In the last 2-3 months so much has changed. I've tried to write on numerous occasions, but alas, it has never worked out.
Lost in my depression and aching for something to help, I started doing some research (surprise surprise). Immediately following both deliveries, I started birth control-- a progestin based medication (fake progesterone with a itty bitty bit of estrogen). After the first, I took myself off after about 8 months, blaming the known side effect of water retention for my last 8 pounds that were staking their claim on my midsection and thighs. True to form, I did lose 2 pounds almost immediately. I also lost something else. My post partum depression. I suddenly had more energy, more clarity, and I wasn't so frustrated all day long. So, after being crippled emotionally for 8 months and feeling like all I wanted to do was scream all day, I decided to have my IUD taken out. No kidding, within 3 days, my rage-aholic tendency all but disappeared. My brain fog got less cloudy. And I didn't hate Keith or the my life all day. I could suddenly accomplish at least 3 things in a day-- which was previously a major feat. Oh the power of a pill. True, it did its job-- I didn't get pregnant, but I'm not sure what ELSE it did was remotely positive.
Now, some things never change. The baby still doesn't sleep through the night. We thought we had struck gold when there were 3 nights in a row that he slept 8 consecutive hours. Short lived wealth. He now will sleep about 3 hours at a time. At best. So I still get irritated with the constant interruption every-single-stinkin' night and I really REALLY just want to sleep, I don't feel like shaking him as he screams in my arms-- just.... swaying really hard :)
Two weeks after the IUD came out, with a clearer brain, I got to contemplate my life. This time, though, I wasn't judging how I was doing in my position, but rather, my position juxtapose to my personality. And what I found is perhaps the hardest confession I've ever made. I don't think I'm cut out to be a stay at home ANYTHING, much less a stay at home mom. I thrive off of other people, an extrovert to the max. I glean energy and excitement from teaching and helping other people. I have come to grips with the FACT that women are inherently doomed to judgement: damned if you don't stay at home with your kids, but damned by others if you do. It's a lose-lose situation. UNLESS you own your role. Because this is what I discovered about myself: I am so aware of the influence a mother can have on her children, that if I'm not at my peak, the influence I have on my boys will not be what I want it be. I don't want them to see mommy as constantly tired, frustrated, and on her last nerve with fussing, active, whiney boys. I want them to see mommy smiling, playful, engaging, and happy. All things I'm not sure I could ever be with no social interaction, 15 extra pounds, and not helping or teaching people about better health. I'm not wired to be longsuffering, in fact, being patient only make me suffer long!! I long to help people leave a crappy existence to come into a vibrant life-- and I can't do that teaching letters and numbers and colors. I respect those moms who can, 'cause let me tell ya, working at home is much more emotionally demanding, all absorbing, and draining if you're not designed to do it.
In essence, I had to know my role. It's shameful, still, to admit that I'm not fulfilled by staying at home with my children. It makes me feel a little like a failure as a mom. But what overrides that shame is the unequivocal knowledge that my time with the boys is immeasurably better now that mommy is being fulfilled. Without a shadow of a doubt, I will still create scars and screw up, but now, at least I KNOW it isn't because I'm too frustrated with a 2 year old and a baby that won't sleep to enjoy the time I have. And the funny thing is, without taking that stupid IUD out, I may have missed my opportunity to be a real blessing as a mom. Even more irony? I hate medications. I think they cause more damage than good many MANY times. And the removal of the medications coupled with the implementation of better habits and nutritional support for a damaged body results in better health. Talk about knowing your role. Maybe I should do a better job of living it.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Time vs. Money: Pontificating on Value
It seems as though the 'value' is getting much attention "in this economy". So what, really, does value mean? Is it getting a lot of stuff for a little price? Is it getting good stuff at a good price? Is it getting what you want at a price you're willing to pay? What exactly *is* value?
In a semi-blowout argument with my husband one day, I accused him of not *valuing* what I do as a stay at home mom. I accused him of only *valuing* something that has a decent salary attached to it. I blamed him for making *me* feel as though being at home is a valueless (emotionally read: worthless) position in life. Of course, he quickly defended himself, corrected my assumptions, and assured me that he does, indeed, find *value* in what I'm doing during this stage in my life. Recognizing the futility of the conversation, I internally rolled my eyes, and said ok. That conversation haunts me. Because with time to reflect on the conversation (and the rest of life), I realized that the question might be better directed at me: do *I* value what I'm doing as a stay at home mom who sees patients two or three times a week in her dining room? Do *I* realize the tremendous *value* of being a stay at home mom? And the answer, I'm sad to say, is mostly no. I didn't.
Lately, though, it seems that I'm coming to grips with just how important this 'job' is-- even though it has no paycheck. No raises. No promotions. It has no retirement. It has no 401K. It has no pension. There are no insurance benefits. Job security has only a little to do with parenting skills and all to do with the Grace. I mean, really, who in the their right mind would send in a resume for this job? To top it all off, it will actually COST your family some financial loss. Again, I ask, who, in their right mind, asks to have this job? That's where *value* comes into the picture.
Not just because I'm a chiropractor, but I ask you, really, where's the *value* in biggie size heart attacks, 64 oz of chemically altered concentrated sugar, and 2 lbs of nitrogen and carcinogen laden, hormonally altered meat topped with 'veggies' that are doused in pesticides, herbicides, and fertilizers, smashed between two 'slices' of nutrition-stripped, bleached, and sugar enriched wheat, all for less than $5? I will postpone my extensive diatribe on the state of food in our country to get back to the question of this particular conversation. Is there *value* in that? Does value have an inherent link to finances?
Not just because I'm a cheapscape, but is there *value* in a piece of clothing made from cotton, sewn together with the same thread, the same pattern, and the same basic print/color *just* because it has someone's name on it? Is there value in having a red sole to your shoe, even though the same style shoe without a red sole costs (literally) HUNDREDS less? Is there *value* in a pricey stroller that has shocks, two seats, a 360 degree front turning wheel and is 40 lbs, bulky, and takes up nearly the entire storage area of my Pilot? (This is where my husband and I both vehemently yell YES!!!) Is there *value* in private education, paying through the nose for tuition so that children can (?) get a higher/better education? What *is* value? Does it ALL go back to finances?
Is it more valuable for a mom to work if that family has *any* debt? Is it *more* valuable to attack debt with "gazelle intensity" and forgo having a stay at home mom vs a money-making mom? (In my experience *really* working out of the house with little little ones is way difficult, but that's me) Is 'gazelle intensity' debt attacking worth not having a family vacation for a few years? Is it *more* valuable to postpone a career (read professional fulfillment, mental stimulation, AND pay) to be a mommy for a few years? Is it *more* valuable to teach the alphabet to my children than to help pay down my gigantic student loan? *Is* value a proposition of money? Or is it more than that?
Is value more than how much something costs versus what you get? Can value be something that has no monetary denomination? Like time. Time is not money. And yet time is *the* single most valuable commodity. Why? Because is the only thing that all people have in common. Where we spend our time, not our money, is truly where our hearts are. Where we spend our time is truly what we value. Money, no doubt, is a close second, but where we spend our time is the best reflection of what we hold most dear. Where we spend our time shows us what we value most.
Many will argue and say that we must have money in order to spend time with family-- for vacation, for weekend outings, for anything-- so we must work. And some financial experts will argue that getting rid of any and all debt as quickly as possible, sacrificing time with family to work as much as possible for a short amount of time to have financial freedom in the end is worth it. Is it? Because time, unlike money, is something we can't make more of. Debt is often a choice-- or a string of poor choices, or an investment into the future through education-- that can be planned well, so as not to sacrifice your TIME. Because, again, money can be made-- even if we have to break our pride and do something *beneath* us, money can be made; time cannot. Working diligently at a job that you love is not "wrong", but choosing how you spend your time reflects your priorities. Spending time outside of 'work' to do more work instead of involving yourself with your family is not being a dedicated worker, it's choosing work over family, over spouse, over children. Let's be fair and clear, here, however; there are times that work will demand more time than its allotted schedule, it is the *habit* of working long hours over spending time with someone that I'm discussing. It's choosing *more* money, *more* recognition, *more* of something than *more* of your family. Because *time* cannot be bought, paid off, made more of, or taken back. *Time* is the real value in life.
So despite my regular struggle with adding nothing financially to our family, I'm adding time. Time and attention that cannot be replaced, returned, or restored. Time is like our words-- once spent, it can't be taken back. I'm sure I will continue to struggle with my lack of income with every budget meeting. With every phone call to Nelnet. With every bank statement reconciliation. With the jealousy of seeing my peers succeed in practice. But I know one thing, I'll never regret being home with them. I may regret getting so frustrated with them sometimes, but I'll never regret knowing *I* taught them the alphabet. *I* taught them how to make sentences. *I* taught them numbers. *I* fed them all day everyday so I know what's in their system. No amount of money can buy this time. I've been told this over and over so I'll finally say it: They're only little once. And I'll admit that some days I'm more than ready for them to be PAST being little. Some days I'd rather drop them off and go be a well dressed professional. Some days I'd LOVE to know that I could take a day off from work and still have no kids. Hell, I'd love to have day OFF. Sometimes I'd love to only see my kids for like 3 or 4 hours a day-- and get the best parts of them-- bath time, bedtime and snuggle time instead of all the whining, crying, and clinging all day everyday. That's not to say that I'm miserable being at home, it's just to say that a little time away from the boys is just as *valuable* as all the time I am spending with them. I do *value* my time with the boys, watching the eldest learn so much everyday and the wee-est one learn how to walk. To watch them laugh and play together. To watch them fight already. To take them to the park all the time. To snuggle them both at least two or three times a day instead of just once. This is time that can't be bought with earlier debt payoff. Those are moments that can't be bought by a bigger retirement.
Just because I admit that being a mom is not glamorous and isn't exactly fun all the time doesn't mean I don't value my time with the boys. It just means I'm honest. Just because I don't contribute financially to our bottom line, doesn't mean *I'm* not valuable. Our *values* are inherently what make us unique. I simply wish more people, including us on occasion, would remember that what you get for the money is far less important than how you choose to spend your time.
In a semi-blowout argument with my husband one day, I accused him of not *valuing* what I do as a stay at home mom. I accused him of only *valuing* something that has a decent salary attached to it. I blamed him for making *me* feel as though being at home is a valueless (emotionally read: worthless) position in life. Of course, he quickly defended himself, corrected my assumptions, and assured me that he does, indeed, find *value* in what I'm doing during this stage in my life. Recognizing the futility of the conversation, I internally rolled my eyes, and said ok. That conversation haunts me. Because with time to reflect on the conversation (and the rest of life), I realized that the question might be better directed at me: do *I* value what I'm doing as a stay at home mom who sees patients two or three times a week in her dining room? Do *I* realize the tremendous *value* of being a stay at home mom? And the answer, I'm sad to say, is mostly no. I didn't.
Lately, though, it seems that I'm coming to grips with just how important this 'job' is-- even though it has no paycheck. No raises. No promotions. It has no retirement. It has no 401K. It has no pension. There are no insurance benefits. Job security has only a little to do with parenting skills and all to do with the Grace. I mean, really, who in the their right mind would send in a resume for this job? To top it all off, it will actually COST your family some financial loss. Again, I ask, who, in their right mind, asks to have this job? That's where *value* comes into the picture.
Not just because I'm a chiropractor, but I ask you, really, where's the *value* in biggie size heart attacks, 64 oz of chemically altered concentrated sugar, and 2 lbs of nitrogen and carcinogen laden, hormonally altered meat topped with 'veggies' that are doused in pesticides, herbicides, and fertilizers, smashed between two 'slices' of nutrition-stripped, bleached, and sugar enriched wheat, all for less than $5? I will postpone my extensive diatribe on the state of food in our country to get back to the question of this particular conversation. Is there *value* in that? Does value have an inherent link to finances?
