Pop

 Memories popped up today

Our family smiling

Hugging

Playing

Sun soaked memories on a beachy day. 

It looks like fun

It looks like peace 

It looks like the good old days

But you couldn’t pay me to go back. 

To be seeped in the pain

Of fresh betrayal

Shying away from truth

Lying to my loved ones

Vacation with my heartbreak

Coparenting with my sorrow

I lost so much in one moment

A bored moment

Poking around

In what I never considered

“Not my business”

Pop goes the trust

Pop goes the confidence

Pop goes the ignorance 

Of what I didn’t know I didn’t know

Time might not heal all the wounds

But it separates you from what came before

You forgive

What you can’t forget

And try to forget

What you can’t forgive

Overcoming in small moments

Popping the doubt

Popping the anger

Popping the hurt

Vacation with my heartache

Until the heart

Stops aching 

Moving forward 

Because I can’t live in that moment

Three years later

I see the smiling photos

Our family on the beach

And for a moment

The new bubbles we have put around ourselves

Pop

Discomfort by the unaddressed problems

Pop

Pain of unhealed trauma

Pop

Feeling totally and completely alone

Memories popped up today

Of a time I wish I could forget

But we had to be a family

And make memories

And celebrate spring break

And birthdays

All tinged with popped bubbles  

Clinging to me

Like a cold bath

Sloughing off my skin

Leaving the attempt to clean

With greasy soaped residue 

An easily popped bubble

When I never tried to rebuild with something better

Than the trippy twisty butterfly bubbles

Of new love  

What is old love made of?

I hope it’s better

Than bubbles

Losing friends

 My friend died on Valentine’s Day. 

I’ll never get to listen to her laugh. 

Or be lifted up by her love

Or feel her squeeze me so tight. 

I’ll never get to look forward to her calls, 

Her messages. Her visits. 

She’s gone. Forever gone. 

A friend stopped talking to me right before my birthday

I don’t know why. I miss her. 

I reach out and nothing reaches back. 

Just vague responses that make me feel like

Shes done being my friend

A friend hurt my feelings

Doubled down when I told her she hurt me

Hurt me more, worse

Confidences whispered to just her

In private moments of vulnerability

Turned around and fired from a gun I didn’t know she was hiding.  

My own secrets, bullets in the war that ends us. 

No longer friends. 

I cannot call

I won’t hear from her. 

My loss is now fodder for the building of a new friendship

“Oh, how I’ve been used.”

“Oh, how I have been mistreated.”

“Oh, how I have been abandoned.”

The same way, she built her friendship

With me. 

Close friends, deep friends

The unending, timeless friendships

That buoy me up

Hold me together

Create me and strengthen me

Are all back home, thousands of miles away

Back home where it’s safe. 

Where my secrets are kept

And disagreements can come and go

And the friendship remains.

Where we have hurt and cracked and rebuilt

So many times already

Our foundation is firm. 

And our future has each other in it. 

Where friendship only ends

Because someone dies. 

I long to be a person who knows I did it right

To be confident that I didn’t misstep

Or cause the schism

That I can say with all righteousness 

It was she and not me

That caused the death of us. 

But I cannot. 

I am fallible. 

And once hurt or rejected,

Whether Real or perceived,

I will hurt and reject. 

I have culpability

In why someone would reject me. 

My standards unmet, their standards unmet

Leading to videos that are mean

Selfish

And in one scorched earth move, 

You cannot contact me. 

And I cannot contact you. 

Blocked from our lives.

I do not want to lose people. 

I do not want to lose any more people

I cannot let hurt cause me to reject anyone else

Because I have a friend I cannot hurt

Who I wish could hurt me. 

I wish she could call me up and yell at me. 

Tell me all the ways I have let her down

Cry and scream and rant and then we could hug

Because she’s still here. 

Still alive. Still available to break my heart. 

I’d rather her be here, not talking to me

Then gone. Forever. 

Oh to be safe at home

With her

Wherever she is. 

No reason to hurt or be hurt 

Because all is well and perfect

In the great reward

Where everything is safe 

And our dearest friend

Treats us like royalty. 

Even if it’s made up

A great Lie

To ease the transition from being awake

To sleeping forever

I want to believe the lie

Because she’s alive there. 

And she will never reject me. 

Or hurt me. 

And we are friends. 

Forever. 

I’m over the stimulation

 On day 27 of Nexplanon bleeding, an hour past bed time, and all the kids are awake, screaming at each other. I have all the gifts to wrap, the house to clean, and a houseguest to entertain, all while also being a mom and cramping through an entire month on my period. 

Deep breathing is barely holding me together when I step in a puddle of some unknown liquid while I search for the toothbrush that seems to go missing every. Single. Fucking. Night. My oldest is singing a screetchy-off-pitch nightmare ballad she’s making up about how much she dislikes her baby sister, which in turn is making her sister howl with hurt cries and winds up to smack, which I barely catch before it happens. The reprimands are given in every direction, quickly followed by instructions on getting ready for bed. 

Sobs ensue, “I’m still hungry. No one fed me!” Which is the nightly cry of all the kids who refused to touch the dinner I spent 45 minutes making. I don’t give into terrorist demands, and these starving babies sob as they scrub today’s food pyramid of candy, french fries, and popsicles off their gums. My husband and I split into two, I take the littlest, he takes the older two, and the exhausting wait happens. I lay for a long long time, hoping at any second, she will stop moving, stop asking me questions or telling me stories. Stop rearranging dolls and stuffed animals. And just close her eyes and drift away to dreamland so I can attempt to sneak out and get some QT with the old man before descend into out bed one by one in the early hours of the morning. 

