Please forgive the double posting. I felt it this was worth it.

In seven days over 50,000 of you joined an online community offering encouragement and help.

Today (Sunday) at noon hundreds are meeting on the Golden Gate Bridge to take a stand against suicide at the very place where it happens most in the world. (You’re invited, look for the yellow balloons and ribbons).

This hopeful story has received international press coverage including this first report on Time Magazine’s NewFeed.

I haven’t heard from the person who mailed this postcard, but I have heard from many who have felt lifted by this flashmob of kindness.

Blatantly lifted from Post Secret.

I cannot be in San Fransisco today, but I am there in spirit. We are none of us alone. Please, if you’re ever feeling like this is the end, remember that we are all connected. None of us, we are none of us alone.

Call 1(800)SUICIDE [1-800-784-2433] for help, day or night.

Love to each of you, My Pranksters, who remind me that no matter how dark it is, there is always a light.

Please, pass on the message. Twitter is going strong with it #yellowballoons #suicideprevention.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Why are people, relatives at that, so damned mean?  My sister-in-law has thrown me aside like a dirty dishtowel time and again and never apologizes or explains what came over her. As she is such a mercurial person, people tend to accept her back into their life in some fashion rather than not have her at all.  This is the third time I’ve been burned and I’ve HAD IT!!!!

She’s my husband’s sister, but I don’t ever want to see or hear from her again.  I wish, in fact, that I’d never met her.  The hurt and agony I suffer every time she does this is more than I or my family want to deal with.  So Sage Aunt Becky, what do you recommend, should I kick her to the curb, or should I just call myself a sucker and sign myself up for more hurt and misery?

Frustratedly,
me.

Ah, Prankster, how I wish we could choose our family members like we choose our friends and just be able to cut people off when they treat us like dogshit. Sadly, it doesn’t work that easily without causing major drama with people choosing sides and split up holidays and all of that boo-yang.

What I would do, Prankster, in this situation, is to accept her back into your life and trust her as far as you can throw her (and with YOUR BUM KNEE, Ed, you shouldn’t be throwing anyone)(Ferris Bueller, man, HILARIOUS). I mean that in a “put up with her when you have to and ONLY THAT MUCH” sort of way.

There’s no reason you have to be the sucker in this situation or deal with her bullshit or get suckered back into it over and over. You can smile politely, nod, grit your teeth and think to yourself “yeah, whatever, bitch” and then move on when she’s out of earshot. You do yourself no favors by being sucked back into it time and time again.

Good luck, Prankster.

Dear Aunt Becky,

This is a weird question, be warned.

I am in minimal contact with *any* of my family outside of my brother. I used to talk to my mother, 2 years ago. Before that, we’d see our extended family maybe…once every 2-3 years, if that. Pretty distant.

I got married last spring. My husband is from a *very* tight-knit family. His mom and dad are divorced, so that just means TWICE the amount of in-laws: they get together as often as possible.

I love that my husband is close to his family, but DAMN, I can’t handle spending our (rare) 3-day weekends with HIS family. It’s all we ever do when we have more than 2 days off together.

I’m just not used to such frequent trips spent gawking at cows or dominoes, when we could be at home watching movies or playing video games, or enjoying the nooks and crannies of our current town.

Also, his mother doesn’t like me and tells me in subtle comments, but that’s another question for our dear Aunt.

I’m on the verge of punching myself in the proverbial dick. I’ve tried explaining my weird family situation to the hubs, but he gets all butthurt and makes me feel weird for “not getting it.” I already feel weird about it, you know?

Halp me, Aunt Becky!

Love,
Douchey McInlaws

Oh Prankster, this situation just makes me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork except that it would do ME no good except make me blind in one eye and that wouldn’t exactly help me track down Mick Jagger and make him impregnate me. But it’s DELICATE and I’m about as good at being delicate as I am at refraining from saying “motherfucker.” SEE? It just SLIPS OUT.

So you clearly have to approach this one with DANGER WILL ROBINSON blinking all over the place because you can’t hurt your husband’s feelings about this and you’re not going to make him understand your childhood any more than you understand his (dominoes? REALLY? WEIRD!).