Not just because I'm a cheapscape, but is there *value* in a piece of clothing made from cotton, sewn together with the same thread, the same pattern, and the same basic print/color *just* because it has someone's name on it? Is there value in having a red sole to your shoe, even though the same style shoe without a red sole costs (literally) HUNDREDS less? Is there *value* in a pricey stroller that has shocks, two seats, a 360 degree front turning wheel and is 40 lbs, bulky, and takes up nearly the entire storage area of my Pilot? (This is where my husband and I both vehemently yell YES!!!) Is there *value* in private education, paying through the nose for tuition so that children can (?) get a higher/better education? What *is* value? Does it ALL go back to finances?
Is it more valuable for a mom to work if that family has *any* debt? Is it *more* valuable to attack debt with "gazelle intensity" and forgo having a stay at home mom vs a money-making mom? (In my experience *really* working out of the house with little little ones is way difficult, but that's me) Is 'gazelle intensity' debt attacking worth not having a family vacation for a few years? Is it *more* valuable to postpone a career (read professional fulfillment, mental stimulation, AND pay) to be a mommy for a few years? Is it *more* valuable to teach the alphabet to my children than to help pay down my gigantic student loan? *Is* value a proposition of money? Or is it more than that?
Is value more than how much something costs versus what you get? Can value be something that has no monetary denomination? Like time. Time is not money. And yet time is *the* single most valuable commodity. Why? Because is the only thing that all people have in common. Where we spend our time, not our money, is truly where our hearts are. Where we spend our time is truly what we value. Money, no doubt, is a close second, but where we spend our time is the best reflection of what we hold most dear. Where we spend our time shows us what we value most.
Many will argue and say that we must have money in order to spend time with family-- for vacation, for weekend outings, for anything-- so we must work. And some financial experts will argue that getting rid of any and all debt as quickly as possible, sacrificing time with family to work as much as possible for a short amount of time to have financial freedom in the end is worth it. Is it? Because time, unlike money, is something we can't make more of. Debt is often a choice-- or a string of poor choices, or an investment into the future through education-- that can be planned well, so as not to sacrifice your TIME. Because, again, money can be made-- even if we have to break our pride and do something *beneath* us, money can be made; time cannot. Working diligently at a job that you love is not "wrong", but choosing how you spend your time reflects your priorities. Spending time outside of 'work' to do more work instead of involving yourself with your family is not being a dedicated worker, it's choosing work over family, over spouse, over children. Let's be fair and clear, here, however; there are times that work will demand more time than its allotted schedule, it is the *habit* of working long hours over spending time with someone that I'm discussing. It's choosing *more* money, *more* recognition, *more* of something than *more* of your family. Because *time* cannot be bought, paid off, made more of, or taken back. *Time* is the real value in life.
So despite my regular struggle with adding nothing financially to our family, I'm adding time. Time and attention that cannot be replaced, returned, or restored. Time is like our words-- once spent, it can't be taken back. I'm sure I will continue to struggle with my lack of income with every budget meeting. With every phone call to Nelnet. With every bank statement reconciliation. With the jealousy of seeing my peers succeed in practice. But I know one thing, I'll never regret being home with them. I may regret getting so frustrated with them sometimes, but I'll never regret knowing *I* taught them the alphabet. *I* taught them how to make sentences. *I* taught them numbers. *I* fed them all day everyday so I know what's in their system. No amount of money can buy this time. I've been told this over and over so I'll finally say it: They're only little once. And I'll admit that some days I'm more than ready for them to be PAST being little. Some days I'd rather drop them off and go be a well dressed professional. Some days I'd LOVE to know that I could take a day off from work and still have no kids. Hell, I'd love to have day OFF. Sometimes I'd love to only see my kids for like 3 or 4 hours a day-- and get the best parts of them-- bath time, bedtime and snuggle time instead of all the whining, crying, and clinging all day everyday. That's not to say that I'm miserable being at home, it's just to say that a little time away from the boys is just as *valuable* as all the time I am spending with them. I do *value* my time with the boys, watching the eldest learn so much everyday and the wee-est one learn how to walk. To watch them laugh and play together. To watch them fight already. To take them to the park all the time. To snuggle them both at least two or three times a day instead of just once. This is time that can't be bought with earlier debt payoff. Those are moments that can't be bought by a bigger retirement.
Just because I admit that being a mom is not glamorous and isn't exactly fun all the time doesn't mean I don't value my time with the boys. It just means I'm honest. Just because I don't contribute financially to our bottom line, doesn't mean *I'm* not valuable. Our *values* are inherently what make us unique. I simply wish more people, including us on occasion, would remember that what you get for the money is far less important than how you choose to spend your time.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Indelible Impressions of Law and Order
While I do mundane tasks in our bedroom, I entertain myself with reruns of Law and Order. While consumed by consignment sale preparation last night, I was struck by a case involving a mother with severe PPD who tried to take her children 'to heaven by the hard road'. Now, I have never once considered harming my children in this process of overcoming my PPD, but her explanations resounded so deeply with me. The writers captured it beautifully, even if the acting isn't so fantastic. She said that everything that wasn't perfect reminded her that she was failing at being the mother she wanted to be. The chair over turned in the yard, a missed lesson with school, an inability to breastfeed a child, and not feeling totally fulfilled by being consumed by her children. She loves them, only wants what's best for them and feels that she just isn't living up to that standard. Seriously, they must have listened to the conversations in my head.
And yet, I must be one of the only women who sees motherhood as challenging. Or at least I'm one of the few that admit it. The thing is, just because I think it's challenging doesn't mean I don't see the blessing in being a mom. In fact, I think part of my frustration and PPD is wanting so much to be a good mother. I want to mother with intention and intelligence. With humor and grace. With joy and laughter. With education and structure. With rules and discipline. With patience and kindness. With peace and security. With imagination and creativity. I simply don't feel like I have all the tools to be the kind of mother I want to be. I am not incredibly creative-- and artistic is far beyond my reach. I'm a type A personality so joy and laughter aren't always my first box to check off. Patience, well, I stopped praying for patience when I was like 13 and realized that I didn't actually WANT to learn how to be patient :) And some days, the fear of failing as a mother is all consuming. Am I really that strange as to think about this and be overwhelmed?
I am the single most influential person in my children's lives. If that doesn't scare the bejeezus out of you, I don't know what will. To know that I-- with all of my imperfections-- am leaving indelible impressions on my little ones is frightening. I want so desperately to be a great mother that it works against me sometimes. I am easily paralyzed by fear. Failure is my greatest individual fear-- even above sharks, spiders, and alligators. And to think that I could be failing at the most important job of my life is simply terrifying sometimes. I've said it in a few different ways, but I wasn't trained to be a mother, I was trained to be a chiropractor. I wasn't trained to know how to handle defiance from 2 yr old or an infant that doesn't want to sleep. I was trained to teach people how to create health from the inside out. Not teach preschoolers how to read. Somedays it's as if I'm a scientist trying to teach on the intricacies of literature by Eudora Wheatley (whose name I likely mispelled). I'm clueless. And cluelessness makes me feel insignificant. And insignificance makes me defensive. And defensive makes me snappy and angry. And snappy and angry doesn't make for the mommy I want to be. I need this cycle to stop.
I was reading a friend's blog the other day and she captured it well, I think. She said "I'm a good mother, except when I'm not". Exactly. Somehow moms, and I think stay at home moms especially, put this pressure on ourselves to have the brightest, most beautiful, most caring, most cultured, well rounded children out there. And while I totally believe that being a mom is the most important job life can offer, putting so much undo stress on the position can cloud the principles of mommydom. Not having a house that's ready for a photo shoot is not failing as a mom OR wife. Spandex and cotton are indeed perfectly acceptable attire on a daily basis. A dinner that's thrown together, not planned out a month in advance, doesn't mean I don't care about my children, it simply means life happened that day. My two year old watched more than an hour of tv today-- doesn't mean I'm failing as a mother, as long as it doesn't happen on a regular basis. Putting my baby in his bed to scream for a few minutes while I have a glass of wine and calm my nerves doesn't make me a bad mommy, it makes me a mommy who knew I had reached my limit. And EVERY mommy has limits. I'm not the only one. Even if some moms won't admit it. And even if some moms' limits are 'better' than mine, mine are mine, and I can't compare myself to her.
John Woodall spoke at church this morning (Watermarke Church) and said something that will stick with me. He was telling a story about how he handled his son during a particularly hard time. He had reacted in anger, out of love, toward his son. Knowing this was an improper way to show his love and not how he wanted to parent his son, he had to apologize and ask for his son's forgiveness. Keith and I do this on a regular basis in our arguments. And I'm ashamed to say that I've already had to ask my 2 yr old to forgive Mommy for being mean or bad. I have to go to him admit that mommy was wrong in her behavior. And even at 2, I think he understands in some way. I think he sees and hears the remorse. And, more than anything, it is humbling and a bit unforgettable apologizing for reacting in anger towards something so small, so sweet, so innocent. Those moments, too, are indelible. For both of us. Am I really the only mom who has ever lashed out at her little one? Am I really the only mom who loses control of her tongue occasionally? Am I really the only parent who's been sleep deprived for months and in total frustration of an unwilling but sleepy baby jumped instead of swayed? Patted a little too hard? Picked up with more frustration and less understanding? Really? I'm the only parent who sometimes lets herself unravel just a bit?
The lady in Law and Order tried to blow up her family with a pipe bomb in the engine. I'm thankful that I have been spared that level of deep depression. I may, in the middle of the night, sick and tired of not being able to sleep more than 3 hours at a time since May of last year-- well, probably before then with all the nighttime pee runs-- want to shake the baby back to sleep, but I haven't. And I won't. Because it's too important for me that he sees that even though Mommy hates that he won't sleep very long, that Mommy loves him. The thing about motherhood for me is that it challenges all the things about me that I'm not naturally good at. There are lots of things that come easily for me. And for whatever reason, whether it's expectations I have for me or that I'm actually just not a good mom, mothering isn't exactly as effortless and easy as I feel like it should be. I somehow think being a great mom should be fluent-- and I feel like it takes every ounce of effort I have some days to be a good mother. And some days, my efforts are lost in the midst of exhaustion and chicken being thrown across the room. And some days, my efforts are rewarded by looking back over the day and not regretting a thing about it. And it is those days I want more and more to have.
And yet, I must be one of the only women who sees motherhood as challenging. Or at least I'm one of the few that admit it. The thing is, just because I think it's challenging doesn't mean I don't see the blessing in being a mom. In fact, I think part of my frustration and PPD is wanting so much to be a good mother. I want to mother with intention and intelligence. With humor and grace. With joy and laughter. With education and structure. With rules and discipline. With patience and kindness. With peace and security. With imagination and creativity. I simply don't feel like I have all the tools to be the kind of mother I want to be. I am not incredibly creative-- and artistic is far beyond my reach. I'm a type A personality so joy and laughter aren't always my first box to check off. Patience, well, I stopped praying for patience when I was like 13 and realized that I didn't actually WANT to learn how to be patient :) And some days, the fear of failing as a mother is all consuming. Am I really that strange as to think about this and be overwhelmed?