It feels like it will never happen. Until it does. And I slip out as slowly, quietly, carefully as I can… but it’s like she’s hardwired into the moment my body isn’t in her room and begins to shriek at the top her lungs… as if this has never happened before, how dare we leave her alone to sleep… instead of this being our daily routine. 

As I glance into the older kids’ room, I see the lights are still on brightly, my husband lounges on a bed, the Game playing loudly from his phone, and the kids roam the room with abandon. 

“Bed?” I call, the rage barely hidden from my voice that competes with my 3-year-old’s tantrum behind me. “We’re getting to it.” Comes the irritated response from my husband, who doesn’t look away from his phone. Does he not have a clock ticking away at our alone time? No desire to get it over with? No to-do list that fills his brain the second he is finished with the current task? 

I turn around and attempt to calm the baby. She is only assuaged by hugs and kisses and promises to come back, but I know this will be a long back and forth. I’m done. I’m ready to turn my anger on everyone around me. I step out of her room again, only to be meet by my son, out of bed, standing at my side with hands extended and a folded piece of paper, excitement dancing in his eyes. “WHY AREN’T YOU IN BED!?” I snap. 

“I made you this!” He is not deterred by my rage. He’s seen it often and doesn’t take me seriously. I unfold the hideous scribble, trying to bit back my deeply problematic hatred for this moment, for the offering, swallowing back my fury and smile through clenched teeth. “thank you. Its great.” But I straight up drop it on the floor as I head into the bathroom. 

I don’t know how to find the joy in these moments. To feel my purpose, or understand my calling to motherhood. Long nights where I am demanded to give up every piece of myself with no expectation of gratitude or reciprocation. Any free time is swallowed by responsibility and cyclical tasks that never end.

And I’m doing it all… on 27 days of unstoppable bleeding. 

Ready to chew this fucking thing out of my arm. 

Wednesday

 My in-laws are coming today. I need to finish doing my magic and making this very well-lived in house look a little more visitor-friendly. My friend came over yesterday and helped me get started, bless her heart. She did an amazing job, not only cleaning, but buoying me up and distracting me and making cleaning enjoyable. Women are wonderful. 

I leave in less than 2 weeks for a visit home. My dear friend Ali has been put into hospice care. And I’m going home to see her one last time. I’m nervous. But so grateful. And I’m going to take advantage of being home without my kids and husband to relax and figure out how to better serve myself so that I can take better care of them. 

My mom is coming back with me too, so I’ll be able to have more time to be taken care of again. Christmas will come and go. January will be a little sad and a little more relaxed. There is a small light at the end of the tunnel before the tunnel starts again, and maybe I can take that time to make candles to burn along the way. 

Nexplanon

 After my second late-ish miscarriage, we have decided that that’s all we’re willing to risk to add to our family and decided to move into the phase of life where we aren’t having more babies. 

Does that mean he made an appointment? Of course not. 

Carry the babies. Birth the babies. Breastfeed the babies, be favored by the babies (not always the blessing it sounds like it would be), miscarry the babies. And now… get painful, hormonally damaging, two week long period causing birth control shoved into my arm. 

The only reason toilet paper is free and widely available is because men shit. 

I’m sick of being a second class citizen even in my own marriage. 

Burn it all down

 I had a dream my childhood home was burned down

I was with my mom and my dad

We could see the flames eating the trees of the canyon, baring down from no man’s land

A house I haven’t lived in since I was 18, taken by the bank

Because my dad didn’t believe in paying bills

He invited the squatters.

They filled my baby brother’s Nemo themed bedroom with grow lights

And Pot Plants

I don't miss it

I don't want to go back.

Fires could pour in from every side and I wouldn't feel a thing.

In the dream, dad is desperate to save it

It's still got value for him.

Even though no one is in it. There is nothing worth saving.

It's just a place we used to live.

Its not memories that he wants to salvage.

There are no treasures left behind.

It's an imagined worth, a possible buyer

Who doesn't exist. 

Who will see the value of what my father poured his efforts into

When he emptied our trust fund

To dig a hole. And build a 10 foot tall, hideous fence.

He saved nothing. He worked on nothing. He invested nothing.

He took everything... and told us it had value.

And if a fire rips it from the earth

The only person who would care

Is him.

A memory I don’t Remember

 I can’t remember the first time I was told the razor story. I think it was my uncle who told me. I was at my mother’s parents’ home and alone in the garage when my uncle walked in to find me sitting on the floor, slicing across my fingers and palm with a razor blade. They told the story laughing, telling me I wasn’t crying or anything, that they suspected the thin blade didn’t really hurt, but I was fascinated by the red lines appearing on my fingers. My mom never laughed when the story was told. I suspect she was reprimanded for letting me off unattended and she was upset by the self-harm. But my uncle got a kick out of the telling. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he became a Coroner for the Sheriff’s office and enjoyed telling the stories of the many crime scenes he has seen. 

I don’t know why the razor story came into my mind as I was driving today. But I felt like I should write it down.   

Unhealed

 Ive been imagining stabbing myself in the stomach quite a lot. Something in me prods me on. “Do it for the plot. Maybe if I was injured, they’d cut the whole thing off. And if I was smaller, I wouldn’t feel so valueless. Self-centered, indulgent, goth. Healed people don’t seek validation from other people, I will never be healed because if it means giving up feeling pretty because someone tells me I’m pretty, I will die unhealed. 

Everyone feels like a burden. No one knows how to ask for help. So we all resent each other when someone comes to us for support. “Don’t they know I’m sad? Can’t they see I’m in pain?” Of course they can’t. Because you never say. 