I’d probably tell a wee white lie if I were you. A “you know what, honey, I’d really like to spend some time with YOU this weekend because I’m so tirreeedd because work has been SO stressful.” Or maybe plan something for just the two of you at home to show him that maybe it’s time for you two to have a life together alone, too.

Clearly, it’s not going to work if it’s all his way all of the time or all your way all of the time and because marriage should actually be called “you’ll never get exactly what you want again,” maybe it’s time he learn that lesson, too. Not in a MEAN way, just a, you know, “my wife has needs too, that don’t include dominoes and my parents.”

Marriage = compromise. Marriage also = biting your tongue about your in-laws.

P.S. I don’t think ANY mother-in-laws like their daughter-in-laws. Awesome, isn’t it?

Dear Aunt Becky,

I got drunk.  I made out with my best friend’s husband, whom I might add is my husband’s best friend.  So, in one stupid night, I damaged a whole slew of relationships that have all lasted over a decade.

I told my husband right away and he has forgiven me.  I have cut off all contact between myself and his best friend.  I opted to let my friend’s husband tell her in his own time and way because (as if I’m not enough of a bitch already) she’s pregnant and no one wants to upset the pregnant lady.

She eventually found out via an e-mail between my husband and hers and called to get the story from me.  I told her all and accepted all of her anger and hurt because, well, that’s how it goes.

I have no idea how things are for her and her husband right now because I’m not speaking to him and she’s not speaking to me and my husband avoids drama like the plague.

My marriage is doing just fine and I know I should be happy for that, but here’s the thing.

Even though it’s all my fault, I still miss my best friend.  I can’t call her.  I can’t reach out to her.  And I can’t complain to my husband that I’m hurt and lonely because, well, duh.

So, Aunt Becky, will you just tell me it’s going to be okay and that you’re sorry that I lost my best friend, even if I did it to myself?

Oh Prankster, I AM sorry that you lost your best friend. It always hurts to lose someone you love, no matter what happened to cause the loss. I can tell that you feel guilty and awful about what happened–as you should–and I know you want to make it right. I wish I had any words of wisdom for you other than that you have to forgive yourself and accept that she may never forgive you and move on.

Easier said than done, I know.

—————–

As always Pranksters, please pick up where I left off in the comments.

Today, in an uncharacteristic display of “letting my OCD go” I’ve decided that it’s high time to let some new blood in around here. Cross-pollination is a win for us all because you get to meet some of my awesome homies.

I don’t know if you guys have met Anna, from her blog of initials that I can’t remember because I invert shit ABDPBT.com. You don’t have to remember the initials to know Anna, though, because she’s smart as fuck and twice as bold.

If you want to know about blogging, ad networks, The Internet, monetizing the blog, and you want to know from someone who KNOWS HER SHIT, you want Anna. I respect the shit out of her because she’s not afraid to stand up for herself and start stuff if she thinks there’s something amiss and she does her homework.

I respect the hell out of Anna and I’m honored that she’d post for me. Especially a random post because OBVIOUSLY.

1. You say “Yes!” in an uncharacteristically lighthearted way because you love Aunt Becky and love her blog, and love her Merry Band of Pranksters.

2. You wish that you had your own Merry Band of Pranksters.

3. If you did, you would have them follow you around with instruments, though.

4. Moreso than that, you wish you had something to call your own posse of readers that was even remotely as cool as “Merry Band of Pranksters.”

5. Dwell a few moments in envy, regret, and Diet-Coke fueled remorse.

6. Wonder if there would be a revolution of Pranksters once they realized that the Diet Coke would be served without vodka, even if only for one day.

7. One awful, dreary, vodka free day.

8. Clarify that you would gladly write about vodka if only vodka weren’t such a colossal asshole to you that one time in college.

9. Also the ten or forty times after college.

10. Also don’t forget about the time that vodka stole all your money and raped your dog.

11. You’re don’t really want to tell tales outside of school, but you think you saw vodka doing the wide stance in the airport bathroom with its intern.

