I’m either A) slipping into depression, B) out to set the world record in feeling sorry for oneself, or C) in an exceptionally bad mood these days.  As differential diagnosis, let me offer this:  If you tell me to seek help, I’ll invite you to mind your own fucking business, and be quite blind to the degree of hypocrisy that statement involves.  Until two the following morning, at which time I’ll admit you’re probably right.   Still won’t do it.  Because I’m an asshole?  Yes, probably.

Dad update:  Whoa, not good.  Mom estimates he’s got six months before he’ll have to surrender his driver’s license.  My middle sister is trying to get pregnant again, and Mom thinks by 9+ months time, she won’t be able to take care of both my father and Middle’s kids.  Dad keeps writing me these increasingly disjointed emails.  Reading them is like watching someone drown in their own thoughts.  What is the protocol — jump in after them?  Call 911?  There is no lifeguard on duty and I am standing here, watching it happen.

The Cool Thing update:  I am having such a difficult time processing TCT that I’m thinking it should be renamed with some title less optimistic and more indicative of how it’s totally wrecking my sense of self.

No joke, I was in the OBGyN’s office this morning and the doc was all twinkly-eyed excited, asking me for deets on TCT.  Two years ago, this would be my fantasy.  Well, not the speculum part, but YES to people looking at me and actually seeing me,  YES to having something to say about myself, YES to  not being invisible.

So fuck me sideways:  when the OB started asking about TCT, I *cringed*.  I mean, I felt like a stupid, phony, sleazy, self-promoting fraud wearing a giant paper napkin.  Nothing at all how I thought these moments would go down:  Sunshine would light up the room, little birds would chirp outside the window, and I would be AWESOME.

And I have to tell you, the NOT AWESOME has happened every single time someone’s brought TCT up.  When people have nice things to say, I only feel like a mouth-breathing dipshit.  When there’s criticism involved, I am instantly transformed into a 12,000 pound circus freak with notable body odor who feels compelled to apologize for her own existence.  I have fuck-all understanding of why this is so, but I can tell you for a fact that it is.   It’s  like Victoria’s Secret Catwalk fantasy versus Pantsed in the Junior High Cafeteria While on Your Period reality.

What I’m struggling with, is that for years, TCT was this dream that kept me going.  Especially around 2:00 AM, nursing with a tit full of mastitis and a brain full of post-partum.   (Full disclosure, sometimes my dreams were about having a secret apartment where I spent days-at-a-time sleeping.)  But!  The main fantasy keeping me afloat was  that one day, I would be more than a frazzled, sweatpantsed, bored mom that nobody noticed, who went nowhere but the grocery store, and who was frequently stumped when asked, ‘so, how was your day?’.   Someday, I told myself, kids would be older, and I would become someone AWESOME.

So now I’m an asshole.  I got what I wanted.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  It should be Queen songs on my internal radio 24/7 and giggling until I fall out of my chair.  I know it makes me look bad to say it out loud.   I mean, what kind of fucknut self-pitying problem is this?    Being embarrassed about being sad about getting what you want is a hard sell.  But I am.  And it sucks that after all that work, the one constant in all my not-awesome is me.