Confession

I fantasized about running away last night. 

This happens to me periodically. I'll have a particularly bad day or week, and I'll end up crying through the night. I make lists of all the things I would take with me, and the things I would leave behind. I imagine how far I could get before B realizes I'm gone. I imagine what his initial reaction would be. I wonder if he would hate me for leaving.

I know he would hate me for leaving.

I don't actually want to leave. I love my family. The me that's imagining all of that nonsense is not me. It's my depression. 

People don't realize that depression and most all mental ailments affect everyone differently. My PPD causes me to have long bouts of sadness and anger. It also causes me to have intrusive thoughts which include the daydreams and fantasies. I also have PPA, Post Partum Anxiety. This causes my panic attacks.

The ideals that Americans have about depression are almost all wrong. Most Americans believe depression to be a quickly curable condition. They imagine it as this tiny, angry you inside your brain that is forcing these thoughts and feelings on you and can be washed away with enough medication. They either ignore your depression all together or tip toe around you for fear of breaking you.

My depression and I are separate and one at the same time. I can tell when my thoughts are my depression and when they are my own. I can separate the parts of my personality that are mine and the ones that have grown from my depression. When I tell someone my depression is acting up, I am not looking for sympathy or pity; I just want them to know that I may not be completely myself.

I have a lot of angry thoughts floating around my brain, mostly about my husband. Rarely ever do I vocalize these thoughts. I do not actually think them; they are not mine. They are a creation of a chemical imbalance in my brain. They are fiction.

When I told B about my fantasy, he nodded and said, "I understand why you would want that. But, I know it's not actually you wanting it."

That's all I ask for; the understanding that my thoughts and emotions are not always my own.

xoxo

Scoot 

100% The Truth

One Hundred Percent

I haven't been completely honest here. Which, since no one actually reads this, means I haven't been completely honest with myself, and if there's one thing I strive to be, it's completely honest. With myself, at least. So here it is:

I have Post Partum Depression.

I have been dealing with PPD for the past two years. It's seeped into every corner of my being, has been woven into every stitch of my life. It is a part of me, and I refuse to be silent about its existence. I talk about it a lot; on Facebook, during conversation, every chance I can. Talking is therapeutic for me, just as writing is. I fully believe that mental health issues should be talk about the same as physical issues are. 

As it stands, mental health is either talked about in whispers or not at all. That's just not good enough. 

Because of the stigma surrounding mental health, people are scared to admit that they need help or that something's happening to them. This is very dangerous. 

So, here I am, putting out there.

I have Post Partum Depression, but I am not my PPD.

xoxo, Scoot

(P.S. Take care of yourselves, bros.)

My Sister Is In

And, it's been a trip.

My family is effed up. Meaning I technically have a total of four parents and eleven grandparents. Yep. I didn't grow up with my father really. I met him after many years when I was eleven and by then he had a new wife, two toddlers, and one hell of a relationship with their church. When I say relationship, I mean a codependency, and when I say church, I mean cult. They were brainwashed.

A Pentecostal church's main message is that being baptized is not enough, one must also live your life for God in every way possible. This sounds very normal, very Christian, but it's the fine print you sign when entering this hall of mirrors in the fun house that is Christianity.

Fine print, and the preacher's wife, states that in order to get into heaven, one must live a modest Christian lifestyle which is defined by:

• Women never cutting their hair. Seriously, never.
• Women never wearing makeup, fingernail polish, or changing the way God made them.
• Women never wearing pants or shorts. A skirt that hits below the knee must be worn at all times, even during sports or swimming. Only your pajamas are exempt from this rule, but you better already have the children in bed. Can't have them seeing a normal part of the human body that everyone has, now can we?
• Women never baring their shoulders or cleavage. No tank tops, no wife beaters, no camisoles. Keep them naughty bits covered, ladies. Don't want to be tempting the menfolk.
• No jewelry save for a wedding band.
• Men are to be clean shaven and clean cut at all times.
• Men are to never wear shorts, unless they're in sports or swimming. Huh, how about that exception?
• Men are to never wear tank top, or be without a shirt.
• Striving to never be vain. This doesn't include turning your nose up at people who can't afford the newest Pentecostal designer's pencil skirts. What are they, animals?
• Being at every church event and never missing a service. God sees all, he'll know if you're not there.
• Bowing down to the wishes of the preacher and his wife. They are the voice of God, you know. Everything they say and do is sanctioned by the Heavenly Father.
• Giving loads of money to the church. The preacher needs a new office. The current one is too last year.
• Praying all the time, especially in front of people. The more ridiculous you look, the better. Wave your arms, run up and down the aisle, act like you're having a seizure, pick up a fucking pew and turn it over. GOD IS GOOD.
• Shouting "AMEN" and "PRAISE JESUS" when the preacher says something you agree with. 
• Speak in tongues. If you've never seen someone do this, Google it. 
• Talking about God and your church at every possible moment to everyone you meet. "Hey we're selling lunch plates. Just give four dollars to Christ and get one meat and two sides. And, hey, since you're already here go on in and join to prayer circle for a member of the church that no one knew the name of until today."
• You better not be anything other than the "normal" genders and sexuality. 
• Thank Jesus for literally everything. "Oh, that poor squirrel almost got ran over. Thank you Jesus for keeping him safe." 

