When ill, like I am right now, I rarely run a fever. A fever for me is a piss poor indicator as to how ill I really am, unless I have one. Then it means that I am extremely sick. So sick, in fact, that I woke up in the middle of the night last night drenched in sweat and blearily made my way downstairs to wake Dave and inform him that I “felt just like a bagel.”
Then, without another word, I trundled back upstairs and went back to sleep.
At least, I think I did.
Ah, the fever she is raging mightily within me, which means that I broke into my Christmas stash of crappy CD’s that I love with all of my heart and listened to sappy stuff like Rod Stewart and Elton John, while I wept copious tears about nothing, really. Then I decided that I needed to clean the house.
Dripping sweat, red faced, yet determined, both the dog and baby watched me warily as I frantically scrubbed the kitchen floor. Then the toliet. Then the highchair. Dave is back at work from his Christmas vacation which effectively means that there is no one to tell me to put down the mop and step away from the bleach (whoo-boy does Aunt Becky love bleach!) when they should.
I cannot begin to properly articulate how I feel after hearing about Britney’s meltdown (but I assure you it doesn’t make me feel like a bagel), but it just makes me so sad. Becoming a parent means opening yourself up to criticism from all possible sides, and that’s without living in the limelight. Hell, I just have this crappy blog and yet I find myself tempering some of the things I say here so as not to evoke the fury of a thousand angry mothers who cannot believe how I solve problems or parent my children (I mean, what’s wrong with chaining my children to a wall in the basement while I throw loud parties ANYWAY?).
As with anything in life, my choices are my own, but I have the blanket of total anonymity to hide behind and no one is the wiser (well, this isn’t completely true. I have bribed some of my friends to read my blog and comment so as to feel like less of a loser. And I’m sure it’d be pretty easy to figure out who I am, but I assume that most people have better things to do with their days than to stalk random Internet People. Shit, I know that I do.), I MEAN, WHAT IF MY NAME REALLY ISN’T “BECKY?” WHAT IF IT’S “SHANNA?” AND WHAT IF I AM ACTUALLY A TEENAGED BOY?
(Have no fear, I’m not even remotely creative enough to come up with a fake life to support a blog. When hard pressed, it took me about 20 minutes to come up with the example of “Shanna” as an alternate to my given name).
But Britney, she doesn’t have anything to hide behind. Every step of the way, someone is finding fault with everything she does. Don’t bother telling me that she “chose” this lifestyle, because what would you have done at 16 (at 16 I probably would’ve gotten “Courtney Love Rocks” tattooed on my ass. It’s a good thing you have to be 21 to get a tattoo here in Illinois, eh?)? I’m pretty positive that it isn’t what you’d choose at 25.
Mental illness is not funny. Not even a little. Emotional breakdowns are also not funny.
Sure, I use the terms “crazy” and “nut house” occasionally, but as someone who has frequently had to pick up her own mother at the ole’ Mental Hospital, I think I’ve earned that right (man, “pick up my mother at the Mental Hospital” is right up there with phrases I hate to use, alongside “my last upper endoscopy” and “fecal-oral route of transmission.” Oh, and “piping hot,” but only because it’s annoying.).
So Britney, as a person you’ll never meet, I wish you the best of everything and I hope that you’re able to pull yourself out of this hole. The world won’t be the same without you in it.