There’s this BIG ASS blogging conference going on in like a couple of weeks, Pranksters, and unless you’ve been living under a very large rock or perhaps are an alien, you probably have heard of it. It’s called BlogHer and pretty much it’s the Grandmother of Blogging Things.

(okay, we’ll forget how lame that sounds for a second and proceed)

It’s in NYC this year, and while I was all WHATEVER, I’m not going, I totally broke down and bought tickets because, it’s NYC which, like California, is sort of where I feel home. Not, incidentally, where my ACTUAL home is, but that’s just details. It’s further proof I need to marry Mick Jagger so I can get a sweet house on both of the coasts.

Then, I was all, WOW, I turn 30 in July, I should do something rad for my birthday, because historically, my birthdays have sucked, so I immediately thought of Vegas. I’ve never been to Vegas, but it seems like the place that people should go when they want to be debaucherous and turn 30 and forget that the past year has pretty much sucked the life out of them.

But, I’m more of a broad stroke kind of person, so I got caught up in thinking about the adventures of my fake Monkey Butler, Mr. Pinchy, and how we were going to steal the purple coat from Shaft and probably some colorful jewels from somewhere and then the next thing I knew, it was JULY.

It’s July and I haven’t done fuck-all for my birthday OR BlogHer.

So, last night, I did the highly responsible thing and ordered 4 dresses for BlogHer that may or may not actually fit. Because, you know, it’s better to have cute clothes than it is to have plane tickets. My logic is damn near impeccable and should never, ever be followed by anyone, ever, unless you want to take a lesson from my personal playbook: “How To Never Get Things Done, Unless Other People Do Them For You.”

It looks like, with 8 whole days until my birthday proper, Vegas is out. DAMN YOU, MR. PINCHY.

Luckily, I’m not all that tied to having to celebrate my birthday on it’s actual date, so I’m going to do it ANOTHER time. Because I WILL celebrate my birthday in Vegas *shakes fist* dammit, I will. I may be celebrating my HALF birthday, but really, what’s it to you? (P.S. You’re all invited.)(P.P.S. I won’t be wearing my whore pants which are STILL MIA).

Today, I’ll probably have to beg The Daver to order plane tickets for BlogHer, so I don’t accidentally book them for the wrong month (which I HAVE done) because I signed a contract saying I’d be there to speak. Poor, poor BlogHer, won’t know what hit them when I open my whore mouth.

Then, I’ll try and find more places to buy cute clothes because it’s been so long since I’ve been clothes shopping that I genuinely do not know where to shop any more. So, Pranksters, where do cute clothes live for someone who likes Anthropologie and uh, ModCloth?

Next, I’ll ask my Pranksters who are going to BlogHer if they’d like to exchange phone numbers so that maybe we can meet up, because OBVIOUSLY. If you WOULD, just email me at aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com. That’s my real email address, because I have a sense of humor. Or not, I guess, if you don’t think that’s funny.

(I have about a gazillion emails to return, and I’m sorry, they’ve been having babies in my inbox and I need to get on that STAT)

NOW no one will ever want to give me their number. Whoops.

Blah, blah, blah, if you want to vote for me for Funniest Blogger you can vote once per day.

Even amidst the turmoil of the past couple of weeks, there has been so much good.

In my struggles to maintain the carefully constructed facade of who I am, I’d never allowed myself the chance to fully grieve who I never was allowed to be. The secrets I kept were more toxic to me than I’d thought, and with every passing day, they dragged me lower and lower.

Letting go of those secrets has reminded me that I am free.

I’ve spent so long feeling tied down to my life, boxed in, and stuck, but I see now that the only way that I was bound was in my mind. There is a part of me that is still 8-year old Aunt Becky, scared and alone, wishing away her real life for something that makes her whole again.

She’ll always be in there, I think, searching for the love she was denied, but acknowledging that she’s in there, I think that is the first step to letting those skeletons out of my closet and making them do the foxtrot.

Knowing that I’m not alone, reading all of your comments and Tweets and emails and finding out that so many of you grew up in similar situations, I cannot tell you how much that helped. I know that there are others out there like me, statistics tell me there HAVE to be, but knowing that you, you people who I know, my PRANKSTERS, know how I feel, that made me realize that I had done the right thing by putting it all out there.

Sometimes, that’s all you need to be brave: knowing you’re not alone. But reminding yourself that it’s okay to be alone, too.

