The End?

two bear cubs sleeping

Once upon a time, this blog was as necessary to my existence as air.

As a new mother, it was my link to the outside my world. It provided reassurance that I wasn’t crazy. It was a place where I could laugh, scream, or cry, and know that someone (lots of someones) heard me and understood.

As an uprooted introvert, it provided me with the community I was missing in my new home. Friends were only a blink of the cursor away, and I could (and still do) reach out at any time, day or night.

As a professional copy nerd, it was my passport to career stability. It taught me a host of new skills and ensured I was ahead of my peers in the fields of social media and SEO. When people around me were dropping like flies, I hung on to my job—in part because of what I learned in this space.

As a generally insecure human being, it provided me with the confidence I needed to feel good about myself. It provided proof that I was smart, valuable, and had mad writing skillz. Even if I was sleep-deprived and anxiety-ridden.

This blog helped me develop my voice. It helped me figure out who I am, and who I want to be.

It gave me the courage to submit a proposal to the BlogHer conference (and to actually go speak when they called).

It gave me the confidence to submit an essay to the Listen To Your Mother Show (and to actually read it. On stage.).

It gave me the chutzpah to submit a chapter of a romance novel to Harlequin (but, unfortunately, it didn’t help me write the damn book when they liked it).

This blog was, and continues to be, extremely important to me. But because of the opportunities it has helped me make for myself, I don’t have much time for it these days.

And I sure can’t be bothered to play the review this/make a video of that/tweak that other thing for SEO game I need to play to be “successful” right now.

So is it dead?

Nah. Something tells me I’m not done here yet.

It’s merely hibernating for a while.

Photo Credit: BeingMyself, Flickr

Depression is a Rat Bastard.

Thought bubble that says, "Does anyone know where depression is? Because I'd like to punch him in the face."Internet, you already know I struggle with depression. I take medication, I try to take care of myself, and mostly I’m…okay. Sometimes I even feel pretty great.

I don’t feel so great right now.

Logically, I know I have the world by the balls. I’ve got a good job, good friends, a great kid, an awesome husband, and a supportive family.

I’ve had a ton of freelance work thrown at me this year, so for once I’m not broke.

And, as if that’s not enough, I’ve sold not one, but two books this year. TWO.

In short, I have not one damn thing to complain about. Not. One.

But logic has no place in depression. And I? Feel kinda shitty. Not spectacularly, I-can’t-deal-with-life-so-I’m-going-to-stay-in-bed shitty. But damn-it-I-really-don’t-want-to-deal-with-life-but-I-kinda-have-to-so-I-better-get-my-exhausted-ass-out-of-bed shitty.

I think you just read the world’s longest hyphenated word, which is not a sign of good sentence structure. But I can’t be bothered to care.

The not caring, it’s one of the many, many things that comes along with the depression train.

See also: self-loathing, self-blame, and general feelings of inadequacy.

It’s totally awesome (not really).

I started this post with the idea that I’d impart some nugget of wisdom about depression. But I’m not feeling very wise (see above).

I guess what I’d like you all to understand is that depression? It doesn’t make sense. It’s not something I can control. It’s not something ANYBODY can control. I don’t WANT to feel like this. Nobody wants to feel like this.

If I could wave a wand and make it go away I would.

But I can’t. I just have to slog on through the days, knowing eventually it will break, and the sun will come out again, and I’ll have the energy to do the shit I want and need to do. In fact, I’ll actually WANT to do things.

That’ll be pretty awesome. I know it will. And because I still know that? I know I’m going to be okay.

I’m going to be okay. Really.

But depression? Is the biggest rat bastards of all rat bastards. I’d really like to punch it in the face. Or balls. Wherever it would hurt the most.

How’s that for profound?










I Got My Picture Taken. And It Was Pretty Awesome.

You see that headline up there? Those are two sentences I never thought I would ever utter (or, errr, write) in the same breath.

But it’s true. In preparation for professional authordom, I recently bit the bullet and got myself a real headshot, by a real photographer, in a real studio. That I paid real money for.

Even though I really didn’t want to.

And it turned out to be an amazing experience.

This is one of the photos the photographer took, but it’s not the best one:

Amber Page headshot

To see my real favorite, you’re going to have to check out the other blog. The author-y one. I’m talking about 5 reasons getting a professional headshot is totally worth it over there tonight…

I’ll write you a real post soon. But right now, I need to get back to book #2. The deadline is rapidly approaching. Wish me luck!


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