It’s been two months since I’ve taken my anti-depressant medication. Withdrawals included, but aren’t limited to dizziness, mood swings, fatigue and emotional emo-ness.

Kinda like what I went on it for in the first place. Heh.

It’s all made me question my decision, just like the first time. But this time, I held on. I waited a little longer knowing that last time I made it to this position before I gave in due to extenuating circumstances: like work troubles and then winter starting. But now even though life is still quite hairy, I feel like I have somewhat of a grasp. (Because really? There’s never a perfect scenario.) I’ve come to the realization that the drugs are partly what’s caused me to feel so “out of it”. They turned me into the zombie and made me so comatose that I was just getting by.

I’ve been struggling with trying to figure *it* out and for a while, all signs pointed to my IUD. The weight gain, the abdominal discomfort, the headaches, The Rage and acne. I was convinced I needed to have it removed. But, now? I truly believe that it was because I wasn’t consistent with my medication. I’d take it for a day or two and then forget a couple; then take it for a couple more. Now it’s gone and my thoughts are more clear, I can concentrate better and I don’t feel like I’m living in a fog anymore.

Mental clarity is a huge deal, people. Huge.

Mental health? That, I’m still working on.

Since I was diagnosed with PPD I left my doctor to make the decisions regarding my health and medications. I handed everything over to her. I don’t regret it because she’s wonderful and lovely and I trust her implicitly. I just don’t want to be medicated anymore. I want to take back my life. I want to live my life, not just get by.

My next step is getting back into running. I’ve been talking about it for months years, but I’m nervous and lack motivation. Plus, I don’t know where to start. It’s been years, YEARS, people, since I’ve ran. I know how much I used to love it and I want that again.

So runners. Your tips, links and suggestions are needed, please! Go nuts (in my comments).

Running Room? Couch to 5K? an app? a website? Let me know!

If you link more than two items in your comment it will be held for moderation, but I will manually put it through, so don’t fret.

I’ve been teetering on the edge of losing my ever loving mind over the past few weeks. Between working 70 hours a week in the office, another 20 – 30 at night on my own business, I’ve worn myself down to merely a zombie going through the motions. Mike was off work for the past 6.5 weeks and I’ve been doing what I can to pump out some quick work to bring in a little extra cash while I’ve been swamped at my salary paying regular job. Without him, I’m certain this house would have imploded.

I try valiantly to find balance, but I find that I become consumed by one or the other depending on how much attention they require. The kids get sick, I stay home, things come up that need my attention then I spend too much time away from the office or unavailable, the boss notices and then there’s reprimand. Should I have to put in additional hours – which include weekends – then family and marriage suffer. Finding that balance is a feat in itself and I am finding I am not so strong at managing my home and work-life balance.

Actually, I am failing that balance.

I know it’s short term and will eventually, (hopefully) work itself out. It has to. I love what I do. I love working. I love being a part of something and contributing to amazing and wonderful transformations on a daily basis. Driving into Downtown Toronto and seeing the skyscrapers and condo buildings makes me proud because even though they have become eye sores and block out any natural light in the downtown core, I have been a part of their construction. Though my work is neatly hidden beneath soil, steel and glass, It’s an amazing feeling to know that I have contributed to that.

But that feeling, as amazing as it is, is really nothing compared to that of being there for your children. Teaching them, learning with them, being there during their Firsts. Nothing in the world can neither compare nor replace that, and I don’t I want it to.

I want both.

I want to find that perfect equilibrium.

But then again, don’t we all?

I am not about to quit my job, though I do appreciate the links and feedback on my last few posts, I am just working through being overworked and underpaid, fatigued and riddled with Mommy Guilt. It’s regular day-to-day around here. I need to rant and vent, but I am so grateful to have you. To hear my woes and encourage me to keep on keeping on.

Just a few more hours of sleep. That’s all I need.

Oh, and a life coach, personal organizer, nanny and a winning lottery ticket.

I wasn’t kidding. I want it all.

My upbringing was probably a pretty traditional one: parents divorced when I was really young, one sibling who I fought with constantly, low to middle income of which I was completely unaware since I sucked at math. The early 80’s were very much the time that kids did their thing while the parents did there’s. I remember rarely being accompanied by an adult as I rode my Big Wheel bike throughout the tiny townhouse subdivision where we lived with our mother. We would be out with our friends at the ages of 5 and 6 until the street lights came on, of course.