12. And that was after vodka talking tough about the sanctity of marriage, too.

13. You’re just saying.

14. People in glass bottles.

15. Wonder why you chose the list format, yet again, as if to suggest that you are incapable of writing in paragraphs, when actually, you CAN write in paragraphs. Long ones. Tedious and boring ones, even.

16. Shine on, Merry Band of Pranksters.

What are YOU random about today?

Dear Doctor House,

I feel so FORMAL calling you that considering we’re MARRIED and all, but that’s okay because I know behind closed doors I can call you “Shnookems” just the way you like it. But for my blog which is all PUBLIC and stuff, I’ll just call you by Dr. House. You can call me Your Majesty.

Now, it was recently brought to my attention on Twitter that I am probably not a very good wife because I am a bad cook.

It all started when I tweeted:

I mean, it’s TRUE, right? Apparently, this means that I’ll NEVER find a husband, because men like the womens who can cook. And since I caught you CHEATING on me with that lady with the brown hair (AGAIN), maybe it’s time to show you that I can cook and that I desperately need a new husband.

While rummaging through the pantry, I noticed the very same thing that had brought me running into the arms of yet another television husband, Dexter, so many months ago. (yes, I can have affairs, YOU cannot).

Those damn beef sticks! I am all for encased meaty goodness, and I occasionally doodle pink puffy hearts around the person who coined the term “beef sticks” but the kind of person who would willingly put tubular meat products into his mouth THAT HAD EXPIRATION DATES INTO THE NEXT SEVERAL YEARS is not someone that I can see longevity with.

Mostly because of a little disease I like to call DYSENTERY, but you know.

Hoping that they’d be expired and I could possibly feed them to him so that he might suffer botulism and leave me with a hefty life insurance policy SPARKLE RAINBOW UNICORNS!!! I hopefully checked the expiration date:

Sadly, no. Looks like I will have to wait until the end of the year to enact my plan of doom CUTE FLUFFY KITTENS!!!

So, left to scour the pantry for things to cook for you, my husband, to show you that I am, in fact, worthy of wifedom, I was left with a) cocktail salt b) a scary looking bag of malak paneer and this:

Oh don’t look so disgusted by it. Ramen was the breakfast, lunch and dinner of MANY champions up to and including MYSELF. Now, of course, I prefer bacon flavored vodka and, uh, bacon flavored vodka, but you know. It’s ancient, though, but made of stuff that will probably outlast even the tiniest microscopic organisms on the planet.

PHEW, good for a couple more…uh, weeks. THANK GOD. I don’t want to kill my TELEVISION husband or anything.

Wow! Will you look at the WORDS on the back? I didn’t even know that there were INSTRUCTIONS on the fucker! I sure as hell never read them.

P.S. Holy fuck is it bad for you. Check out the awesome fat content in HALF the noodles. Rock. Music.

Eh, it said 2 cups, and that looks about like 2 cups, right?

WHATEVER.

I’d like you to note the flowering hibiscus in the back, a plant I only bought because it sounded like a rare STD.

Gratuitous action shot done in a SHOCKINGLY artful way. Now you KNOW I am a true photoblogger! I should win a photoblogging award or something like the Nobel Prize for Awesomeness in Artful Photoblogging of Gratuitous Action Shots That Serve No Purpose!

While we wait for this water to boil, I’d like to address a couple of things, namely that you cannot be going around kissing women your own age. I mean, I appreciate true love and all that yada-yada-yada, but don’t you know that your TRUE LOVE lives in a computer writing you LOVE LETTERS on her D-List BLOG?

There’s NOTHING wrong with that, you know. NOTHING. It’s not weird, or creepy, or stalkery, or ANYTHING. In fact, I think I’m going to change my blog name to “Mommy Wants Dr. House, Her True Husband Who REALLY Loves Her.”

I’d like to show you this picture that I think illustrates how I feel about your relationship with that OTHER woman:

SEE? I edited it MYSELF and I think it properly explains how I feel.

