I am a huge believer in therapy (especially when combined with the right medications when necessary. I'll take you on any day, Tom Cruise). I have been in therapy many times in my life, starting when I was seventeen, and I have recently started again since Husband and I decided to work things out. (For those of you who don't know me, Husband and I split up for 8 months, starting in August 2009, and we decided to start over and try again April 2010 - but that's a story for another day.)
We are going to marriage counseling once a week to work out our issues from the split, and I am also going to my own personal therapist to work even more in-depth with my self-image problems, depression and anger issues. I don't love my therapist, but it's definitely better than nothing, and with my insurance I don't have a lot of options right now.
Seriously, though, I think everyone should be in therapy. It's so helpful to have someone to talk to who doesn't have any place in your life, except in that office. She (or he) isn't involved at all, so you can be entirely honest and leave all your pain in that room when you leave. I love to see the door close after I finish a session, knowing all that stuff I just got off my chest is staying in there, not coming home with me.
But what do you do when therapy isn't enough? When medication, therapy, and meditation isn't enough? What do you do when you still feel like the weight of the world is too much, when your marriage is still scary and rocky, and everyone thinks you're crazy because of the sheer number of breakdowns you've been having?
Sometimes I wonder if they're right. Could I actually BE crazy? Am I just crazy, and all this work I've been putting into everything just isn't worth anything because I'm certifiably insane?
I'm pretty sure I'm not actually mad... but I guess time will tell.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Tan/Blonde Revolution: Beauty vs. Money
I have long spoken out about the Tan/Blonde Revolution (my own term for the many, many, many women who have turned to bleach and tanning beds as a replacement to actual beauty). I have a strong moral (ok, maybe it's not a moral issue) objection to the steady decline of society, and how few naturally beautiful women still exist. There are now only two kinds of women in the world:
That's all that's left, folks. Red is almost extinct - and the redheads that are left are fake redheads - and in-between stages anywhere from blonde-brown don't even exist. Natural beauty is an old-fashioned idea, and those of us who try to rely on our "natural" beauty are up against - not other natural beauty - but money.
Have you ever been walking down the street and see a woman from behind... she has long, tan legs, and bleach-blonde hair... Did you automatically assume she's beautiful? When she turns around, is she disappointingly average? That happens to me all the time. Even my husband, who is clearly a brunette fan, finds blondes head-turning. It's not his fault, it's what our society is teaching us now. We have been conditioned to believe blonde & tan is the epitome of beautiful.
Example:
Now, personally, I think the brunettes are much more appealing:
...Even the redheads get more credit from me (whether they are natural or not):
Honestly, though, I had to Google "red head actress" because I could only think of two.
Back to the blondes... Mostly I'm speaking about the girls I see out around where I live - especially within my own city, but I know it's bigger than just that. There are 5 bleach-blonde/tan girls to every 1 fair-skinned brunette. (This is of course my own estimate, not an actual statistic.)
I think it's sad that I leave the house feeling like I look really pretty (and I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this), just to get out there and realize I can't even begin to measure up to the other women out there because they are armed with their money, not their actual looks. $100 dye jobs, $25/week in the tanning bed, $35 manicures, etc., etc., etc. What's the point in being yourself when everyone else's fake skin, hair and nails are just going to outshine us anyway?
Now, I admit, I'm far too image-focused these days. I have some pretty serious self esteem issues to work through since some recent events destroyed what self respect I had for myself (hooray for therapy!), but if you were really honest with yourself you'd probably find that you're more image-focused than you'd like to admit, too. We have been conditioned to be that way, and I blame things like TV, advertisements, and celebrities with no substance (see above) -- but the reasons why don't matter so much right now.
The fact is, no matter how many gorgeous dark-haired women appear in the media (like my personal favorite, Marion Cotillard), the real people I see are still dominantly blonde - and very, very few of those are natural blondes.
The point of all this:
Last night my sweet friend Courtney cut and colored my hair. I am sick of trying to find new shades of brown, so this time, I did an experiment and went blonde(r).
It's not platinum or anything, but it's way more blonde than I have ever put in my hair, and I have to tell you, I automatically felt prettier when I saw it finished. I don't know if that's true, maybe I look much better with brown hair:
but that's exactly my point. Is the blonde thing just something we're trained to think is better? Maybe I'm 100 times better looking with brown hair... but I don't know because even my vision is clouded by my new shiny head of hair.