I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing, but in some way it’s obviously affected me because, well, I’m writing about it.

There were a few rare occasions when my mom would play with us, but for the most part, my brother and I depended on ourselves and our friends for entertainment. She’s always been protective, but not entirely hands on. There, but not. I’m beginning to notice it more and more in myself these days. I am finding I partake little in my kids’ lives, in their fun and laughter, and parent from the sidelines.

I’m here, but not.

They make their games around me. Their laughter is just background noise. Their fun doesn’t include me.

I’ve fallen into this pattern, or routine, of a life I swore I wouldn’t have. I’ve been watching my children play and grow. Rather than being a part of their lives, I’ve been watching from the outer realms of their existence; merely a fixture.

I was often left to my own devices as a child. I was to entertain myself and not become a bother to the adults. I am seeing that in how I am raising my children. They are merely here as we live in parallel universes with small but frequent interaction. It unintentional, but the realization is so painful it’s hard to breathe.

I’ve unknowingly began a journey down a path I have no desire to be on. I never wanted this for myself or my children. The idea of just doing to get by makes me ill. Fighting through each day only to start all over the next. Same boring routine, same boring days which seem to meld into one and before you know it, the weekend has arrived and you’re just too tired to play even a half assed game of cars. Seeing my kids for a total of 2 hours a day is killing me.

Seeing the income tax statement from the daycare today was an eye opener.

From when I returned to work in May, until December, 74% of my gross income has gone towards daycare costs.

Essentially I am paying to work. I am paying to sit on the sidelines of my childrens’ youth.

It’s a painful kick to the gut.

I’m winded. I’m lost. I’m tired.

Work is crazy nuts right now. It’s great since only a few months ago we were on a work share program and now we’re hiring new people because work’s picked up so fast. I am a Project Coordinator for a small (under 20 people) company. I’ve been with the company since its inception, May, 2003, and though I have been with the company longer than anyone else, I feel as though I am the least important member of the team. Two maternity leaves have seemingly pushed me to the outer rings where some days I find myself feeling as though I am quickly moving closer to dismissal.

Upon my return from my latest maternity leave there were a number of new staff members and a completely re-invented policy and procedure program. I struggled with balancing my home and work life while learning about my company as though I were a new employee. It was a little demoralizing and hard at best.

For the first two months back to work, I struggled. I struggled so hard with having both my children in daycare and pretty much working solely to pay for that daycare. After eight and a half years of dedicated work, I went back with my first two weeks broken up into part time shifts because daycare had messed up placement for Carter to return to a full time slot. I then missed numerous days to stay home and care for them as illness was rampant through the centre.

After all those years of dedication, I was called into my boss’ office and put on notice that I better shape up or I was out. It all came down to roughly three and a half weeks of REALLY shitty quality of work – or complete lack of work, never mind all those previous years of traveling and overtime.  I felt as though I was given the short end of the stick because I wasn’t on my game as soon as I stepped foot in the office after a year’s leave. And as truly terrifying and sad it would be to find myself out of work, I was (am) shockingly comfortable with the thought. I absolutely love the industry that I’m in and the experiences I have, I just miss my babies so much. Being downsized or laid-off, seems like it would be a godsend some days.

Since The Talk, things have improved drastically and I feel, after almost a year back to work, I am somewhat back in the loop. But still, for some reason I find myself feeling more and more susceptible. I keep feeling like any wrong move I make will be reason enough to hand me notice and get me out the door. I just don’t have the confidence in my job that I once had.

Paranoid. There’s really no other way to explain what I’ve been feeling. I am completely and utterly paranoid.

Never in all my life can I recount a moment that I’ve felt this way. I’ve dealt with extreme self consciousness – like walking down the “Senior Hall” in high school trying to avoid eye contact and falling on my face as I passed through what felt like a million pairs of eyes watching and judging.

But paranoia? Doesn’t even compare. It’s debilitating and soul crushing. Questioning every move I make on a daily, hour, minutely basis is tiring. So tiring.

Two weeks since my last post? Honestly, the only reason I knew was because I received the dreaded email from the lovely ladies who provide me with my coffee money.

People, I can’t even tell you what it’s been like around here over the last little while. It’s so crazy busy that I’ve been working crazy overtime at both jobs. I’ve seen my family so little I’m surprised they realize I too live here. I’ve been leaving for the office at 6:30am and coming home 12 hours later, spend 20 minutes with the kids before they head to bed, then I’m on my computer working away at designs until about 11:30pm. It ain’t pretty.