There, there, don’t be upset, just take some Vicodin to calm down. True Love is bullshit anyway.

There, don’t you feel BETTER? I do.

I’ll even let you use the LOVE bowl because nothing says “I Love You” like a plastic bowl with a heart on it. (I almost typed “bowel” but that would just be GROSS).

Aw, look at our LOVE NOODLES cooking! JUST LIKE OUR LOVE.

Mmmmmm….BEEFY.

P.S. My manicure is awesome.

Hopefully the Vicodin will have kicked in by now so these noodles won’t taste like a bowl of hot dicks because, let’s face it, Ramen is kind of not delicious.

But have no fear, my love, because I am also proficient at such things as “Spaghetti-O’s” and, um, well, Shamelessly Ordering Takeout.

Shit, maybe Twitter had a point.

Yours Until The End,

Your Wife, The Only One Who REALLY Loves You Enough To Write Creepy Love Blogs To You, Wait That Sounds Bad.

The first time I saw a brain, a real brain, suspended in some greenish liquid at the front of my gross anatomy lab, I stood there, staring at it for a good long while. I was long past being disgusted by the organs of the human body, and seeing the folds of the creamy white tissue struck me only with a sense of wonder. This was it, right there: all that you were, all that you thought, all that made you you was right there in that innocuous looking organ.

Really, it could have been a football for as glamorous as it looked.

But to know how it worked, studying the nuances of neurology, that is poetry. All of the mysteries that we still do not know about how the synapses fire to make one person want to maim and dismember and one person want to paint the Sistine Chapel, that is beauty. The smooth folds folding seamlessly into each other made up separate and distinct parts of the brain and instinctively I rattled them off in my head as I examined the brain in the jar: the cerebral cortex, responsible for how we are feeling, our emotions. Those that make someone laugh or weep, smile or scream, right there.

The parietal lobe, which is how we use all of our senses at once to make decisions, the back of the head responsible for sight, the very sense I was using to examine the brain I was so enthralled by. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to drive a car, see the deep brown of my son’s eyes, the bright red of the fall leaves outside of the classroom. One by one, I observed all of these structures on that brain, carefully preserved in formalin in a jar labeled ABBY NORMAL.

How could something that looked like a Nerf ball be so mystifying and so shockingly resplendent in it’s simplicity at the same time? Something that made each of us who we are should have looked unique, special, like a jewel and somehow, the more brains I saw, the more I realized that they all looked pretty much the same.

Maybe it’s what we do with those hunks of white matter that contains the beauty, because with the exception of the cerebellum (which is surprisingly beautiful), it’s a highly understated organ, especially when compared to something flashy like the kidneys.

When my daughter was born with part of her brain hanging jauntily out of the back of her head, the doctors pretty much shrugged their shoulders when we asked what that meant about her future. While she showed no signs of neurological damage, she could be profoundly normal or profoundly retarded, it simply wasn’t something that could be determined by a blood test or an MRI.

Up until she was a year old, Amelia was followed by Early Intervention, who came every couple of months, tested her, declared her normal and left. When she turned a year, I figured it was probably time to let them close the case on her for now and promise to make a call back if something changed. I know the drill with special needs kids well enough, and her medical diagnosis is an immediate qualifier for assistance.

It’s taken me until now to realize that there is actually something wrong with her beautiful brain.

Amelia has no words.

She has no words.

No glorious words, the very thing that I make my (pathetic) living from, she has none. I’ve always derived so much happiness in putting together combination of words to titillate, horrify, or move people, and she has not one word.

She’s had words before, they’ve slipped out of her mouth for a couple of days until it appears that she forgets them and goes back to shrieking and grunting to get her point across. In many ways, this terrifies me more than seeing my mute autistic son did, because it seems as though she has words, then loses them again.

It’s time to call the specialists back in and help my daughter find her words.

For good, this time.

I have a lot of delicious combinations to teach her.