- Bleach blondes
and
2. Dark brown/black brunettes
That's all that's left, folks. Red is almost extinct - and the redheads that are left are fake redheads - and in-between stages anywhere from blonde-brown don't even exist. Natural beauty is an old-fashioned idea, and those of us who try to rely on our "natural" beauty are up against - not other natural beauty - but money.
Have you ever been walking down the street and see a woman from behind... she has long, tan legs, and bleach-blonde hair... Did you automatically assume she's beautiful? When she turns around, is she disappointingly average? That happens to me all the time. Even my husband, who is clearly a brunette fan, finds blondes head-turning. It's not his fault, it's what our society is teaching us now. We have been conditioned to believe blonde & tan is the epitome of beautiful.
I blame
for this!
Example:
 |
| This is just a tiny sampling of the blonde celebrities. They definitely dominate. Top to bottom: Paris Hilton, Heather Locklear, Hillary Duff, Katherine Heigl, Kate Hudson, Cameron Diaz, Christina Aguilera, Reese Witherspoon, and Charlize Theron |
Now, personally, I think the brunettes are much more appealing:
 |
| Mila Kunis, Natalie Portman, Olivia Wilde, Sandra Bullock, Brunette Hilary Duff, Jessica Alba, Jessica Biel, Megan Fox, Penelope Cruz, Angelina Jolie, Courtney Cox, Kristen Stewart |
...Even the redheads get more credit from me (whether they are natural or not):
 | ||
| Lindsay Lohan (when she was pretty), Marcia Cross, Julia Roberts, Scarlet Johansson, Julianne Moore, Amy Adams, Debra Messing, and Kate Walsh (my favorite!) |
(I blame
 |
| Lucille Ball |
for the lack of redheadedness that goes on in Hollywood!)
Honestly, though, I had to Google "red head actress" because I could only think of two.
Back to the blondes... Mostly I'm speaking about the girls I see out around where I live - especially within my own city, but I know it's bigger than just that. There are 5 bleach-blonde/tan girls to every 1 fair-skinned brunette. (This is of course my own estimate, not an actual statistic.)
I think it's sad that I leave the house feeling like I look really pretty (and I'm sure I'm not the only one who does this), just to get out there and realize I can't even begin to measure up to the other women out there because they are armed with their money, not their actual looks. $100 dye jobs, $25/week in the tanning bed, $35 manicures, etc., etc., etc. What's the point in being yourself when everyone else's fake skin, hair and nails are just going to outshine us anyway?
Now, I admit, I'm far too image-focused these days. I have some pretty serious self esteem issues to work through since some recent events destroyed what self respect I had for myself (hooray for therapy!), but if you were really honest with yourself you'd probably find that you're more image-focused than you'd like to admit, too. We have been conditioned to be that way, and I blame things like TV, advertisements, and celebrities with no substance (see above) -- but the reasons why don't matter so much right now.
The fact is, no matter how many gorgeous dark-haired women appear in the media (like my personal favorite, Marion Cotillard), the real people I see are still dominantly blonde - and very, very few of those are natural blondes.
 | ||
| Marion Cotillard |
The point of all this:
Last night my sweet friend Courtney cut and colored my hair. I am sick of trying to find new shades of brown, so this time, I did an experiment and went blonde(r).
It's not platinum or anything, but it's way more blonde than I have ever put in my hair, and I have to tell you, I automatically felt prettier when I saw it finished. I don't know if that's true, maybe I look much better with brown hair:
but that's exactly my point. Is the blonde thing just something we're trained to think is better? Maybe I'm 100 times better looking with brown hair... but I don't know because even my vision is clouded by my new shiny head of hair.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
2 Hours of Sleep
When I finally fell asleep at 4 am, I slept fitfully, overheated and uncomfortable. I woke up in a sweat, wondering if the air conditioner was broken, with a faint hint of a dream still on my mind. I think it was a bad dream... but I can't remember it for sure.
I haven't been able to shake that feeling all day. The in-between-sleep-and-awake, what-was-that-dream-about feeling. Yes, I know it's only 9 am. Ever since my baby started waking up at six (and several times in the night before that), I always feel like I've used up half the day by the time we hit 9:00 in the morning.