I don’t pretend to know what the future is going to bring for me. I don’t know that The Daver and I will make it. I don’t know that I won’t fall flat on my face tomorrow, breaking every bone in my face. I don’t know that I’ll ever truly succeed at anything I try to do in the way that will make me fulfilled.

But I do know that I will be honest about where I am going and where I have been. I owe it to myself and to 8-year old Aunt Becky.

I’m not afraid anymore. The truth cannot hurt me.

Not when the future is so full of light and laughter.

I promise to be back with something funnier. It’s time to bring some laughter back. I’m certainly not making a case for myself in the Funniest Blogger Thingy this year.

Over at Toy With Me, I’m talking about why we need to talk about sex with our children before they learn about it from Internet Porn.

I was so tragically glib about how evolved I was; how I’d managed to escape my past unscathed. I called myself the Energizer Bunny, joked that I was made of Teflon, and marveled that someone could grow up as I did and become a mostly functional adult child of two alcoholics.

My home life as a child was far from simple. I pretended my family was like those I saw on television because in the television, the mothers loved their daughters every SINGLE day. Those children had meals cooked for them, had parents they could talk to, parents who took them to swimming lessons, parents who cared about them, parents who loved them no matter what.

They had what I wanted: parents who behaved like parents.

I had the illusion of a family, two parents, a much older brother, some cats and dogs, and then there was me. Caregiver. Cleaner-upper. Parent to myself. In reality, I was alone and I knew it.

I learned what so many of us children of alcoholics do, trust no one but yourself. It became a way of life. Carefully, I constructed a facade that even I began to believe. A life that I so desperately wanted, I could attain if I lied enough about it.

Eventually, I grew up. Waiting for the day when I itched to have a drink, and then another, and then another, I was surprised when it never came. I had a child out of wedlock, a happy accident, I changed my life around to accommodate that of a single mother, then I got married. I had another child. Then another.

I knew that I bore some of the scars of my past–who doesn’t?–but it twenty years for me to realize that I’d grown up to do the precise thing that 8-year old Aunt Becky always swore she never would do: I put myself in the same position that I would have done anything to get out of.

I married an addict.

We always joked about it, The Daver and I, his addiction to his work–Workahol, we called it, back when we still joked around about it–but for the past five years I’ve watched as it went from working to live to living to work.

It was all that he ever wanted to do, work, that is, and that’s where he got his joy, his rush, his feelings of accomplishment, his ego, and we were just periphery. Background noise. Particularly loud and unbelievably adorable background noise, but background noise nonetheless.

As he worked more, he needed more and more to feel that rush, that thrill, and his hours grew until he barely saw us. When we’d dare interrupt him for something like, oh, maybe the HOUSE being on fire, we’d get a terse, snappy reply, and stung, we’d walk away hurt.

I consoled myself that he was working so hard to support us, and when I’d bring it up, he’d swear that he was doing it all for us, but it wasn’t quite the truth. What we needed was a husband, a father, a friend, and someone who didn’t place something else above us every second of the day.

I’d never considered it a real addiction, not like gambling or drug addiction, because it was one of those things that we did, you know, NEED to do.

But there it was, from Adult Children of Alcoholics:

We either became alcoholics ourselves, married them, or both. Failing that, we found other compulsive personalities, such as a workaholic, to fulfill our sick need for abandonment.

When I read that, I dry-heaved, and then I bawled my eyes out. It’s a bitter pill to swallow to realize that your past is never as far away as you thought it was.

I finally brought it up to The Daver, and this time, rather than trying to pass it off as something else; my problem, money issues, whatever, he listened. He listened and he realized that it was a problem.

I explained that I had lived my entire life with addicts, always walking around on eggshells, and that things in our house had to change. I simply couldn’t–and wouldn’t–put my children through what I had been through.

We both started individual therapy this weekend. He’s looking for a balance, and I’m, well, I’m looking to put the ghosts of my past to bed. For the first time in many, many months, I feel hopeful about the state of my union.

Perhaps this is where the sidewalk ends and a road begins.

The Internet is always closed on major holidays, so I didn’t bother posting for the three spambots that would be trolling to send me links to supposed pictures of “Harry Potter nude” and “David Cook nude.” But not doing so totally kicked my OCD into hyperdrive, and I felt sort of like I was missing my right arm for most of the weekend.

