He Is Legend, I Am Traumatized

There was a Buzzfeed article today about movies that emotionally destroy and while I don’t so much contribute to Buzzfeed in any way that isn’t an anonymous and inane survey (WEIRD AND ICKY, you garbage humans), I do have a addition:

I Am Legend

And when I’m talking destroyed, I don’t mean “got emotional and cried” and I don’t mean “changed me in a profound way and ultimately made me more empathetic”.

I mean DESSSSTROYED. Like threw me into a long deep funk. Like gave me a swirly in the dark waters of ennui. Like locked me in a dumpster full of existential dread, set it on fire, and threw away the key.

Yeah, I saw it in the theater on a date too so that was… a nice little introduction into my mental state for that dude.

I’ve only seen it once since then and I had to read the book several times before I could get over the trauma and move on with my life but… yeah, I Am Legend broke me into a million puzzle pieces and it took a long time to put that landscape back together.

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Me for like, 4 months after I saw this movie.

The book is better, by the way. Makes way more sense. Far less traumatizing. FAR more hopeful. And that dude married me so… what does that say about HIS mental state, hmm?

 

Jumping Right In with like, a couple of toes if that

I really shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. The commitment is beyond my ability to contemplate.

But I think… I might do NaNoWriMo again… with the understanding that I probably will not “win”.

If I had to pick the one worst thing about newborn care, it’s the utter loss of self that comes with it. I let myself get lost with my first baby. I’m not letting it happen again.

If I’m gonna lose something, I’d prefer it was a game.

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Motherhood is Glorious

My husband and my toddler are out on this beautiful Fall day picking apples and eating apple cider donuts, taking iPhone pictures that make my son look like a gorgeous baby model in light that Instagram filters try to emulate.

I am home in the dark house, shades drawn to protect my neighbors from the sight of my giant monster milk jugs as I switch between nursing and changing diaper, nursing and changing diapers. My daughter has so far puked AND pooped on every article of clothing that both she and I have attempted to wear today. And even though I have changed ALL of my clothes several times and washed my hands more thoroughly than a surgeon, all I can smell is the sweet sticky stank of dried regurgitated breast milk and chunky yellow baby poop.

But yeah, motherhood is beautiful… or whatever.

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