One of the first things my friend Ashely said when I started to date someone new was, “Has he seen a full-on Becky outfit?” She wasn’t trying to be mean, just curious at how a guy would take my funky sort of “did she get dressed in a dark closet and intentionally go out looking that way?” sort of style. Part of the problem is that I’m colorblind. The other part of the problem is that I’m unabashedly tacky.

So you know when bloggers do style blogs and they’re all “these are my favorite things” and you’re all “holy shit that’s awesome” because it’s awesome and you realize you have no style and/or no money with which to buy style? This is pretty much the reverse of that. This blog should make you feel like you’re the most stylish person on the planet.

Exhibit One: My Belt

That’s right, Pranksters, a belt with my motherfucking NAME on it. Why? Because I can. And do! It’s a multi-purpose belt, really, because not only does it announce to the world, “Hey World, I have a name,” IT TELLS THE WORLD WHAT MY NAME IS! Then, when I forget my name, all I have to do is look down and BOOM, THERE IT IS. (kinda like WHOOMP, THERE IT IS, but not).

The only thing that would make this gem of a belt better would be if it were encrusted with bling.

(bonus points when I give it to people to wear who are NOT named Becky because it’s just hilarious because OBVIOUSLY).

Exhibit Two: My Hat.

We all know that I might aim a little higher than I should when it comes to the men I date in my head and nowhere is that more evident than my Mrs. Timberlake hat.

In hindsight, I think I’ll get my next one to read: “MRS. DEXTER MORGAN” because I think I find the concept of being married to a serial killer more appealing than being married to a former boy-bander. Either way, the hat, it’s hot. You know you want it AND YOU KNOW YOU CAN’T HANDLE IT.

P.S. Maybe I could have gone TANNING before I got this picture taken. I’m pretty much Edward Cullen’s relative without the sparkle.

Mimi couldn’t handle the greatness of the hat, see?

She had to take it off before the AWESOMENESS of it burned her.

Exhibit Three: My TELEPHONE

Hello hello baby you called I can’t hear a thing I have got no service in the club, you say? say? Wha-Wha-What did you say, oh, you’re breaking up on me. Sorry, I cannot hear you I’m kinda busy.

Actually, I wasn’t ka-kinda busy (yes I was), it’s just that my crystal-coated cellphone had a tendency to drop calls almost as much as my iPhone does. But do you see the looping, poorly executed “B” on there? Oh yeah, that’s right Pranksters, Your Aunt Becky did that. Badly, even. This right here is evidence of why you should never do yourself what you can pay someone else to do for you.

Gluing a gazillion tiny crystals onto a cellphone in a pattern that can only be described as “pathetic” isn’t something that I would recommend, even if the glue did give me a wicked high. But oh, how I loved on that phone. The crystals added a good five pounds to an already ridiculously heavy phone (you had that phone too, I know, because EVERYONE did) and they flaked off, leaving an odd Cinderella-style trail of pink crystals back to wherever I was, and they messed with the reception and my ability to make and receive phone calls, but I didn’t care.

Because that phone was where the MAGIC HAPPENED. PRETTY PRINCESS CRYSTAL SPARKLE UNICORN MAGIC!! Just as soon as I get my new iPhone and find someone who can properly bling it out, you bet your ASS Imma do it.

So there you have it, Pranksters. Several of the things in my closet that will never find their way into YOUR closet because you are FAR more tasteful and refined than I’ll ever be. Because OBVIOUSLY.

———————-

The contest to win the Flip MinoHD is on until Saturday and can be found here, under my TOP SECRET PAGES.

Today, over at Toy With Me, it’s my second installment of my Bondage Conference! Part One! Part Two!

This post is sort of like a scavenger-hunt on the way to an Easter Egg or whatever it is that those video game nerds always call it when you’re looking for something hidden, you know, like seeing Ariel’s boobs in the Little Mermaid? (tell me that wasn’t hilarious because being an animator for kids movies has to be pretty monotonous sometimes).

Anyway.

It’s not REALLY a scavenger hunt because I’m about to tell you precisely where to go and why you’re going.