What’s new with me?

Because I’m not quite busy enough, I’ve taken on another job! I’ve joined forces with Swank Web Style and I’m super excited to have this opportunity.

~

I’ve cried many tired and worn out tears as I anticipated a sad Valentine’s Day for Carter as his name was accidentally left off the class list.

Thankfully, everything went well for the little guy as many kids and parents seemed to have remembered him even though he wasn’t on the list. That’s a parenting moment I hope to never have to go through again. (I’m not going to be that lucky, am I?)

~

For the first time in my life, I am obsessed with Olympic coverage. I can’t remember a time that I’ve felt so patriot and so in love with my country. I mean, I have a Canadian flag on my hard hat, I have a poppy affixed to my sun visor which are merely small tokens of patriotism, but now I am finding myself so excited to see the name ‘Vancouver’ on everything Olympic related. I was brought to tears by Alex Bilodeau’s gold medal performance in moguls on Sunday night (and the love between him and his brother Frederic? Oy.).

GO CANADA!

Once I have a moment to catch up and things begin to calm down, I will be back to posting. I miss you guys, lots!

Mike and I officially started dating on my 18th birthday, we were still in college and still very much in lust. Our relationship grew fast and within months we were engaged. Not even a couple weeks after our engagement, Mike was finished his final year of college and off to work. On the other side of the country. But, we were dedicated to each other and we made it work. We made the best of late evening phone calls lasting well into the wee morning hours. We made the best of accepting that this was short term and trusting that, no matter the distance, we were faithful to each other.

One night, just shy of last call at the local bars, there was a knock at my front door. Home alone, on the phone with Mike, I made my way downstairs to find Andy; waiting patiently on my door step.

Andy. He was a gorgeous, down home, laid back beautiful East Coaster with a slight drawl. Muscles. Oh, the muscles. Tanned, taught and pretty much perfection. He and I had dated shortly and in spurts. Okay, so they were booty calls. But they were great booty calls. Prior to him even noticing me, I had spent many of my afternoons admiring him from afar in our campus pub. His bohemian style suited him to a tee; his wildly flowing shoulder length hair tucked beneath a ball cap, Birkenstock sandals and a patchwork Grateful Dead fleece jacket.

When we first met, I was smitten. Over the moon in lust. He was absolutely stunning, and better yet, wanted me as badly as I wanted him. Or so it seemed, because after a few nights I found out just how much he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend. Like so madly in love with her, his room was still plastered with pictures of them, portraits of her and a lifetime of memories. It was evident I was the rebound, and as much as it hurt, it took just as long to fall out of lust as it did to fall in.

Summer break came; I professed to anyone who would listen that I was over Andy. Out of sight out of mind is a magical, magical thing. Mike and I began dating and before long That Night arrived. That night, the first day he was back in town from his summer back down east, Andy showed up on my doorstep.

More shocked than anything, I quickly told Mike I had to go and that Andy was there. Probably a bad move on my part seeing as Mike knew our history and I just informed him that my ‘fling’ had shown up in the middle of the night while he was on the other side of the country.

We sat and talked for what seemed like hours. Sitting perpendicular to each other, he look my hand and guided me to his lap where I sat as he asked about my summer; we talked about his and then he slowly took my face in his hands and tried to kiss me. I willed myself to back away. I fought so hard to remain faithful to Mike and not let Andy get to me. God, I wanted to. I wanted to be with him again so badly, but his valiant effort would not sway me. Not this time. He took heed as I stood up and offered him a ride home.

As we pulled up to his house, he apologized for treating me the way he had before leaving to go back home. He said he felt horrible for leading me to believe that he was over his past relationship, but he was now and wanted another chance. I remember wondering if I could get away with being with him one last time. After all, I was engaged to Mike, making him likely, the last man I would be with. Surely he would understand that I needed that one last opportunity of freedom…..

I quickly said good night and reminded Andy that he had his chance – WE had our chance and it just didn’t work out.

After that night there were no more attempts. There was little effort to even make conversation, and eventually got to the point where we no longer spoke at all.

I still wonder sometimes what would have happened had I gave in. I doubt things would have ever gone past those remaining few months of college before we went our separate ways anyway. Everything I have now would probably have vanished into thin air had I let Andy kiss me. Sometimes? I get lost in the daydreams of what could have been, but, good day or not, I really can’t begin to fathom my life any other way.