Therefore, I am presenting to you, my beloved Pranksters, a new set of cards (if these images are yours and you want me to remove them, please holler). Because really, how better to say the things that you’d never want to say, that through a card you would never send?

(don’t answer that)

I’ll be back tomorrow with a post with words. I’m far too self-absorbed to stay quiet for very long.

(blah, blah, blah, if you want to vote for me for funniest blog which, btw, I am TOTALLY not rocking right now, you can vote right here, once per day)

Happy Fourth of July, my Pranksters.

Human anatomy I’ve always found to be a strikingly tender science. Certainly, I always loved the dryness of the carbon chains and the satisfaction of growing new strains of bacterium, but seeing the human body and lovingly learning all of the nooks and crannies, all of the ways that we are all the same underneath, that is beautiful.

I always heard civilians shudder when I explained that I would be assisting with a dissection.

“Gross,” they would say. “I could NEVER do something like that.”

When pressed, I never got anything more specific from them, which meant that they’d never seen one, because the body, well, the human body is not gross. It is resplendent. It is powerful. It is amazing. It is beautiful.

All of the organ systems functioning in synchronicity so that we are able to walk upright, speak, form words, paint beautiful pictures, draw pictures with our written words, love, that is not gross. And that is what human anatomy is.

Inside, we are even more beautiful than out.

Rarely, however, do the names of the parts of the body reflect their beauty.

Often, they’re named after the anatomist who found them because scientists are about as self-serving and obnoxious as bloggers. The Islets of Langerhans, for example may bring to mind a nice set of islands found off the coast of Ireland, but no, they’re actually endocrine-producing cells of the pancreas.

Even the very word pancreas sounds more like something you’d find dead on the side of the road than something that creates the body’s most important enzymes. But to say it aloud sounds dirty, something you spit out of your mouth, a splat, an inelegant word for a very elegant organ.

The day we learned of the heart, I came across the words chordae tendineae, and I stopped for a moment. Latin words make me happy, which is probably, in part, why I am so attracted to virology. Continuing on, I read what this curious, elegant term meant.

The chordae tendineae are tendinous cords of dense tissue that connect the two atrioventricular valves to their papillary muscles in the hearts ventricles.

The chordae tendineae are the heart strings.

That is probably the most graceful and magnificent term I have ever heard and the best representation of why I find human anatomy so intoxicatingly lovely.  We human beings actually have heart strings.

Whenever I am sad, I think of those tiny strings, which I have seen with my own eyes, felt with my fingers, those strings of fibrous tissue, so very much stronger than they look, and I am comforted by the heart strings that bind us all.

On my refrigerator hangs a report from Early Intervention with my daughter’s name on it. It is a discharge sheet that states that she is at or above level for everything. It was true then. It is not true any longer. I cannot bear to take it down, because to take it down would be to admit defeat.

I will not be defeated. My daughter will not be defeated.

When I called my case worker, she sounded so sad to hear from me, her voice mirroring my own. It didn’t help that the only sheet of paper I could find with the phone number on it was her discharge from the program with a jaunty, “We enjoyed working with your family!” on it.

The therapist will come several days after my 30th birthday to evaluate my daughter and to tell me what I already know: Amelia is not normal. Amelia needs help. I am a trained diagnostician and I am aware of both of these facts. I am also aware that I am doing the right things. But knowing this doesn’t make this any easier for me.

There is something between her brilliantly big brain and delicate rosebud mouth that isn’t connecting properly. It fills me with a well of sorrow I didn’t even know I had, because I want so badly to hear her words. All of her words. Stories of Saturn and the planetarium and pleas for cookies and candy and the injustice of it all when I deny her.

I want to know my daughter.

Instead, I kiss her head and rub her scar and apologize to her for what is certain to be a hard road ahead. My heart strings clench painfully and I cry bitter tears, wishing I could make it easy for her, knowing I can’t.

We’re gearing up for a battle over here and we’ll win.

Eventually. Some way, somehow, we’ll win.

Aunt Becky: “So I was reading in Time Magazine about our oldest living relative, Ardi…”

The Daver: “Oh yeah?”

Aunt Becky: “It’s pretty interesting, actually. She’s kind of like the Missing Link between humans and chimps.”

The Daver: “That’s pretty wicked. But don’t tell the Christians about it.”

Aunt Becky: “I wasn’t going to.”

The Daver: “Good, because they’ll torch you.”

Aunt Becky: “Actually, I was planning to call Time Magazine myself. What are you doing Thursday night?”