I don’t want to keep going. I don’t know what its all for. I’m tired and I’m restless, I’m sleepy and unsure. 

I could live forever on being wanted lusted after and loved. But who lusts after the fat girl? The mom? The slug?

I’m run down. I feel worthless. I’m ruining my children’s lives. No one deserves to be treated poorly for what’s going on inside. I hate that they feel less than, because I can’t love myself. I wish I could do better. And improve my mental health. 

Do it for the future. Do it for him. Do it for them. Do it for anyone but me. Nothing motivates nothing. And nothing motivates me. 

I’d thank myself for starting a long journey today. But I’d rather rot and hate myself. It seems easier in some way. 

Triggered

     Petal loves Pickle ball. I'm pretty sure he would play every day if was available and I would let him. The thing about loving Pickle ball is... you cannot take the smalls to it. Maybe if it were just casual playing. But this is a league. He pays to play. And you cannot spend two hours paying to chase your own children around. So sometimes on Wednesday, sometimes Thursday, a few times on a Saturday... once or twice on a Sunday. And Monday. My husband will once again announce he's been "invited" to Pickle ball, like it's a social occasion and not something he pays fees to do. It's always at dinner and bed time. It always gives him an awkward amount of time between work and the sport. And I'm always left on duty until the kids are settled in bed. 

    And for the most part, I don't really mind. It's a nice hobby to have. Mostly old people play, so I know there aren't any hot young lady Pickle Ballers distracting him on the court. It's not too expensive. He loves it. And it's helped him meet a couple of lads that could be friends in this foreign country. But the later it gets in the day, the more dishes I have to wash or food the children refuse to eat, the more angry I become. The more resentful I am that I'm alone. Again.

    Last night was particularly bad, because he had also played the evening before, and I tried to say no. I tried to explain that I didn't want to do it again, a second night in a row and that I was feeling under-prioritized and a little resentful. And he looked disappointed. So I compromised. Like a good wife does, right? I asked, "Well, could you maybe pick up dinner for us? So I at least wouldn't have to cook? And it could be food I know the kids will eat, so it won't be a fight? Could we do that?" And he thought about it, and then agreed, "Yeah! I can figure that out. I can make that work." 

    But he picked the kids up from school and returned without food. And he faffed about, not helping with them, not getting the house ready or even helping me make dinner before he was decked out and running out the door for Pickle ball. I was just in single-parent mode, despite my one stipulation to make Pickle Ball work for the whole family... had not happened.

    He argues that I should have made it a bigger deal. I should have reminded him. I should have... I should have... I should have... It's my fault, right? Because he was here and I didn't nag him down the stairs. I didn't reprimand him for not picking up the food. I didn't command him to give me the time between the older kids coming home and him leaving to decompress and rejuvenate for dinner, clean-up, getting the littlest ready for brushed and dressed and read to and to bed before I did it all over again with the older two. That was my fault.

    I have been trapped at home for over two weeks, car-less and stuck. My dearest friend here in Germany is moving away soon and I haven't been able to see her or spend any time with her. I'm just stuck. I try to go on walks to feel human, but walking with an almost 3 year old who has NO fear is stressful. And I don't get much out of the walks we take. I spend every day doing the same things: Take care of the kids, make food, clean up food, clean the house. Re-clean the house. Circulating rooms. Processing laundry. SO MANY DISHES. And the house is NEVER clean, the kids are unhappy no matter what food I make, and there is always at least three dishes in the sink at any given time. Even now, after doing laundry for 4 days straight, there is a load in the washer, a load in the dryer, and three sorted baskets that need to make their way into dresser drawers. 

    I'm never alone. My baby is clingy and whiny and never content to be left to her own devises (one because she hates being apart from me, and two... if she is alone she is making THE MOTHER OF ALL MESSES. Think live-action Cat in the Hat level chaos and you might have some idea of what I deal with all day). As I type this, she screams in my face excitedly that "IT'S CHRISTMAS! MAMA! IT'S CHRISTMAS!" (It is NOT Christmas, and it will not BE Christmas for almost a full year). 

    I'm not trying to say my husband owes me anything. He has had to take on the chauffeur job, the grocery shopping job, the errand running, the book returns, the eye and dentist appointments, and everything in-between, all while trying to figure out where and how and how to budget for getting my car fixed so I can have it back. We're both in this. In the thick of it. 

    I'm just saying that bringing home dinner because I asked for it would have been nice. And when he treated it so optionally... when he was dismissive and flippant about it even after he agreed? It hurt my feelings. It made already feeling like low priority that much more central. 

    As I showered for the first time in too long, I was thinking about it. Why this was so triggering for me. And I remembered that it used to be like this all the time. He would go to Pickle ball rain or shine back in Cali. Multiple times a week. But I had some connections in Cali. I wasn't quite so alone. I had support. It didn't always help to have that support. But it was something. And it was baseball and basketball at our base before. Just me, sitting home alone in a faraway state with my infant... feeling like the lowest thing on his To-Do list. In a lot of ways, when you're living the military life, the wife is sort of just another thing that gets carted from place to place. In the states you can work. You can find some community. But here, overseas, it's much harder. You're just a thing moving around like the rest of the furniture. Stuck at home, cooking and cleaning. Very "American Traditional Family". It can be very dehumanizing. 

    But I don't think him going to Pickle ball IS neglectful or abusive or even that callous. I love that he loves it. I just wish him going to Pickle ball wasn't connected to such an intricate web of memories and hurt that it FEELS like neglect every time he tells me... "I've been invited to play Pickle ball tonight."

