As a life-long journaler, I would consider myself to be above average in my pursuit of mental stability and self-awareness. Weirdly (or not), in the amount of time I’ve been writing this blog, I’ve done little to no personal journaling. I’ve also desperately attempted to avoid posting any overly emotional and seemingly pointless updates on the status of my ever fluctuating moods (on which I’ve been blaming hormones) unless it made for a particularly entertaining story that was likely to produce a laugh, if nothing else. There are a couple of reasons for my avoidance of journalistic, introspective, emotional blogging. First, I’ve re-read many of my journals, too many of them fraught with such entries. For the most part, I’m amazed at (1.) how many of my feelings haven’t changed, just transferred to new life circumstances, (2.) how pitiful these journals make me sound, and (3.) how beyond boring they are to read, even for me, who wrote them.
About a month ago, an old friend emailed to say he’s been reading my blog. At some point in the email he mentioned that I’ve become one of those “Mommy Bloggers” he’s heard about and despite the fact that absolutely nothing in his life parallels mine, he was enjoying reading anyway. This guy is not married, has no children, and currently lives and works in Africa on a long-term sustainable living project. How does he know the term Mommy Blogger, and I don’t? (My first reaction was, Wait a minute. There’s a name for this? Oh that’s it, I’m shutting her down.) Instead, I did what any self-respecting Wi-Fi savvy individual would do. I Googled it. To my astonishment, it seems everyone in the world is a writer, which brings me to reason numbers two and three. If everyone else is doing it, then what makes me and my emotions so special? And, apparently not only is this Mommy Blogger thing real, but the majority of the women doing it (and many of them making money at it, or so I’m told) consistently write about, you guessed it, depression.
That. In itself. Is depressing.
And, you know me. I hate trends, unless I’m so late to join them they are already out of style again.
But if there is one thing I love (and rarely admit to other humans) it is a good self-help book. This fact, and my secret desire to own every Oprah episode (post 1998) on DVD when she finally ends her show, are two things on which I’d rather not be personally judged. As for the depression thing, well, I’m beginning to believe it is far less of a trend (especially among women) and more of an epidemic. And so, against my better judgment, I’m embarking on a seasonal focus. Pre-school ends in a week and a half. This means my summer officially begins on May 27th, and I am determined to get a few things under control without the use of drugs, cigarettes, excessive alcohol, and/or domestic violence.
What I’m reading is The Triple Whammy Cure (David Edelberg, MD), a recommendation by a particularly nutty natural friend of mine, who speaks from a few more years of life experience and several more years of utilizing alternatives to Western medicine. In short, if something in this book was going to kill or otherwise seriously harm me, this woman would already be dead. I’m taking this as my green light, and inching forward today.
So this serves as your one, only, and final written warning. Though I do not plan to publish my every thought during next few weeks or months, I’ll likely be updating in the form of something a little more serious than the original direction of The UnderToad. Rather than coming to me (or worse, emailing) and saying my blog has taken a particularly boring turn, just stop reading for a little while. I can’t promise that there won’t be some Eliott/Carter gems intermixed that you’re likely to miss, but if you are of the “I’m already on the verge of annoyed with this thing,” variety, then take the summer off and come back when my serotonin levels are high and I’m sure to be on a roll of nothing but laughter-fest. Joke after joke. Labor Day. Until then…