Now, first of all I have to say I feel a little cheated. The two lines quoted in that last comment seemed petulant and childlike by themselves. Combined with the rest of the statement I am not nearly so ashamed of them, but perhaps I am at fault for writing such lines in any context. That being said, let’s get down to business.

I have fabulous family and friends (as stated in previous blogs) and would never be so arrogant as to say I could get along easily without them. Nor would I argue that they have all been there for me through hard times. Stood by me, supported me, and ultimately helped me grow. I do not hesitate, nor have I ever, to inform all around me that I have, possibly, the best family in the world. Yes they drive me crazy, yes I want to kill a vast majority of them at times, but they are all fabulous. When it comes to friends outside the family I have had exceptional luck meeting phenomenal. I am lucky. Flat out, plain-spoken lucky. And now I should clarify.

I have never expected anyone to take care of me (except, perhaps, my mother but that doesn’t enter into this statement). When I say, “learn to lean on” I mean asking for support, help, or a swift kick in the ass. Learning to lean on others is learning to accept my emotions. Learning to lean on others means opening up and not being a crazy co-dependent. Learning to lean on others means betting my emotional health and abilities to interact with others. Perhaps I didn’t make that clear and perhaps I’m just not agreed with. I can accept that, but if so I do believe we are arguing for the same cause. Whatever words you choose to use the meaning is still the same—healthy, loving, supportive relationships. Isn’t that what the lifetime channel has been preaching all these years?

So, my response having been given, I now have a confession to make. I am quite sure if asked to craft a statement on the same topic as the mentioned blog it would read completely different. That’s the way it goes when you write with emotion as the emotion hits you. Not that I take back any of my words or step back from what I said, but I can sound significantly more whiny, petulant, and like a god damned martyr than intended when I get going on my soap box. It isn’t that I don’t believe what I’m saying, but catch me the next day after a good nights sleep and what was cause for the end of the world last night no longer makes my head turn. I guess that’s just the way it goes.

Never think I am not aware of my station up on the cross some days. If there is one thing I do well it is complain about how bad I’ve got it when the mood strikes me. And look, I’m complaining about complaining. That takes talent, I don’t care who you are.

So on to happier subjects! I am still on my Phantom kick—oh yeah. I had a brilliant description of said obsession in an email to a friend and I like it so much I’m going to quote myself now:

I am sorry to admit that the aforementioned Post-Melodramatic Stress Disorder was not my invention. I stole it from the Onion actually, but regardless of its origins, it does apply to my situation. George Carlin prefers “Shell Shock” to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder so perhaps in honor of him, I will call my malady by a truer name: pathetic. Yes, I and the legions of single women around the world sitting on their couch night after night watching lifetime original movies, feeling as if they can “sympathize” with the poor widowed, abused wife, raped by her stepfather while her mom popped pills, now on the run from her husband with her two kids, one of whom actually belongs to the man she really loves but who died tragically from an aneurysm suffered while lifting a large boulder off a small child during the freak landslide that accosted this small Kansas town are pathetic. We flock to Phantom of the Opera, oogle Gerard Butler (the actor who played Phantom) write distressing fan mail and tell every man we meet our life story, menstrual cycle and appropriate behaviors necessary for different mood swings. Then we wonder why we sit at home engaging in the aforementioned behavior and the cycle starts all over again.
And even knowing all that I can’t help but go back and see the damn movie again, and again (and again and again). It just speaks to the sap in me. Who am I to argue with beautiful, crazy, mask-wearing men proclaiming their love? For some reason I find myself more readily able to forgive the craziness I so often preach against when said crazy person is singing “Music of the Night” to me. Go figure.

So how is that for food for thought? I think I have divulged enough premenstrual thoughts to you all (fear the dark blue pills, fear them very much) and I leave now before I say something I mean, but never wanted anyone to know I mean.