The Long Weekend

     My alarm hasn't gone off yet, but I'm not dreading it because there is no school or work today, we have a glorious 4 day weekend ahead of us and I'm looking forward to not holding myself to the standards of a normal weekday. 

    My two oldest children (who are 7 and 5) have already joined us in bed hours ago. I'm curled awkwardly to make room for my son pressing in on me from the middle of the bed and my daughter snuggled on the edge. I don't have enough neck support and my right leg is freezing because everyone is laying on different parts of the blanket and I am far from comfortable. And then the recently acquired kitten starts attacking our feet. My daughter is awake. Thrashing. She giggles when the kitten is being funny and cries when he latches on too tight. My husband is snoring, tucked in, two pillows, neither shared. And any time I move, my son tries to snuggle closer, closing any gap that I can wiggle for myself. 

    Then I hear the baby padding down the hall. She's not really a baby anymore. In fact, she'll be three next month. But she's still my baby. She comes in ready for the day. She's demanding water and breakfast and needs to go pee and she joins her older sister in playing with the kitten who can be quiet aggressive in his playtime. I have the scratches to prove it. 

    Baby girl is on me. There is no where else for her to be. Balanced on my tummy, laying across my chest, fighting with her siblings and screaming her discontentment if they fight her back, angry that I am not bigger, or have more sides so they can all have an equal share of me. 

    And Petal snoozes on, occasionally being jostled enough to be awoken when he barks at us all to be more quiet. 

    I'm awake now. My alarm is minutes away from chiming still. But I don't want to fight for a few more minutes laying in the dark. My body hurts. Surprise! It's that time of the month. I deal with that with an audience standing around me on the toilet asking why I need a pad and what does it do and am I going to die. This is not their first time. I have no lock on any of the doors in this damn German house and my children have witnessed me through the aftermath of a miscarriage, so mom bleeding isn't news. That doesn't stop them from taking turns asking me the same questions they ask me every month. 

    I help get them ready to go downstairs, find glasses, special toys, and we move down the stairs as a unit. Two hyper girls, one discombobulated boy, and one very grumpy mommy. I am not a morning person. I need time to start the day. Uninterrupted time. Where no one is talking to me. But that's not an option when you're a mom most of the time. I set them up with drinks and an easy-light breakfast and try to wake up the rest of the way on the couch as they bicker about who gets to choose which inane cartoon to watch. My baby will not participate in this as she knows she will NEVER get to pick and it's pointless to try. My back hurts and I just want no one to touch or talk to me. I didn't get enough sleep, I have a cramp in my arm from it being someone's pillow in the early hours of the morning. And I have never hated my husband more than right now. 

    When the whining gets too much, I finally get up and make a real breakfast for the kids and feed myself, the edges of my bad attitude softening a little, but my grump comes from so many places, it's not fixed so easily. I find myself staring at two days worth of dishes and decide if I'm going to be pissed anyway, I might as well take on the sensory nightmare that is washing too many dishes. I have to empty the dishwasher first. So I do. Meanwhile, now that mom has become mobile, the army of children has too, and they follow me in the kitchen complaining that they don't like the fluffy cheesy eggs I made for them, they want toast, but not cooked. They want toppings we don't have. They want endless glasses of juice and milk. "He hit me!" "She won't share!" "The cat scratched me!" The kitten following us as well, meowing wildly, but his bowl is full and his water is fresh, so what more do you want, you tiny striped dictator? 

    I hand out what I can, say no to what I can't, I break up fights and I try to regulate myself, but I'm buzzing, there's too much going on, I don't want to scoop a slimy chunk of old milk out of the drain AND tell you not to strangle the cat. Please can I just help you in a minute?? Can I have a minute?? JUST A MINUTE!!!

    I snap and bear my teeth and start to yell and then its physically removing them from the room and shutting the door and trying to breathe. But all that's inside me is rage. I don't want to be doing this. I don't want to when I'm having a good day, and today is a bad day, I have cramps and I heard and I feel bloated AND constipated and it's almost 9:30 now and my husband is still asleep. 

    I can survive for another half hour. But 10 is my limit and I'm going up there to wake him up AS SOON as 9 is no longer on the clock. 

Faith or Folly

     I just watched "Surprised by Oxford". There was a time in my life where a story of a religious boy saving himself for marriage looking for a girl who was doing the same would have been everything I wanted from a movie. Now, as an adult, watching a movie about a girl losing her dreams of a doctorate to become a religious christian and fall for a boy who "knows" more about God, causes me to roll my eyes. 

    I have lived the way that you're "supposed" to live. And the more I read the less I agreed and the less I agreed, the harder its been for me to hold on to my faith. People who are convicted into faith and belief in God have a lot in common with people who grew up in it and leave it. They are both unsatisfied with the meaning we are told to find in life. We are frustrated about the ways you're supposed to pursue it. And we turn from what we have known to something new at some point. 

    Construction and deconstruction are the same at their core. It's just people living meaninglessly finding meaning in nothing. There is no point, we all die. We all end up returning to the earth. One promises life after death. One promises eternal rest. Both can't be proven and neither have witnesses. Black nothingness, or everything forever with no connection to anything of the earth. 

    You aren't married in heaven. You aren't related to your family. There is an argument for whether those who never heard the story of Jesus's sacrifice never being in heaven. So the babies we've lost before conversation, tribes in the middle of nowhere... cavemen who lived hundreds of thousands of years before Jesus was even born... None of them will be there. Break a rule and you're not allowed.

    He could be bigger than that. He could want more of us than we as "Christians" ever give welcome or acceptance to, and I want to believe in that version of spirituality. But Religion hangs around me like a toxic ex. I don't want to be associated with the tribalism, hatred, and bigotry of anyone who claims to be Christian. 

