Lights, Camera, … Depression… ?

Facebook. Or, “The Facebook”, as some of us prefer to call it.

We’re way too hipster to drop that leading article.

Instagram, or “IG”.

In Ironic Hipster-speak.

What do these social media giants have in common? If you were thinking that they both possess a forceful, infallible, and mystical power to keep your fingers firmly scrolling upon your mouse and/or cellular device 8 hours a day, 7 days a week…. you are correct. However, there’s another parallel here that I’d like to discuss today. And that is: The Highlight Reel.

I was not privy to this phenomenon ((do do dododo…. phe-nom-enon. do dododo. you know you were thinking it. and it will be with you for the rest of the day; you’re welcome)) until about a year ago, when I was just about finished the “fourth trimester” and, unbeknownst to me, was entering an even more difficult period of lactation-hormone-laced parenthood. After experiencing a barrage of adorable photographs from friends, family, and Kinda Sorta Acquaintances That I Don’t Have the Heart to Delete, detailing adventures to wineries, some bustling downtown area across the country, a day spa retreat after a fantastic wedding, a distant family member’s quaint cottage in a faraway New England state complete with hand spun martinis gently stirred with the wooden stick of an angel’s golden hair follicles, I just about wanted to hurl myself from a nearby cliff. To my increased dismay, however, South Jersey is not known for its cliffs. So, instead, I wiped my chest of sputtered milk particles and pried myself out of bed to gently carry my 3 month olds down the hall for a mighty bum changing. Then (hopefully), I could stagger downstairs to nuke some bland oatmeal and eat a few mushy strawberries before they began to cry again. It was rough. In those moments, logic did not exist. I tried telling myself the same things every day…. to no avail.

1) Yes, these bebes are your forever-responsibility, but things WILL GET EASIER! They will soon hold their own bottles, then feed themselves table foods, then dress themselves, then fold their own laundry (I don’t mind wrinkles, so an inadequate folding job is still a completed folding job in this household).
2) Get through these tough times now, and you’ll be SO glad you’re a “younger” parent when they start running around and requesting 87 tosses into the air and 1,470 kicks of a soccer ball.
3) They are truly little miracles. Your pregnancy and delivery were near perfect, and you are more-than-words grateful and happy and truly blessed. *insert then-guilt*

It didn’t matter, though. I was low on sleep, low on pride, extremely low on confidence, and high on guilt. I had no freaking idea what to do or how to do it. I also had no idea how I’d survive 18+ years of parenthood. Wasn’t I supposed to be the Great Multi-Tasker, the one full of energy, that crazy ol’ gal who never stopped running ’round and completing errands and taking on unnecessary projects? *insert crushed spirit* To top it all off, I found myself gazing upon others’ fun-filled pics and captions and statuses and selfies, with a tear in my eye and a dismal thought in my head.

One year later, though, things are incredibly different. I fully enjoy my life and feel overwhelmingly more grateful with each passing day. My children are gorgeous. Even when Desmond’s practicing his incessant whine, a part of me chuckles and 100% accepts his pathetic tactics for more attention and milk. Miss Arya has mastered the 10 second tantrum: legs flailing, back arched, and lungs in full throttle. In the moment I might be frustrated, but overall I am ecstatic and thrilled to be part of this family unit. And my hub-ancé, Steven. WHAT would I do without him? He’s our unwavering source of support, love, and reasoning. I am completely satisfied with our “surprise” route in life that centers around two tiny humans and associated chores, errands, monotonous schedules, cries, whines, babysitters, low funds, feelings of FOMO, and lack of sleep. I honestly would have it no. other. way.

Today, when I scroll through the scads of once-jealousy-inducing photographs and captions, I actually enjoy the quick peek into others’ lives. Now, I get it. Most folks post a snippet of their recent exploits. Most folks (understandably) provide us with only the happiest of moments. After all, who wants to follow a Curmudgeon Chuck or a Negative Nancy? And everyone …. each and every one of us …. has some battle we’re fighting.

Over the past few months, I’ve pondered what others may think about me, out there in the social mediasphere. And not in a seventh grade omg-what-if-they-don’t-like-me-or-judge-my-appearance-or-my-mindset kind of way. Instead, I wonder if I come off as some accomplished superstar who has everything in order and is on a constant loop of Kickin’ A– and Takin’ Names. This could not be farther from the truth.

But… what do I post?

Lovely photos of my family, enjoying the bright sun and our newest toys. Little vids of a “baby rave” in our living room. The latest, most delicious paleo baked good I whipped up on a delightful summer evening. I write statuses about the job I love and the friends I adore. Why would I post about my chronic fears? My relentless anxiety? Some recent stressor?

So, to my fellow Highlight Reel Sufferers, just remember: what is posted on f-boo, IG, snapchat, Twitter, Flickr, Tumblr, and even Xanga (lolol) is not the complete snapshot (pun int’d) of your comrades’ lives. Simply scroll, smile, accept, and move on. While you’re at it, be sure to enjoy my onslaught of stunning panos and saliva-producing food images from my much anticipated and needed vacation next week. While, of course, you remember that I’m dealing with my demons, too.

Happy posting.