I wrote a really hilarious post (if I do say so myself)(and I do)(because I’m narcissistic, DUH) and I had to hide it because at the end of it, I’m giving away a video camera that was given to me by a company. It’s part of the stipulation of my BlogHer Ads contract; I can’t actually give away stuff over a certain dollar value on a page with BlogHer Ads.

So I hid the page since I have no review blog.

But! Lest any of you get all, AUNT BECKY, NO REVIEWS OF SHIT, I’m not reviewing the camera. I didn’t even LOOK at the camera because I didn’t GET the camera because rather than KEEP the camera, I opted to give it away to my Pranksters. OBVIOUSLY.

The page is at the top of my blog under TOP-SECRET!! and I’m giving away a Flip MinoHD to yooouuuu!

But honestly, the post above the contest is just like any other. Not just annoying but stupid, too*.

And if you see anything wrong with the site, please email me at aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com. I know that there’s a bug with email address cashing and I do not know why. Probably because of zombies slathered in mayonnaise.

For now, all comments for the contest will have to go onto the bottom of this post or on the page (woo-hoo, FIXED)! Because I will be compiling them into one big post, it’s not going to matter where they go, so don’t worry, Pranksters, ALL IS NOT LOST.

*also my 6 word autobiography.

(I know, how can you handle the DOUBLE posting?)(it’s not a glitch in the matrix)(I can’t believe I just quoted that)

If you’re having any problems with error message or see any obvious problems with my new design, could you send an email to aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com? The comments ARE being posted, but there was some sort of redirect screen in place when certain people posted.

(don’t ask me, I just write here)

Hi Aunt Becky.

I would have put an exclamation point after my greeting, but I’m in such a funk- that I can’t even type excitedly.

My second daughter is just over 2 months old. She’s positively amazing and her 8 year old sister is a wonderful helper. My husband also does his best to try and help too. The problem is, as great as things are, I can’t stop crying or feeling like garbage. I don’t even want to talk to my best friend (frankly, she’s starting to annoy me) and that, in itself tells me something is up.

All I want to do is lay in bed or on the couch and do nothing. It’s hard to do when you have a newborn to deal with. All the nighttime feedings, colic, growth spurts and so on are starting to wear me down. I literally dream about running away for a few days, just to be alone.

I think I need to get help. I have absolutely nothing to be upset about and yet, I walk around like someone ran over my puppies.

The thing is, I feel like I should be able to just get over it. It should just pass like all the other ridiculous phases I’ve seen. I feel like I’m letting everyone down by having to go to the doctor for it. My husband seems to think that all I need to do is take a walk and get some fresh air. I know he wants me to feel better, but I don’t think he truly understands the way I feel.

Does it make me a bad person to have to go to the doc? What if he suggests medications?

Sincerely,
Desperate, Depressed Momma

Oh Prankster, I’m willing to bet that 150% of us are nodding are heads while we read this (parents or not) because that’s the thing about any sort of depression: that pervasive feeling of “why the shit can’t I just SNAP out of it?” I call it the “Other People Have No Feet Syndrome” i.e. “how can I possibly be sad when other people have no feet?”

It’s also bullshit.

It doesn’t matter why you feel the way you feel, what matters is that you feel the way you feel, and I’m saying that as firmly as possible. Anyone who tells you to “buck up” should be told so “shut the fuck up” because it doesn’t matter how good you have it if you feel like your dog just got run over 95% of the time (assuming your dog is, in fact, alive and well).

I had pre-AND post-partum depression (prepartum depression would be depression WHILE pregnant) and it didn’t matter how joyful I was about having any of my babies, I was miserable. A lot of it was hormonal because pregnancy is kind of a motherfucker on the body, but really, it didn’t matter one way or another WHY, it mattered that it was happening.

I reasoned it away with “it’ll get better” for probably 8 or so months.

Probably the stupidest decision of my life because you know what? IT DIDN’T GET BETTER. I wasn’t ready to drive my kid off a bridge, but I certainly had thoughts of how best to kill myself. I’m not proud to admit it, but it’s true.

Once I admitted to myself that I was, in fact, fucking miserable and made the call to the doctor, you know what? I FELT BETTER because I’d finally admitted that I had a problem.

