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Hey Becky,

Just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing…you sound down.  

Trust me I know how you feel.  Seasonal depression much less clinical depression sucks!  Add to that the fact I was off my Lexapro for 5 days and I was a step below Charles Manson..LOL!  If you need to vent, I’m here! :-)

Hang in there & take care!

Oh Prankster, my Prankster, you’re making me cry here. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? I get all, “whatever,” whenever someone says something shitballs to me, but the moment someone is kind, I do the Ugly Cry.

The answer is somewhere in the middle – I’m up and down.

It’s January – my daughter’s birthday, which is always a massively triggering event for me. I feel so stupid to admit that, like I don’t have the right to be upset. She’s the girl that lived! I know in my head that she’s fine, but I see her disfigured head and the scar that grows each time she does, and my stomach drops – I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I’m left panting and panicking, my throat tight. The nightmares I can’t quite shake.

On the other hand, I’m beyond happy that I’ve made a teeny step – she’s getting the birthday celebration I’ve always wanted to give her. I’m having more fun putting together a Sweet Shop themed party than any adult should….but that PTSD monster is always lurking close at hand.

I’ve wanted so badly to come here to my own space and tell you all about it (you are, after all, my family, Pranksters) – but it all comes out a random jumble of letters and words that lead to nowhere, and I’m more frustrated that I can’t seem to do what I love most – write. The words don’t come. The sentences make no sense. The paragraphs don’t flow. It’s just gone.

I know the words, the words will be back – but there will still be this gigantic pile of things I can no longer speak of. I hate feeling like this whole host of things I need to share most must go unspoken. Someday it won’t matter. I know this, too. And yet, it’s been all I can do to breathe. And keep breathing.

This too will end. I know.

But tonight, tonight I am decidedly not okay. Thankfully, tomorrow is another day. It will, perhaps, be better.

I have hope. Indeed, it is all I have.

Or a mushroom print.

I know I’m MIA today, but I wrote this. It needs your sweet, sweet Prankster love.

Hopefully I’ll be able to crawl back from my January cave soon. This month is bullshit, Pranksters.

Dear Sarah McLachlan,

Let me start by saying you, Ms. McLachlan, have an impossible name to spell. I spent upwards of thirty whole seconds trying to ascertain whether or not that word grouping was properly spelled or a jumble of letters. That, however, is merely my issues with words, Sarah McLachlan. See, Sarah, I’m sorta illiterate.

Anyway.

I’m here today, Sarah McLachlan, to talk, not about your complicated name, but about you. Namely, how you ruined my day.

I’ll admit, Ms. Sarah McLachlan, that I, like most people with vaginas in 1993, that your album, Fumbling Toward Ecstasy was a favorite of mine (it seemed that there were two types of girls in the world at the time. Those who listened to Tori Amos and those who listened to you, Sarah McLachlan. And I, if I may, never was a cornflake girl.).

Mostly, because your lilting voice sang about all of the angsty shit that those of us who were both angsty and in possession of a vagina felt. Sadness. Emotions. Lame-ish songs (sorry, not your fault) that we could be all, OMG SARAH MCLACHLAN KNOWS WHAT I FEEEEEEELLLSSS.

I can’t say I much followed your career after I sacked up, but I was proud that you created that Lilith Fair, because I like a powerful woman, Sarah McLachlan, I like them very much. I heard a few of your songs on the radio, and while I never turned them UP, I rarely turned them off – see, Sarah McLachlan, I’m a sucker for a pretty voice. And that, my friend (can I call you my friend? Great – thanks), you do have.

You and me, Sarah McLachlan, we were friends. Or at least I thought so, until you released this particular bit of horror that’s since haunted me. Picture this, Sarah McLachlan: I was at home with my wee new babe, and I had one of two options – I could watch television or I could stare at the wall while I nursed him. He was a boob man, my guy.

Postpartum and hormonal, not to mention sleep-deprived, imagine my horror when this came onto my television:

I’ve never, ever gotten over it, Sarah McLachlan – the sad puppies, the hurt kitties, it was too much for me. I began to weep, which annoyed the hell out of my baby. That commercial, starring you, Sarah McLachlan, and a bunch of pathetic animals, seemed to play whenever I was at my lowest.

And the tears, my good friend, Sarah McLachlan, they flowed.

It’s January, and aforementioned baby is nearly five, but I wanted to tell you that I caught the tail-end of your ASPCA commercial, Sarah McLachlan, and I wept. You have no way of knowing, Sarah McLachlan, that January is the worst month of the year for me – that I’d like to curl up in a ball and wake up sometime in February. But your commerical, Sarah McLachlan, it nearly broke me this time.

And at the very least, you ruined my day.

So, Sarah McLachlan, thanks for that.

Love Always,

Aunt Becky

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