I felt a particular type of anger bubbling up within me more times than I could count: white hot flashes of rage that terrified me, forcing me to place her in her crib while I stepped outside to remind myself to breathe.
I felt like I was having a heart attack.
I had an informational interview yesterday at a law firm that practices an unconventional type of law that interests me. I knew that they weren’t hiring, but I contacted them anyway to see if I could speak with them about volunteering or learning more about that area of law. The meeting went well, and as I was getting ready to leave, the interviewer said to me: “you’re so lucky nowadays that you get to try things out before committing to them. We never used to have those opportunities”. He meant only the best by it, I’m sure, but it struck a chord with me. Just like that, it became about “us”–the dreaded millennials.
I’ve heard it too many times: we’re all desperately in need of some time off, but yet Mom Guilt rears its ugly head, preventing us from asking for it.
Mom Guilt is the strangest phenomenon I’ve encountered since becoming a Mom. I used to laugh at friends with kids when they described it. I was positive it wouldn’t happen to me – as I smugly drank my post-work daiquiri while they dutifully shuffled off to pick up their kids from daycare.
I have such a love-hate relationship with social media. On the one hand – as an extreme introvert – I sometimes don’t communicate with the outside world for days at a time, and the internet serves as a place where I can connect with others in the only [non-awkward] way I know how. On the other hand, the internet turns me into a jealous, raging b*tch even I can’t recognize. It’s usually one extreme or the other: there is no real “happy medium” for me when it comes to social media.
We’re all busy. And, if you’re anything like me, the busier life gets – the more Mom Guilt sneaks its way in. It’s a vicious cycle. My level of Mom Guilt rises exponentially, incidentally, during final exam season – which I find myself in the throes of, again.
It’s that time of night again – the ‘worrying hour’. Usually 3:30-4:30 a.m. Like clockwork.
I turned 31 last week. For some reason, I thought I’d have my life together by now. I thought that when I reached the magical age of 30, I’d feel less like a child trapped in an adult’s body.