I am the single most influential person in my children's lives. If that doesn't scare the bejeezus out of you, I don't know what will. To know that I-- with all of my imperfections-- am leaving indelible impressions on my little ones is frightening. I want so desperately to be a great mother that it works against me sometimes. I am easily paralyzed by fear. Failure is my greatest individual fear-- even above sharks, spiders, and alligators. And to think that I could be failing at the most important job of my life is simply terrifying sometimes. I've said it in a few different ways, but I wasn't trained to be a mother, I was trained to be a chiropractor. I wasn't trained to know how to handle defiance from 2 yr old or an infant that doesn't want to sleep. I was trained to teach people how to create health from the inside out. Not teach preschoolers how to read. Somedays it's as if I'm a scientist trying to teach on the intricacies of literature by Eudora Wheatley (whose name I likely mispelled). I'm clueless. And cluelessness makes me feel insignificant. And insignificance makes me defensive. And defensive makes me snappy and angry. And snappy and angry doesn't make for the mommy I want to be. I need this cycle to stop.
I was reading a friend's blog the other day and she captured it well, I think. She said "I'm a good mother, except when I'm not". Exactly. Somehow moms, and I think stay at home moms especially, put this pressure on ourselves to have the brightest, most beautiful, most caring, most cultured, well rounded children out there. And while I totally believe that being a mom is the most important job life can offer, putting so much undo stress on the position can cloud the principles of mommydom. Not having a house that's ready for a photo shoot is not failing as a mom OR wife. Spandex and cotton are indeed perfectly acceptable attire on a daily basis. A dinner that's thrown together, not planned out a month in advance, doesn't mean I don't care about my children, it simply means life happened that day. My two year old watched more than an hour of tv today-- doesn't mean I'm failing as a mother, as long as it doesn't happen on a regular basis. Putting my baby in his bed to scream for a few minutes while I have a glass of wine and calm my nerves doesn't make me a bad mommy, it makes me a mommy who knew I had reached my limit. And EVERY mommy has limits. I'm not the only one. Even if some moms won't admit it. And even if some moms' limits are 'better' than mine, mine are mine, and I can't compare myself to her.
John Woodall spoke at church this morning (Watermarke Church) and said something that will stick with me. He was telling a story about how he handled his son during a particularly hard time. He had reacted in anger, out of love, toward his son. Knowing this was an improper way to show his love and not how he wanted to parent his son, he had to apologize and ask for his son's forgiveness. Keith and I do this on a regular basis in our arguments. And I'm ashamed to say that I've already had to ask my 2 yr old to forgive Mommy for being mean or bad. I have to go to him admit that mommy was wrong in her behavior. And even at 2, I think he understands in some way. I think he sees and hears the remorse. And, more than anything, it is humbling and a bit unforgettable apologizing for reacting in anger towards something so small, so sweet, so innocent. Those moments, too, are indelible. For both of us. Am I really the only mom who has ever lashed out at her little one? Am I really the only mom who loses control of her tongue occasionally? Am I really the only parent who's been sleep deprived for months and in total frustration of an unwilling but sleepy baby jumped instead of swayed? Patted a little too hard? Picked up with more frustration and less understanding? Really? I'm the only parent who sometimes lets herself unravel just a bit?
The lady in Law and Order tried to blow up her family with a pipe bomb in the engine. I'm thankful that I have been spared that level of deep depression. I may, in the middle of the night, sick and tired of not being able to sleep more than 3 hours at a time since May of last year-- well, probably before then with all the nighttime pee runs-- want to shake the baby back to sleep, but I haven't. And I won't. Because it's too important for me that he sees that even though Mommy hates that he won't sleep very long, that Mommy loves him. The thing about motherhood for me is that it challenges all the things about me that I'm not naturally good at. There are lots of things that come easily for me. And for whatever reason, whether it's expectations I have for me or that I'm actually just not a good mom, mothering isn't exactly as effortless and easy as I feel like it should be. I somehow think being a great mom should be fluent-- and I feel like it takes every ounce of effort I have some days to be a good mother. And some days, my efforts are lost in the midst of exhaustion and chicken being thrown across the room. And some days, my efforts are rewarded by looking back over the day and not regretting a thing about it. And it is those days I want more and more to have.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Q & A for the psycho chiro
Once again, there has been an outpouring of prayers, thoughts, and questions about my life, because, after all, that is what I'm writing. Simply because I lack the time to address each of them, I'll address them all (in my own style) here. Know, however, that I have received every thought, question, and response with love, not judgement, and have thought about my answers. And all the quirks of the answers are geared to the general 'you' when the word is used. I have the upmost respect for all who have posed these questions/thoughts and would never dream of insulting any of them.
Question 1: Am I simply a prideful fallen human who has lost sight of God's direction, which may, in fact, be exactly where I am and not where I thought I should be? Probably. And if I'm the only one who will ever answer in the affirmative to that question, there are a boatload of liars reading this. (smirk) As a continuation to the question, Is God breaking my pride and humbling me in order that I may become more dependent upon His strength and not my own? Probably. Coming from the background of Christianity and the guilt that the Southern Baptist culture specifically burns into people, I know the questions, I know the right answers. I know that my help comes from the Lord. I know that all things work to good of those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose. I know that I should present my requests by humbly praying and petitioning the Lord who knows all of my needs and is simply waiting on me to stop relying on myself and ask for help. ....In my mind, that's what I'm doing. It's sort of a dialogue with God. Ok, so it's unorthodox that I present it for the world to see, but that's just the point for me. I'm sick and tired of Christian culture -specifically- requiring us all to be transparent, but not open about our lives. I'm done with Christian culture that demands a "God Answer" when God knows my heart and knows how I really feel. So why should I be forced to keep it secret? Why should I struggle alone? Why should I allow God to change my heart and draw me close for no one else to see? Why should I allow everyone to think I'm perfectly composed at all times? Why should I keep hidden the greatest area for God to do His work? Why should I lie and say that being a mom is the single most fulfilling job and I need nothing other than my husband and my boys to be satisfied? (Let's be honest, I need dark chocolate chunk cookies, too) Why should I act as if my whole life is just what I planned? If yours is, you're a control freak :) who's done a much better job of planning and executing your goals than I have. I can't say that everyday is happy and filled with joy, but I love my boys and my husband--- and strange as it may seem, writing honestly and openly, knowing people are judging me, knowing I'm the topic of gossip among friends/family, and that some are loving and praying me through this, is freeing in a way that I can't adequately explain. It means that somehow I have a connection with you, my reader, either because you're nosy :), intrigued, you love me or know me, or you share some of my feelings. I'm just dumb enough to post them for you to read.
Thought/Question 2: Forgiving and Forgetting, you should try it, it really works. I wish I could forget. Believe me. And if true forgiveness only comes with forgetting it ever happened, well then I'm glad the only stipulation for heaven is a love for Jesus. Because perfect I am not, nor will I ever be. I still remember the first intentional lie I formulated. In fifth grade, I remember telling Chasity that I didn't have white out, but I really did, I just didn't want to get it out. I remember singing Silent Night as backup singers on Britt's grandparents farm in Madison as Daniel sang Stile Nacht one starry night back when life was so much... less complicated. I remember walking through the woods at my house one New Years Eve with my 5 best friends. I remember hearing a voice tell me that I had met my husband. Lilac shirt and all at the dog park 3 years ago. I remember crying myself to sleep, hands wrapping my belly, for two weeks, praying only "Take this cup from me Lord, not what I will, but your will be done". Over and Over and Over. I remember feeling myself rip during Aiden's labor (don't believe the hype, you don't always forget the whole thing, especially if you aren't on drugs) See, memory for me is not an option. Unless, of course, too much tequila is involved. I can read a page and a few months later, still tell you where to find your answer ON the page. I don't harbor (at least I think I don't) resentment about what happened. I've seen what resentment does to people, and I don't like it. I don't think about it all the time. I don't get angry or even hurt anymore when I talk about it. I write about it because it has made me- for better or for worse- get to the point I am today. I'm working out how to get past my past. How to no longer let it affect my view of myself or of men. Or sex. I've long since forgiven what has been done, as much I can as a fallen human.
Thought/Question 3: Don't you think you should maybe, ya know, not be doing this? I've thought about it. I've talked to Keith about it. I considered taking the whole thing down long before I wrote last time. I've thought about not posting to facebook. I've thought about just not writing in case someone might ever see. I've thought about the hurt that may come from it, though I can't fully understand the reach of my words. And yet, what I have gotten in feedback nearly forbids me to stop writing. People writing to say a myriad of things. People calling to have a conversation (allbeit because they think I'm unstable) or a get together. And the funny thing is, I'm more 'together' than I was before I was writing. I'm closer to happy than I have been in a very long time. I'm not the tightly wound stressball I was back when my answer to the standard question was "I'm doing well, how 'bout you?" My head is clearer than it has been in months, maybe even a year. And although it seems that my patients are boycotting the psycho chiro, I'm not willing to sacrifice what sharing my life is doing for me, and dare I say some others. I will, however, no longer to be posting on Facebook. So whether you love me and are rooting for me in this process or just a nosey busybody, you'll have to subscribe to the blog feed to know when and what I'm posting.
Thought/Question 4: Maybe you sit on your journaling for a while before you post it, and read over it again after a day or two, or let someone else read it. Well, you see, the ecstasy of blogging is that there's no editor!!! No one to tell you what you were trying to say, should say, shouldn't say. No one telling you 'that's too controversial' or 'they'll think you're crazy'. The downfall is, there's no one to tell you not to say that. I read and re-read and filter through. And then go back, after I posted, to check for the unintentional grammatical errors. (sorry Sis if you're reading this). So far, at least reading with my brain, I've said what I wanted to and how I wanted to. The problem lies in the fact that I'm about the only person that thinks like me. There is a God :)
Conclusion: I wholeheartedly believe that God is working in me. I don't know exactly what God is up to, but I'm quite sure it has something to do with creating this new Kim, the one I never planned on, the one I never predicted. I'm not totally convinced it's a pride issue, but that most likely means it is. I have an over active memory. Plus, I know it's a stretch, but I'm not perfect. I, apparently unlike any other Christians, have a hard time forgetting, even when I think I've forgiven. (read: I don't drink tequila in large enough amounts on a regular basis) I probably shouldn't be writing for the world to read, but when I wrote just for me, it didn't change anything. I didn't feel better, I didn't do any healing. I think, because of my personality, I need to feel as if I'm helping/serving someone. It's who God made me to be-- and one of the few things that hasn't been altered over the course of time and self destruction. I am not psycho, obviously depressed, fragile, or falling apart. I already fell apart, and now I'm getting put back together. Misery loves company, right?
So I will keep writing. I will continue my literary life vomit. If you want to read, you'll need to subscribe or just hit up the website every now and again to get caught up. In lieu of sabotaging my entire patient base, I will no longer be posting on Facebook after tonight. Except when I rant about things like disease care, fake foods, addictive foods, human nature, the wiles of Christian culture and its effect on the psyche of women in particular-- mostly anything except the really personal crap that should likely be kept hidden (according, of course to current Christian culture). But hey, I've always wanted to write a book or write articles in magazines, so now I'm doing it in blogs; otherwise, I'll never be able to put a check in that box. I love multitasking :)
Question 1: Am I simply a prideful fallen human who has lost sight of God's direction, which may, in fact, be exactly where I am and not where I thought I should be? Probably. And if I'm the only one who will ever answer in the affirmative to that question, there are a boatload of liars reading this. (smirk) As a continuation to the question, Is God breaking my pride and humbling me in order that I may become more dependent upon His strength and not my own? Probably. Coming from the background of Christianity and the guilt that the Southern Baptist culture specifically burns into people, I know the questions, I know the right answers. I know that my help comes from the Lord. I know that all things work to good of those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose. I know that I should present my requests by humbly praying and petitioning the Lord who knows all of my needs and is simply waiting on me to stop relying on myself and ask for help. ....In my mind, that's what I'm doing. It's sort of a dialogue with God. Ok, so it's unorthodox that I present it for the world to see, but that's just the point for me. I'm sick and tired of Christian culture -specifically- requiring us all to be transparent, but not open about our lives. I'm done with Christian culture that demands a "God Answer" when God knows my heart and knows how I really feel. So why should I be forced to keep it secret? Why should I struggle alone? Why should I allow God to change my heart and draw me close for no one else to see? Why should I allow everyone to think I'm perfectly composed at all times? Why should I keep hidden the greatest area for God to do His work? Why should I lie and say that being a mom is the single most fulfilling job and I need nothing other than my husband and my boys to be satisfied? (Let's be honest, I need dark chocolate chunk cookies, too) Why should I act as if my whole life is just what I planned? If yours is, you're a control freak :) who's done a much better job of planning and executing your goals than I have. I can't say that everyday is happy and filled with joy, but I love my boys and my husband--- and strange as it may seem, writing honestly and openly, knowing people are judging me, knowing I'm the topic of gossip among friends/family, and that some are loving and praying me through this, is freeing in a way that I can't adequately explain. It means that somehow I have a connection with you, my reader, either because you're nosy :), intrigued, you love me or know me, or you share some of my feelings. I'm just dumb enough to post them for you to read.