Something is nagging at my brain, something scary and uneasy. Something that makes me feel apprehensive about my future and wonder about my past. It's like that song, from West Side Story, "Something's Coming":
I got a feeling there's a miracle due
Gonna come true, comin' to me...
Could it be, yes, it could
Something's comin', something good
If I can wait!
Something's comin',
I don't know what it is
But it is gonna be great!
With a click, with a shock ,
Phone'll jingle, door will knock,
Open the latch!
Something's comin',
Don't know when
But it's soon
Catch the moon,
One-handed catch!
Around the corner,
Or whistlin' down the river
Come on, deliver to me!
Yeah, sort of like that. Except... creepier. More like something I've always known is about to come bursting through the door and show its ugly face, forcing me to change direction. I have a feeling I don't want to face it. Perhaps if I could go back to sleep... perhaps I could hide from it, and it will pass on by...
I haven't been able to shake that feeling all day. The in-between-sleep-and-awake, what-was-that-dream-about feeling. Yes, I know it's only 9 am. Ever since my baby started waking up at six (and several times in the night before that), I always feel like I've used up half the day by the time we hit 9:00 in the morning.
Something is nagging at my brain, something scary and uneasy. Something that makes me feel apprehensive about my future and wonder about my past. It's like that song, from West Side Story, "Something's Coming":
TONY:
Could be!
Who knows?
There's something due any day
I will know, right away
Soon as it shows
It may come cannon-balling down
Through the sky
Gleam in its eye, bright as rose
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach
Down the block, on a beach
Under a tree
Could be!
Who knows?
There's something due any day
I will know, right away
Soon as it shows
It may come cannon-balling down
Through the sky
Gleam in its eye, bright as rose
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach
Down the block, on a beach
Under a tree
I got a feeling there's a miracle due
Gonna come true, comin' to me...
Could it be, yes, it could
Something's comin', something good
If I can wait!
Something's comin',
I don't know what it is
But it is gonna be great!
With a click, with a shock ,
Phone'll jingle, door will knock,
Open the latch!
Something's comin',
Don't know when
But it's soon
Catch the moon,
One-handed catch!
Around the corner,
Or whistlin' down the river
Come on, deliver to me!
Will it be?
Yes, it will!
Maybe just by holding still,
It'll be there!
Come on, something,
Come on in,
Don't be shy,
Meet a guy,
Pull up a chair!
Yes, it will!
Maybe just by holding still,
It'll be there!
Come on, something,
Come on in,
Don't be shy,
Meet a guy,
Pull up a chair!
The air is humming
And something great is coming!
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Maybe tonight...
Maybe tonight...
Maybe tonight...!
And something great is coming!
Who knows?
It's only just out of reach,
Down the block, on a beach,
Maybe tonight...
Maybe tonight...
Maybe tonight...!
Yeah, sort of like that. Except... creepier. More like something I've always known is about to come bursting through the door and show its ugly face, forcing me to change direction. I have a feeling I don't want to face it. Perhaps if I could go back to sleep... perhaps I could hide from it, and it will pass on by...
Monday, July 26, 2010
How Joshua Saved My Life... the First Time
I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn't depressed. Depression hit me early, and it hit me hard. I don't think I have ever felt especially happy. This isn't to sound "poor me," it's simply to show you where I come from. My state of mind has always been on the darker end of things, and I have made peace with the fact that it will never be anything but. (I will keep trying, but I won't feel wronged if I fail. It's just who I am.)
There have been days when I felt excited about things, of course. Many times I have felt like life was looking up, and I've had my share of good days. Overall, though, depression has been sort of a theme I can't escape. It always comes back to hopelessness when the dust settles.
The darkest times in my life have been as follows:
At some point I made the decision to take my own life. I went downstairs and took as many Tylenol and Zoloft I could find/handle swallowing, until I felt sick. I have no idea how many I took (15-18?) and I went back upstairs to lie down. As I lay staring at the ceiling, it started to spin. I felt my heart race and my stomach turn, every vein in my arms and legs pulse with blood. So this was dying.
