Today Eliza turned six years old. She is the most wonderful youngest daughter i could have ever been so lucky to meet.

She has so much of me in her it worries me a bit. But as i've watched her grow emotionally and socially in this, her first year of school, i couldn't be any prouder.

I had the good fortune to be able to go to kindergarten with her for the first six months. I watched her take each step with a bit more confidence. In may when her teacher gently nudged me out of the room i sat amazed as she would sigh as i walked out the door but then as i peaked in through the windows i could see her do a little mental affirmation, an "i can do this' shake of her arms, and then run and join the circle and giggle and laugh with her friends.

It fills me with joy to see her inviting friends over to play. She doesn't go to their houses yet, she is still too worried about her allergies and i'm just fine with that because, honestly? I worry too.

I have always worried about her. Knowing that a small mistake, an accidental ingestion of some nut or another, and she could be taken from me. Forever.

This has been a year for me to gain confidence too. Confidence in other parents, in our school, our community - that they care about her too. That she can be safe without my ever-present watching. That her and i can be separate. She's taking all of it with incredible grace.

She is awesome. She is my Eliza and i love her.

I've had a day. Some gloomy health news has left me knocked on my ass.

My poor broken ass. The fifth time really is the charm for the broken tailbone.

I have lived for the past twenty years contemplating suicide on a sometimes daily, weekly or monthly basis. Yet, all of the sudden, when the choice is taken away from me. The "everything should be fine, but the mortality rate is around such and such %" speech. Well, i'm not okay with that.

I have so much to live for. So much living to do. Celebrations to be had.

I am going to be fine. I need to be fine. I have four kids. This year couldn't kick my ass anymore.

I know you want to know how i'm feeling. How i am doing.

I feel censored by family reading this. I wish you wouldn't. Fading beauty is my only ticket.

But, screw that. This is my place. I pay for this. My space. My hipster place.

I re-broke my tailbone last week. The pain has reminded me of all my insecurities. I can't run and play like i want to. I have no excuse to avoid people. I can't sit. I can't run. I can't do cartwheels.

I booked my ticket to BlogHer today. Fuck.

Since i've been dumped by my psychiatrist and my social worker i feel. I feel sad. Everybody leaves me. Just at that moment i'm ready to tell you everything, to cry, to be human, you are gone.

Why can't anyone take that breath and then come back to me.

Happy Birthday Eric. I love you.

Last night i was invited to play on another softball team. Softball is pretty much the only thing that is guaranteed to make me feel better. I love playing for other teams. I get a chance to see their tricks and get to know the other players.

Last night i played for the Trailer Park Boys. That's right. The average age on the team is probably 24. Strapping young lads. I played well enough, drank too much Lucky beer and had a really fun time. It reminded me, for a moment, how fun it was to be in your early twenties.

It was the perfect end to a really crappy day.

Today i feel much better about being dumped by my psychiatrist. I know exactly what he was doing - tough love. As i walked away i could see in his eyes that he is expecting to see me again, probably in some dramatic situation. I'm not going to let that happen. The competitive side of me won't let it.

I hate you, dr. psychiatrist. I wanted you to help me.

Instead you have released me to the heavens.

I am not ready.

Wednesday's are no longer for weeping.

I have been tagged by schmutzie, and because she is beautiful and wonderful and sent me a lovely gift and is having a tough time i feel i must comply.

The rules are:

• Each player creates a list of eight random personal facts/habits.
• At the end of your post, list eight people who you want to tag to also do this meme.
• People who are tagged will post these rules and write their own list of eight personal facts/habits.

Eight Of Jess' Personal Facts/Habits

1. Since going on Lexapro i have twitches that take over my body at night making sleep impossible.

2. I can't eat before 1:00 in the afternoon.

3. I have a large tattoo on my tummy that has been stretched out by pregnancy four times.

4. I have broken my tailbone four times - last time yesterday.

5. I am very claustrophobic. I can't stand being hugged or being in a room without, at least, two doors.

6. I count my steps all the time. 37 steps from kitchen to bathroom. 10, 312 steps to highschool from my childhood home.

7. I can't sleep without some kind of booby support.

8. I like to self-medicate.

And now for the eight who are tagged for this meme: YOU.

