Things I Tell My Therapist

By Amy Wright

"Am I normal? Do other women feel like this too, or am I totally alone here?"

Spoiler alert! We're all walking shitshows. Some of us are matinee level and some are sold out, opening night, line out the movie theater door level... but shitshows just the same (did anyone bring the popcorn and Milk Duds?).


To pretend that we've got it all together and that we're not just winging it as we go along every single day in this spiraling tornado of motherhood fuckery, is just a complete waste of time and denial.

Add in motherhood, marriage, a never ending list of to-do's, and maybe a light dusting (or a heaping spoonful) of mental illness and you've got yourself a sold out blockbuster of a show (that Amy happily shares on the internet as The Drunk Mom)!


A hilarious yet eye opening account of what #momlife is really all about, without the filters and pretentious bullshit.


Welcome to the show!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359781799

Book preview

Things I Tell My Therapist

Things I Tell My Therapist

Copyright and Legal Bullshittery

Copyright © 2019 by Amy Wright The Drunk Mom

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any many whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First printing, July 2019

ISBN 978-0-359-78179-9

P.O. Box 1282

Granite Quarry, NC 28072

[e-mail]

www.TheDrunkMom.com

Foreword

At age 39, I thought I’d have a lot more shit figured out by now, turns out I don’t. I’m still learning every goddamn day, usually from the clickbaity shit on Facebook or from people who are smarter than me... but sometimes from people way, waaaay dumber. That’s always an entertaining lesson.

This glorious book is as much a well thought out, laborious process of written art as it is a word vomited clusterfuck that poured out of me like hot cat diarrhea on a white carpet. There were days the words just flowed, and I knew that THIS BOOK would absolutely be an underdog story of how one ordinary yet glorious woman (ehem, me) self-published a book that made the New York Times Best Seller list. I would mentally rehearse my interview with Oprah on Super Soul Sunday about how my tragedy became my triumph and how this book was the game changer in my long, successful career.

Then there were full weeks that all of my thoughts were total shit that I’d type out and then furiously delete, cussing at myself before slamming my laptop shut and then furiously binge-watching Netflix Original Series’ with my hand in a sack of chocolate donuts. I’d frequently glance at my laptop lying next to me on the couch and wish it into spontaneous combustion so that I wouldn’t have to finish this Goddamn book that would surely tank.

TITMT is a collection of thoughts, recalled experiences, childhood memories and conversations of the deep, sometimes dark mind of a mom (me again!) who dances with depression and PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder), who is exhausted more often than not and who is really, really, really sick of everyone’s bullshit. It ain’t always pretty, but it’s a real, raw and fucking hysterical account of #momlife that most women can relate to… if they’re being honest. Like… really honest.

Introduction

Momming sucks. There, I said it and I’m not fucking sorry. It doesn’t mean that I hate my children OR that I’m a horrible mother. We all think it at times, we just don’t want to say it out loud, lest the cuntbags of the internet will shame us and we will end up feeling worse. There are times I wish I’d had the entirety of my lady bits ripped out at age 14 so that parenthood wasn’t an option. There are times that I resent my kids or even my husband because I can never-ever make a single fucking decision for myself and NOT consider them first and it pisses me right off!

But then… oh then there are times that I hold their little hands or hear their sweet little voices saying mommy, you’re the best or making me a pile of construction paper and way too much glitter with mom written in the middle and I melt into a gooey wad of fluff that’s impervious to their charm and utter adorable-ness. Or my husband will tell me something like you’re pretty… and you were right and I want to bend over right in front of him like a cat in heat.

Welcome to the mindfuck of motherhood.

In this book, I may repeat shit. I may jump around in a seemingly weird fucking order… but that is how my mind works these days and I want to keep all of my books and work as authentic as possible. I want everything I do to be REAL and if you’re reading something that I’ve written, I want you to feel as though we’re having a real conversation over drinks and I’m cozied up in a patio chair next to you, telling you stories to inspire, encourage and help you.

So, from one mother to another, this is as real, as honest and as unapologetic as it gets for me. I can only hope to have the privilege to help make your day, week or life better in some small way, either with this book, my videos or wherever our paths take us in the future.

I would absolutely LOVE to hear from you, especially if this book inspires you somehow. Of course, public reviews on Amazon or wherever you bought this book are fabulous, but a personal email… holy balls, my heart would explode. If you feel so inclined, I check my inbox like a madwoman at [e-mail].

Let the fuckery begin.

Chapter 1- Tell Me More About That Day

Most days, life is great. Everything seems to be on track, I feel like I’m winning, there’s money in the bank, I talk to friends, go places, do things, make a difference and maybe even laugh a little. I’ve done my sufficient amount of adulting for the week, whatever in the Hell that is. The kids are happy (mostly). I don’t immediately want to grab anyone by the throat. Sure, the dog pukes insane amounts of vomit on the huge rug, right next to the hardwood floor, there’s something sticky to clean up somewhere or something breaks that needs to be fixed; but most days, life is great.

Then there are the dark days. The days that it hurts to even breathe. The days that I’d give anything, just to be able to stay in bed and not have to take care of anything or anyone. Just to sleep until the dark clouds part, even just a little bit.

There are days that I wish I wasn’t here at all. That I could just somehow disappear with a puff of smoke and no one would notice. Life on this planet would just move on as normal, but without me in it. There are days that I cannot stop the constant worry over every little stupid detail: about other people’s fucking opinions, about money and family and marriage and friends and the environment, the kids, politics, my future or my past. The anxiety. The sadness.

Life altering dysfunction.

Days when I feel like a gargantuan loser. Like someone who’s contributed nothing to this world. Like my very existence is one huge, failed experiment. Like I’ve somehow slipped through the cracks of my creator’s fingers and no one sees me or hears me when I cry. Like everyone would be better off without me clogging up their lives with my issues and my shortcomings as a human.

I feel empty, alone, desperate and worse… like those feelings will never end because they are all absolute truth in my mind. I sit in my bathtub, tears running down my cheeks, my skin prunish and pale and beg for someone, anyone, to just take me now. I’m done.

I want to reach out to someone… anyone who will listen. I think about it. But what would I say? I want to die? Help? I feel like a huge fucking loser and I want to leave my entire life behind?

And what would they say? Just think happy thoughts? You’ll be okay? Oh, honey, this too shall pass? It won’t change anything; except they will know that I’m broken and fragile. Unstable. I will take time from their day and cause them unnecessary worry. What will they think of me then? Not just that day, but forever. I will inconvenience their lives forever because once they know, they’ll worry about me and the last thing I want is for anyone to fucking worry about me. Besides, I know that no one can fix this because the very issue lies somewhere deep, deep down inside of me. Inside the brokenness that is my head.

I wish that I could crawl into a deep, warm, dark hole in the middle of a forgotten forest with nothing more than a blanket and pillow. With no people calling, texting or needing anything from me. Without T.V. or internet (okay maybe not without the internet). Without the whole world and without everything in it. I’d lay there alone and cry myself to sleep and hope that my eyes wouldn’t open again.

This is what life is like for me for at least a few days every month. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.

One day though, all of this horrific mindfuckery was just more than I could handle. It was, as they say, a perfect storm of situations and circumstances. Some that I could control and some that I could not.

The evening of September 17th I had just gotten back home from a