That's not even close to all of it. They also believe that wives should be subservient and the men run things. Yeah, I got out. I had to leave my sisters and my brother after he was born, though. After a while, my dad and stepmom got out, too, mostly. They still hold on to a lot of the things that that church in a tiny town in Tennessee taught them, including the hair and skirt things, and the subservient thing. I've always been terrified of what exactly my siblings have been taught and what is going to stick when they grow up, because some of that shit is seriously fucked up.

My youngest sister flew into DC to stay with us for a few weeks, and I learned a lot about the things that have stuck and the things that have been watered down by their access to society and the media. And, because I'm Scoot, I've made a list. I'll refer to my sister as AR. She's thirteen.

Seven things I noticed while living with my Pentecostal sister.

1. They've been so brainwashed, that they believe other normal things are going to brainwash them. 

AR is a big kid. No one has been able to look at her and guess her age, no one. She punches as hard as B does. She also has some anger issues. She would really benefit from doing some sort of combat sport such as boxing or martial arts, anything that could let some of her aggression out in a healthier way. My parents think this will brainwash her and that it's not right for a girl to participate in "manly" sports. They also believe that television like Glee and anything else to shines a bight light on diversity is going to brainwash her. There's no way they'd allow her to watch something featuring a transgender actor. Luckily, I'm not them.

     2.  She couldn't give any shits about fashion.

Seriously, neither girl cares. AR doesn't mind her skirts or the fact that she can't wear tank tops. It does not matter to her. She thinks make up and jewelry are unnecessary. The only thing she wants to do is cut her hair and dye it.

     3. Virginity actually matters a lot. To them, at least.

AR uses the word "slut" to describe other girls, a lot. I've talked to her about this, about how not everyone has the same set of values or puts as much stock into them as Mom and Dad have taught them to. I've told her that one day, those things may not matter to her anymore either, and she may start looking at those other girls with a new set of eyes. I can only hope, anyway.

    4.  Our little brother runs the house, and knows it.

He's ten, and has a penis. This means he gets special treatment from Mom because he's the baby, and special treatment from Dad because he possesses a dick. Dad is the head of the family and everything goes through him before it happens. He has a bad habit of telling Mom not to do things or correcting her in front of the kids, and that has put a potentially bad image into Little Bro's head. I hope he doesn't grow up thinking he owns the world simply because of the gender he was assigned at birth. And, if he does, I hope someone has the sense to put him in his place and stop him from doing something awful to some woman somewhere. If not, God help us all.

     5.  Napping is a vacation.

My parents are not just involved in the church, Dad's a pastor. This means running all over the place setting things up and preaching in different places. They are expected to be everywhere, having their hands in everything. That equals little downtime for anyone. We haven't changed up our normal routine for AR's trip, and that's how she wants it. She wants to nap, she wants to hang out, she wants to watch television. She's seen all the sights in DC, she just wants some quiet away from the other two kids and the church. I am one hundred percent down with that.

      6.  She can blend in anywhere.

They go to new places so often that this kid can literally slip right into any group of people like she belongs there. She walked into a house full of nerds when she got off the plane since it was Saturday, and Saturdays are DND days. It didn't bother her a bit; she called me a nerd and then sat down to watch Star Trek with us.

       7.  She can spot a fake or bad person from a mile away.

I'm for real. She just knows when someone's no good. I don't know if this comes from watching people lie their way through church or is just something she was born with, but she knows who's full of shit and who's legit.

I don't know who she'll be when she gets older, but I think she'll be alright.

xoxo, Scoot

(P.S. There are good Pentecostals, just as there are good Christians. But, that doesn't make their thought process any less crazy.)

Oops.

B: "We're going for a run."

Twenty minutes later we're at the gas station buying ice cream and candy. Thank you, impending period. 

xoxo, Scoot

Inspiration!

Yeah, I work out.