Thought/Question 2: Forgiving and Forgetting, you should try it, it really works. I wish I could forget. Believe me. And if true forgiveness only comes with forgetting it ever happened, well then I'm glad the only stipulation for heaven is a love for Jesus. Because perfect I am not, nor will I ever be. I still remember the first intentional lie I formulated. In fifth grade, I remember telling Chasity that I didn't have white out, but I really did, I just didn't want to get it out. I remember singing Silent Night as backup singers on Britt's grandparents farm in Madison as Daniel sang Stile Nacht one starry night back when life was so much... less complicated. I remember walking through the woods at my house one New Years Eve with my 5 best friends. I remember hearing a voice tell me that I had met my husband. Lilac shirt and all at the dog park 3 years ago. I remember crying myself to sleep, hands wrapping my belly, for two weeks, praying only "Take this cup from me Lord, not what I will, but your will be done". Over and Over and Over. I remember feeling myself rip during Aiden's labor (don't believe the hype, you don't always forget the whole thing, especially if you aren't on drugs) See, memory for me is not an option. Unless, of course, too much tequila is involved. I can read a page and a few months later, still tell you where to find your answer ON the page. I don't harbor (at least I think I don't) resentment about what happened. I've seen what resentment does to people, and I don't like it. I don't think about it all the time. I don't get angry or even hurt anymore when I talk about it. I write about it because it has made me- for better or for worse- get to the point I am today. I'm working out how to get past my past. How to no longer let it affect my view of myself or of men. Or sex. I've long since forgiven what has been done, as much I can as a fallen human.
Thought/Question 3: Don't you think you should maybe, ya know, not be doing this? I've thought about it. I've talked to Keith about it. I considered taking the whole thing down long before I wrote last time. I've thought about not posting to facebook. I've thought about just not writing in case someone might ever see. I've thought about the hurt that may come from it, though I can't fully understand the reach of my words. And yet, what I have gotten in feedback nearly forbids me to stop writing. People writing to say a myriad of things. People calling to have a conversation (allbeit because they think I'm unstable) or a get together. And the funny thing is, I'm more 'together' than I was before I was writing. I'm closer to happy than I have been in a very long time. I'm not the tightly wound stressball I was back when my answer to the standard question was "I'm doing well, how 'bout you?" My head is clearer than it has been in months, maybe even a year. And although it seems that my patients are boycotting the psycho chiro, I'm not willing to sacrifice what sharing my life is doing for me, and dare I say some others. I will, however, no longer to be posting on Facebook. So whether you love me and are rooting for me in this process or just a nosey busybody, you'll have to subscribe to the blog feed to know when and what I'm posting.
Thought/Question 4: Maybe you sit on your journaling for a while before you post it, and read over it again after a day or two, or let someone else read it. Well, you see, the ecstasy of blogging is that there's no editor!!! No one to tell you what you were trying to say, should say, shouldn't say. No one telling you 'that's too controversial' or 'they'll think you're crazy'. The downfall is, there's no one to tell you not to say that. I read and re-read and filter through. And then go back, after I posted, to check for the unintentional grammatical errors. (sorry Sis if you're reading this). So far, at least reading with my brain, I've said what I wanted to and how I wanted to. The problem lies in the fact that I'm about the only person that thinks like me. There is a God :)
Conclusion: I wholeheartedly believe that God is working in me. I don't know exactly what God is up to, but I'm quite sure it has something to do with creating this new Kim, the one I never planned on, the one I never predicted. I'm not totally convinced it's a pride issue, but that most likely means it is. I have an over active memory. Plus, I know it's a stretch, but I'm not perfect. I, apparently unlike any other Christians, have a hard time forgetting, even when I think I've forgiven. (read: I don't drink tequila in large enough amounts on a regular basis) I probably shouldn't be writing for the world to read, but when I wrote just for me, it didn't change anything. I didn't feel better, I didn't do any healing. I think, because of my personality, I need to feel as if I'm helping/serving someone. It's who God made me to be-- and one of the few things that hasn't been altered over the course of time and self destruction. I am not psycho, obviously depressed, fragile, or falling apart. I already fell apart, and now I'm getting put back together. Misery loves company, right?
So I will keep writing. I will continue my literary life vomit. If you want to read, you'll need to subscribe or just hit up the website every now and again to get caught up. In lieu of sabotaging my entire patient base, I will no longer be posting on Facebook after tonight. Except when I rant about things like disease care, fake foods, addictive foods, human nature, the wiles of Christian culture and its effect on the psyche of women in particular-- mostly anything except the really personal crap that should likely be kept hidden (according, of course to current Christian culture). But hey, I've always wanted to write a book or write articles in magazines, so now I'm doing it in blogs; otherwise, I'll never be able to put a check in that box. I love multitasking :)
Friday, February 11, 2011
My Ass vs My Sanity, a monologue of priority
I yelled at Aiden tonight. For no apparent reason other than I was tired and frustrated. Keith had put him to bed (and then left for his dinner plans), Kipton had gone down and was in his room. Aiden was calling to me, nothing really out of the ordinary and I just wanted to eat dinner. I was already headed up when Kipton started waking up. By the end of the day, especially when Kipton doesn't nap and Aiden has been under me all day... I just, I just wanted to sit down and... sit. Anyway, I get Aiden and Kipton, hug Aiden only to discover that his "jamas" and his bed are soaked. I didn't get upset at first, just figured that he wet through his diaper, despite that fact that it had only been 2 hours and it was an overnight. I put Kipton on the floor, who was still very upset and wanted to be held, wrangled down Aiden who was running wildly through his room. I unzipped him, only to find that he had taken his diaper halfway off. And I just lost it. For no reason. I had to go get another diaper and another set of pjs and he was running everywhere and jumping and yelling. I had to get another sheet. I yelled, in that voice my mama yelled at us in, to lay down. *tears* And poor little thing, he tried, but the bed was all messed up, didn't have a sheet on it, mattress on the edge of the bed. And I yelled at him again to sit down while I changed the sheet.
I snuggled with him, laid down with him. Told him I was sorry that Mama was mean and Mama yelled at him. I told him that I loved him and that Mama was going to be better. But what have I done? What have I done by yelling at him-- for no real reason? What have I done? I don't want him to see me as hating being a Mommy. I don't want him to think that Mommy has a short fuse. I don't want him to think that yelling is an appropriate response when he's angry. I don't want him to see me like this. Because I don't want to hurt him, in any way.
When I laid down with him a little later, when Kipton was asleep, he asked "Mommy song?" He wanted me to sing him to sleep-- his bedtime lullaby. Amazing Grace. And then asked me to sing it again. I kissed him, told him I loved him, and sang it again. All 4 verses.
How to do harness this exhaustive rage? How do I create patience when I have none left? Does this mean I'm NOT cut out to be mom? Does this mean I have no hope of being the mom I want to be? Does it mean that I'm failing overall as a mom or just today or just in that moment? ...Ask any Christian, it just means I need to pray harder and surrender my heart to Jesus. And as much as I know that's the truth, it just pisses me off. You know why? Because it's not that easy-- and it's not that quickly remedied.
Do I have an anger issue? Or am I just tired? Am I weary from 12-16 hour days alone with the boys? Am I simply so sleep deprived that my ability to correctly handle situations at the end of long day of Mommying is shot? And really, is Mommying that hard?!?! I mean how hard could a 2 yr old and an 8 month old be? Shouldn't I be able to handle it all? Aren't women designed for endless patience and comforting skills? Shouldn't we thrive off endless cries for 'Mommy Hug' (read: hold)? Shouldn't we live for the sound of little feet on the floor right next to ours, sometimes on ours, with hands all over our legs and butt? Is it so wrong that I want to scramble eggs with both arms free and no one touching my ass!?! But does that mean I'm not a good mother?
I thought I was feeling so much better this week. I gave up baby training and started doing what felt more 'right'. I stopped trying to go against what I think is the right way to raise my children. A friend taught me how to have 'school' with Aiden. Kipton has taken a morning nap almost everyday since I stopped stressing out about putting him to sleep without holding him. I just started sleeping on the floor in his room so I don't have to walk to and from all night long. And my baby doesn't cry as long I'm around and that makes life easier. I felt very much like I was getting things together this week. I had a few minor breakdowns in sanity, but no real collapse. No long insightful monologues in my head about how my actions were destroying my boys. Until tonight.
I was convicted of my behavior tonight. I'm ashamed that I yell at all at Aiden. He has the sweetest spirit I've ever seen. When handled gently, he listens and responds with such sweet innocence. But I forget that. I forget that sometimes he's making me nuts because I've spent most of my free time the last 2 weeks looking for a crib (Kipton and I are both on the floor currently). I get irritated with Kipton that I can't go to the gym because of his separation anxiety. I got irritated with Kipton when he wouldn't sleep because the stupid books said he should be sleeping. I get frustrated with Aiden when he talks. Endlessly. I get frustrated with Aiden when he whines about nothing (but it's something, you see, I just don't know what, which is what's so annoying). See, the thing is, my priorities get screwed up some days. Or weeks. Or months. Like when I was hellbent on going to the gym every morning, forcing Kipton to miss a nap, just so that I could workout and get my old body back. Or when I force Aiden to stay in his room when he CLEARLY isn't going to sleep so that I can clean up the living room. It only makes me furious to hear him shake the door and yell for me. If I'd just let him out, we could play. And laugh. And dance. Like we do when my priorities are in order.
I'm in no way saying that I don't need a break every now and then--or daily-- but I am saying that when something is more important than my kids, that's when I'm angry with them. When my expectations of perfect obedience --or compliance at all-- are beyond their ability, that's when I feel most like I'm failing. Perspective is, indeed, everything. Perspective is set by priorities,and lately, my priorities have been a little whacked. So, I've resigned myself to knowing I won't get time off on a regular basis, so I have to change my priorities. So a smaller rear and a clean living room aren't worth my sanity. Or emotional scars for my boys.
I snuggled with him, laid down with him. Told him I was sorry that Mama was mean and Mama yelled at him. I told him that I loved him and that Mama was going to be better. But what have I done? What have I done by yelling at him-- for no real reason? What have I done? I don't want him to see me as hating being a Mommy. I don't want him to think that Mommy has a short fuse. I don't want him to think that yelling is an appropriate response when he's angry. I don't want him to see me like this. Because I don't want to hurt him, in any way.
When I laid down with him a little later, when Kipton was asleep, he asked "Mommy song?" He wanted me to sing him to sleep-- his bedtime lullaby. Amazing Grace. And then asked me to sing it again. I kissed him, told him I loved him, and sang it again. All 4 verses.