    Life giving faith, like the faith of Bob Goff or C.S. Lewis, to live whimsically and joyously outside of society's norms. To give so generously there is nothing left but pure love and acceptance, That makes sense to me. I don't know anyone personally that does that. And I don't know that I could either. It's scary to force yourself out of the norm and pursue a life of absolute service. Most Christians don't. So how can we see ourselves as Christ-Like? It's just hypocrisy and self-congratulations that you live in the time and place that HAPPENED to end up with you being religious. 

All the Reindeers Were Female

 Male reindeers lose their antlers in the winter, but females don't. So, at NO ONE'S SURPRISE, it was women pulling the load of Christmas.

    I'm exhausted. Gifts. Mental Load. Baking. Cleaning. Decorating. Planning trips. Managing the big feelings of the kids by themselves. It's all just wearing me out. I know it's worth it and I know someone has to be the magic behind Christmas, but I wish it was a little more evenly split. My hubby is also wonderful and tries to be there for as much as he can... but he hasn't been so ingrained with the idea that all the magic comes from US and not from the season itself. So it requires a lot more delegation on my part. 

    We're also trying to keep things simpler than most other years. The individual piles of gifts for the kids are rather pathetic compared to past years and not buying anyone outside of our little family anything. I feel bad about it because I would love to get my mili-besty and her son something. But I'm also terrible at buying gifts. They're always too much money for something no one likes. My mili-besty is always so generous. I don't know what to do. I know she already got me something. Why is this eating at me so bad?? I don't know how to show someone I love them through gifts. Its never been my thing. But I can see my deficit. 

My Counselor Needs Counseling

    I got a referral for Behavioral Counseling after I lost my pregnancy. It took forever for them to schedule me but during the wait, I have been praying about it, hoping that the counselor they gave me would be a really good fit. 

     The guy was not the right councelor for me. He's 64. He has long scraggly grey hair. He talked about his life SO MUCH. I literally felt like he talked more than I did. And he would NOT. Stop. Adjusting himself in his pants. 

    During the first appointment, he asked me if I had kids just so he could launch into a 10 minute long story about his daughter (who has two masters because she's very intelligent. And the reason I know she's very intelligent is because he repeated this multiple times) quitting her job to become a canoeing instructor and how disappointing that was to him and his wife. And at the end of the very long and boring and nothing-to-do-with-me-or-why-I-am-in-counseling story, he said, "What was my point? Oh yeah. You have three kids. Don't be surprised when they grow up to make decisions who can't understand." (insert annoyed and very confused expression here). Do I say anything? No. I smiled and nod and act like this is such WISDOM. And then I say, "But she's feeding her soul. And getting paid to do it. That's true success. That's the only success worth having." And he acted like this had never occurred to him.

    Excuse me, sir. I am not here... to counsel you.

    And when he asked me why I chose counseling NOW... I told him that I had miscarried. And that I was alone when it happened. And he said, "I know what you're going through. I totally understand it. My wife gave birth to our daughter three months early." I let that hang in the air, fully expecting more of an explanation... like she had gone through multiple losses before that... or... SOMETHING. And so then I asked, "Oh, were you not there?" And he said, "No, I was there with her." I just left it alone after that. He had nothing to offer me. He was an idiot. So I smiled and nodded and made chit-chat for the rest of the meeting.

    I know all about his finances. I know he has a good retirement. I know he has a good friend named Bob. I also know he met with another woman who was struggling with her husband's parenting style. He also kept talking to me about how wanting lots of control over my life isn't correct. Not my problem?? I never said anything to lead him to believe that I need things a particular way.

    Towards the end of the meeting, he asked me what I would like to get out of counseling, and I told him, "I need better tools. I need to learn to regulate my emotions and control when I'm in my big feelings. I am too angry and my kids suffer because of it." And he said, "That's normal. Everything you're feeling is normal. You don't need to worry about highs and lows." And I wish with all my heart I had said, "It's not my normal. And I need help." But instead... I smiled. And nodded. Like a bouncing-headed dog in the back of a car. And when he signed me up for another session the following week, I went along with it. And then I walked out of the building and cried. I complained to my mom, to my husband, to my Titus 2, to my sister, to my friend. And they all told me to call and get a different counselor.

    I gave him one more chance (saw him yesterday), and I did a better job of interrupting his long-winded stories about himself and his life. I tried to address the things that I'm struggling with. But I felt like he just argued with me the whole time. Telling me how normal and fine everything was. But not in like... a comforting way. Not in a, "Are you worried this isn't normal? Can I help you process the things that you are struggling with?" way. He kept addressing things that I wasn't talking about. Like... he brought up marital problems. I never brought up my husband. I never said he was an area of my life I was struggling with. And when I said my husband and I have been getting along really well and I don't have anything I want to talk about in regards to that, he told me a long story about how he and his wife met, broke up, got back together, barely have anything in common and give each other LOTS of space, and went through a rough period where they separated and lived in different houses shortly after they got married. Okay? Not why I'm here, sir.

     When he would let me talk, I picked non-personal topics, basic issues that I have, nothing that would make me emotional. Things like keeping the house clean. Things to do with ADHD struggles. 

    He kept asking, "Who are you comparing yourself to?" 

    And I kept saying, "No one. I'm setting my own goals and I can't measure up to them." 

    I used brushing teeth as an example. Like, I want to brush the kids teeth AT LEAST every day, and floss at least a few times a week, but ideally, I would like to brush twice a day and floss every day. The dentist has been telling me I need to do this. Everyone KNOWS this is the standard for good hygeine. HE ARGUED WITH ME. 