Suddenly, panic set in. I didn't want to feel this anymore, I didn't want to disappear forever. What was I thinking? I didn't say goodbye to anyone, I hadn't done anything with my life... I picked up the phone and called 911. I don't remember speaking, but I remember them saying they would send someone out. I stumbled down the stairs and knocked on my parents' door. I mumbled something about taking too many pills and the ambulance coming. I remember the look on my mother's face. I remember the spinning. I remember the confusion. Suddenly I couldn't remember how it had happened. I couldn't remember what I was doing there or why I had wanted to die. The police came, questioned me, checked me out, and loaded me on a stretcher. It's not that serious, I thought. The room is just spinning. Make the room stop spinning and I'll be fine.
I don't remember anything else until they handed me a cup of the most disgusting black stuff I have ever seen or smelled. It looked like liquid lead, and it smelled horrendous. They told me to drink it, and I said no. They told me if I didn't drink it, they would have to pump my stomach, because the Tylenol I had taken was destroying my liver. I said no. They told me I had no choice and threatened with a tube (they planned on sticking that thing down my throat)! I conceded, tried to drink the charcoal, and my stomach threatened to dispose of its contents itself. I was too sick to drink the charcoal, so they pumped my stomach.
I don't remember anything until I woke up with an unbearable pain in my throat. My mom informed me the pain was from the tube they had put through my nose, down my throat and into my stomach to extract the fatal amount of medication I'd consumed. I will never, until the day I die, forget that pain. Every swallow burned, every breath tortured my throat for a full two weeks afterward.
Eventually I went back to school. I don't remember how much time I took off school to recover. I remember realizing that no one had noticed, except a few close friends, that I was gone at all. I remember realizing that I would never be able to fit in at school, and it was time to stop attending my regular high school. I only made it through two months of junior year before I dropped out. (I later attended an alternative school, where I finished high school and received an adult diploma June 2004.)
Just a few short months later, I was ready to give up again. I wasn't going to make any mistakes this time - I wouldn't allow them to pump my stomach - I would make sure I was gone for good. My life was going no where, and my therapy hadn't helped a bit. I felt like I would never be anything but a complete failure, and everyone would be happier without me.
That's the day I found out I was pregnant. I was seventeen years old, terrified and sobbing, but knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt - I finally had a purpose. I didn't know what was to come, or how I would survive this next challenge, but I knew my child had saved my life.
He has been worth living for ever since, and I will forever be grateful to him for showing up exactly when I needed him and giving me a reason to live.
There have been days when I felt excited about things, of course. Many times I have felt like life was looking up, and I've had my share of good days. Overall, though, depression has been sort of a theme I can't escape. It always comes back to hopelessness when the dust settles.
The darkest times in my life have been as follows:
- 17 years old, a junior in high school - failing classes, dropping out of my regular high school, dating a guy who brought me down, conflicts with parents, disconnected from siblings, feeling out of place with friends, etc.
- Postpartum depression - for the two years after Asher was born (Sept 2005-2007), living in Abilene, Kansas, no sleep, unmedicated, 1,000 miles away from family and friends.
- Postpartum depression/divorce - Sept 2009-May 2010
At some point I made the decision to take my own life. I went downstairs and took as many Tylenol and Zoloft I could find/handle swallowing, until I felt sick. I have no idea how many I took (15-18?) and I went back upstairs to lie down. As I lay staring at the ceiling, it started to spin. I felt my heart race and my stomach turn, every vein in my arms and legs pulse with blood. So this was dying.
Suddenly, panic set in. I didn't want to feel this anymore, I didn't want to disappear forever. What was I thinking? I didn't say goodbye to anyone, I hadn't done anything with my life... I picked up the phone and called 911. I don't remember speaking, but I remember them saying they would send someone out. I stumbled down the stairs and knocked on my parents' door. I mumbled something about taking too many pills and the ambulance coming. I remember the look on my mother's face. I remember the spinning. I remember the confusion. Suddenly I couldn't remember how it had happened. I couldn't remember what I was doing there or why I had wanted to die. The police came, questioned me, checked me out, and loaded me on a stretcher. It's not that serious, I thought. The room is just spinning. Make the room stop spinning and I'll be fine.
I don't remember anything else until they handed me a cup of the most disgusting black stuff I have ever seen or smelled. It looked like liquid lead, and it smelled horrendous. They told me to drink it, and I said no. They told me if I didn't drink it, they would have to pump my stomach, because the Tylenol I had taken was destroying my liver. I said no. They told me I had no choice and threatened with a tube (they planned on sticking that thing down my throat)! I conceded, tried to drink the charcoal, and my stomach threatened to dispose of its contents itself. I was too sick to drink the charcoal, so they pumped my stomach.
