Just take away my will to live, why don’t you? OR How therapy went last Friday

Homeslice and I went to our first visit to Monica the Ninjerapist last Friday, and I felt a little disheartened afterwards because I was expecting her to tell me I was doing everything right, and that all I need is a little talk therapy and then I’d be right as rain just as soon as I finished my cookie and found Morpheus.

But nay, nay, my good people. Not so much. Turns out, I have a little of the PPD and a little of the SADS and if you them dump together and shake em’ around, it makes a lovely bag of mixed NUTS.

Freakin’ Sweet! High five!

I should be happy that she didn’t think I was sick enough to suggest a lobotomy or an antidepressant or something because I’m decidedly anti-medication and anti-lobotomy. The three things she suggested I work on, however, pissed me off a little bit.

Check it:

1) I’m supposed to quit drinking any and all wine/akahol full stop. Did you hear that? Let me say it again. She said to QUIT DRINKING! Apparently one 750ml bottle PER WEEK is too much. And believe me, I tried to negotiate with her, I really did:

But she’s a ninja. They don’t negotiate.

f) Stop! eating! chocolates! Have I told you guys that I absolutely loathe working at night?  Well, I do.  I hate it.  I crash around 1:00pm, I stumble and slur my words, and then I go to work for 7 hours.  It’s awesome.  What’s more awesome is that I haven’t been fired for showing up to work drunk because when I land there after taking care of the little children all day, I’m a hot. mess.  Here’s a picture of me at my desk which was taken by Mister this very Tuesday past:

_MG_7094-3 

As you can see, I’m looking all kinds of motherfuckin’ enthusiastic right there.  And my boss keeps a big, big super fat ass jar of chocolates on her desk and every time I feel like cutting myself, I eat one. Needless to say, I wind up eating a crapload of fucking candy. Monica says that instead, I’m supposed to do yoga and drink herbal tea.

What kind of fucking bitchery is this? I’d rather cut myself!
Yoga at my desk? Shenanigans!
Herbal Tea? Pssshaw!
What an assbag.

(I just made that up. It’s a delightful combination of Jackass and Douchebag. Assbag. You can use it.)

10) She says I have to break off my lesbian affair with Jillian Michaels!!! This is unimaginable to me that a ninjerapist would suggest I actually not exercise, but that’s because it’s not what she’s saying at all. She just wants me to do more yoga instead. Because it’s therapeutic. Jillian is too punishing and not “loving enough to (my) kid self.” Don’t look at me funny. That’s what she said. And then I punched her in the face and made her do Plank Jacks and Rock Star Jumps until the tears flowed from her eyes and she begged me to let her stop. I’m pretty sure that’s what Jillian would have done had she been there.

No. I didn’t really do that, but I wanted to is what I’m saying.

I don’t think I want to pay her to be my friend anymore.

But I did her suggestions anyway just in case she knows what the fuck she’s talking about, except this past weekend I drank more just on priciple, and I did manage to cut out the chocolates at work and so now it’s just totally joyless instead of mostly joyless because herbal tea is not a replacement for fucking chocolate. Not on this planet, or on Planet Mental Health, or on any other planet in the world.  Even ET thought Reeces Pieces were the shit. 

Amiright? I rest my case. 

And then I found out that she doesn’t take my health insurance and so instead of taking United,  I’m going to ask if she takes Cunnilingus instead because that’s the only way I can pay her.  I think I mentioned to you last week that she’s working the whole “lesbian therapist” vibe and so I might take this chance to answer that question once and for all.

Although, my gay-dar doesn’t go off when I’m around her, but that means nothing because you know, Ninjerapists are crafty.

My friend Rachel says her gay-dar sounds like the disco call–WOOT! WOOT! when it goes off, but I think that only applies to men.  What does a lesbian gay-dar sound like because maybe my gay-dar is going off and I just don’t know.

On some days, I write some words, and on some days, I don’t. Today, I did. Did I use too many commas because I feel like maybe that was too many?

I’ve been using Facebook as my microblog or whatever the Twats over a Twitter call it.  I fucking hate Twitter.  I really do.  I can’t possibly communicate the depth and sincerity of my most inane thoughts in 140 characters or less.  I’ve tried, but it always comes out sounding totally perverse or weird or, I don’t know.  Retarded?

So, I don’t do much Twatting.

I do Facebook from work though. If you’ve added me as a “friend” and I haven’t confirmed you, it’s because you didn’t have the twenty seconds it would take to introduce yourself.  I find that rude, quite frankly, and so we can’t be “friends.”  I’d like to know who my “friends” are before I let them into my personal Facebook. And if I did let you in, and you didn’t leave me a message, it’s because you caught me in a really “friendly” mood or I liked your name, or I thought you looked like not a murderer. So, I let you be my “friend” because sometimes I like to be totally random like that.

Maybe I should start a Crissy fan club on there, probably. I’m scared nobody will join it though. Like, what happens if I start one and only my mom and like two of my bffs join it? That would be sad. Isn’t it also kind of obnoxious to start your own fan club? I think so. Also, I don’t know how. If anyone wants to do one for me, you know. It wouldn’t suck.

(Ms. Darkstar just started one because she’s very special.  Join it so I don’t feel like a giant durfwad with no friends, please)

Also, I’m going to take my Facebook thing off the header. I’ve been meaning to do that ever since Mister put it there like, years ago. It’s misleading, I guess. It makes me look like a Facebook slut, which I’m not.