And by work out, I mean I whine my way through push ups. Not a lie. I'm doing pretty great. I can dead lift, I've moved up five pounds in weight, and I'm getting pretty consistent with my form. Also, my ass is hardening so that's awesome. But, no matter how great I'm doing, I still need inspiration.

Inspiration as in: look at all this neat shit you're allowed to buy if you get off your ass everyday! 

Not thinspiration. 

I am already thin, and I am not under the delusion that I'm not. I've always been smaller, but I have hips and everything still jiggles no matter what number my scale reads. I don't want to be thinner, or even toned really; I want to be strong. I want to look a douchebag in the eye and know that I punch harder, dead lift more, and run faster than him. I want to feel capable at all times. I don't ever want to feel weak. 

But, I still need inspiration, so here you go. Here's a list of things I'll be buying if I maintain my workout and diet and get super strong.

First, this dress. It took my breathe away. I love it so much.

(via Modcloth)

This wax tart! Ahhhh! Proud Hufflepuff, right here!

(via Frostbeard Studio Shop)

This freaking hat!

(via TOKYO HARDCORE)

A new TWLOHA shirt. Specifically this one. (I really like flowers, okay.)

(via TWLOHA)

These awesome dice!

(via dnd dice)

Oh my gosh, this necklace!

(via RubyRobinBoutique)

I'm telling you, guys. I'm going to do it. I'm going to own all this shit and be badass. I swear it!

xoxo, Scoot

Book Rec Time!

I read, a lot.

But, not as much as I wish I could. I visited one branch of my family last summer and read the entire Divergent and The Maze Runner series in about a month, plus one or two of The Mortal Instruments before I had enough. I had to ship a box to myself that was mostly books because they would not come close to fitting in my bags that I was taking on the plane. It cost $50. I have a problem. A problem that won't allow me to not own hard copies of books I enjoy. My husband bought me a Kindle once, I lost it. I know where every single one of my books are.

Like I said, a problem.

I'm also one of those people who will read an entire book even if I get through half of it and don't enjoy it (see: like, three Cassandra Clare books. I just needed to know what the shit was going on, okay?). But, I will not recommend a book to someone if I did not enjoy reading it. Which actually doesn't really matter since the only person who really reads like I do is my bro in law, Little B. We do have similar tastes, however, so that's a plus.

I also have this thing where I like to remember my favorite quotes from all my books, which explains all the tabbed pages in A Clash of Kings. That book has some bomb ass quotes. (Don't yell at me for tabbing my books. I used to put little stickies on them, but I have a toddler, ya'll. That shit is like a beacon.) Combining my love of quotes and my tendency to write lists for everything means I have a lot of random quotes flying around with no place to put them.

Enter the internet and my blog. 

So, here's a book review you didn't ask for! Huzzah!

The Last Dragon Slayer by Jasper Fforde

(Picture from Goliath Merchandising which is also where you can order a copy.)

This book is set in a very different England where magic and things such as foundlings (essentially orphans) and quarkbeasts (crazy huge, magical dog-like creatures) are semi-normal. Magic is running out, however, and 15 (almost 16) year old foundling Jenniffer is left in charge of forty some odd magicians, who have the ability to cause much more havoc than you would think, all while fixing your pluming without touching it. Cue something crazy happening and changing the course of everything and boom! young Jenniffer is now essentially a superstar with a really terrible fate ahead of her.

This book is an easy read, but the author really creates his own world within less than 300 pages, which is awesome. And, when I say "his own world" I mean he creates and entire 400 year old back story complete with an entire different set of characters and situations unique to the time period it is meant to be set in. Yeah, awesome. The characters can be kind of confusing, simply due to the sheer amount of them, but after a while it evens out. 

My favorite part of this book has to be the fact that Jenniffer is a girl, a young teenage girl, but that doesn't seem to factor into anything at all. Well, except one scene where dude is just an ass in general. In every other situation this girl faces, her gender doesn't matter. Now, I love me a good I-am-woman-I-can-do-everything-a-dude-can-do-hear-me-roar moment, or book, it is refreshing to read something that puts little to no stock into gender as a whole. 

Plus, did I mention dragons?

I give this book a 4 out of 5. Read it. Own it. Read the sequel. (I'm working on the last two.)

And, now my favorite quote:

"If you're thinking of somebody and the phone rings and it's them, that's magic. If you get a curious feeling that you been or done something before, then that's magic, too. It's everywhere. It seeps into the fabric of the world and oozes out as coincidence, fate, chance, luck, or what have you..."

 Jenniffer, page 33.