:::

This post is part of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog Book Club. January’s second book was Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh. Igor, a married man and father of four, finds himself in a precarious situation as he takes up Coco’s offer of her summer house. His family, as well as Coco, live in this home for a few months and while his wife falls ill, Igor find himself tempted by Coco Chanel.

Since leaving high school and attending post-secondary school at the age of 18, I have, more often than not, been the youngest person in my close knit group of friends. Sometimes by gaps of four years or more. It’s really not been something I spend too much time on until it’s brought up; for example, in conversation or I’m outright asked and the resulting reaction is something along the lines of: Holy shit, you’re only (insert age here)?! But in all honesty, I really don’t care if you’re 2, 5, 8, or 50 years older than me (or younger for that matter. But 50 years younger? That may be a little um, weird) if you’re a friend to me, I am a friend to you.

When I’m feeling overly sensitive (sometimes) and utterly emo (always) I wonder if maybe people think because I am younger my opinions don’t matter or they feel I have nothing to offer to a conversation because my life experiences are assumed to be less than comparable to theirs. I, the completely irrational person I am,  don’t realize that: a) many are likely oblivious to my age and just assume I am older. (Yes, I obviously have an issue with self-esteem. I know this.) or b) they really don’t give a shit about me or my age in the first place. But they should care! Why don’t they care!? No one likes me! WAAAAAAAH! Also? See item a), parentheses 1.

So I’m a little lot self conscious and care far too much what people think of me. I’m working on it. As I have been my entire life.

And as self conscious as I get for being the youngest in the group, I also think, Wait a minute, why are you so shocked that I’m “only” 28? Do I look older? OMG, I LOOK OLD!

It’s really a vicious circle.

Then last week? That circle? It came to a crashing, back breaking halt. Straight into a brick wall of OLD.

In my defense, I spent majority of the week sleeping off some stomach bug I got from the kids. I showered and went to work on the Friday but with little make-up and my hair pinned back: low maintenance. I had to go to our sister company to pick up some project related paper work and while I was there I was chatting with a few of of my former co-workers, one of the guys, whom I used to joke around with a lot, commented, “Holy Sam! Look at you! You look… like a MOM.”

I LOOK LIKE A MOM!?

A MOM?!

Does Mom equal OLD?!

Because I’M NOT OLD!!

One of the ladies turned to face him and informed him “that wasn’t very nice” , while I, in my true colourful form told him he was “such a douchebag.” I wasn’t offended per say, I don’t really offend all that easy, but as I thought about it over the weekend I couldn’t quite pin point what about that comment irked me so much. It’s not like it was a lie, I am a mom. A mom to two beautiful, wonderful little boys. I am a parent. I love having children.

The thought of looking like a mom has me visualizing Mom Jeans, plaid shirts and Keds. I think of women losing their (our) self image and conforming to this uniform and lifestyle that strictly revolves around the children. I think of unkempt hair swept back in pony tails, no make-up and stained clothes. Immediately I felt shame wash over me. Have I fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I give the indication I no longer care about my outward appearance? OMG, I’M A MOM!!!

Yet, I’ve worn that uniform, and I know that’s not a mom. I KNOW. It just happens to be easy and comfortable and realistic most of the time, but it’s not a mom. No outfit, be it from a discount chain store or a high end boutique, makes a mom. A mom is that woman who plays; gets down on the floor with trucks, barbies or what have you.  She takes them to playdates, swimming lessons, doctors appointments and soccer games. A mom makes lunches, dinners, draws a bath a scrubs the dirt and grim from their little fingers. A mom comforts and soothes, loves and adores. Being a mom is NOTHING to be ashamed of, no matter if she works outside the home or in it.

I? Am a mom.

I? Am not ashamed.

I? Am, however, updating my wardrobe.

I crave to write. I think about it constantly.

I dream of a finished office space, white furniture with wall-to-wall white shelving filled with my books and my magazines. I dream of pristine walls with a slight hint of turquoise. I dream of a wide open window with lightweight sheers and a white orchid sitting on the sill. I see myself sitting at a glass top desk, lightly tapping out my mediocrity for all of the Internet.

In my head, that space will make it all better. That space will bring me back to the spot where I want to write again. In that space I will work, providing others with their lovely writing spaces while I will begin to remember what it was like when I would write something I was proud of. Something. Anything.

But that space won’t relieve my mental block. That space won’t be a reality for a long, long while – if ever. That space, this space, seems to have met it’s end. Or at least it feels that way.