Smartest decision I ever made for myself and for my family, all of whom prefer me as a non-depressed person.

So no, absolutely not, I don’t think there’s any reason to feel like you’re letting yourself or your family down by going to the doctor. Your husband clearly doesn’t understand why you feel the way you feel because he’s never experienced it. He’s well-meaning, but he’s clueless and that’s okay. Dave told me to “get a hobby” after I had a miscarriage, like that was going to make me feel better. Shockingly, I threw a lamp at his head.

Go to the doctor, Prankster, and if see what he or she has to say about it all. I started taking some Vitamin W (Wellbutrin) and trust me when I tell you that it saved my sanity. Your mental health is every bit as important as your physical health and there’s no shame in anti-depressants.

Make the appointment and go and see your doctor, please. You deserve to be happy. You’ll find your happy place again, I promise. And soon, the light will be back inside you.

Lots of love to you, Prankster. There’s never any shame in taking care of yourself, ever. You matter too.

xoxo,

Aunt Becky

————–

Pranksters, I know many of you have struggled with post-partum depression (or just plain old depression), too, because I’ve shared my struggles, and you’ve talked about your own. If you have any advice for this Prankster, please share. I separated the posts today deliberately so that you could talk to each of these Pranksters individually.

This Prankster could use your some love and some advice if you have any to offer.

SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY, I’m doing things a little different today since I have two very important but very different questions that both could use your undying attention and/or love. Rather than combine them into one post, I split them into two separate posts.

CAN YOU HANDLE IT? (yes, you can).

I’ve been seeing the same guy on and off for the last 2 1/2 years. I really care about him but his actions and words throw me off. So much so that my mental health is suffering. I’ve been on more anti-depressants, anxiety meds, and therapy than any other time in my life.

I know he’s abusive. He doesn’t use physical violence anymore, since he’s not in my home but the verbal shit is killing me. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me when I call, again, in tears. Or when after succeeding in every aspect of my life, the moment I anticipate him calling, I want to drive into the median.

I’m having a super hard time just *quitting* him. It’s like I’m hooked. I’ve only successfully left his physical presence, but somehow he still holds a place in my head and heart, no matter how painful. How do I get past this relationship without being sucked back into it again?

Oh Prankster, there’s very little that I hate more than hearing about another Prankster in an abusive relationship. Not because I hate you, of course, but because I hate hearing that someone I heart is suffering.

Let’s start at the beginning. It sounds like you are addicted to this man and this relationship. I’m willing to bet that a good portion of us have been in abusive relationships before at one point or another–I know that I have–and I know that part of the abuse starts small, like you said, they get into your head and erode your self esteem.

There are people out there–like this guy–who prey on people to do exactly this sort of thing, so before you start blaming yourself for being an asshole to fall for it (that will come eventually. It always does, trust me on this), just know that it’s not your fault. It happened to you, it happened to me, and it’ll happen again to other people.

But this relationship is toxic, Prankster, and you must quit it. You must love yourself more than you love being with him. At the end of the day, you must love yourself. You know that Your Aunt Becky loves you and her Band of Merry Pranksters love you, but YOU must love you.

That love will be what sustains you and what has to get you through this, at least initially. If you want some solid, concrete reasons, go here. Then, if you’d like, read my story, here.

I won’t pretend it’s going to be easy or that you’re not going to hurt like hell because you will, but I guarantee that you’ll come away from this situation a better, stronger person.

Perhaps you should treat this like an addiction, because that’s what it is, an addiction. One of the things that addicts do is to make a list of all of the reasons that they quit their drug of choice and put that list somewhere safe, like their wallet or their purse. When they feel like breaking down, they pull that list out and remind themselves of why they’re doing it. It could be something as small as, “because I like to listen to MY music” or something as important as “I love ME more.”

Maybe you can get one of your friends to act as a substitute to call when you’re feeling weak and anxious and want to call him to talk you through it, a fake-boyfriend type of friend. You’re going to need an emotional support system to get you through this because you’re going to have to go through the grieving process, just like you would with any relationship.