I don't remember anything until I woke up with an unbearable pain in my throat. My mom informed me the pain was from the tube they had put through my nose, down my throat and into my stomach to extract the fatal amount of medication I'd consumed. I will never, until the day I die, forget that pain. Every swallow burned, every breath tortured my throat for a full two weeks afterward.
Eventually I went back to school. I don't remember how much time I took off school to recover. I remember realizing that no one had noticed, except a few close friends, that I was gone at all. I remember realizing that I would never be able to fit in at school, and it was time to stop attending my regular high school. I only made it through two months of junior year before I dropped out. (I later attended an alternative school, where I finished high school and received an adult diploma June 2004.)
Just a few short months later, I was ready to give up again. I wasn't going to make any mistakes this time - I wouldn't allow them to pump my stomach - I would make sure I was gone for good. My life was going no where, and my therapy hadn't helped a bit. I felt like I would never be anything but a complete failure, and everyone would be happier without me.
That's the day I found out I was pregnant. I was seventeen years old, terrified and sobbing, but knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt - I finally had a purpose. I didn't know what was to come, or how I would survive this next challenge, but I knew my child had saved my life.
He has been worth living for ever since, and I will forever be grateful to him for showing up exactly when I needed him and giving me a reason to live.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Saved by the Seven-Year-Old
There are times when my depression gets the best of me, and when my husband and kids play and have fun, I can't get near them.
They are on such a different level, so far from my state of mind, I don't dare get near and ruin what they have going. Their happiness, their laughter can't reach me. On those days, I'm sinking and no one can pull me out.
I had another episode like this two days ago. Something was said that triggered events in my life that I don't care to remember, and I completely lost my hold on life. I bawled for an hour, honestly believing the only way to escape it would be suicide. (Funny how depression plays tricks on you.) Just when I decided I couldn't possibly find a reason to live, my sweet Joshua did it again.
Since the moment he was conceived eight years ago, he's been saving my life, and he continues to surprise me with his ability to sustain my will to live.
"Mom, does some kids not have a mom?" (Is that perfect timing or what?)
My heart sank. Just moments before, I was selfish enough to think seriously of making HIM a kid without a mom.
"Yes," I said. "Every kid is born from a mom, but some kids have to live without their moms."
"I never want to live without my mom. I love my mom," he said.
Saved.
There is no doubt in my mind Joshua was sent to this earth to keep me tethered to it.
 |
| Joshua & I - July 23, 2010 |
Friday, July 23, 2010
All Those Females
Every time I leave the house (which, let's face it, isn't a lot. I'm a SaHM in a one-car family) I feel a little worse about myself.
When we lived in Kansas, this wasn't true. In Kansas people looked at me like I was some sort of goddess. Now that we're back home in good ol' Utah... we're surrounded by the plethora of gorgeous women that Utah water (that's my best guess) seems to produce. I've read several sources that say Utah has the most beautiful women in the country. Maybe that's true, maybe it's not, but from the limited number of places I've been, with the exception of California, I think it's probably on the right track.
Everywhere we go, my husband has countless beautiful women to look at, and where I live it seems to be especially bad. 17-year-olds stepping out of their mini coopers (my dream car), 150-dollar haircuts/color, fake nails, fake toenails, fake tans, and teeny, tiny shorts. Even if I got a full-time job and paid for all those ridiculous things, I couldn't compare. I'm not seventeen anymore, and I have proof of giving birth to three little boys written all over my body.
Don't get me wrong, my husband says it doesn't matter. He says I'm gorgeous, he says I have nothing to worry about. My insecurities run far deeper than what I perceive of his preferences.
I don't want to be fake like them. I don't want skin cancer when I'm 30. I don't want fake blonde hair. I like my fair skin (most of the time). I like my hair and my eyes and the fact that I'm not going to look like leather when I'm 40. What I want is a body that compares. What I want is my beauty... but in a smaller package. And what I want most of all is the confidence they exude when they walk.
And I have a feeling even looking like them wouldn't produce the kind of confidence I'm looking for.
