In 2010 I had a breakdown. The details are for another day and another post, but suffice to say you will never find me on mental health medication again for as long as I live (as Jerry Seinfeld would say, “not that there’s anything wrong with it.”) I got out of the hospital May 25, 2010. I remember because it was my ex-husband’s birthday. He was more concerned about getting a cake than the fact that I was coming home. My mom drove me to a bakery and, if I may so myself, we bought a pretty bangin’ cake.
At the age of 32 I expected to have children by now. For ten years I tried, until getting the final word last year that I cannot. It also turns out, as we found out late last year, adoption is not possible for us, which only reinforced what I already knew: my pups are my babies. Some people laugh when they hear that. Others roll their eyes. Some do both. I don’t let that stop me from going off on a tangent about my pups and yanking out all the pictures I have of them.
I’m not sure why I ever stopped writing. As a child you couldn’t tear the notebook from my hands. I’d fill up one after the other, using the moonlight to scribble whatever came to mind in the comfort of my bed, afraid if I turned the light on my parents would know I was up way past my bedtime. I could never concentrate on anything in daily life except the stories in my head. I dreamed of becoming an author one day. I wish I could say that they trampled on my dreams and forced me to get a “real” career because that would make me feel better about having failed up to this point, but instead it was quite the opposite.