How to do harness this exhaustive rage? How do I create patience when I have none left? Does this mean I'm NOT cut out to be mom? Does this mean I have no hope of being the mom I want to be? Does it mean that I'm failing overall as a mom or just today or just in that moment? ...Ask any Christian, it just means I need to pray harder and surrender my heart to Jesus. And as much as I know that's the truth, it just pisses me off. You know why? Because it's not that easy-- and it's not that quickly remedied.
Do I have an anger issue? Or am I just tired? Am I weary from 12-16 hour days alone with the boys? Am I simply so sleep deprived that my ability to correctly handle situations at the end of long day of Mommying is shot? And really, is Mommying that hard?!?! I mean how hard could a 2 yr old and an 8 month old be? Shouldn't I be able to handle it all? Aren't women designed for endless patience and comforting skills? Shouldn't we thrive off endless cries for 'Mommy Hug' (read: hold)? Shouldn't we live for the sound of little feet on the floor right next to ours, sometimes on ours, with hands all over our legs and butt? Is it so wrong that I want to scramble eggs with both arms free and no one touching my ass!?! But does that mean I'm not a good mother?
I thought I was feeling so much better this week. I gave up baby training and started doing what felt more 'right'. I stopped trying to go against what I think is the right way to raise my children. A friend taught me how to have 'school' with Aiden. Kipton has taken a morning nap almost everyday since I stopped stressing out about putting him to sleep without holding him. I just started sleeping on the floor in his room so I don't have to walk to and from all night long. And my baby doesn't cry as long I'm around and that makes life easier. I felt very much like I was getting things together this week. I had a few minor breakdowns in sanity, but no real collapse. No long insightful monologues in my head about how my actions were destroying my boys. Until tonight.
I was convicted of my behavior tonight. I'm ashamed that I yell at all at Aiden. He has the sweetest spirit I've ever seen. When handled gently, he listens and responds with such sweet innocence. But I forget that. I forget that sometimes he's making me nuts because I've spent most of my free time the last 2 weeks looking for a crib (Kipton and I are both on the floor currently). I get irritated with Kipton that I can't go to the gym because of his separation anxiety. I got irritated with Kipton when he wouldn't sleep because the stupid books said he should be sleeping. I get frustrated with Aiden when he talks. Endlessly. I get frustrated with Aiden when he whines about nothing (but it's something, you see, I just don't know what, which is what's so annoying). See, the thing is, my priorities get screwed up some days. Or weeks. Or months. Like when I was hellbent on going to the gym every morning, forcing Kipton to miss a nap, just so that I could workout and get my old body back. Or when I force Aiden to stay in his room when he CLEARLY isn't going to sleep so that I can clean up the living room. It only makes me furious to hear him shake the door and yell for me. If I'd just let him out, we could play. And laugh. And dance. Like we do when my priorities are in order.
I'm in no way saying that I don't need a break every now and then--or daily-- but I am saying that when something is more important than my kids, that's when I'm angry with them. When my expectations of perfect obedience --or compliance at all-- are beyond their ability, that's when I feel most like I'm failing. Perspective is, indeed, everything. Perspective is set by priorities,and lately, my priorities have been a little whacked. So, I've resigned myself to knowing I won't get time off on a regular basis, so I have to change my priorities. So a smaller rear and a clean living room aren't worth my sanity. Or emotional scars for my boys.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Mama, if you're reading this....
It's strange to me that Traveler's Insurance has embodied human nature with their commercial about a dog and his bone... with "Worry" playing in the background. Seems that the dog wrestles with his bone-- and his need to protect it at all cost. Isn't that how we are? Trying to hide so many of the things that keep us awake at night, keep us on edge, just hoping that no one will find it? So if I'm reckoning, I've been hiding. The commercial ends with the bone sitting in plain site. So here goes; my confessions. (Mama, if you're reading this, please stop)
Where did the turmoil start? Summer. The year I turned 21, so that'd be 2001. I was spending the summer at home to prepare for the Miss Georgia competition. I was the intern for my church back home, Dublin FBC. The youth minister was one of my closest friends; we just... had a connection. I was naive to the point of stupidity, even though I was 21. We weren't allowed to watch *kissing* growing up. I had broken up with every boyfriend that didn't respect my boundaries in the physical aspect of our relationship. Now, I feel so stupid. I feel so... stupid. My youth minister-- my boss, my friend-- was also my personal trainer, getting me ready for the pageant.
I should've realized immediately that something was off when he asked me to bring my swimsuits to work (church) so that he could do a 'spot check'---- without my other coaches around. I should've refused to change with him in the room-- but he said he'd close his eyes. I should've walked out and quit my job when he tried to put his fingers inside my swimsuit. I didn't. I sat there. Moved his hand, told him no, but I just sat there. Stunned. Embarrassed. Ashamed that I didn't punch him and leave. Then he said, "I'm a man, I just want to make you feel you good. I know how to make you feel good." And idiot me, I changed in the room with him again, too ashamed to go anywhere else. I asked him about it. He had recently admitted he had been sexually abused as a teenager and he said he was I was helping him deal with it. He said he felt like we had such a connection, that he wanted intimacy without sex-- something he couldn't get from his wife. He just wanted skin on skin contact. To this day, the phrase will make my skin crawl.
The summer continued. He'd take me to the bride's room for make out sessions. He hid in the storage closet one day when the cleaning crew came through, told me to tell them I was just in there clearing my head. I was doing anything but. That became our room-- we would, of course, have to go there at separate times (a few minutes apart) from different directions so no one would be suspicious-- because 'they' just couldn't understand real soul to soul intimacy. ...I couldn't have my wedding at my hometown church-- which, before that time, had my most precious memories.
The summer just kept going. We went to Maine with the youth group that year. He made me sit with him on the bus... and massage his groin which he says he pulled. Funny, it didn't bother him while he was digging, shoveling, hauling dirt as we rebuilt a church. He tried to get 'some us time' as he called it while we were there, but there were always people around. And I just kept believing that I was helping him work through his abuse. We talked about his thoughts, his plans, his life... but never his abuse.
And still, the summer didn't end. It culminated with him creating a room in the gym (where our offices were), upstairs, inside one of the storage closets. He brought beanbag chairs, blankets, and candles. He asked me if we could just lay there, being intimate, without sex, skin on skin. He asked me to go get sexy underwear. Then he asked me to take it off. I never did, but I might as well have. The damage was done. He told me that I'd know if he was aroused, he was a man, he was just enjoying the intimacy that only the two of us could share. Truth is, I wouldn't have known. I honestly had no clue what sex really was. I had heard the word erection, but I didn't know what it really meant... I mean, I'd never seen it, felt it, or even really had it described in detail. God I was stupid. I was humiliated, even though no one knew for more than 2 years. I was almost 21 for crying out loud, I should've known.
He asked me to go with him on the youth council retreat--camping-- a few weeks before I left for school, not in my duties, not getting paid. He needed me, he said. He needed another female adult. He still tried to make some time for us-- away from everyone else-- to be alone. With his wife there. It never happened. Thankfully. My friend Britt-- who had no idea what was going on, and only really will if he reads this eventually-- made sure that we were never alone. I have never loved him as much as I did that weekend. Because despite the mantra of "I'm helping through his abuse", it felt wrong. It felt wrong. *tears* It felt so wrong and I just kept letting it happen. God I'm so stupid.
I left for Valdosta shortly after that, after changing schools--now that I think about it, that reason was likely a reason I left UGA. Valdosta was farther away, more reason not to come home. About 3 weeks in, he called and asked if we could meet in Moultrie. He had just bought a motorcycle. He said he couldn't drive his truck in case someone recognized him, so he'd have to take his motorcycle. He'd park it at a camping site and I could meet him there, pick him up and then we could go somewhere-- at this point I don't remember where he said, but it was 'out of the triangle of Valdosta, Dublin, and Moultrie.' It was only then that I listened to my gut. It was only then that I was so suspicious of what was happening that I made up something I had to do. I was so stupid. I was so weak.
I had lost 70 pounds without any help from anyone. By sheer determination and hard work. I was top of my class in high school. I had read the Bible, studied it profusely. I had won two pageants that the poor farm girl wasn't supposed to win. I was the leader of almost every academic club available in high school, I was leader of my youth council at church. I was Senior class president. I was the go-to girl. What a colossal failure I was that summer.
I didn't tell anyone for 2 years. I let it rot me, from the inside out. I let it steal my joy. I let it destroy the confidence I had in myself. I let it consume me to the point of self loathing. I went on a destructive streak with men, with alcohol, and I left God behind. I was too ashamed to pray about it. I was too ashamed to TRY to go back to church. I was too ashamed to read my Bible. I was too ashamed of my stupidity to... move forward. I wallowed in my shame, in my guilt, in my stupidity. It was easier to 'stay dirty'. It didn't feel good, mind you, but it felt like I deserved it.
That summer stole my ability to see physical touch as a language of love. It is the summer I went from BEING a 'toucher' (hugger, arm-in-arm walker, etc) to avoiding it, to using touch a weapon of sorts. If I ever had a shot at believing sex is more than a man's base desire, it was blown that summer. If I ever had a shot at trusting a man when he said "I love you" AND touched me, it was taken away.
So much of me changed. Because of that summer, though, I am where I am today. Because of that summer, I was at the dog park. Because of that summer, there will be many more confessions. Because of that summer, I'm writing to heal. I'm putting it all out there in the open. So worry doesn't keep me up anymore. So hiding what was and is doesn't consume my thoughts, cloud my mind with failure, destroy my confidence with shame, and doesn't dismantle my marriage. I'm putting it all out there so that I can walk away and leave that life, if you can call it that, behind me.
Where did the turmoil start? Summer. The year I turned 21, so that'd be 2001. I was spending the summer at home to prepare for the Miss Georgia competition. I was the intern for my church back home, Dublin FBC. The youth minister was one of my closest friends; we just... had a connection. I was naive to the point of stupidity, even though I was 21. We weren't allowed to watch *kissing* growing up. I had broken up with every boyfriend that didn't respect my boundaries in the physical aspect of our relationship. Now, I feel so stupid. I feel so... stupid. My youth minister-- my boss, my friend-- was also my personal trainer, getting me ready for the pageant.
I should've realized immediately that something was off when he asked me to bring my swimsuits to work (church) so that he could do a 'spot check'---- without my other coaches around. I should've refused to change with him in the room-- but he said he'd close his eyes. I should've walked out and quit my job when he tried to put his fingers inside my swimsuit. I didn't. I sat there. Moved his hand, told him no, but I just sat there. Stunned. Embarrassed. Ashamed that I didn't punch him and leave. Then he said, "I'm a man, I just want to make you feel you good. I know how to make you feel good." And idiot me, I changed in the room with him again, too ashamed to go anywhere else. I asked him about it. He had recently admitted he had been sexually abused as a teenager and he said he was I was helping him deal with it. He said he felt like we had such a connection, that he wanted intimacy without sex-- something he couldn't get from his wife. He just wanted skin on skin contact. To this day, the phrase will make my skin crawl.
The summer continued. He'd take me to the bride's room for make out sessions. He hid in the storage closet one day when the cleaning crew came through, told me to tell them I was just in there clearing my head. I was doing anything but. That became our room-- we would, of course, have to go there at separate times (a few minutes apart) from different directions so no one would be suspicious-- because 'they' just couldn't understand real soul to soul intimacy. ...I couldn't have my wedding at my hometown church-- which, before that time, had my most precious memories.