When we lived in Kansas, this wasn't true. In Kansas people looked at me like I was some sort of goddess. Now that we're back home in good ol' Utah... we're surrounded by the plethora of gorgeous women that Utah water (that's my best guess) seems to produce. I've read several sources that say Utah has the most beautiful women in the country. Maybe that's true, maybe it's not, but from the limited number of places I've been, with the exception of California, I think it's probably on the right track.
Everywhere we go, my husband has countless beautiful women to look at, and where I live it seems to be especially bad. 17-year-olds stepping out of their mini coopers (my dream car), 150-dollar haircuts/color, fake nails, fake toenails, fake tans, and teeny, tiny shorts. Even if I got a full-time job and paid for all those ridiculous things, I couldn't compare. I'm not seventeen anymore, and I have proof of giving birth to three little boys written all over my body.
Don't get me wrong, my husband says it doesn't matter. He says I'm gorgeous, he says I have nothing to worry about. My insecurities run far deeper than what I perceive of his preferences.
I don't want to be fake like them. I don't want skin cancer when I'm 30. I don't want fake blonde hair. I like my fair skin (most of the time). I like my hair and my eyes and the fact that I'm not going to look like leather when I'm 40. What I want is a body that compares. What I want is my beauty... but in a smaller package. And what I want most of all is the confidence they exude when they walk.
And I have a feeling even looking like them wouldn't produce the kind of confidence I'm looking for.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Beautiful Disaster
I'll admit it, I think I'm kinda pretty. I look a little bit like my mom did when she was in high school, a little bit like each of my beautiful sisters, and a little bit independently me. I wouldn't consider myself the natural kind of beautiful - I require intense amounts of makeup, hair dye, and straightening. I definitely haven't always been beautiful - In school I was the very definition of "awkward teenager". But, as a 25-year-old woman, I think I'm decently pretty.
Trouble is... pretty isn't enough. Pretty doesn't come close to being enough, and I am a disaster in my mind.
Sometimes I see myself in the mirror and think, "How could he be with me? I'm hideous."
Then again sometimes. There are the times when I look at myself in the mirror and think, "How could he be unhappy with me? I'm pretty and I love him." Why doesn't he see me for who I am? Why doesn't he understand that he has a gorgeous wife and how many people aren't so lucky?
My mind tricks me, though. On those days (after a 2-hour getting ready session) when I look good, I forget about the tricks my mind plays on me.
Not only am I extremely difficult to live with and deal with on a daily basis (a result of my bi-polar/depression/ADD combo), I am also egotistical about my intelligence (to the point of being unteachable), dangerously depressed when I don't feel good enough (which is most of the time), and as stubborn as the most hard-headed ox.
Sometimes I wonder, is the fact that I can achieve "beautiful" the reason he puts up with me being a disaster? Surely he's not that shallow... and my looks definitely aren't good enough to make up for my attitude.
I suppose the only explanation is that he loves me.
Trouble is... pretty isn't enough. Pretty doesn't come close to being enough, and I am a disaster in my mind.
Sometimes I see myself in the mirror and think, "How could he be with me? I'm hideous."
Then again sometimes. There are the times when I look at myself in the mirror and think, "How could he be unhappy with me? I'm pretty and I love him." Why doesn't he see me for who I am? Why doesn't he understand that he has a gorgeous wife and how many people aren't so lucky?
My mind tricks me, though. On those days (after a 2-hour getting ready session) when I look good, I forget about the tricks my mind plays on me.
Not only am I extremely difficult to live with and deal with on a daily basis (a result of my bi-polar/depression/ADD combo), I am also egotistical about my intelligence (to the point of being unteachable), dangerously depressed when I don't feel good enough (which is most of the time), and as stubborn as the most hard-headed ox.
Sometimes I wonder, is the fact that I can achieve "beautiful" the reason he puts up with me being a disaster? Surely he's not that shallow... and my looks definitely aren't good enough to make up for my attitude.
I suppose the only explanation is that he loves me.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Most Beautiful Things
I was 18 years old when I had my first child. He was 6 lbs 14 oz, absolutely gorgeous, and a complete surprise.
A senior in high school, I traveled 5.4 miles on the school bus every morning and afternoon, huge and pregnant, which is where I met my husband. 9 months pregnant, hair in a ponytail, exhausted and nauseated, he still found me intriguing. I of course didn't start dating him then, but that is when we met. After 6 weeks maternity leave, to my surprise he was the one I was most anxious to see when I returned to school. A few weeks later we got to know each other and started dating. It has been an extremely bumpy road since then, with twists and turns I never would have expected.
