Dear Mom, Please Stop Sending Me Self Help Books in the Mail....

Dear Mom.... Stop sending me self help books in the mail.

 My mother is a big part of my life... when I am sad, happy, angry, or depressed; one of the first people I am venting to (other than my darling Ashley) is my mother. It’s a guaranteed source of someone who is biologically bound to be on your side no matter what (unless you’re venting about her, and then you are shit out of luck). She listens, she advises, and right or wrong, she’ll hear me out no matter what time in the morning, or how many glasses of Merlot I have had.

As someone in my near mid twenties (this is how I avoid saying I am practically a child), I am going through what I equate to be the terrible twenties; mistake making, learning curves, walking around not knowing who the heck you are, and what the heck you want. I’d take puberty three times over if I had the choice. Between boyfriends, career options, and paying bills, most of the time I am not sure if even I can follow all the drama in my world. My poor mother.

I have always been a big reader. I mean, I LOVE books, always have, and always will. I am what one could call an enthusiast of sorts, I can read a whole novel in an afternoon. And providing that it is well written (I am not that picky; fiction, non-fiction, biographies, history), I admire the ability to capture an audience, no matter what the theme is.

My mother and I share this passion, a professional writer herself, she has always encouraged me to broaden my literary horizons. We often talk in depth about what each of us is reading at the moment, and she’ll send me books she’s found, read, or read about if she thinks that it is something that I may enjoy. Most of the time, this is great. Until recently...

I had invited a special friend of mine over the other day, my house was uncharacteristically tidy (I can be a bit of a hurricane sometimes) and he was looking at my bookshelves. I proudly display my books in my tiny 400 sq. Ft. apartment, and while talking to my friend he looked at my proudly disorganized shelves, he made the remark that would change my whole world...

“Wow.... really working on self improvement hey?!”

Incredulous, I gazed at him, then at my lovely shelves, and then in that extremely mortifying moment (the type where it’s like your witnessing a car crash in slow motion) a montage of titles floated out of the stacks and read as follows:

The Manual
It’s not you, it’s him
Women are from Mars. Men are from Venus
How could you do that to me?! (Hardcover And Paperback)
Children of divorce
What should I do with my life
The power of Now
The Secret
Children of divorce
Money Honey
Dr. Phil, volumes one through 100
7 Habits of Highly Effective Teens
7 Habits of Highly Effective Adults 
Everything you have always wanted to know about sex
Don't sweat the small stuff
The Last Lecture
The Hormone Diet
Buddha Brain
Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to say NO, to Take Control of Your Life
Co-dependant No More

... and the list goes on!

I counted a mortifying 30 titles, ranging from men problems, daddy issues, money woes, and the ever embarrassing depression series. And to make matters worse, I even had duplicates of some books.

I realized as my friend laughed at me, that every book that I had unknowingly put on that shelf, had been sent to me by my mother.

I stated this realization to my dear friend, who proceeded to laugh and say, wow... your mum must be worried about your mental well being.

Now, I don’t blame her... I am pretty sure she gets a weekly call from me about various crises ranging from, “Why do I choose losers,” to “I am going to be an unemployed spinster with 40 cats when I am 30.” I must be giving her constant heart palpitations and maybe even convincing her that grandchildren from me may just be beyond hope.

To the poor UPS guy who shows up too my house every week to deliver yet another it’s not you it’s him... really, I am not as mental as my mother may make it seem! I promise! I am only as mental as every other 23 year old woman, living by herself in a cut throat city, who is amazing at picking all the Mr. Wrongs, and friend zoning all the Mr. Rights. (*Blog post to come*)

To my mother, I love you, I know you’re worried about me, but trust me I am just fine with my weekly  (or daily) calls to you... pouring my heart about how hard off I am....  the honest truth is, it’s not an afternoon with a self help book I need, it’s a big glass of wine, and an afternoon with 50 shades ;)

But, until the day I am married off and you believe I’m no longer mentally unstable... if you are going to send me self help books.... can you please wrap them first? PLEASE?!?

Love, your moderately crazy but completely lovable,

Emelia x