How to fuck yourself over


When Cal was ten days old, I accidentally left her at the pediatrician’s office. Something seemed a little off as I crossed the parking lot, but I felt the weight of my purse in the crook of my arm and I was actively sipping on my Blue Raspberry Slurpee, so, I mean, what thing of importance could I possibly have forgotten?

As I unlocked the car door, I saw the infant carrier base in the back seat. FUCK.

I ran. I’ve only been chased by the police once (that I can immediately recall), and I know this is probably not the right time to brag, but I really impressed myself with the speed and agility I exhibited during my short run through the Las Lomas Apartments community and then again as I sprinted back to the pediatrician’s waiting room. I wish my middle school P.E. teachers could have seen me. Slowpoke my ass, motherfuckers.

Cal was right where I had left her. I had set down the carrier to make another appointment and then walked out sans baby. I kneeled beside the carrier and did an ugly cry, dripping big fat tears of shame all over my kid’s face.

A nurse poked her head through the window and said, “Don’t worry, it happens.”

I forgot to use my proper lady language as I replied, “Man, fuck this shit. I suck at being a mom.”

This is my general reaction every time I make a mistake. Man, fuck this shit. I suck at _______.

This is also my general reaction every time I deem something “too hard.”

I am a serial quitter. I am also a serial restarter. These two tendencies are made worse by what happens in between the restarting and the quitting- I self-sabotage.

Self-sabotage is tricky because it uses that Decepticon bullshit, transforming itself from one form to another. First it looks like procrastination. Then it’s shaped like self-medication or self-injury. It’s fear. Doubt. Isolation. Compulsivity. It’s a spiral of bad choices. I stay up too late. I spend too much time reading about the most efficient yet attractive way to organize my scrapbooking embellishments. I make ridiculous demands of myself. I set unrealistic deadlines.

For more than two years, I’ve been working on a book. I started on a Tuesday. I think I promised my agent I would pull something together by, like, Friday. Monday at the latest. She didn’t LOLOL or anything. I give her props for that.

Holler at me, self-sabotage. Ridiculous demands. Unrealistic deadlines.

Earlier this year, I spent two full days perfecting paper airplanes. My planes still fly like shit, but the sharp creases I make using just my thumbnail are baller status. I should have spent that time on my book.

I’ve made a lot of excuses as to why it’s taken so long. Interspersed between the excuses of I don’t know how and Good God, these pages really suck¬†were real-life happenings that delayed the process even longer. I got sad about babies and I also got mad that I still haven’t figured out how to organize my surprisingly large assortment of brads and eyelets.

I’m calling it quits on fucking myself over. For at least a week.

Follow along on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page and on Instagram (username: flourishinprogress) for not-seen-on-this-blog pictures, (t)hug life thoughts, and other random shit you may find entertaining during the hours you are supposed to be doing honest work.

image via Sara Eshak for Society6

Monday Dare: I need protection. From myself.

Every week, I challenge myself to a Monday Dare. You can click on the link if you’d like to see the complete list of Monday Dares or find out more about its origin.

This week: Anger management

My number one desire in life is to be less of a hoarder. I also want my daughter to grow up to be a profoundly happy person. I hope that even on the days she is feeling blue, she is surrounded by a shitload of people who appreciate her inner-core and help her to see that this too shall pass. But that’s a hope I have for someone else. I really want to focus on me right now, so yes, my number one desire in life is to stop amassing mounds of useless junk.

I’m guilty of hoarding objects. My animal pencil topper collection is pretty intense. The entire collection is housed in an airtight see-through container because most of them have a distinct yet subtle scent, and every time I open the lid, I am greeted with a cornucopia of fruity goodness. It’s very appealing to me.

But more than my collections of pencil toppers and rap lyric t-shirts and metallic tinsel, the “thing” that occupies the most amount of space in my life is the dirty pile of anger I have stacked, one rage-filled thought after another, in the middle place where my heart should be.

I’m just angry as fuck.

It’s hard to recall anything I learned in high school which is understandable because I wasn’t really paying attention, but I do remember learning in biology that 60% of the human body is comprised of water. This confuses me, because if I had to guesstimate, I’d say that anger makes up roughly 81% of who I am. Apparently, every drop of liquid coursing through my body (plus a few organs) has a high level of fuck you, motherfucker.

I’ve been amassing rage like it’s currency.

I no longer trust myself. Sometimes, I call Harv to ask if I “should” be angry about something because I’m guilty of overreacting to small offenses, and maybe even worse than that, I don’t react at all in some situations where I should voice concern and disapproval.

Over the weekend, a random dude pinched my cheek. Now that I’m thinking about it, I feel a little embarrassed. I must look like the kind of person you can cheek pinch. Would anyone dare take a chunk of Ludacris’s face meat between their thumb and pointer finger? I DON’T THINK SO. This man didn’t think I was participating enough in the group conversation and pinched my cheek. I stood up because I wanted to gain better leverage and force before I smashed my hand into his temple.

My cousin stepped in and stood just inches away from my face before telling me to leave immediately. Which I did. Because I was enraged and because I felt such an overwhelming desire to be physically confrontational and because I didn’t trust myself.

Violence is never, ever the answer. Never. Ever. Ever. I’m ashamed and riddled with guilt that my thoughts could even venture into that territory. Yet, I am still seething.

I’ve resisted going back into therapy because I’m afraid that once all of my anger is gone, there will just be an expansive hole. I could, of course, fill it with other things like arrogance or laziness. Laziness is the front runner right now because I already have a lot of experience with it, and it just seems to come naturally.

I’m enrolling in an anger management class this week. I want to be a better example for my daughter. Also, I want to stay out of jail.

Stay connected on the Flourish in Progress Facebook page and on Instagram (username: flourishinprogress) for (t)hug life thoughts, random shit, and not-seen-on-this-blog pictures.

image via Meme Machine