This is part one of a bunch of personal posts to come. I've decided that this isn't just a sewing blog or a blog about crafting or even about how adorable my kids are. It's a blog about me and whatever the heck I want it to be about. And now for a persional discussion on the follies of blogging...

Let's say you're me. Let's say it's March of this year, and you're a patient at a mental hospital. It's about day 4 and you're still as shocked to be there as you are shocked you didn't end up there sooner. You've always had depressive tendencies, but after this last baby - this gorgeous, angel of a baby who's huge blue eyes say "I love you" every time they look at you - you've just felt different. Before having child #1, everyone told you these amazing stories about this instant bond and how you never knew that you could love anything so much. Then that baby comes, and it is absolutely true. Your heart multiplied by a million and you couldn't possibly be more in love. Nine months go by and you are unexpectedly pregnant with baby #2. The money and timing are all wrong, but you can't help but look forward to loving another baby as much as this one. After all, the same people who told you about loving one baby told you that your heart DOUBLES when another one comes. Then the baby comes. Just like the other, he is absolutely perfect, despite his scrunched old man face and elfish features. You bring him home and you wait for your heart to grow, but all you seem to feel is guilt. You can't love them both as much as you thought you were supposed to. Instead of having your heart double, you have to split it in half. Something is really, really wrong.

Over a year later, things only seem to have gotten worse. You love your kids both. You would do anything for either one of them, but something is off. Nothing really makes you happy, only your kids on rare occasions, and that fact makes you feel extremely guilty. Your husband is becoming increasingly frustrated with the situation, and soon discussions of separation and divorce begin to poke up their ugly heads. He makes it very clear that if you ever were to leave, he would make sure you never, ever saw your kids again. So there you are, your choices in front of you. You can stay with the guarantee that the fighting and criticism, pressure, and put-downs will remain - at least for the forseeable future, or you can brave the custody battle and risk ever seeing your kids again. Except that losing your kids is not an option, and the thought of staying in this situation is enough to make you want to just give up. Just give up. Option three. You wouldn't have to deal with a frustrated husband, and the kids would be better off without you anyway. Wait, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?!? Calm down, Adri. Just lay down and stay there. And that's what you do. Afraid to move, afraid to think, you lay there, trying to come up with a fourth option. Ten minutes later you get in your truck, face stained with tears and still in your work clothes, and drive to the hospital.

By day four you figure your armpits could use a shave so you ask one of the workers to come with you to your bathroom to watch you. They don't let you have anything potentially harmful there without supervision, which includes razors, of course. The whole thing makes you look for the dozens of ways you could kill yourself without razors or shoelaces - not because you want to, but because the rebel in you wants to prove their rules are stupid. As you walk down the hall to your room, the employee tries to talk to you. "I noticed that you have a blog today, I hope you don't mind that I was reading it. I hope you don't mind me asking this, but you seem so normal. Why are you here?"

All I can think is that I need to quit blogging.