Disclaimer: I’m annoying. And sad. And complaining. Don’t read it if you don’t like it. And if you do read it, don’t judge me. At least to my face.

I did a thing. A thing that I should have probably done long before now and maybe would not be in such dire straits at this point in my life had I done the thing when I should have done the thing. But I am nothing if not stubborn, strong willed and a little bit know it all ish. And I thought I could get through all the things all by myself with no intervention. So the thing I did was not done until a couple of weeks ago. To get to the thing though, let’s go back over some other things.

It’s a difficult time of year around these parts. If you’ll recall, the whole reason I word vomit all over the interwebs is because my husband and the father of my children met his untimely doom almost 4 years ago. We learned of said untimely doom a little over 5 years ago, so naturally, all the doom and gloom of the learning and then the going through the doom and the gloom (there was good shit, too) is always fresh in my mind this time of year. It’s hard to say the least. And I always think each year is going to get easier, but, thus far, not the case. It’s always hard. I always retreat this time of year, preferring to stay home and ignore the outside world as much as possible. Super healthy, I know. Between that and all the morbid and/or self deprecating humor, it’s a wonder why I haven’t been chosen or at the very least nominated for Time Magazine’s Person of the Year.

I was asked not too long ago if I personally thought I was emotionally unavailable. Not to my children, obviously, I’m the best mom they’ve ever had (no need to mention I’m the only mom they’ve ever had). I didn’t really think twice about the question. Until I did. I’ve always joked that I’m dead inside. But in reality, I kind of am. The only things that make me emotional are fictional stories, characters and songs. When I hear real life sad shit, I do not get sad. I guess I just didn’t realize that being dead inside was actually the equivalent of being emotionally unavailable (but, like, duh – I’m so pretty). I took to the internet to google exactly what being emotionally unavailable meant and low and behold the only thing that came up was a picture of me. Or close enough. Some signs you are emotionally unavailable, according to Intergative Psychotherapy and healthline.com (see this extensive research I’ve done) are as follows:

1. When it comes to real life conversations, you flee. (Kellie: check)
2. Intermittent responsiveness. (Kellie: check)
3. Non-committal energy, you don’t like making plans, as plans approach you think of reasons to back out. (Kellie: check)
4. You avoid intimacy. (Kellie: check. At all costs.)
5. You reflect someone else’s feelings instead of offering your own. (Kellie: same. See what I did there?!)
6. You keep your options open. (Kellie: check)
7. You worry about losing yourself in a relationship (Kellie: check to infinity)
8. You don’t trust easily. (Kellie: check to infinity again)

There are others but that just gives you a taste of what it means to be considered emotionally unavailable (ie mostly dead inside). And I’m not saying it doesn’t make total sense. It goes hand in hand with depression, grief, low self esteem, toxicity. I’ve been around my fair share of toxic life sucking people in the last couple of years, I have grief aplenty, my self esteem has never been anything to brag about and this is completely self diagnosed (although I have stayed at a Holiday Inn Express so obviously kind of an expert), without question, I am depressed (telltale sigs of self diagnosis: I could sleep all day every day; I’d be fine being all by myself all the time; I’ve gained a fair amount of weight but I’m a lady so I’ll never tell how much; I’m lacking empathy (which is not normal for me); I’m filled with anger and a whole bunch of other depressing shit leading me to believe I am, in fact, depressed. I brought this to my mother’s attention and a few of my closest friends, thinking they would be just as shocked as I was by this news. Guess what? They were not. They have known it the whole damn time. And not one of them bothered to tell me. Apparently they assumed I knew. I did not. I thought I was kidding for the most part, other than the fact that real life shit doesn’t upset me. Which really doesn’t have much to do with the above either. I know that. But it all just kind of has led me to do the thing that I should have done years ago.

Another thing leading me to do the thing that I’ve done is the boiling rage within me. I am so angry. All the time. And I take that anger out on the people I love the most. And they do not deserve that. Especially my kids. Who didn’t ask for any of this. Who got the shit end of the stick. Who deserve a far better, kinder and much more patient mother. Have they not been through enough?

The thing: therapy. Sit down, get comfy, talk fully and honestly about everything, all the deep, dark bullshit stirring inside of me that I haven’t even scratched the surface of on this blog, with a stranger. I reached out to a couple local therapists that my gynechiatrist recommended and made an appointment with the first one that responded. Or so I thought. My therapy is set to begin tomorrow. EXCEPT, I shit you not, she gave me the wrong fucking phone number to confirm my fucking appointment. So I’m thinking it’s weird I haven’t heard back to confirm said appointment for tomorrow morning and shoot her a quick email even though she’s requested text confirmation. She writes back, says I’m not on her calendar because I never confirmed via text and she had filled that time slot. Then she writes back again, oops, she gave me the wrong fucking phone number for said texted confirmation. (She didn’t say fuck, I threw that in for dramatic effect). Just how? Why? I’m trying to do something good. Something to make me better. And it fucking fails. I fail. I’m a failure. (Calm your tits, I know, easy fix, book another appointment, stop being so dramatic.) But the thing is, I’m feeling dramatic, I don’t feel good inside, I don’t look good outside, I need help. I am not the most ok I’ve ever been. And I need to be ok. My kids need me to be ok. And I’ll get another appointment. I assume. She told me to text her back on the proper number to get re set up, so I did, but crickets. Again. And I know, I can find someone else if this one doesn’t work out. But for the introverted, anxiety filled, depressed, feeling like a failure of a woman, it’s a daunting task.

First step in recovery is admitting all the problems, right?