The thing about monogamy and marriage is the in between.

One day you make a decision that this is it. This is the person i love today, i'll love tomorrow and i will love until the day i die.

The problem is all the days in between. The years where you grow older and different. Different than the young, wild thing that believed in perfect love. You wake up and look over and realize "this is not my beautiful wife."

Shane and i have both changed. How could we not. We were 20 years old when we started dating. A lifetime has passed since then. There have been days and weeks where we looked at each other as strangers. Like when he voted conservative in the federal election. And felt good about it. We argued and argued about politics. He stood his ground and was absolutely sure about his decision.

Then i realized. That's who i fell in love with and will always love. My stubborn man.

I know that he has woken up many times over the years, hoping that the jess he married would be laying beside him. But, i wasn't. I probably never will be. I have lived entire lives since the day we met.

It has been a lovely long weekend. Now, will tuesday just get here already so that i can send my kids to school. The way they fight. It drives me crazy. Dealing with hitting and screaming is my biggest shortcoming as a parent. I just don't know what to do about it.

Except, new hair.

Will somebody please just save me from these daily chores.

The laundry.

The dishes.

The food. My god, they eat so much food. It makes them beautiful and perfect, but it is so tiresome.

When will it get easier?

This weekend is our twelve year wedding anniversary. Our children will soon be 10, 8, 6 and 31/2. Time really does fly.

I am lucky to have married a wonderful man who has walked with me step by step through pregnancy, birth, depression, anxiety and, most importantly, joy. We have come to realize that all those expectations we had as children and starry-eyed newlyweds are impossible.

As parents and partners we are still only people. No matter how much we try to be perfect parents and spouses life is a long and winding road. There is no such thing as perfection.

We do the best we can. If, at the end of the day, we have love everything else will follow. I feel very lucky to be loved.

So, i am planning to go to BlogHer in July. I have about half the money saved. But, i can't buy my tickets or anything until i get my passport. I applied in January. Nothing. I called and they haven't even begun to start processing it.

I feel like this may be a sign. A sign that i am just not meant to go. After all, last summer's trip to BlogHer, while exhilarating and educational, left me an anxiety ridden mess.

I am doing well. The sunshine helps. We are all happy to have our living space increased by two acres. Patio doors flung open. Hours spent riding on the deck, jumping on the trampoline and wandering down to the creek. Freckles flourishing.

Sadness sits on my shoulder, gently tapping me throughout the days. I think sadness and loneliness hold hands up there. I'm just not sure that i will ever not be lonely. I hold everyone at arms length. Stand alone in the shade after school while all the parents chat amongst themselves. At parties i am usually wandering aimlessly or leaning on shane, basking in his ability to talk for hours. Usually, i just don't go.

I spent much of my four days at BlogHer last year doing just this. Wandering. Alone. Getting up my nerve to talk after cocktail party lubrication. Turning into that strange canadian blogger who talks silly things and eats other people's food. Socially i am a fool. I'm not sure i can handle that anxiety again.

A day late as usual. I hope you notice i spelt mum the way you like it. I never really understood why you spelled it that way until i heard you explaining it to Eliza. The soft "u." And you are a soft you. I love you.

I wanted to tell you i'm sorry. Having a daughter who clings to my legs constantly has made me realize how hard it was for you having me cling to you as a child. It was only because i adored you. Worshipped every moment with you. When you went out to work i was sad to see you go.

As a grown up with four children of my own i admire you for all you did. I hope that i can be half as motivated and determined as you were as a young mother. Everything you did, you did so well. Whether building a playground at the school, volunteering to coach the track team, teaching preschool, selling real estate - you did it all with gusto and success. I am proud of you.

I am also sorry for the years 1985-1987, 1994 and the past six months. I know you worry about me. I know you don't know how to help. But, rest assured, you are helping. Checking in on the phone.

Most importantly you should know that how i feel is no reflection on you. I am who i am, who i have always been. I will be okay.

I love you. Happy Mother's Day.

