A) Fix Self. B) Stay Strong. C) Repeat.

Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday...the one day of the week that holds unlimited potential.  It's far enough into the week that my two girls (and sig o for that matter) are back into their weekly routine, the unpredictability of the weekend has worn off, and the "I hate Monday" faces are long gone.  Also, it's close enough to the weekend to be considered prime location for bribery:  "If you don't get your project done today you can't have a sleep over on Friday," "If we don't go food shopping today we have to go this weekend".  Very rarely do I get a nagging, "but I have all week" response.  I love Wednesdays!  Most importantly though, I love Wednesdays because it’s MY therapy day. 

Although I’d love to blog [brag] about all the retail and spa therapy that Long Island has to offer- and how on Wednesdays I take full advantage of those things, I’d be lying to you…and I really have no reason to do so.  Not to mention I’m just not that kind of girl…anymore.  I have come to slowly accept the fact that I fall under the category of neurotic basket case- as opposed to impulse shopaholic, as originally once believed.  Take note however, that in my defense, on a rainy Saturday afternoon at Roosevelt Field Mall the two are interchangeable and therefore very hard to differentiate.  So, as it turns out, I’m the Long Islander who says things like “my therapist says…” or “at therapy today…”.  I fully blame my parents for this one.  I’ve been in therapy since I was 12, and now, at 25, I feel incomplete without a “ life analyst”. The madness of it all lies in the fact that it’s taken me 13 years of therapy to essentially become comfortable enough to even to utilize a therapist.  You know that scene in Good Will Hunting when Matt Damon fucks with all the therapists for fun?  That’s me more or less.  It wasn’t intentional, and I wasn’t nearly as cool about it, but they were lucky if I gave more than a 2 word answer. But last year, I finally found my Robin Williams. She’s totally bad ass.  And it’s because of her, I decided to supply my little nugget (my oldest daughter) with her very own therapist.  Dysfunctionality at its best.

I look at it as putting the –fun back in dysfunction.  I’m not afraid to admit I’ve fucked up a good chunk of my life.  My path of self-destruction and the shit storm that came along with it has in fact created a lot of problems.  But it’s over and done with now and the only thing I can do today is learn from my mistakes, make the amends needed, break the cycle of crazy that seems to run ramped in my family, and be the strong, sane, positive woman my daughter needs in her life.  She’s my heart and soul and deserves nothing short of simplicity and bliss. And when I need a little reminder of why I’m doing all this in the first place—I just look into my nuggets big brown eyes and I’m filled with an inner peace that echos so deep that—ppshhhh…or not.  Lets get real--I call my therapist!!  Because looking into her big brown eyes just ‘aint cutting it every time  anymore. 70% of the time they’re rolled back inside that precious little smartass head of hers anyway!