It happened again. Another horrific terrorist attack. And words do not adequately express my grief. Grief for the deceased. Grief for the mothers, fathers, husbands, wives and children that have lost their beloveds. 

For those that lost their lives. The babies. The elderly. And everything in between.

So I sit here in my American home with all the comforts I could possibly ask for. And once again I am forced to move from ridiculous knee jerk reactions that are usually based in fear, to the truth. And just as a friendly reminder, fear is a liar. For those of you in the back…

FEAR IS A LIAR …

I do not remember the majority of my Psychotic break. Like walking through a thick fog, I only have flashes of the night I walked off the planet. Of being in the kitchen and seeing a knife on the counter. The ease of how it sliced my wrist. My surprise at the amount of blood. Going upstairs and getting in the tub. 

Cutting deeper. My husband fighting me. Wrestling to keep my arms above my head. The strength of his hands around my wrists. A call to 911. The realization that the screaming I was hearing was my own. And the blood. So much blood.

I just wanted to die … 

This last weekend was Easter Sunday. We were that family that arrived 25 minutes late because we assumed the resurrection could wait for us. Sorry, Jesus. This is the battle of every family with small children. 

Leaving the house? This used to be a simple task. Open the door, get in the car, leave. Done. Oh, the luxury. Those days are long gone. Now I am living in some nightmare that feels like a cross between the Oregon Trail and that old Gladiators show from the 90’s.

Never mind my mental illness and anxiety that already make leaving home a trial...

Tis the season for Spanx. Fa la la la la, a big fat nope. 

Can we please just take a minute and talk about a major issue the women of our nation are currently facing? 

Underwear shopping. Where your options have been reduced to a suffocating body suit or some nearly invisible string.

You know what’s more fun than going underwear shopping? Well, for starters, a root canal. Without novocaine. Done by a blind circus monkey. Or being forced to watch 197 consecutive episodes of Celebrity Apprentice. Commercial free. While someone is simultaneously dragging their nails down a chalk board next to you. Or God forbid, ...

Hey everybody, I'll show you #mypinterestfail if you show me yours.

A couple of years ago I wrote a blog about how Instagram is a complete lie. Every picture is just a false interpretation of what we want the world to see. Recently I realized that Instagram has a fabulous yet fugly step sister. You’ve probably met her. And if you are anything like me you can’t live with or without her. 

I can't stop drinking the Pinterest KoolAid, you guys. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem.

I have a problem. Send help. 

Dear Pinterest, unless you plan to come to my house and magically improve everything while I am asleep, you are dismissed. Truly. Just a few things that are better for my mental health than Pinterest might include: skydiving without a parachute, learning how to speak every language ever, running for President, solving the problem of world hunger, inventing a functioning time machine. You get the picture...