   He said, "I only brush once a day. Not everyone is the same. Everyone is going to do things differently."

     I was like, "Yeah, that's why I said I'm willing to work within failure to live up to my ideal goal. But I am frustrated that I often don't even THINK of brushing their teeth. How can something that should be a daily standard not even occur to me?" 

    His response was very dismissive and argumentative. He believes it's all fine and normal and I shouldn't worry about it or try to change it.

    Brushing teeth is a very basic thing. But let's say for arguments sake, having better dental hygeine and teaching my kids to take care of their teeth ISN'T important. If I tell you that I want to make a change and that it's important to me... ARGUING THAT I SHOULDN'T is NOT helpful therapy!!!

    And arguing about dental hygeine is actually NOT why I signed up for counseling??? So it felt like a SUPREME waste of time. I told him I wasn't interested in setting up another appointment and then went out to the car and cried. 

     I genuinely had put faith that God would lead me to a counselor that could help me process my grief and come up with a bag of tools to regulate my emotions when I'm in my big feelings. (This is also stuff I tried to talk to the counselor about, just so you know, it just went nowhere). And when this is yet another prayer that feels unanswered, it felt like... Okay. So what is there left to believe in really? I lost faith in the church years ago. I lost faith in my father for good. I lost faith in the Bible (not in totality, just in moderation). And now... I have lost faith in therapy. I don't know how to not lose faith in God as well. I don't WANT to lose faith in Him.

And then... without fanfare or immediate comfort, I remembered that my friend from bible study does her Titus 2 calling (the verse about older women teaching younger women to love their husbands and children) on Tuesday mornings. She sets up in the food court of the BX and is just available in case a woman might need someone to talk to. 17 minutes later I was walking into the food court, and there she was, working on our bible study homework all alone. She was happy to see me, welcomed me and my baby girl with a hug and a stack of papers and markers for the baby to play with. And then asked me, "So, mama. How are we today. " And I let the whole tale tumble from me. She was SO helpful!!!! She got to the gist and thrust of what I'm struggling with. She treated me like I was valid and important and helped me see things from another perspective. I mean... she gave me more to focus on, work towards, and actual ADVICE in 20 minutes than in the two 60 minute sessions with the fucking counselor who has been doing this job for 36 years.

God is good. And He answers. He does. He doesn't do it the way you want. He doesn't do it in the time you expect Him to do it. And you have to meet Him halfway. Do you know how often my Titus 2 is sitting in that food court? I have been here for over a year. And she is there EVERY Tuesday. Every single week. And this is the FIRST time I've gone.

I'm just saying. Women are amazing.

Your Favorite Color

 Sometimes I feel like I'm collecting facts 

All about you

Remembering all the details

And reciting them by heart

How you love rainbows

Laying on the trampoline, eating popsicles

Yodeling about macaroni as a light bulb explodes

Naked, running down the road in the middle of the night

No one else knowing how to break into our bubble.

Shows that make you laugh

Habit-forming amounts of your favorite kinds of food

I can never know enough

Even when we talk all day,

Laughter filling every second

Days of visiting filled with a thousand

Special moments that will never be forgotten.

Beneath the joy, there is so much love

Even when the laughter feels faraway

Anything worthy of sharing, I want to share with you first

Marriage proposals, pregnancy announcements

Sad moments and the happiest news

Prayers for better times, I know I can count on you

Rarely do I ever hold secrets from you

You are my person, my besty, my buddy, my dearest friend.

Over mountains and oceans, my heart stays with you:

Resolved to fix the distance someday. 

Dear A

 Hey friend. I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, I’m not really sure why. Maybe you’re always a little bit on my mind, even if I try to think about other things. 

I wanna talk about the hard stuff. The stuff we couldn’t put into words when we were 6 years old. Or 10 and 16 years old. The stuff we didn’t really understand. You were my best friend. And I had my issues, my weirdness. My traumas. But you… I think you were going through so much worse and I didn’t know. I still don’t really know. I just want to ask you… were you safe? 

I wasn’t safe that one night alone in the den on the pull-out sofa. I don’t know how I knew I wasn’t safe. I don’t know what made me flip over and try to protect myself. But he came in anyway and did what he did. And I think about that a lot. Because the second I told my safe people, a wall of protection came around me and I never had a sleepover with anyone ever again. I was protected. 

What about you? Did it happen to you? Did you ever have peace? He was supposed to be your protector. And he was a monster. Did anyone ever listen to you? Were your siblings safe? Did you grow up and move away and cut off all contact, or is he still there, fluttering around the edges of your life, reminding you that he is undefeated?  

There were rumors of why you moved, but I never knew them until I was an adult. The day I told you what happened, we were both so young. I shouldn’t have said anything to you when I didn’t fully understand it. You went so catatonic, just sitting on the swing in my orchard, staring forward. I didn’t understand that. I thought you were being goofy. I thought you didn’t believe me. I did anything I could to try to “cheer you up”, and I honestly… don’t remember what happened after that.

When I saw you at your cousin’s wedding, he wasn’t there and I felt like we had one of the best weekends of our friendship. When we went to a Celtic Festival. It was the first time I had seen him since that night. He grabbed my sides and roared to give me a jump scare. And I didn’t know what to do, but you pulled me away and while we hustled far away from his sneering chuckle, you whispered, “I hate (him).” With so much anger, I suddenly realized… what if I’m not the only one? What if you lived in that scared moment every night of your life? What if there was no one to slam down a wall of safety? 