The summer just kept going. We went to Maine with the youth group that year. He made me sit with him on the bus... and massage his groin which he says he pulled. Funny, it didn't bother him while he was digging, shoveling, hauling dirt as we rebuilt a church. He tried to get 'some us time' as he called it while we were there, but there were always people around. And I just kept believing that I was helping him work through his abuse. We talked about his thoughts, his plans, his life... but never his abuse.
And still, the summer didn't end. It culminated with him creating a room in the gym (where our offices were), upstairs, inside one of the storage closets. He brought beanbag chairs, blankets, and candles. He asked me if we could just lay there, being intimate, without sex, skin on skin. He asked me to go get sexy underwear. Then he asked me to take it off. I never did, but I might as well have. The damage was done. He told me that I'd know if he was aroused, he was a man, he was just enjoying the intimacy that only the two of us could share. Truth is, I wouldn't have known. I honestly had no clue what sex really was. I had heard the word erection, but I didn't know what it really meant... I mean, I'd never seen it, felt it, or even really had it described in detail. God I was stupid. I was humiliated, even though no one knew for more than 2 years. I was almost 21 for crying out loud, I should've known.
He asked me to go with him on the youth council retreat--camping-- a few weeks before I left for school, not in my duties, not getting paid. He needed me, he said. He needed another female adult. He still tried to make some time for us-- away from everyone else-- to be alone. With his wife there. It never happened. Thankfully. My friend Britt-- who had no idea what was going on, and only really will if he reads this eventually-- made sure that we were never alone. I have never loved him as much as I did that weekend. Because despite the mantra of "I'm helping through his abuse", it felt wrong. It felt wrong. *tears* It felt so wrong and I just kept letting it happen. God I'm so stupid.
I left for Valdosta shortly after that, after changing schools--now that I think about it, that reason was likely a reason I left UGA. Valdosta was farther away, more reason not to come home. About 3 weeks in, he called and asked if we could meet in Moultrie. He had just bought a motorcycle. He said he couldn't drive his truck in case someone recognized him, so he'd have to take his motorcycle. He'd park it at a camping site and I could meet him there, pick him up and then we could go somewhere-- at this point I don't remember where he said, but it was 'out of the triangle of Valdosta, Dublin, and Moultrie.' It was only then that I listened to my gut. It was only then that I was so suspicious of what was happening that I made up something I had to do. I was so stupid. I was so weak.
I had lost 70 pounds without any help from anyone. By sheer determination and hard work. I was top of my class in high school. I had read the Bible, studied it profusely. I had won two pageants that the poor farm girl wasn't supposed to win. I was the leader of almost every academic club available in high school, I was leader of my youth council at church. I was Senior class president. I was the go-to girl. What a colossal failure I was that summer.
I didn't tell anyone for 2 years. I let it rot me, from the inside out. I let it steal my joy. I let it destroy the confidence I had in myself. I let it consume me to the point of self loathing. I went on a destructive streak with men, with alcohol, and I left God behind. I was too ashamed to pray about it. I was too ashamed to TRY to go back to church. I was too ashamed to read my Bible. I was too ashamed of my stupidity to... move forward. I wallowed in my shame, in my guilt, in my stupidity. It was easier to 'stay dirty'. It didn't feel good, mind you, but it felt like I deserved it.
That summer stole my ability to see physical touch as a language of love. It is the summer I went from BEING a 'toucher' (hugger, arm-in-arm walker, etc) to avoiding it, to using touch a weapon of sorts. If I ever had a shot at believing sex is more than a man's base desire, it was blown that summer. If I ever had a shot at trusting a man when he said "I love you" AND touched me, it was taken away.
So much of me changed. Because of that summer, though, I am where I am today. Because of that summer, I was at the dog park. Because of that summer, there will be many more confessions. Because of that summer, I'm writing to heal. I'm putting it all out there in the open. So worry doesn't keep me up anymore. So hiding what was and is doesn't consume my thoughts, cloud my mind with failure, destroy my confidence with shame, and doesn't dismantle my marriage. I'm putting it all out there so that I can walk away and leave that life, if you can call it that, behind me.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Pick 'n Pay
There are always consequences for actions. For choices. My husband seems to think I'm going through a period of reckoning with my past and my current life. ....Isn't all of life like that, unless you're still running away from it? There's too much crap to to download it all tonight. So for the ease of my brain and to settle my mind from the day, I'll start the most recent. And, on a daily basis, the most pressing issue I face.
I have to choose, several times a day, which son is more important. Which son deserves my attention? Which son do I neglect for a time? Which son do I choose to embrace? Which son deserves one on one education? Is one son's development more important than the other?
So many people (some of them very 'educated') will say it's a no brainer-- choose the older one, the younger one won't remember. See, the thing is, even educated people don't know everything about everything. Even doctors. Me included. There are tons of things I don't understand. Even tons of things about physiology, but physiology just happens to be something I love. Deeply. And stress is a killer. We all know that now. So my issue with this convenient advice to just let the baby cry and 'soothe' himself to sleep is that a baby left to cry for un/determined amounts of time is stressed out. It's hard for me to understand why a doctor would suggest to a parent to simply let the baby cry. Whether it's separation distress or a physiological need, babies will cry to alert parents for help. In any other situation than sleeping, if an adult heard a baby screaming, the instantaneous reaction is to hold the baby. We're wired that way. Just like babies are wired to alert adults. (for reference to know I'm not full of crap, there's a heavily referenced book called The Science of Parenting) To ignore either of these calls is to desensitize that innate voice in us all. And let's be honest, I'm a chiropractor, I LOVE innate :) So it's difficult for me to, the way I see it, neglect my baby to pay attention to my 2 yr old.
My 2 yr old learns insanely quickly, has one volume: LOUD, and two attitudes: exuberant or exhausted (read: short blond devil). He needs routine and structure. And to run. A lot. Nearly everyday when I've finally gotten the baby down, here comes the extremely happy one, yelling down the hallway. So much for the baby getting a morning nap. The afternoon is much the same. I try to have some special time with him everyday, at the park or on the floor with the 'traaaactors'. But come on, I have an 8th month old as well who needs a ton of attention. Thankfully, he's becoming more mobile and a little more independent. Not that that means he needs less attention.... quite the opposite. It does mean, however, we can all be on the floor together...learning, mainly, that everything belongs to 'Anay' NOT 'bebe'.
Have I sacrificed my 2 yr old's entire education because I don't think letting the baby cry himself to sleep is the best option? Have I destined my oldest little boy to math and reading tutors because I want the baby to take a nap and it's a bit of a long process? Am I neglecting my 2 yr old by 'parenting' my baby to sleep? Am I choosing my 2 yr old over the baby when I choose to let the baby cry and lay down with his brother for a while? Am I developing poor coping skills in the baby, emotional detachment, ADD, disruptive behaviors, a compromised immune system because of overworked adrenal glands, and an inability to self soothe in the future (which, by the way, is developmentally --> impossible<-- at this age) by allowing him to cry for 15 minutes? I mean, what kind of damage am I doing to both of them?!?!? Not to mention the stress of realizing that I AM, in fact, damaging them both in some way! UGH. Seriously, I thought organic chemistry was hard?! Please, send me some geometry, some algebra, some neurology, a little physiology; things that follow the rules, have systematic explanations... and can't cry or tell you no.
When does the chaos in my brain stop? How do you choose one over the other? How do you silence the devil whispering your failures in your ear every moment of everyday? Every choice has consequences. Like right now, while my husband is snoring, and I flick his nose, he wakes up....or maybe not. Anyway, the point is, I have to pick. And if you have more than 1 kid at home at a time, you do too. Maybe I'm the only one that bathes in the ramifications of those choices. Maybe it's just me and my idea of what a mother should be. And the fact that I'm not hitting that mark gracefully. Everyday. I'm proud of myself when I do. But it's not nearly as often as I want it to be. And think about it, who really talks about being proud that they didn't slam a door, raise a voice, or get overly, needlessly, senselessly frustrated? I mean, isn't that just what mothers are? Endlessly patient, always happy, always kind, totally fulfilled by poop ground into their fingernails?
Everyday. The choices I make are influencing the development of my boys. What penance will they pay because of my daily 'picks'?
I have to choose, several times a day, which son is more important. Which son deserves my attention? Which son do I neglect for a time? Which son do I choose to embrace? Which son deserves one on one education? Is one son's development more important than the other?
So many people (some of them very 'educated') will say it's a no brainer-- choose the older one, the younger one won't remember. See, the thing is, even educated people don't know everything about everything. Even doctors. Me included. There are tons of things I don't understand. Even tons of things about physiology, but physiology just happens to be something I love. Deeply. And stress is a killer. We all know that now. So my issue with this convenient advice to just let the baby cry and 'soothe' himself to sleep is that a baby left to cry for un/determined amounts of time is stressed out. It's hard for me to understand why a doctor would suggest to a parent to simply let the baby cry. Whether it's separation distress or a physiological need, babies will cry to alert parents for help. In any other situation than sleeping, if an adult heard a baby screaming, the instantaneous reaction is to hold the baby. We're wired that way. Just like babies are wired to alert adults. (for reference to know I'm not full of crap, there's a heavily referenced book called The Science of Parenting) To ignore either of these calls is to desensitize that innate voice in us all. And let's be honest, I'm a chiropractor, I LOVE innate :) So it's difficult for me to, the way I see it, neglect my baby to pay attention to my 2 yr old.
My 2 yr old learns insanely quickly, has one volume: LOUD, and two attitudes: exuberant or exhausted (read: short blond devil). He needs routine and structure. And to run. A lot. Nearly everyday when I've finally gotten the baby down, here comes the extremely happy one, yelling down the hallway. So much for the baby getting a morning nap. The afternoon is much the same. I try to have some special time with him everyday, at the park or on the floor with the 'traaaactors'. But come on, I have an 8th month old as well who needs a ton of attention. Thankfully, he's becoming more mobile and a little more independent. Not that that means he needs less attention.... quite the opposite. It does mean, however, we can all be on the floor together...learning, mainly, that everything belongs to 'Anay' NOT 'bebe'.
Have I sacrificed my 2 yr old's entire education because I don't think letting the baby cry himself to sleep is the best option? Have I destined my oldest little boy to math and reading tutors because I want the baby to take a nap and it's a bit of a long process? Am I neglecting my 2 yr old by 'parenting' my baby to sleep? Am I choosing my 2 yr old over the baby when I choose to let the baby cry and lay down with his brother for a while? Am I developing poor coping skills in the baby, emotional detachment, ADD, disruptive behaviors, a compromised immune system because of overworked adrenal glands, and an inability to self soothe in the future (which, by the way, is developmentally --> impossible<-- at this age) by allowing him to cry for 15 minutes? I mean, what kind of damage am I doing to both of them?!?!? Not to mention the stress of realizing that I AM, in fact, damaging them both in some way! UGH. Seriously, I thought organic chemistry was hard?! Please, send me some geometry, some algebra, some neurology, a little physiology; things that follow the rules, have systematic explanations... and can't cry or tell you no.
When does the chaos in my brain stop? How do you choose one over the other? How do you silence the devil whispering your failures in your ear every moment of everyday? Every choice has consequences. Like right now, while my husband is snoring, and I flick his nose, he wakes up....or maybe not. Anyway, the point is, I have to pick. And if you have more than 1 kid at home at a time, you do too. Maybe I'm the only one that bathes in the ramifications of those choices. Maybe it's just me and my idea of what a mother should be. And the fact that I'm not hitting that mark gracefully. Everyday. I'm proud of myself when I do. But it's not nearly as often as I want it to be. And think about it, who really talks about being proud that they didn't slam a door, raise a voice, or get overly, needlessly, senselessly frustrated? I mean, isn't that just what mothers are? Endlessly patient, always happy, always kind, totally fulfilled by poop ground into their fingernails?