The Daver: “Why?”

Aunt Becky: “Well, I think they’re going to want to interview you.”

The Daver: “Huh?”

Aunt Becky: “Well, I’m going to explain to them that YOU are the Missing Link.”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “You and your Carnie Feet.”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “They’re practically flippers, Daver. I mean, do you actually need to use those feet-thingies when we go scuba diving?”

The Daver: “…”

Aunt Becky: “Remember that time we were at Wal-Mart and I screamed at you to cover your feet because I was afraid the Carnies would take you away if they saw your feet because they’d see you were one of them and then you’d have to live out your life manning the Ring Toss Booth?”

The Daver: “Yes. I tried to leave you at Wal-Mart, if you remember correctly.”

Aunt Becky: “I’ve done some thinking and I’m pretty sure it’s because you’re actually The Missing Link between Man and Ape.”

The Daver: “Gee, thanks.”

Aunt Becky: “Or part duck.”

The Daver: “This conversation keeps getting better.”

Aunt Becky: “Do you have any relatives that are ducks?”

The Daver: “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

Aunt Becky: “Either way, I’m calling Time Magazine to tell them that I have the Missing Link in my house so please be home on Thursday so the film crew can see your Carnie Feet in person.”

The Daver: “You’re fired.”

—————-

If’n you want to vote for me in the BlogLuxe awards for funniest blog (which I am, of course, not), you may vote once per day here.

When I was in the third grade, I got my first hate mail:

Dear Becky,

I like you a little bit, but it grows smaller every day.

Love,

Becky

First, yes, her name was Becky also, and Part B, she signed it “Love, Becky” so I knew she wasn’t entirely serious. Third graders are notoriously fickle and she was probably pissed that my bejeweledness was awesomer than hers. Because it was.

Also, I had an older brother who could REALLY insult me and frankly, hers couldn’t hold a candle to what Uncle Aunt Becky could say.

But it DID hurt because those things DO matter when you’re eight and I vividly remember trying to tell my mom about “THIS ONE TIME THAT…”

She totally didn’t get it. My mother was never terribly hip about that sort of thing because she was too busy listening to folk music and churning butter and canning *shudder* tomatoes to care about what her “Ice-Ice-Baby,” bejeweled daughter could be upset about. I think that stuff just eluded her.

She just couldn’t possibly understand how it might matter that I have the right jacket and the right song to slow dance to at the skate rink and the perfect bangs that DID NOT start at approximately the back of my neck, like she always cut them.

Butter took precedence. Which, whatever. I MIGHT have a bang phobia now.

So my kid just graduated the third grade and yesterday he went over to a friend’s house on a playdate (okay, when we were kids, my mom just kicked us out and locked the door when the sun came up. There were no “playdates,” right?).

After he got home, he confessed that he didn’t have very much fun because they’d been fighting, and inwardly I groaned, because instantly I flashed back to all of the fights I’d had with my friends at that age over, well, anything. It seemed I was always stomping away from something or another or baffled because my friends were doing the same.

He explained what had happened, and it involved telling a secret that he hadn’t been informed WAS a secret, something I informed him wasn’t a particularly heinous crime, and he informed me that this was pretty much standard behavior for this friend.

Luckily, he wasn’t overly upset by this and isn’t planning on going back. This is the part of raising an autistic kid that’s fairly awesome. The hurt feelings aren’t quite of the same caliber as they are with someone like, oh, I don’t know, YOUR AUNT BECKY.

I submit this photo as proof:

This is Your Aunt Becky, circa 1989 (ish). Clearly, I am upset by something (and it’s not my uncle, who, despite the fact that he looks like he wants to throttle me or perhaps stone me to death or sell me for parts, is actually one of my favorite people).

What could that possibly be, you ask innocently, my Pranksters?

I have enhanced the photo for your digital pleasure so that you may see PRECISELY why I have such a look upon my face.

A-HA!

It’s because I hate Jethro TULL! CLEARLY at age 9, I already knew that while I enjoy most classic rock, Jethro Tull is one of the few exceptions! Aqua-Lung, one of the WORST songs out there!

Clever, CLEVER girl!

But did I have to look so fucking EMO about it?

The answer is OBVIOUSLY. Because at age 9, everything is very, very serious, I am learning, and nothing is not worth a good door-slamming.

On the upside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me. On the downside, I have years of emo jokes ahead of me.