A, I think about it. And if it didn’t happen to you… I’m sorry it happened to your friends. I’m sorry you couldn’t trust him. I’m sorry he made you lose people. Like you slowly lost me. I think about you so often. When we reconnected on social media and chatted a bit, you said that your parents were still married. That your family was all in the same general area. And it hurt my heart. It made me so angry. Nothing ever happened to him? He just stayed married to your gentle, happy, crunchy mom… who danced like a fairy and laughed with her head back and her curls bouncing.

I just want to know what happened. I wanna know if you’re okay. I wanna know if you’re hurting. I wanna know if I can help at all. I couldn’t help you then. Maybe I still can’t. But if you ever need to talk about it… from someone who might have seen a small part of what your secrets were… I am here. 

Love always,

Me. 

Political Politics

 I have no political insights. I have no depth of understanding. I personally believe if you can get to the point where you could actually be elected president, you're too corrupt to run the country. But walking away from this election... it's been such a bizarre experience. That a felon could be elected over a female human. That the largest voter turnout in years yielded a cheeto-colored racist misogynist freudster with a history of sexual assault and a bathroom full of classified documents... won. And people are celebrating by turning on minorities in their communities, gleefully boasting about getting to have more say over what happens over a woman's body than she does, and comparing the dumpster-fire of a president-elect to King David in the bible. 

    I'm not saying that his opponent was the cream of the crop or that I was excited about her and all her policies... But she was the lesser of two evils. She was something new. She was a beacon of hope towards a progressive future... the first Woman President. I don't understand how that didn't win over toxic masculinity in a puffy-hateful baboon of a human. 

    I was listening to someone talk about what happened with the far-right was the ruling majority in all branches of government in Poland. It wasn't a pretty story for them. I don't know that that is what is going to happen in America... I'm just saying I can see why people are scared. 

Catching the Blue

 The thing about depression is it's hard to know you're really depressed. Especially if you're like me and you go from totally fine to wanting to die in 24 hours notice. I don't know that its actually a desire to die though. It's a desire for something else. But having absolutely no energy for anything. I can smile and even laugh, I can enjoy myself... and still feel totally separate from those emotions. Its just a thing that is happening, it's not actually changing the depression. I want to explain it to someone, but I don't know how to say it. It's not something that feels explainable. I hate everyone and everything, but also desperately want to connect, but have no desire to do anything to connect with people who love me and probably want to help me.     

My husband feels a thousand miles away. He can walk in and ask me how I'm doing and I can say one of a thousand answers, none of which would actually make him understand me or give me the connection I want from him. Sometimes it feels like I'm trapped in a dream world where I'm screaming at the top of my lungs and everyone around me is just staring like nothing's happening. Or they start laughing. I'm panic-in carnet and they are all just giggling like I'm being funny.    

I have nightmares that he's cheating on me constantly. Maybe its because we don't really have anything in common. He's one sexy secretary away from realizing I'm a lazy fat piece of shit with too many insecurities to love anyone because I'm too wrapped up in my own problems. He's not a stud by any stretch of the imagination, but I love him and am insanely attracted to him and I can easily imagine any other woman being attracted to him too. It's all in my head though. But then... everything is. Love is in my head. Emotions. Personality. Depression. Isn't it all just in my head? What changes something from being "just in your head" into being real? Something other people can also experience I suppose.

  But how do you make someone else experience your depression so they take you seriously? I don't feel taken seriously. I don't really feel anything some days. Maybe I need to up my Zoloft. I feel like a shell. I constantly want to disassociate. Why does my depression need someone else to validate it? What would make it valid? If I killed myself? I don't want to do that. I don't actually want to die. I just want to feel like I'm alive. And it hasn't felt like that in a few days. 

I wonder how often people are supposed to feel this down. Blue days. Its like a cold sometimes. I just catch a blue. This Blue is particularly nasty. I still managed to take care of the kids, cook three meals. Clean the kitchen. Do laundry. Wash all the dishes. And get dressed this morning. I suppose if I didn't manage, then someone might take me more seriously. But it feels like the depression makes me mask extra hard when it's this numbing. If I can do, then I will survive. But why would I want to continue to survive to feel... nothing? 

I don't think you're supposed to seek seratonin boosts from your husband. I mean, you're definitely supposed to feel supported and loved and feel good around your husband, why else would anyone seek companionship? But I don't think you're supposed to chase after it like a drug. Or not feel anything unless he's around. Or get angry when he doesn't automatically understand how to fill you up. I want him to fill me up. Feel me up. Do all the husband/boyfriend/lover things that give you tingles to your toes and make you feel like a person who is worthy of attention. Lusted after. I don't know that he knows how to do that. I don't think he wants to lust after ANYONE real. Its sinful. 

I don't feel a desire to pray about it. The farthest I get is "Dear Heavenly Father" but it bounces around my clogged brain and goes nowhere. I don't know that I believe in any of it anymore. It was comforting once. Now its just a lot of platitudes and childhood cult doctrines. I don't know how to make it feel real again. I don't think God forgives you for turning on your whole religion, no matter what heading it falls under. 

My head feels thick. It's hard to keep it upright. I just want to lie down all the time. Gravity is working extra hard today and I'm living in my bedroom again. I just want to be engaged with life, but life seems too exhausting. I wonder who's out living right now? I'd love to hear a happy story. I bet people had healthy babies today. Something probably got married. Someone is celebrating a birthday, a promotion, a win that makes their day. Someone just met the love of their life. Someone is confiding in their best friend and feeling heard and supported for the first time. Its all happening outside in the world at this exact moment. Will I ever feel those zings ever again? I've never really been a happy cryer. Will that ever happen to me? Maybe when my kids get married. Or I meet my grandbabies. Maybe I will live long enough to see everyone I love happy and settled somewhere. 