Everyday. The choices I make are influencing the development of my boys. What penance will they pay because of my daily 'picks'?
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Definition of Terms, an Addendum to previous thought
There's been an outpouring of concern and support since last I graced the computer with my thoughts. Apparently, people ARE actually reading what I write. And many have voiced concern for me. I am incredibly appreciative and grateful for your concern and prayers.
As I mentioned in the first blog, this is my choice of catharitic release. A catharsis is an unbridled release of emotion. Most people have tears-- I have words. I used to run, but I have kids now and the time to run is nonexistent. I'm writing instead of running; I'm writing instead of drowning in alcohol; I'm writing instead of simply continuing to wallow in my misery. I'm writing to heal. If I wasn't honest with what I was writing, then I wouldn't be doing much healing. I'm writing to 'talk through' my thoughts and emotions in my head. Which means I MUST be honest, even if--- *when*--- it's ugly. And, just in case you didn't know, depression is ugly. I'm simply unafraid to say what it feels like. I don't believe that any man is an island; however, I do believe that people are often afraid to voice the fears, the feelings of failure, and the guilt of not reaching the silent level of perfection that is expected by self and society.
I should take a few minutes, then, to maybe clarify some of my mental meanderings.
When I said I can't remember the last time I was happy, I mean like "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands" happy. Happy like whoohoo I'm so excited to be ALIVE!!!!! happy. Happy like shake your booty cause you feel silly happy. Not happy like contented or satisfied. Let me be VERY clear: I love my boys. I love my husband. I love my dogs. I love my life--- right now, in these moments-- I'm not FEELING the joy that I want to feel I'm feeling overwhelmed, not excited. I'm feeling inadequate, not capable. I'm feeling fragile not strong. I'm not interested in leaving. I'm not interested in abandoning my life, I'm interested in leaving this baggage behind and moving into the life I know God has painted for us. I don't, however love my ass. Or my thunder thighs..
I am in no way suicidal. I understand that those irrational thoughts are severe manfiestations of imbalanced hormones cocktailed with multiple insecurities. If you know mixed drinks, it's like the 'Adios' of brain chemistry. Stong and Blue.
I have never and will never hurt my children. I'm simply ashamed to admit that my frustration with them and my inability to cope well lead me to visions fo shaking and throwing. I know I'm not the only mom of a beligerent 2 year old (or 16 year old) or a screaming infant that has had thoughts like this. The difference is that I'll actually own up to it in hopes of eliminating the thoughts and developing better coping skills. Despite my visions and frustrations, I am totally repulsed by mothers who act out these visions-- not that I don't understand them, but to hurt a baby or toddler is beyond my capability. I mean seriously, I'm the mom who won't let her baby cry himself to sleep for baby training. I'd rather lose tons of sleep and be grouchy than allow my baby's brain and body to be saturated over and over with cortisol and adrenaline.
I won't apologize for my literary life vomit the other night. It's real. It's my life right now. Can't say I'm proud of it. But I can say that admitting REALLY IS the first step to healing. Simply putting my thoughts and emotions into words and on a screen was so liberating. I apologize if I've worried anyone, but if all you read was my last post, then you missed the 'purpose statement' from the first blog. I refuse to use alcohol to drown my hurt, I can't drink coffee anymore because I'm wimpy and only like it with milk (cow's milk only) and we aren't eating cow's milk products, and I don't get to sweat it out like I used to before kids. So this is me, on a journey to heal. Traipsing through the jungle of my pain to reach the fresh air of the summit. Hopefully, during this hike, I can lose the dimples, get my ass back, and proudly wear my heels and mini skirt. To the park. And ChicFilA.
As I mentioned in the first blog, this is my choice of catharitic release. A catharsis is an unbridled release of emotion. Most people have tears-- I have words. I used to run, but I have kids now and the time to run is nonexistent. I'm writing instead of running; I'm writing instead of drowning in alcohol; I'm writing instead of simply continuing to wallow in my misery. I'm writing to heal. If I wasn't honest with what I was writing, then I wouldn't be doing much healing. I'm writing to 'talk through' my thoughts and emotions in my head. Which means I MUST be honest, even if--- *when*--- it's ugly. And, just in case you didn't know, depression is ugly. I'm simply unafraid to say what it feels like. I don't believe that any man is an island; however, I do believe that people are often afraid to voice the fears, the feelings of failure, and the guilt of not reaching the silent level of perfection that is expected by self and society.
I should take a few minutes, then, to maybe clarify some of my mental meanderings.
When I said I can't remember the last time I was happy, I mean like "If you're happy and you know it clap your hands" happy. Happy like whoohoo I'm so excited to be ALIVE!!!!! happy. Happy like shake your booty cause you feel silly happy. Not happy like contented or satisfied. Let me be VERY clear: I love my boys. I love my husband. I love my dogs. I love my life--- right now, in these moments-- I'm not FEELING the joy that I want to feel I'm feeling overwhelmed, not excited. I'm feeling inadequate, not capable. I'm feeling fragile not strong. I'm not interested in leaving. I'm not interested in abandoning my life, I'm interested in leaving this baggage behind and moving into the life I know God has painted for us. I don't, however love my ass. Or my thunder thighs..
I am in no way suicidal. I understand that those irrational thoughts are severe manfiestations of imbalanced hormones cocktailed with multiple insecurities. If you know mixed drinks, it's like the 'Adios' of brain chemistry. Stong and Blue.
I have never and will never hurt my children. I'm simply ashamed to admit that my frustration with them and my inability to cope well lead me to visions fo shaking and throwing. I know I'm not the only mom of a beligerent 2 year old (or 16 year old) or a screaming infant that has had thoughts like this. The difference is that I'll actually own up to it in hopes of eliminating the thoughts and developing better coping skills. Despite my visions and frustrations, I am totally repulsed by mothers who act out these visions-- not that I don't understand them, but to hurt a baby or toddler is beyond my capability. I mean seriously, I'm the mom who won't let her baby cry himself to sleep for baby training. I'd rather lose tons of sleep and be grouchy than allow my baby's brain and body to be saturated over and over with cortisol and adrenaline.
I won't apologize for my literary life vomit the other night. It's real. It's my life right now. Can't say I'm proud of it. But I can say that admitting REALLY IS the first step to healing. Simply putting my thoughts and emotions into words and on a screen was so liberating. I apologize if I've worried anyone, but if all you read was my last post, then you missed the 'purpose statement' from the first blog. I refuse to use alcohol to drown my hurt, I can't drink coffee anymore because I'm wimpy and only like it with milk (cow's milk only) and we aren't eating cow's milk products, and I don't get to sweat it out like I used to before kids. So this is me, on a journey to heal. Traipsing through the jungle of my pain to reach the fresh air of the summit. Hopefully, during this hike, I can lose the dimples, get my ass back, and proudly wear my heels and mini skirt. To the park. And ChicFilA.
Friday, January 28, 2011
My Mind, and Other Stuff I Miss
Keys. Car tag sticker and registration. "A-nay's key". My bank login and password. My coupon organizer. My memory. All the things I've lost recently. My memory was, at one point, one of my prized possessions. And my biggest nemesis. Now.... I fear I've lost it and it's never coming back. Yet I remember all the things I don't want to remember and I forget anything of importance (I feel like Paul "I do the things I don't want to do and don't do the things I do want to do, paraphrased version, of course). Is this sleep deprivation or post partum depression? I suppose, more than anything, I'm chronicling my battle with PPD. My own personal hell. That seems to have overshadowed my life and is invading my marriage..
It's hard to explain to your husband that you understand you are having irrational thoughts (like, maybe I should run off the bridge, he'd be better off without me), you understand that *this* isn't your reality, but somehow, the grip of gloom has stolen your vision. It's stolen my life. My mind.. I'm sick of it. I can't remember the last time I woke up happy. The last time I felt *good*. The last time I was hopeful. The last time I didn't just want to explode-- either with anger or in an uncontrollabe, inconsolable sob. I have no drive to do anything. I have the sex drive of a dead earthworm. I have the patience of an irritated wolverine. I'm impossible to make happy because I've forgotten what happy IS. Except rage and sadness I'm almost emotionless; and yet, truly I have a soft and caring heart; even if it seems to have stopped beating occasionally. I have unrealistic expectations of myself and crumble to pieces as I watch myself fail. I'm a trainwreck. I am openly admitting that I am drowning in my own depression.
I am under-sleeped and overwhelmed. I am insecure about everything from my extra 20 lbs from 2 kids to the lack of organization in my closet. I have lost every ounce of confidence I've ever had in myself. I don't feel like I'm a good mother because I'm constantly stressed out and overwhelmed by the demands of my 2 1/2 yr old and my 8 month old. I haven't been able to run more than 3 miles in months because Kipton won't let me stay in in the gym for more than 30 minutes. I used to do 3 before I went to school and then 3-5 after school. I swear my brain is turning to mush, not from mad cow disease, but from mad white woman disease. I'm this gurgling volcano, churning away and waiting to explode. At one point, this volcano flowed with enthusiasm, with hope, with joy, with knowledge. Now I'm this miserable, irritable, constantly drained, interminably impossible woman. *tears* And I miss the former me.
I miss my quick wit. I miss my strong athletic mini skirt legs. I miss my laughter. I miss my confidence. I miss my passion for chiropractic. I miss my drive for improving. I miss my ass. I miss my ability to get things accomplished. I miss my clean car. I miss feeling accomplished. I miss feeling desirable. I miss wearing heels. I miss people.
I'm singlehandedly ruining my marriage. I can't blame everything on PPD, although I'd like to. I know that I chose my own actions. And I wonder if I am somehow creating my misery by being doggedly determined to be a stay at home mom? Is this really my calling? Do I have the skill set to raise 2 boys (mostly) alone? Umm let me answer that: HEEELLLLL NO. Do I WANT to? Do I admire moms who have kids all day AND they still *love* being with them? Do I *wish* I doted upon and lavished upon and revolved endlessly around my boys? Yes. Do I feel like an utter failure at motherhood because I get frustrated with them? Do I feel like a failure because sometimes I think I could really throw them into the wall? Do I think that makes me a failure as a mom? Umm, let me answer that. YES. *tears* And I hate that about me.
I somehow feel like because I'm programmed to need social interaction on a very regular basis, because I (at least at some point) wanted a professional life, and because I *HATE* all things associated with the dishwasher that I'm a disgrace to motherhood. I feel like I'm a disgrace to motherhood because I lose my temper. Because I can't keep up with the laundry AND the boys. Because my youngest won't sleep more than 2 hours a time. Because my oldest only follows directions from his daddy. Because my ass has dimples in it. Because my boobs, though considerably larger, sag considerably more. Because I have visions of shaking my baby to get him to sleep while I rock and cry *with* him. Because every month I don't work, my student loans rack up hundreds of dollars of interest. I don't know how THAT works into making me feel like a failure as a mom, but it does. It's another hand tightening the noose, because if I was *really* supposed to be a mother, I never would've gone to chiropractic school and buried myself in student loan debt. Do you see how ridiculous this is? I do. And that's what makes it even worse. *I GET how stupid this is*. And yet, I can't seem to shrug it. And just for the record-- my mind IS clear enough to know that medication is NOT the answer. It's something deeper.... something much more difficult that nuerochemistry.
There are scars. There are rampant insecurities. There are memories that haunt. There are fears that paralyze. There is anger that devours. There is love that whispers. And perhaps, it is the latter that is scariest of all; it is love that makes it painful. It is love that makes it confusing. It is love that makes me miss who I was and despise who I've become. And I am confident, it is love that will save me.