Love it so hard.

xoxo, Scoot

Confession: I hate being a stay-at-home-mom.

Like, mega. 

I love my kid. I love my husband. I do not love staying home all day. 

I need independence. I need my own shit going on. Shit that has no relation to my marriage or my child. Shit that I take full credit for. I need to go somewhere other than my home during the day. I need interaction with other humans, humans that aren't connected via LC or B. I need a little bit of distance. 

I hate doing dishes. I hate doing laundry. I hate vacuuming. I loath cleaning up. 

"We all have to do it," you say. "If you didn't want it, you shouldn't have gotten married, had a kid, settled down. " 

Why is marriage and motherhood still viewed the same as it was in the fricking 50s? Why is everyone's image of a "good" mother an image straight out of an old school Coca Cola ad? Hair did, makeup did, heals on, apron tied, smile held up by a drink that contained cocaine. We are living in 2014, and people still think women are happiest when their entire lives are nothing but their children. 

I am not happy. I do not have the mental makeup to do this everyday for the rest of my life. I will not be shamed for my need of separation. I am not a bad mother. My worth as a woman, mother, wife is not determined by he amount of clean fucking dishes in my cupboard or crumbs on my floor.  

I do not believe other women to be stronger than I am simply because they are happy staying at home. I do not believe them weaker, either. 

I simply want to be out there in the world, instead of stuck at home. 

So, if you visit my home, and notice laundry left unfolded, dishes left unwashed, floor unvancuumed, walls a work of toddler art, and me unwashed and uncaring, keep your mouth shut. This is not the end for me; this is only temporary. I do not give a shit if you think bad of me. 

xoxo, Scoot

I married Tom Hardy.

JK, but only kinda.

My husband and his coworkers ran the Tough Mudder last weekend. Tough Mudder is this insane obstacle course where you do things like carry a huge log across a field, jump into a giant hole of ice water, and slide down a tube into mud like you're being birthed. It's a really awesome set up, and the money goes directly into building more mud traps for you to go through next year and the rest goes to organizations such as Wounded Warrior Project. They set up all over the country, so no matter where you live, you can pay money to get covered in mud and pushed to your limits. It's great. 

My husband and our friends, being as amazing as they are, decided, "Let's run it as Tom Hardy Characters!" Hell yes! He's the one on the left above dressed as none other than Forrest Bondurant, one of my personal favorite Hardy rolls. (I mean, come on, "I thought I walked." Forrest, you big goof, get in my pants.) Next to him is our daughter's Uncle J, dressed as Bane. He pulled that shit off like none other. Look at them crazy eyes! Someone get him some venom!

We also had Handsome Bob who is my favorite Hardy role. I squealed when dude said he would dress up as Handsome Bob because he is a tiny, pale gay man with a shaved head on a normal day and it is just perfect. Also, he's one of my favorite people and he doesn't get weirded out when I tell him I love him like most men do. (I like for people to know I love them, okay. It's a thing.) We were supposed to have a Bronson but asshole chickened out because, "I have a widow's peak, Scoot! If I shave it, it won't grow back!" Pansy.

It was a pretty rad day, all in all, and I'm mega proud of my dudes. 

I would like to end this blog post with a rather loud statement: NEXT YEAR I WILL BE RUNNING TOUGH MUDDER. I WILL GET IN SHAPE FOR IT AND TRAIN BECAUSE I HAVE TINY BABY ARMS AND COULDN'T DO THE MONKEY BARS. I WILL BE BADASS. 

Have some pictures of my dudes.

xoxo, Scoot

(P.S. Here's a link to Tough Mudder. Run it next year, yah pansies! Or support the cause by buying some sahweet gear!)

Yo, yo, yo

Whaddup, my name's Scoot and I've done this all before.

This time, though, I'm serious. Maybe. In my effort to create this blog, I searched all my favorite blogs for their first ever blog post and what I found was weird. Some of them just didn't exist. Some were terrible and boring. Some were hilarious from the beginning. 

This means one thing: just fracking start one. So, I did.

Let's start out by saying that I'm inconsistent and a crazy person, but you'll figure that out eventually. I like to read, complain, and talk about how things were better in my hometown even though my  hometown is a giant shithole. Sometimes, I work out. I have a small human attached to me all the time, literally. Okay, not literally. It just feels that way. I also have a dog who's an idiot and a husband who sometimes isn't. Other words that describe me include, but are not limited to: nerd, geek, loser, fangirl, tv enthusiast, writer, outdated word user (see: post title), and sunflower lover.

So, without further ado, welcome to my blog. Here's a picture of my family looking not crazy.

xoxo, Scoot