Yesterday was therapy day. I really didn't want to go. It is finally sunny and beautiful out. The kids and i are itching to go to the lake for the years first swim.

I have been feeling better. Adjusted to my change in medicine, sleeping a little better. I even cleaned the whole house and bounced on the trampoline. I haven't done that since i broke my tailbone - jump or clean.

But, i went. The thing that i really don't like about my case worker is that she leaves everything up to me; if i am given the chance to not talk, to not feel uncomfortable, i'm going to jump on that. She asked me what i wanted to work on.

"I dunno."

"Do you want to take this hour and read a book, or maybe go to the beach?"

"With you?"

"No. Instead of seeing me."

"Okay."

So. I'm done with therapy every week. For now. I will still see my psychiatrist every three weeks where he can continue to beat my heart up, but my case worker let me go. I can go back any time. I just feel very full of things to "work" on already. I do think it is beneficial and i am seeing positive changes. It is just too hard for my tender-hearted self to get beaten up on a weekly basis. I need more time in between to digest.

I had therapy with my psychiatrist last week. I alternate; two weeks with the case worker and then the psychiatrist. It was brutal. When i left he said:

"You have a prescription?"

"Yes."

"You're miserable?"

"Yes."

"Then my job is done."

After i had my first daughter, tristan, i fell in major crush with my doctor who delivered her. I read that it was pretty normal. And it passed. Because, really, who loves a handle-bar mustachioed 45 year old man when they are 26? I feel the same about my psychiatrist. He's cute. And he totally gets me. He knows that i am only laughing because i can't cry. We laughed when i told him "well, i guess things are better because i haven't thought about killing myself this week..."

Holy, oh my stinkin' heck though, he asks the tough questions.

For me, those were:

"When were you last happy?"

I had to think. And think some more. And, embarrassingly, say "I can't remember."

And then he asked me:

"What will make you happy?"

I thought. And i stared at the floor. I tried to cry to take the attention away from just me. I thought about all the consequences and decisions.

"I don't know."

And those are the questions that are haunting me.

My therapy last wednesday and a change in my medication has left me unable to write.

I have been rolling over some questions i was asked. Stewing. I also have insomnia and i'm exhausted.

Back real soon.

Some awesome Canadian mother of four (yippee, a club!), Chantal, gave me a "thinking blogger" award.

It kind of took me by surprise. I don't think i give people much to think about, or never really thought of it in that way, until recently. Since getting official "cred" as a crazy person by spending time on the psychiatric ward i have been getting quite a few personal emails from people asking me for advice. I never know what to say and often leave them sitting in my inbox causing me great anxiety every time i see them sitting there. It's not that i'm rude or ungrateful for the support and encouragement i receive here. Quite the opposite really - it overwhelms me. Lately i have had to just not sit down at the computer because what started out as an outlet for my restless fingers has slowly turned into a monster i'm not sure what to do with. Sometimes i want to give my blog a time-out for bad behaviour.

I just, simply, am not qualified to give advice. I have treated myself so poorly for so long and now look where i am. I am the last person in the world to offer advice, in the words of Bloc Party "i've never known what's good for me." I can't even accept the help that's offered to me. instead i continue to keep up with all my bad habits. I keep hoping for the best, sweeping it under the rug and perpetuate the "everything will work itself out" mindset that was so prevalent in families when i grew up.

At the same time i am fiercely protective of my children and work with them on a daily basis to learn better coping skills and social skills than i have. I want to teach them from my mistakes. I want them to have a good life, a magical life. Yet here i am spilling my guts to the world on a daily basis. My kids all know about this site, but i've asked them not to read it. As they get older this becomes more of a challenge. A blogging conundrum that i have read over and over. At the end of the day i truly believe that there is never anything wrong with the truth. Growing up surrounded by denial and lies would be far harder for them than having a mother who feels and thinks.

I would love to hand out some Thinking Blogger awards, but i always dread picking people out of the crowd. I was never a popular girl in school. It wounded me - being picked last for the teams in PE - damn you dodgeball. I read a lot of different blogs and rarely comment on any (sorry). They all make me think. There are two that i can say because they are in retirement:

dirty olive who i miss like peanut butter
and
crazy us.