Your self-esteem will creep back in, you can fake it ’til you make it, and you’ll find your way again. We human beings are resilient as hell and I can tell by the tone of your email that you’re a smart person and you’ll do well at finding someone who genuinely loves you.

Because someone who loves you does NOT hurt you. Someone who loves you does NOT call you names. Someone who loves you does NOT make you feel badly about yourself.

There is a difference between co-dependence and love, Prankster.

Perhaps you can take a 12-step approach and work it that way, if that helps, but whatever you do, you must get away. I cannot stress that enough.

Lots of love to you, Prankster. Let us know how it goes. We’ll be waiting to hear the progress you make.

————

All right, Pranksters, time to love on this Prankster. I know a lot of you can relate to this and it’s time to help her out. Give her some advice, some compassion or just a *hug* in the comments.

When I started the Bringing Aunt Becky Back project in January, I knew that I was sort of at an impasse. Things couldn’t possibly go on as they had been because I was miserable and I’d BEEN miserable for so long that I couldn’t see that the bad days outnumbered the good.

It was time to either continue sinking or try desperately to swim for surface.

A lot of that meant that I had to face the things that were tied around my legs, trying to drag me down, whether or not I wanted to admit that they were there. I tend to be a “LOOK AT THE SPARKLE UNICORN SPRINKLES, PEOPLE” because I’d rather not talk about the 400 pound elephant in the room. Hell, let’s feed him some motherfucking vodka and get this party STARTED and ignore that elephant, why don’t you because really, he just lives here.

Slowly, I had to examine the things that were tying me down and threatening to drown me, accept them, and then cut them off. Because holding onto all of those things was only making me sink deeper and at night, the demons threatened to drag me down to the bad place.

A lot of those hurts weren’t easy to let go and many of those things will forever be a part of who I am because that is what happens: the things that hurt you define you in some small way. Past events, those dictate how you will react in the future.

One by one I examined them, and carefully, I bid them goodbye, remembering that I am a better person for each of the things that I went through. I can’t tell you how many nights I sobbed, maybe not sure why, maybe entirely sure why, letting things go.

I was afraid that when I was done, the person left standing would be someone I didn’t recognize. It has been probably a good 5 years since I’ve been in a space where I’ve been genuinely happy, and when all was said and done, who would be the person left behind?

Shockingly, perhaps not-so-shockingly, the person left standing when I chipped away all of ties that bind, and finally resurfaced for air, was precisely the same person who was standing there before. Exactly the same person.

I’d figured that all of the shit of the past years: the isolation of being alone with the kids, the struggles I’ve had to find my own way, watching my parents both hit rock bottom and then get into recovery, raising a special needs kid, drama with the baby daddy, birth defects, post partum depression, miscarriages, migraines, prepartum depression, post-traumatic stress disorder, being ditched by two of my best friends, the isolation of having a husband who works 80-120+ hour work weeks, all of that, well, I figured that would make me a different person.

In December, this was my New Years Post:

“While Amelia has thrived and continued to place at or above level for every single test that she’s been given, I’ve sort of managed to tread water this year managing to keep my head mostly above water. Lately, I’ve been drinking gasoline to keep warm.

I’m not sure it’s working.

I was diagnosed with PTSD stemming from her traumatic birth and I don’t know if it’s that, or PPD or some other weird acronym, but I’m not sleeping well or eating well, and some nights I manage fight off the demons and others, I’m slain by them.

But I’m hopeful. I’ve been here before and I’ve always managed to claw my way back out of the hole and into the light again.

So I approach 2010 full of renewed hope for the future, because no matter how full of the darkness I feel, I can feel the light on my face and I know it’s all around me. Soon it will be within me.

I am hopeful.

I have hope.

Happy New Year.”

Today, I can tell you, Pranksters, that the light shines brilliantly not just all around me, but from within me, too. There will be days when my demons win because there always are, but today, my demons are at bay.

I am hopeful.

I have hope.

*In the light we shall see light.