It’s been months since I’ve been able to write something that others can connect with. The more I read, the more I realize that the need to be really good at what you do is ever more prevalent. As parent blogging changes and morphs rapidly into blogging for marketing and sponsorship, those whom used to write personally are converting and only the strong remain unwavering.

I am wavering. I have no desire to chase sponsorships no matter how much I’d love to be at the next *it* conference. Yet like others, I want to be noticed, adored and READ. (If you’re a blogger and say you don’t care about those things, you’re lying to us and worst of all – yourself. No one puts themselves out on a public stage just because.) But I have long since passed the stage of promoting this site. There is no more clicking around traffic building sites or adding my site to all the “communities”. I don’t work on improving my SEO (search engine optimization), nor do I care how you found my blog.

This blog is now dying. Actually, I believe it’s been dead for a while.

I am no longer – what I believe to have been – a member of the blogging community. There is very little community. It’s a shark tank full of people looking to make a quick buck and get stuff and if you happen to step on some toes to do it? So be it. There are some great people whom I’ve kept in contact with, but for the most part, my blog reader and twitter feed has transcended into white noise. There are fewer voices with a message; there are even less with ones I want to hear. That’s not to say that your writing is falling on deaf ears, rather that it’s just getting hard to discern the heartfelt writing. With FTC regulations, disclosure statements and disclaimers on satirical writing, it just seems so contrived and fake, even though the intention is quite the opposite.

Transparency is a fickle bitch.

As much as we’re transparent about what we’re writing and saying online, it’s behind the scenes where we are the most clouded,  contrary and unethical. Talking about people, their actions, their writing, their reviews, their “free gifts”, their sell-out attitudes. I see no disclaimers on the hateful statements spewed back and forth, no transparency in the relationships we are pretending to have.

I am no different.

I’ve sat back and watched for months as I fought my own internal battle of facing the truth. I’ve sat back and debated whether or not I owe you, readers and friends, a statement regarding things that have happened behind the scenes. You know, in the name of transparency. Am I being dishonest with you by not speaking out? Am I making myself appear guilty by allowing those who have spoken out – albeit inaccurately – on my behalf? Because every. single. fucking. time. I take to this keyboard, I stall. I am paralyzed by thoughts of people thinking that everything I write from here on out is a fucking lie because of something they’ve heard elsewhere. I think about the links and the emails flying back and forth saying, Did you see what she wrote now? I can’t believe she said that. What a fuckin’ liar. She is dead to me. After all this and she has the nerve.. Why does she even bother?

Dearest friends have said to let it go. My wonderful and loyal friends have said it nothing to worry about and that I acted out of good faith and love. My good friends, the people THAT KNOW ME are right.

But what about the others? The ones that I concern myself with when they really have shown they deserve little of my time. Why? Why do I give even an iota of shit for what they think?

Because I am human.

I am just like you: I want acceptance, I want love, I want people to care about me too. I want forgiveness, friendship and relationships. Because I am human.

Without transparency I feel I am stifling myself. I can write here over and over that I don’t care what you think and that it’s time to move on, but the truth is I do care, and I can’t move on – because EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. I open this computer I think about the people who have (may have) heard something and are taking it verbatim. I think about the fact that no one has even ASKED my side. People I thought were friends have taken what they’ve heard as gospel and haven’t even given me a chance. It angers me, it hurts me and it’s not fair.

But it’s not only about me and my perceived conflicts. There are people who I KNOW have been talking shit about some people I care deeply for and then they are playing nice to their faces and telling them they have their backs when they definitely do not. I know they say they are friends and “would do anything for them”  and then have been calling them hurtful and hateful things behind their backs. You forget, my friends, the internet is very much like high school. Things are said and they DO get back to the people you’re talking about; even if you’re calling someone a “crazy bitch” in jest, it may not be perceived that way in some conversations.

I think we owe it to ourselves – as compassionate, responsible and caring adults to just cut the shit. If you don’t like someone or something they’ve said, so be it. Deal with it. Move on. But the name calling? The hurtful and evil comments about people you *think* you know are really getting us nowhere. Because at the end of the day, has it made your life *that* much better by saying such evil things about someone else? No. Does letting someone know “for their benefit” that a friend of theirs has wronged someone else? No. Because no matter what you say, they will continue to make their own decisions in life and your hurtful words of “concern” and “support” are only going to make you look like that fickle bitch, Transparency.