It's hard to explain to your husband that you understand you are having irrational thoughts (like, maybe I should run off the bridge, he'd be better off without me), you understand that *this* isn't your reality, but somehow, the grip of gloom has stolen your vision. It's stolen my life. My mind.. I'm sick of it. I can't remember the last time I woke up happy. The last time I felt *good*. The last time I was hopeful. The last time I didn't just want to explode-- either with anger or in an uncontrollabe, inconsolable sob. I have no drive to do anything. I have the sex drive of a dead earthworm. I have the patience of an irritated wolverine. I'm impossible to make happy because I've forgotten what happy IS. Except rage and sadness I'm almost emotionless; and yet, truly I have a soft and caring heart; even if it seems to have stopped beating occasionally. I have unrealistic expectations of myself and crumble to pieces as I watch myself fail. I'm a trainwreck. I am openly admitting that I am drowning in my own depression.
I am under-sleeped and overwhelmed. I am insecure about everything from my extra 20 lbs from 2 kids to the lack of organization in my closet. I have lost every ounce of confidence I've ever had in myself. I don't feel like I'm a good mother because I'm constantly stressed out and overwhelmed by the demands of my 2 1/2 yr old and my 8 month old. I haven't been able to run more than 3 miles in months because Kipton won't let me stay in in the gym for more than 30 minutes. I used to do 3 before I went to school and then 3-5 after school. I swear my brain is turning to mush, not from mad cow disease, but from mad white woman disease. I'm this gurgling volcano, churning away and waiting to explode. At one point, this volcano flowed with enthusiasm, with hope, with joy, with knowledge. Now I'm this miserable, irritable, constantly drained, interminably impossible woman. *tears* And I miss the former me.
I miss my quick wit. I miss my strong athletic mini skirt legs. I miss my laughter. I miss my confidence. I miss my passion for chiropractic. I miss my drive for improving. I miss my ass. I miss my ability to get things accomplished. I miss my clean car. I miss feeling accomplished. I miss feeling desirable. I miss wearing heels. I miss people.
I'm singlehandedly ruining my marriage. I can't blame everything on PPD, although I'd like to. I know that I chose my own actions. And I wonder if I am somehow creating my misery by being doggedly determined to be a stay at home mom? Is this really my calling? Do I have the skill set to raise 2 boys (mostly) alone? Umm let me answer that: HEEELLLLL NO. Do I WANT to? Do I admire moms who have kids all day AND they still *love* being with them? Do I *wish* I doted upon and lavished upon and revolved endlessly around my boys? Yes. Do I feel like an utter failure at motherhood because I get frustrated with them? Do I feel like a failure because sometimes I think I could really throw them into the wall? Do I think that makes me a failure as a mom? Umm, let me answer that. YES. *tears* And I hate that about me.
I somehow feel like because I'm programmed to need social interaction on a very regular basis, because I (at least at some point) wanted a professional life, and because I *HATE* all things associated with the dishwasher that I'm a disgrace to motherhood. I feel like I'm a disgrace to motherhood because I lose my temper. Because I can't keep up with the laundry AND the boys. Because my youngest won't sleep more than 2 hours a time. Because my oldest only follows directions from his daddy. Because my ass has dimples in it. Because my boobs, though considerably larger, sag considerably more. Because I have visions of shaking my baby to get him to sleep while I rock and cry *with* him. Because every month I don't work, my student loans rack up hundreds of dollars of interest. I don't know how THAT works into making me feel like a failure as a mom, but it does. It's another hand tightening the noose, because if I was *really* supposed to be a mother, I never would've gone to chiropractic school and buried myself in student loan debt. Do you see how ridiculous this is? I do. And that's what makes it even worse. *I GET how stupid this is*. And yet, I can't seem to shrug it. And just for the record-- my mind IS clear enough to know that medication is NOT the answer. It's something deeper.... something much more difficult that nuerochemistry.
There are scars. There are rampant insecurities. There are memories that haunt. There are fears that paralyze. There is anger that devours. There is love that whispers. And perhaps, it is the latter that is scariest of all; it is love that makes it painful. It is love that makes it confusing. It is love that makes me miss who I was and despise who I've become. And I am confident, it is love that will save me.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
A Tale of Two Cities.... just one literary work I never read
Ok, to be honest, I've never read the novel (shock and horror, I know) but sometimes, I feel as if my life IS the tale of two cities. I grew up poor, not like destitute poor, but living on the credit card poor. My mom is a good faker-- so she faked it (that we had the money to do it) and let me do a pageant or two. Strangely, I won them. God only knows how. I think it's because I talk good. :)
Beauty queen, farm girl. I enjoyed this diabolical life. I spent lots of time dreaming about the first and wondering how to play up the latter. I wanted to be important. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be more than a farm girl should be. I was 'famous' for being the storybook girl. Poor but beautiful and smart. Bound for greatness. And the accent, don't forget the accent. I can't tell you how many people want(ed) to hear me say shiyit.
You know what I did today? I changed diapers. I made a gluten, dairy, and corn free dinner. I held a screaming baby. I read another doctor's research and anaylsis. Not my own. I shared a bottle of wine with my husband. I spent 90 minutes at chick-fil-a so my eldest could play. I researched daycares because my skills are inadequate for dealing with my 2 1/2 yr old.
....What happened to the greatness? Where's the glamour I felt like should follow me? Where's the significance I thought I'd bring to life? ...Isn't it obvious? It went down the crapper along with the tee-tee from the first attempts at potty training.
I somehow thought I was bound for greatness. The road was paved for it-- the potential there. Or at least in my brain it was. Nine years of school, ambitions to save the world, hopes to restore health to all of America, big dreams to run a free 'fat camp' that REALLY changes lives (cause I was the fat kid ).... and what do I do everyday? I change diapers. I make dinner. I love and support my husband who has loved and supported me. I read other doctor's thoughts on how to help my 8 month old sleep, I feed the dogs.
What's so important about that? And how do you convince yourself that being a full time mom is the most important job you'lll ever have? Seriously, working would make my life easier. I wouldn't freak out daily about what my son is or isn't learning or that my youngest won't sleep more than an hour at a time. I had so much potential.... and I change diapers. I can't be the only one that's experiencing this constant and all consuming tug of war. I'm a doctor for crying out loud!!!! I've been in school for 9 years since I graduated high school. I have a DOCTORATE degree. And I mix baby cereal. I make baby food. I count to 10. I bounce an almost 8 month old to sleep several times a day and night.
I love my boys. There's not a moment I'd rather not have them. I can't imagine life without them and I don't WANT to. There's not a moment I regret them (another story, another catharsis, another day, another bottle). But, really, is THIS what life is.....?
Beauty queen, farm girl. I enjoyed this diabolical life. I spent lots of time dreaming about the first and wondering how to play up the latter. I wanted to be important. I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to be more than a farm girl should be. I was 'famous' for being the storybook girl. Poor but beautiful and smart. Bound for greatness. And the accent, don't forget the accent. I can't tell you how many people want(ed) to hear me say shiyit.
You know what I did today? I changed diapers. I made a gluten, dairy, and corn free dinner. I held a screaming baby. I read another doctor's research and anaylsis. Not my own. I shared a bottle of wine with my husband. I spent 90 minutes at chick-fil-a so my eldest could play. I researched daycares because my skills are inadequate for dealing with my 2 1/2 yr old.
....What happened to the greatness? Where's the glamour I felt like should follow me? Where's the significance I thought I'd bring to life? ...Isn't it obvious? It went down the crapper along with the tee-tee from the first attempts at potty training.
I somehow thought I was bound for greatness. The road was paved for it-- the potential there. Or at least in my brain it was. Nine years of school, ambitions to save the world, hopes to restore health to all of America, big dreams to run a free 'fat camp' that REALLY changes lives (cause I was the fat kid ).... and what do I do everyday? I change diapers. I make dinner. I love and support my husband who has loved and supported me. I read other doctor's thoughts on how to help my 8 month old sleep, I feed the dogs.
What's so important about that? And how do you convince yourself that being a full time mom is the most important job you'lll ever have? Seriously, working would make my life easier. I wouldn't freak out daily about what my son is or isn't learning or that my youngest won't sleep more than an hour at a time. I had so much potential.... and I change diapers. I can't be the only one that's experiencing this constant and all consuming tug of war. I'm a doctor for crying out loud!!!! I've been in school for 9 years since I graduated high school. I have a DOCTORATE degree. And I mix baby cereal. I make baby food. I count to 10. I bounce an almost 8 month old to sleep several times a day and night.
I love my boys. There's not a moment I'd rather not have them. I can't imagine life without them and I don't WANT to. There's not a moment I regret them (another story, another catharsis, another day, another bottle). But, really, is THIS what life is.....?
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Admitting is the First Step to Recovery
Today I join the masses in admitting I need an anonymous audience in order to feel smart, important, and (on days like today) an actual human. Sadly, my greatest fear is NOT that I'll have no followers, it is that writing will not cleanse my soul the way it did before I entered this life as a wife, mom, and professional (can you call me that?!?!?!). Writing has long been my first choice in cathartic endeavors.... ok, so it's second, coffee being the first. Aaaand at some point it was likely fourth to red wine, long runs, and coffee. Alas, now it's second. And I'm also 20 lbs heavier than I was when it was fourth........ Good times :-/
What do you choose to write about when you don't know your audience, or if you even HAVE one? Pretty much whatever is on my mind. Whether it's a short story or a commentary or a ranting about the stupidity of our approach to health (or lack thereof). Today, I suppose, it's about what it means to NEED an anonymous audience. What does it say about me (and everyone else on a social network for that matter) that I feel the urge to share my life, my daily struggles, victories (do I have those?) and pet peeves in a stream of consciousness now openly accepted as normal behavior? I mean, really, who DOESN'T think in 'status update' anymore?!?!
Does needing to share my thoughts in the abyss of blogdom mean I'm self-centered? Does it mean I'm altruistic because I'll likely humiliate myself airing my dirty laundry in efforts to help myself and someone else? Does it mean I'm feeling insignificant in this life and I'm desperately yearning to feel a connection to someone out there in the world of social networking? Does it mean I'm bored with my life and seek to spice it up? Does it mean I believe I'm a superior writer with insight far beyond my years and I wish to spread my mosaic of wisdom with the lowly followers? Hell if I know. I just think I'll feel better if I write.
So write I will. And, I pray, healing will follow. What needs to heal? Too many things to start tonight. Besides, admitting I need to heal is the first step to recovery. Recovery begins today. Thankfully, recovery does not involve the lack of red wine.
What do you choose to write about when you don't know your audience, or if you even HAVE one? Pretty much whatever is on my mind. Whether it's a short story or a commentary or a ranting about the stupidity of our approach to health (or lack thereof). Today, I suppose, it's about what it means to NEED an anonymous audience. What does it say about me (and everyone else on a social network for that matter) that I feel the urge to share my life, my daily struggles, victories (do I have those?) and pet peeves in a stream of consciousness now openly accepted as normal behavior? I mean, really, who DOESN'T think in 'status update' anymore?!?!
Does needing to share my thoughts in the abyss of blogdom mean I'm self-centered? Does it mean I'm altruistic because I'll likely humiliate myself airing my dirty laundry in efforts to help myself and someone else? Does it mean I'm feeling insignificant in this life and I'm desperately yearning to feel a connection to someone out there in the world of social networking? Does it mean I'm bored with my life and seek to spice it up? Does it mean I believe I'm a superior writer with insight far beyond my years and I wish to spread my mosaic of wisdom with the lowly followers? Hell if I know. I just think I'll feel better if I write.
So write I will. And, I pray, healing will follow. What needs to heal? Too many things to start tonight. Besides, admitting I need to heal is the first step to recovery. Recovery begins today. Thankfully, recovery does not involve the lack of red wine.
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