—————

So gather up around me, Pranksters, and grab a tall drink because I sure as shit need one and it’s only 9 AM. What were YOU like at this age?

—————

I am at Toy With Me talking about my, well, my sex-after-three-kids-life. And I need help. No, seriously, I’m asking for help.

—————-

If you’d like, you can vote for me for Funniest Blog once per day until like July 11 (it’s only an email address thingy, not like a big ass give-them-your-first-born-child-thing) and I would hump your leg. HARD. Consider it an early birthday present!

After my quivery “Not Without My Roses” post on Thursday, my friend Mitch, who is always sending me awesome links, sends me this:

Lightning strikes three of the tallest buildings in Chicago at the same time! from Craig Shimala on Vimeo.

I don’t tend to watch videos on blogs because I always assume it they are hilarious pictures of cats playing the piano and frankly, I have SCADS of (insert term for computer memory) of my OWN fake cat Mr. Sprinkles and his wacky antics! He’s quite an accomplished fake piano player, don’t you know!

But this, well, Mitch doesn’t send me bullshit, so I watched it. You should to. It’s like 40 seconds, and it’s WICKED AWESOME. DO IT, I’ll wait here.

Apparently, The Daver did have reason to worry…IF I WERE AS TALL AS THE SEARS TOWER*.

(hint, I’m not, but I’d be WAY cooler if I were)

Or perhaps had he come outside to see this:

I know, can you believe it? How had I not shown you photographic proof before? How had it not ruined my camera? How had I not been sucked off to Kansas City to be welcomed by a swarm of very tiny people?

It’s almost like it hadn’t existed in nature before Photoshop was invented. (thank you Mrs. Soup for helping this bitch out).

While I was selfishly off pruning my roses, my daughter escaped from jail:

Then, proving that she learned what thug life means, she stole a cookie and ate it wearing her gold chains. Maybe SHE stole my pants!

And indeed, she never DOES say please. Or anything else, really.

(I do have to tell you more about that, but for now, know that I have read every single email, comment, Tweet and DM you have sent me, but I have been literally paralyzed by the gravity of the situation. I am sorry. I promise I am not being rude)

Then, my middle son decided to outdo us all and become half human-half arachnoid:

When he starts scaling buildings and fighting crime, I’ll totally claim it’s my awesome genetics.

And my last son, Benjamin, became a teenager at age 9. He is also for sale.

Actually, I may PAY you to take him for a couple of years. Attitude is included. All sales final.

And now that I have offered to sell my son (POOR TASTE, AUNT BECKY), I will advise you to pretty PLEASE vote for me (for funniest blog), which is ALSO in poor taste, I know. But what can you do? You may vote once per day.

If’n you are the voting type, you can also vote for me in the awards on my sidebar, which would be rad. Voting is good for karma, unlike stealing, which gives you herpes.

*No, I will NEVER, EVER call it the (Wesley) Willis Tower, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

My best friend has depression.  Not currently controlled by medication level depression. Evil, soul-sucking Dementor-level, capital D, Depression.  Besides listening, and being there for her (which I am trying to do, & hope I am doing enough of), how else can I help?

I’ve never had depression myself, so I feel completely incompetent here, and all of the “advice” I’ve gotten so far is in the “just be there” vein.  I’m HERE, but she doesn’t exactly always want me here.  I’m listening, but she’s sick of talking.  Any advice – from you or your pranksters – would be much appreciated.

Depression is a dog from hell.

I’m a sufferer myself, so all I can say is that you have to remember that depression changes how we feel about the smallest things fundamentally — when I’m depressed, I look at a computer and sigh and feel like it’s draining me just to think about it. When I’m not, I passionately solve problems with technology; it’s my job!

The same thing goes for my feelings about interacting with people. I will disappear into a hole, reading Twitter and — get this — desperately wishing that someone would notice how lonely and crappy I feel and reach out to me. But I don’t say a word. And if someone DOES reach out I probably wouldn’t respond except to claim that everything’s all right. It’s completely irrational and stupid. But that’s what depression does! And it’s self-fulfilling once it gets a hold of you.

So the important thing is, does she recognize her symptoms? Is she seeking treatment, and it just isn’t quite enough yet? Or is she denying it?

If she’s getting treatment, then all you can do is encourage her to stick with it. Sometimes it can take years to work out the right balance, but if she goes off her meds or skips therapy sessions then try to help get her back on the horse.