Husband & I - June 2004 - Just graduated from high school
But one thing has stayed the same. Since the moment I met my Joshua (and subsequently, when I met my Asher, and then Max), I have been a completely different person than I ever imagined I would be.
As a teenager I was utterly convinced that I would never subject myself to pregnancy and childbirth. That was simply off the table for me - I had other plans. I was going to be a high-powered journalist, writing about important things and eventually becoming the editor of a highly-circulated newspaper. Either that, or an actress on the stage and screen (but we've been over that).
I guess you could say becoming a mother - and finding out I loved it - was a shock, to say the least. My sweet little baby Josh turned my heart inside-out and taught me that all the success in the world couldn't compare to being the first person your little boy sees in the morning and the last person he sees at night.
Joshua Lucas - June 2003 - 6 months old
I always thought of breastfeeding as something I could never do, something ancient and unnecessary, and certainly not acceptable for me... until my baby was born, and I suddenly felt the need to provide him with his nutrients. By the time I figured it out, it was too late, the hospital had already fed him a bottle or two, and he was unwilling to learn the art of nursing. I spent two months trying to teach him, but failed and gave up in the end. (We'll talk more about the consequences of that someday.)
Two years later, pregnant with my second child, I was sure I was ready to nurse a baby.
Me - 6 months pregnant & Joshua - 2 years
Along came Asher, the hungriest baby ever to live, nursing like he was going to starve for the next century so he needed to store up some good fat to sustain himself. He nursed flawlessly from day one, and I was able to breastfeed for seventeen months without problems. The only reason I quit then was an unfortunate incident involving his teeth (ouch) and his inability to sleep because he so badly needed to be near me.
Me & Asher - September 2005 - One month old
Last May, I discovered I was pregnant with my third baby boy. Another huge surprise (some people are slow learners), I immediately knew that I was going to nurse this one. I will always cherish the time I had with Asher, just the two of us - even though it resulted in certifiable insanity.
Me & Max - November 2009 - Special Care Nursery
My plans - as they always seem to in my life - fell through this time, when my Max came along prematurely and landed in the NICU for 2 weeks. They refused to release him from the special care unit until I agreed to supplement my breastfeeding with bottles of high-calorie formula to bring his weight up. I very reluctantly agreed, afraid I would end up with a baby like Joshua who never accepted the breast again. Well, Max didn't have the same problem - he's a very versatile child, accepting either breast or bottle. The trouble was, he wouldn't gain weight and threw up all of his food, so my milk supply never caught up to his demand. Combine that with the fact that the first six months of his life my husband and I were splitting time with the kids - we were separated at the time - and I ended up with another baby who required more bottles than nursing. Now that he's eight months old, I am only able to nurse him about twice a day because of my low supply, and I am struggling so much with postpartum depression that I am forced to quit breastfeeding altogether in order to start the medication I need.
Eight months is more than a lot of people do, so I feel lucky to have had so much time with my little Max, but this is (according to my plan, knock on wood) my last baby, and it is much less than I was hoping for. I'm disappointed and in pain, and I am going to miss bonding with my sweet little one.
Knowing this is the end of something I (surprise!) love to share with my babies has left me feeling empty.
I'm lucky, though. I still have my cute boys - healthy, happy, beautiful boys.
Asher - 4, Joshua - 7, Max - 8 months - July 2010
I'll try to just focus on that.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Our Kids Aren't Alright
Last night as my husband, a US Army veteran, and I read the news, we were sickened by an article about the obscene number of military service members who have committed suicide already this year.
I know from a very personal perspective how the military can mess with the minds of their soldiers, and how hard depression hits them. They do their best and sacrifice almost everything a civilian life has to offer in order to serve their country, only to end up tossed around and unappreciated by their fellow countrymen - and even their fellow soldiers and veterans. Once they are out of the military, finding a job is difficult, and the pay is generally a disaster once they do find one.
The fact that so little is being done about this problem makes me absolutely ill. The Army's response is "We made another video"?? Seriously?
Find the article here:
And here's another:
Combine these statistics with the divorce rate in the military, and something has got to be done about the fate of our soldiers. At this point the depression and disturbing images they keep in their minds are more fatal than the war they are fighting.
