the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Hair, day forty-six

Welcome, rubberneckers, to the egomaniacal, narcissistic, bipolar meltdown you have been promised would happen by the hate sites! (It’s too bad they aren’t on my payroll, because HOO, the pageviews) To tell you the truth, even I can’t wait to watch this train wreck happen because when my brain explodes all those Skittles in there are going to scatter everywhere. A RAINBOW!

(I know, another post that was supposed to be about my hair that has nothing to do with my hair. I can’t even keep my posts straight. Yet another sign that I’m losing my mind. Someone please step in and get me some help! I NEED BETTER HANDLERS.)

What should I do first? Shed my clothes and run nude through Temple Square? Maybe have an argument in public with an imaginary friend? While wearing a giant bird costume and waving a vibrator?

The level of my fame is so minuscule in comparison to actual celebrity, but that does not make it any less strange to read the words of strangers who are publicly delighting in my pain, strangers who are actively rooting for me to break down. I’ve known to avoid reading it, but then the amount of it became so abundant that it bubbled up and spilled over into my lap, and wow. There it was. I politely wiped it to the side, but then another wave hit. And in the middle of that next dump someone said that they were going to make an anonymous call to try and get my kids taken out of my custody.

I hate to disappoint some of you, but that meltdown isn’t going to happen. I’ve been seeing a therapist pretty regularly since Leta was born, and yesterday she told me that I didn’t need to come back, that the work she’s been trying to get me to do for eight years is done. In fact, I had a pretty big breakthrough about a month ago, so big that after I left she did a tap dance in her office. I asked her to recreate that moment so that I could take video of it and post it here, but she’s a lot like my mom and enjoys flipping me the bird.

At the core of the work that I have been doing is letting go of the fear of standing up for myself. That probably seems asinine because my writing can be abrasive and polarizing, and how can a woman with a mouth as dirty as mine have any trouble standing up for herself? Well, a lot of trouble, actually. Especially in person. And any time I’ve attempted to do so online I’m labeled a bully or a delicate flower or lectured on the reasons I should ignore it.

The fact is that I do ignore almost all of it. It’s a relentless stream that rolls through my email and across twitter and in and out of other websites. But this morning I was sitting at my desk minding my own business when I caught the edge of another wave, and I thought, what the hell am I afraid of?

And you know what? Not a goddamned thing. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. People will use the fact that I am saying this as proof that I’m having a meltdown, and those people can go fuck themselves, too. Because when my therapist reads this she is going to get up and do the moonwalk behind her desk.

(If you even try to leave a mean comment I will delete your ass.)

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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