If not, then encourage her to get help. I can’t stress this enough: it took a LOT of gentle nudges and convincing to get me to go, but I’ve had a lot of good years thanks to it.

And here I lean on the Pranksters for further advice!

————

Aunt Becky, my love

I often randomly IM you on AIM and ask you little questions, or just talk about little nonsensical things with you. I understand you have children and as much as I would enjoy having a chance to just sit down and talk with you one on one, I realize you need to tend to their needs, your needs, and your 8 million plus Orchids’ needs.

I just read your Go Ask Aunt Becky about the woman who has depression. I am definitely feeling a bit of the same. I can’t snap out of it.

I was on antidepressants for a year, but I hated them, they actually made me miserable. I had quit taking the antidepressants (had a major crash) and quit taking my birthcontrol as well. I figured ingesting so many hormones was just fucking with me.

I felt a hell of a lot better afterwards. For about a month.

I am, in fact, more cheerful and much happier at home and with my relationship. I usually have no problems getting off my buttocks and going to the store or cleaning the house but, and there’s always a but! (heh heh..butt)

I cannot, for the life of me, get the motivation to go to school.

I go to a vocational school to learn to cut hair. So, basically I’m paying about 10k to work for free. I enjoy the work itself.

I love cutting hair, coloring it, styling it, etc. I just hate the people there.

My “coworkers”/”classmates”, the teachers. It’s like being in highschool s that one word or two?) all over again. We’re supposed to have theory on Wednesday and Thursday mornings. I stopped going a long time ago because it was just 3 hours of gossip. Talking about the students not there, mocking them, laughing at how they can’t do something.

I should point out that they’re speaking in a language I am not fluent in. I do understand what they’re saying, although I make it seem that I am clueless and stupid.

They’re very racist towards me. Most of the people I have met are racist towards anyone of a different nationality. If you are not fluent in the language, they are even more racist towards you.

It’s common that you meet someone at the bar and you’re a tourist or you’re not native, the first thing they ask you is “Why are you here” and then they ask you “When are you leaving?”

It’s happened to me on many occasions. I am even a citizen here, and it makes me crazy.
It’s horribly depressing and I just don’t know what to do anymore. My husband is worried about me and my father is being a dick. I have no idea how to handle this situation in a way that is socially acceptable.

If I’m lucky, I get to move back to the USA by the end of this year, but there are no certainties. I have nothing definite to look forward to to ease my troubles.

I’ve considered going to see a shrink, just to have someone to talk to about all of it. I just have an issue of having these expectations of said shrink. For instance I want them to ask me questions, talk to me, tell me what they think, see if they have advice to help me target these feelings.

I’m not sure if I am angry or if I am depressed.

I’m rambling and confused. I do get enraged over small, stupid little things. To the point of wanting to throw a bottle of bourbon through the funeral parlor window… (I hope you get the reference).

What do I do!?

-Gone to HEL

Dear Gone to HEL,

Firstly, let me just say that being frustrated and put off by gossiping racist fuckhead morons seems like a pretty reasonable reaction to your situation. I used to work in an office which was a lot more like a frat house than an office, including hazing and all the other BS.

At first, I thought that it was just a job and I would just ignore the antics and get the experience I wanted…but after a while I found myself straddling a fence: I wasn’t participating in the antics so I wasn’t respected and not included in the decisions I should have been. So I’d participate some, but then I felt I was betraying my own values. It wore me down and plunged me into the worst depressive time in my life.

I eventually quit and found another job, but I also got help for my depression. In doing so, I was able to make better decisions about what I wanted, and I was able to find a job a really liked — I have been there ever since.

So — step one: get through the depression symptoms. Once you can think about it clearly, then you can take a look at whether this school or career choice is right for you; perhaps this is only a step to tide you over until you find what you really want to do. But the important thing is to take a step. If the therapist isn’t what you wanted, try another one; if you had a bad reaction to one drug, try another. Doing nothing will feel much worse.

————-

I am 27 and I have been in two real relationships.  I’ve dated here and there but these two relationships were the serious ones.  Both lasted around three years.  The problem with this is they were both highly abusive relationships.  My partners were brilliant people but also mean, angry, and negative.  I spent most of both of those relationships being told what to do and paying high emotional and sometimes physical consequences for it.

I have taken almost a year off of having a serious relationship and have recently started to really fall for a guy.  There are many things that are different even at the beginning of the relationship.  He asks my opinions and seems to want to hear the answers.  He doesn’t push me when I don’t agree with him.  He has a career and future goals.  Really, he seems much different than my previous partners.

