A Kick to the Metaphorical Balls
I have a tendency to work in absolutes. Here are some things I have said over the years that, later, have turned out to be utter horseshit:
“I’ll never go back to wearing foundation!”
“I would never do ‘Cry It Out’ with my baby.”
“This is the most in love I have ever been!”
“I can’t see myself ever getting depressed again.”
“I could never, ever eat meat again.”
“I’m never doing cocaine again.”
There are pluses and minuses to this kind of mindset. On the plus side, if I’m into something, I’m really into it, y’know? No half measures here. On the other hand, I’ve had to grow a thick skin to coming off like a dickhead when I inevitably do a one-eighty on whatever my soapbox subject du jour is. Luckily, thanks to the longest on-off relationship of my life - anxiety and depression - I have little trouble acknowledging my own dickishness.
Listen, I don’t want the first post on my blog to be about depression, but I’m in the last trimester of pregnancy and, frankly, I’ve got nothing else today. Buffeted by the tide of hormones, I find myself simultaneously enraged and utterly, hopelessly indifferent to the howling pointlessness of my existence. Haven’t lost my flair for drama, though.
Two days ago, I announced - seemingly without an ounce of self awareness - that I couldn’t see myself getting postnatal depression again. Today, the universe would like to remind me with a swift kick to the metaphorical balls that I am still at the mercy of my hormones, just like every other dickhead here.
Duly noted, universe.
 Which is a plus in most circumstances that don’t involve cocaine.
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