It has always been strangely easy to write about myself. It’s how I work through the shit my brain throws at me, so it wasn’t a big jump to start writing for a larger(ish) audience. The last few years have taught me a lot about connecting with readers and the avoidance of naval gazing.
You know how kids think having to eat vegetables is some sort of punishment? After they’ve turned down yet another food you know they would like if they would just try it, you’re like, “just eat this fucking broccoli because it’s good for you! Why won’t you listen to me?!”
Every time I start to write this, I let out a huge, deep, involuntary sigh.
Then I sit here for a while, unsure where to start.
As soon as my advance reader copy of Janelle Hanchett’s I’m Just Happy to be Here arrived, I was eager to read it and share my thoughts. I love her blog, Renegade Mothering, so I had no concerns I wouldn’t at least like this book enough to recommend it.
In college, before I started dating Zach, I dated this other guy. Some of you know him and a few of you remember that relationship. It was one of those short-lived intense codependent college relationships that are all roller coastery. The type where you put up with the lows, because the highs make you feel needed and important in someone’s life. And at the age of 19, I was desperate to figure out who I was and prove myself worthy of… anything.
Friday morning, a few minutes after 8 am, my aunt picked me up to head over to the endoscopy center. As far as I could tell, I was the youngest person in there by decades.
Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by life. Ok, most of the time I get overwhelmed by life. Pretty much always, actually.