And I am different now.  I have been going to therapy and taking medications and doing all the things that are supposed to make you a better decision maker.

I can’t shake that I was the common denominator in my previous relationships though.  I don’t think I caused them to act the way they did but I let them.  I stayed for years in relationships that literally almost killed me.  How do I trust my judgment now and can I even actually trust my judgment at this point?  How do I know that this guy doesn’t suck just as much as my last two partners?

—

Okay, so look: the fact is, you simply won’t know for sure. But you DO know what you went through those last times, and you know that you don’t want to go through it again, right? So make yourself a promise RIGHT NOW: you will not stand for a mean, angry, negative person in your life.

If things change with this guy, if you see it going down that road, then you turn right around and walk out that door. As I said in my earlier response, depression makes you irrational, and it makes it seem so much easier to deal with what you already are dealing with than to make an unknown change — and THAT is likely to be more the common denominator than you as a person.

So, it sounds like this guy has some qualities that show he is deserving of a chance — I’d say the best thing you can do to be more confident in your judgment is to exercise it! Tread lightly, build the core friendship that a good relationship is founded on, and enjoy yourself.

Today is today, and you are more aware, and you deserve to be with someone who treats you well. Don’t let the past hold you back, but don’t lose the lessons you learned from it either. Stick with your meds and your therapy, and just remember to never again compromise yourself the way you did in the past. I wish you luck!

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And if you want to vote for Your Aunt Becky, who I graciously nominated for Funniest Blogger, you can do so here. Voting is once per day per person until July 11.

Greetings, fellow Pranksters! My name’s Paul Lundgren, AKA Cycle Ninja. Why the moniker? Because I’m a very slow cyclist, and the only martial art at which I’m any good is gamepad-fu (Becky’s full of The Awesome, I’m full of The Irony).

The first question that might come to you is, “Why is Aunt Becky letting a career bachelor drive the family blog? Isn’t this supposed to be about diamond-encrusted iPads, TV husbands, and F-bombs?” Well to answer your question, she let me do a guest post because—being the clever and charming chap that I am—I begged her to let me do so in exchange for helping her with yard work. Being the shiftless and lazy bugger that I am, I left the exact time-line of said yard work a bit vague, but anyway, here I am…

When Becky finally took pity on my groveling, however, I was left wondering what I was going to write about. I’m single, I don’t do bling, I’m not crazy about pink, and I don’t have crotch parasites (I am instead helplessly in thrall to The World’s Sweetest Cat). Then I realized Becky and I do have quite a bit in common.

Namely, we’re both at a point in our lives where we’re undergoing self-renewal. You’re aware of her campaign to bring Aunt Becky back. In my case, I turn 40 this year, and have decided it’s time to lose the 100+ pounds I put on since high school. I felt that sharing my goals and techniques would be a fitting way of thanking Becky for the inspiration she’s given me.

To that end, I’ve found two strategies to be highly effective. First, know your stuff when it comes to nutrition. In my case, I consulted a licensed dietitian. I learned there’s a vast difference between dieting and healthy eating. You don’t have to starve yourself; you have to feed yourself properly. That’s an important distinction. Writing down what you eat is invaluable, because watching the numbers add up on a spreadsheet will give you pause.

Second, set an ambitious goal for yourself, preferably one with a fixed date. You could, ohidunno, go on a cruise with Aunt Becky next year to be motivated to want to look good in a swimsuit again. Since I wanted to look at least respectable in bicycling clothes made of Lycra (shudder), I joined a local cycling club. Chasing after people who are younger and fitter than you will give you motivation in spades. I also signed up for the IMT Des Moines Marathon, which—conveniently—takes place 4 days after my 40^th birthday. Yes, preparing for a marathon when you’re 100 pounds overweight hurts a lot, thanks for asking. But it’s also making cycling much more enjoyable since I’m 30 pounds lighter than this time last year. It’s also gratifying to meet up with friends I haven’t seen in a while and watching their eyes pop when they see me ?

So I still have quite a ways to go before I look good in a dress suit or feel good in my birthday suit again, but I have the right tools to get there. And I’m grateful to Aunt Becky and Uncle The Daver for reminding us all that we don’t go through challenges like these in a vacuum. Now go heap some love on them, too, please.

Thanks for reading. Peace.

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