Its okay to feel blue. It's okay to be depressed. This will no last. But I'm going to lie back down until I feel like I can survive upright again. 

Updates and Downdates

 It wasn't my fault. I know that much. Vials and vials of blood. Tests run on me and on him. But the only answer we're left with is... no one really knows why. Women have gone through their whole pregnancies doing drugs and drinking alcohol and smoking and taking multiple sex partners. And they have given birth to healthy babies. Maybe small babies. Maybe addicted babies. But whole, full-term babies who will one day outlive the abuse of living in a mother who didn't care about being pregnant. But here I am, relatively healthy, never tried a single drug, never smoked anything, gave up drinking when my mother-in-law died months before getting pregnant, but never really was much of a drinker to begin with. And my baby is gone. For no real tangible reason. 

    It makes me mad. But it also gives me some peace. I can try to blame myself for drinking caffeine occasionally... taking a single ibuprofen for a raging headache... blame my BMI, perhaps, but I can't hold on to any of those for very long because a thousand other things tell me my baby should have been healthy. I didn't do anything wrong. I just had bad luck. Bad timing. Bad something that I will never know for sure. 

    I find myself turning angry anyway. Angry with myself. My husband. My 3 children. I just want to be peaceful. I want to feel normal. I want to turn my brain off. Why does it burn eternally with a never ending narration? I fall asleep to it and wake up to it. It's negative and repetitive and noisy and obnoxious and it never shuts up. 

I don't have anything to say

 I'm not sure why I feel the need to type, but I just do. I don't really have anything to say. I feel broken, and weirdly normal, and totally devastated. I kind of want to disappear, but I'm also fine with existing. I hate everyone, but I want to be surrounded by people. I hate being alone, but I am so tired of anyone looking at, touching, or talking to me. I don't want to explain. I am dying to tell every detail. I don't wanna talk about it or think about it or be in this moment, but if you don't bring it up, I'll go crazy. I want to curl up and sleep for a year, but I don't want to miss anything with my kids. My kids. My poor children who don't understand why mommy is snapping one second and then begging for cuddles the next. I don't want anyone to be here. But I wish I could snuggle with my sister. 

I don't want to say goodbye. I wanna go back in time to when I was blissfully ignorant. I just want to be pregnant with my perfect baby boy and not live in this moment where its all been ripped away from me. I don't wanna stay home, but I cannot bring myself to leave the house. I need a therapist. I'm terrified it won't help. Can I just go numb for a while? Can I please just have the long sleep that Ava Marie got in Big Stone Gap? I just want to be unconscious for like... a week or two. There's nothing here for anyone else. I just want to be gone mentally. But I feel like that's not good enough. Not for Sarah. Sarah can't recoil from all the things. She has to rally and be a beast... Boss it up and stand tall and talk it through with everyone. She has to praise God for the good things and clean her living room a day after getting out of the hospital. She has to throw birthday parties. She has to be available to talk. 

Fuck you, Sarah. I want to be dead. Not literally. Just enough to heal. Let me be unavailable for a little while. Stop trying to be better and just let me be bad for a while. 

Ruined Summer, Worse Fall

 My mother arrived and two days later I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test. It was not my plan for the summer. My summer was going to be a hot girl summer with my mom, exploring Europe, losing weight, packing the fun in until the summer exploded with joy. Instead, a wave of nausea washed over me and week after week of me laying in a lump on the couch, wishing there was SOMETHING that would take away the ever-present nausea. But hopes built and despite feeling like I had wasted my mom’s time and money having her come out to visit the limp-lump version that I had become in the throes of the first trimester, I found myself dreaming about this future baby and felt okay with suffering. This is my last time. Last baby. Soak it all up. 

Second trimester, I said goodbye to my mom and hello to the joys of the pregnant glow. We made more announcements, I had a dramatic decrease in nausea, and a whole lot more energy. Soaking it up. This is the last time! 

Midwife appointments brought some joy, hearing the heartbeat, getting comfortable with this person who will see me at my most vulnerable. But some stress… my shy veins resulted in some dramatic bruising… and it was all very expensive. 

I felt so good. I told anyone who cared to listen. My second-born decided he wanted a baby sister. And he was going to name her Treehouse. But I wanted a boy. Two of each. I had the perfect boy named picked out. I had so much hope. And I was soaking it up. Cuz this was going to be my last time. 

I didn’t know it was actually my first time. My first time wiping blood. My first time rushing to my neighbor’s house. My first time driving to the hospital. My first time hearing they couldn’t see a heartbeat, but that my body was already in labor. 

Surrounded by the most loving, decent, hard-working ladies in the world, I cried and joked and hurt and eased a teeny tiny still baby into this world. 7 ounces. A perfect baby boy. He looked like an alien. He was supposed to be the bow that tied up this phase of my life… the last baby. But now I have to sit here holding a version of humanity I never really wanted to witness face to face… he fit in one hand. He wasn’t quite a person. Just an empty vessel where a soul was supposed to be. 

Part of me is sad I did it alone. Part of me is glad my husband wasn’t able to be there. How do you comfort someone else when your grief is so huge? How do you let someone else carry you, when you just want to curl up and disappear. 

I was almost halfway done. I was one day shy of being able to say, “Halfway there!” 19 weeks. And 6 days. Barely even counts as a stillbirth, still young enough to sort of be considered a miscarriage. By one day. 

My milk will still come in. Postpartum depression. But with all the complications of not taking my baby home with me. 

My summer started with a reroute, a sudden change in the direction I had thought I was going. My fall has started so much worse.