I know from a very personal perspective how the military can mess with the minds of their soldiers, and how hard depression hits them. They do their best and sacrifice almost everything a civilian life has to offer in order to serve their country, only to end up tossed around and unappreciated by their fellow countrymen - and even their fellow soldiers and veterans. Once they are out of the military, finding a job is difficult, and the pay is generally a disaster once they do find one.
The fact that so little is being done about this problem makes me absolutely ill. The Army's response is "We made another video"?? Seriously?
Find the article here:
And here's another:
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Lost in Space
Where should we go from here?
Does time really heal?
Or is it purely self-imposed?
Does the nature of the crime really matter...
Or is it just the fact that you can never redeem your image
Once you have allowed it to be damaged?
Is there anything that could be done?
Or am I going to be here forever,
On my knees, scared of the end result?
What do we need?
What must we do to bring us back together...
Or is it not even an option?
My mind won't stop spinning... It haunts me day and night and keeps me dizzy. Will it ever leave my mind? Will he ever see me as something to trust again? Am I just fooling myself that I could be what he needs? Or am I just not patient enough? Maybe someday he'll wake up and see my face as he once did... something he can't live without and could put his faith in.
This is just a rant, of course. No point, no need for response. Just a freewrite to clear my mind.
(It didn't work.)
Does time really heal?
Or is it purely self-imposed?
Does the nature of the crime really matter...
Or is it just the fact that you can never redeem your image
Once you have allowed it to be damaged?
Is there anything that could be done?
Or am I going to be here forever,
On my knees, scared of the end result?
What do we need?
What must we do to bring us back together...
Or is it not even an option?
My mind won't stop spinning... It haunts me day and night and keeps me dizzy. Will it ever leave my mind? Will he ever see me as something to trust again? Am I just fooling myself that I could be what he needs? Or am I just not patient enough? Maybe someday he'll wake up and see my face as he once did... something he can't live without and could put his faith in.
This is just a rant, of course. No point, no need for response. Just a freewrite to clear my mind.
(It didn't work.)
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Our Greatest Efforts
Lately I am consumed with the feeling that even our greatest efforts will never measure up to the most average expectations of our loved ones.
We spend our lifetimes working up to joining with another human in some form of partnership, only to find out when we get there: it isn't enough. We still need other things. Once we realize we are still incomplete, we start to blame. That other person must not be doing enough for us, they must not be fulfilling their "half" of the partnership.
What moves us into the awareness of others' inability to fulfill us? The acceptance that it's up to us to be complete, and to walk alongside our partner as a whole and healthy person ourselves? What teaches us that our other half is simply a human themselves, a person who needs his or her own fulfillment, and cannot possibly give us happiness? Must it be pain that brings us to this new insight?
I move that it must. I have never seen it happen any other way.
While we are independently seeking our happiness and fulfillment, how do we keep our attachment strong? How do we keep from making the other feel inadequate if we are unable to fulfill ourselves?
How does one cope when, despite our best efforts, we are unable to make our partner happy?
This new understanding leaves me lost as to my role in this life, with the people around me and their needs, their search for meaning and direction.
I have always understood my role to be his source of happiness... Now that I know I can never be that - only he can be that - what do I do with myself?
We spend our lifetimes working up to joining with another human in some form of partnership, only to find out when we get there: it isn't enough. We still need other things. Once we realize we are still incomplete, we start to blame. That other person must not be doing enough for us, they must not be fulfilling their "half" of the partnership.
What moves us into the awareness of others' inability to fulfill us? The acceptance that it's up to us to be complete, and to walk alongside our partner as a whole and healthy person ourselves? What teaches us that our other half is simply a human themselves, a person who needs his or her own fulfillment, and cannot possibly give us happiness? Must it be pain that brings us to this new insight?
I move that it must. I have never seen it happen any other way.
While we are independently seeking our happiness and fulfillment, how do we keep our attachment strong? How do we keep from making the other feel inadequate if we are unable to fulfill ourselves?
How does one cope when, despite our best efforts, we are unable to make our partner happy?
This new understanding leaves me lost as to my role in this life, with the people around me and their needs, their search for meaning and direction.
I have always understood my role to be his source of happiness... Now that I know I can never be that - only he can be that - what do I do with myself?
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