Anyhoodle, you know what makes me cry like a little girl? I feel like I should tell you because you haven’t heard enough about my depression yet.

Almost any Disney movie makes me cry so hard I actually feel like shit for the rest of the day.

I know, right?

Why do they always have to make that shit so sad?

Like, the other day Girlfriend wanted to watch Dumbo. (I secretly hate my mother-in-law for buying that trash and bringing it into my house, but she meant well so I can’t hate her.  She’s a frustrating woman.) I tried to talk her out of watching it because Dumbo just devastates me, but she insisted on it. I had some work to do on the laptop, so I let her put it on so she’d shut the hell up have something fun to do. I sat Homeslice down on a blanket with a bucket of toys to rummage through, and it gets to the part where they sing the “baby mine” song or whatever it’s called while Dumbo’s mommy is straining to cuddle her frightened and lonely baby through the bars of her cage, and god dammit. I can’t even blog about it without crying.

Seriously. I’m crying again.

There is something very wrong with me.

Ahem…we get to that part in the movie and I just start bawling. I picked Homeslice up off the floor and held her and cried and SOBBED.

It was really poor.

And Girlfriend looks at me and she’s like “mom! It’s DUMBO! It ends happily and everybody loves him! Jeeze! Get over it!”

And in second grade all the kids called me a “baby” because one time I peed my pants while listening to the Bambi record. It was when Bambi’s mommy was shot and I cried and then I peed my pants.

And in seventh grade, it was reading The Red Pony. My mother called the school and bitched out my English teacher.

Yes, she did.

You know what else makes me cry? When a romance goes terribly wrong and two people who are supposed to be together, can’t be together. Like what happened between me and Vinny from the delicatessen.

That sad story will be up on Toy With Me today. We broke up, you know. I haven’t told you about it yet. I’ll link you to the story as soon as I get one. It’s the Canadians and their time zones. I’m going to email them about changing that.  Does anybody have Canada’s email address?  Specifically, I need the email address of the guy in charge of what time it is.

Here it is: Vinny and the Roast Beef Curtains

Where the fuck is Mary Poppins when I need her?

Maybe I can write a blog post tomorrow.  Or later.  Or something.

I tried for like an hour to write one but it was full of suckage.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I find it hard to be cute on the Internet while Homeslice is all up in my grill and pulling out fistfulls of my hair and Girlfriend keeps interrupting me to say things like “mom, mommy, mama, ma, momma, momma, mommy, ma, ma, ma, mommy,mama,mom.”

What I’m trying to say is they’re  evil little children and they don’t care about my blog.

I find this unimaginable.

And so I wonder if either Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee would be willing to sort of, you know, come down here and kick some ass.  I mean seriously, how awesome would it be if Nanny McPhee showed up at my door in about five minutes with her mole and her cane and her awesome. I’d totally make out with her.

Yes I would.

It’s a little better than going on Oprah and crying because that was my Plan B.

I’m really sorry you guys. 

I’m sorry because I’ve only just last night realized that I have no life and I might be coming off as…I don’t know…INSANE? Lately? 

I know, I know you’ve been thinking this for a while now and you’ve been meaning to mention it but you’re polite and kind and I really appreciate your wanting to spare my feelings. Such wonderful Queefs you are. Truly. I’d be nowhere without you.

But last night I was sitting at my desk drooling and mindlessly shoving mini peanut butter cups into my mouth in an effort to stay awake and also to keep from cutting myself just for something to do, it occured to me that I don’t really go anywhere, and I don’t really do anything unless you call going to work or Target “somewhere” and whining because the baby won’t stop crying long enough for me to load the dishwasher “something,” but I don’t. 
I call it being too fucking mom tired to do anything other than survive.

And I feel wicked bad because I don’t get to read your blogs anymore and it takes me a while to reply to emails and I usually try to not suck, but right now? I’m getting my ass kicked.

I have these mood swings where one minute, I’m struggling so hard not to run screaming from my house and then like, literally five minutes later, I’m totally fine and all on top of everything and just like, momming it up and shit.

I’m coo-coo for coco puffs, basically.

But you don’t have to worry because I’m going to see my therapist tomorrow. I’ve been going to her on and off for the past fifteen years because the crazy. It is strong within me.

The last time I saw her was 4 years ago when Girlfriend was a little baby and I was sure I was going to stab everyone. Monica sorted my shit right out in about 4 sessions because she’s a total badass. She’s like…a ninja. And a therapist. She’s a…Ninjerapist. She just goes right into your head and you don’t even know what happened but all of a sudden, you make sense again and you don’t want to stab people anymore.

Ninjerapist.

I will tell her I called her that and she will laugh.

She’s all new-age-y and she does Reiki and she was sporting the leggings with boots thing before it was everywhere and she sort of has that whole lesbian therapist look, you know the one with the hand-made silver and semi precious stone jewelry and the lesbian haircut? But she has long hair. And a kid. So I don’t think she’s a lesbian.
Maybe she is. Long hair and a kid doesn’t make you not a lesbian.

She called me “lovely” once and then said “everyone else is an asshole.”

I knew that already but it was really nice to have it confirmed by a professional.

So yes. Monica.