About Me

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My dwelling in the maddness of life and motherhood.

23 September 2013

Officially Official

Strange days have a way of creeping upon you unexpectedly. 

I don’t need to rehash my version of life during the nine (and a half) years spotlighted today.  I don’t have to painfully pick apart the seemingly endless end from its beginning.  I don’t need to wonder what if or why.  It just is and was. 

I remember the moments leading up to finding my strength…my enough…my bottom…my ah-ha…my breaking the glass.  I remember the exact moment in the salty mist of the boardwalk before dusk when it all became clear: when my truth and reality became one.  And I didn’t look back.

I have no regret.

I do have sorrow.  I do have peace.  I do have happiness.  I do have my self.

I remember sitting outside on my steps as the day for moving drew closer.  I would sit on the still cold cement in dawning spring, smiling and crying and feel the weight of those years heavy, yet falling away.  I heard the bird song louder, saw the stars sparkle brighter, felt the wind blowing me forward, tears marking my cheeks and lips upturned.


Today when the paper finally arrived, officially official, all I could do to fight the wave of emotion was to ride it.  Understand it.  Feel it.  Breathe it.  Be it.  Cry it.  Be free with it.

12 June 2013

Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, yet is ever transmuting.

I’ve been falling for quite some time.  I almost don’t remember what it’s like to stand solidly on the ground, one with Mother Earth, centered.  Fire and water dominated my existence for many years…and I needed their transformative and consuming nature...for creation to occur there must be some destruction – my phoenix rising, my cobra shedding, my butterfly emerging - transmutation.  Now I hear the wind speak slowly, softly in my ear, and a short distance away, floating to the shore, I already smell the green and dirt.

I used to believe that controlling my environment, circumstances, planning to perfection, enabled stability.  The truth is that was an untruth.  Flowing, accepting the natural chaos that is this life, enables a peace and tranquility beyond any false sense of control I once maintained.  I only control myself, my actions and reactions, my perceptions, my dreams, my reality. 

For potential to exist you have to pay attention to the open doors, cracked window, holes and crevices, web of possibility, and take some action, any action in a direction.  You can always take another path at the next crossroads, but movement forward, being present, is necessary.  Failure to move leaves you stagnant, and at least for me lifeless.  I’m about to step onto the shore, dry in the breeze while lying on the grass chasing clouds, breathing the life-sustaining air.


Excitement, fear, the realization of my strength, patience, and capacity for metamorphosis overwhelm me.  A leap that began a long time ago towards the reality of my dreams and hopes rests a few short days away.  A home fit for princesses, a turret and maybe a dragon or two for protection, a life to live awaits me.

21 May 2013

Alone


“You’ve been alone since I met you.” 

Truly powerful words.

No matter what quotes or empowering concepts cross my eyes…I struggle embracing them.  Not because I cannot believe, but because I do.  Creating a mind of peace and well-being amidst the big bang of my life leaves little room for reflection.  Analogies…yes those are what I am good at utilizing. 

Standing in the center of a tornado, watching all the pieces of my life swirl in chaotic destruction, wondering how they will all land, and preparing to pick up the pieces.  Some will not survive.

Flowing along the river, picking up momentum, hearing the rapids and falls ahead… I will not steer away, I must go over the edge.  I know there are gentle waters below just beyond the fury of the landing.  Actually I am falling at this moment.  The bottom is farther than I expected.

I see the ruins of my fortress beyond on the green waterside.  I have already begun reconstruction and reinforcement.  I can see myself standing in the turret, protected.  My walls feel heavier than before, crushing almost.  I have to let more air inside.  I’m shaking. 

Alone I stand, surveying the wreckage, the wounds that will leave scars.  The stains inside the walls will require my attention, but not now, not before fortification.  Perhaps I need their reminder.  Maybe I need dragons. 

Enough with the dramatic monologue.  Right.

Alone.  Alone is strength.  No matter how many warriors choose to fight along-side of me…I alone hold my sword, live with my memory, face my demons, feel my pain.  No one can do more than carry me from the battlefield and dress my wounds with care and love.  My hope, my healing, my resolve comes from within: me alone.

26 June 2012

Snippets of a mind gone mad


The plagues of sadness, fear, anger, confusion - a few off the top of my head - pock my days, weeks, months, years.  Don’t get me wrong, they split time with happiness and awe too, but let’s face it….those darker days weigh much more.  I’ve been pissed off at karma, and then looked inward to see where the flinging poo may have come from.  I’ve tried exorcizing  ghosts and demons, and I’ve set them packing on more occasions than I care to count, yet here they sit across the table from me…snickering…bastards. 

I could look back on my life and choices and let the pain of bad decisions and life events shoot daggers through my heart: the drugs, alcohol, tough guys, liars, thieves, loss, naming merely a few.  But I told myself long ago that no matter what my past held, it made me who I am today.  I said that in days I was proud of my accomplishments and well-seasoned with self-esteem and worth with dreams bigger than novels gracing my shelves.  I was lifted up by the podiums of academe with pride beaming from my professors and honor emanating from my soul.  My fabulous drug…and then came the crash.

My father taught me to work hard for the things I wanted in life and I would achieve all I set my mind to.  And for the most part that was true.  However, the story of life doesn’t end at happily ever after.  The sequel began and as is true to form…it sucks.  Working hard never gets a break, and even if you do, it doesn’t guarantee success or the goal.  It’s exhausting and dull.  Academe was heavenly for my soul and I thrived and grew and glowed in its holy light: Knowledge.  But the wisdom gained also teaches that you never stop learning, and that learning on the other side of the walls is a lot less fun and many times less fulfilling.

Life happens.  We are all sad.  We are all stressed.  We are all angry.  For many we may not find that economically better life.  Life is cyclical, and we have forgotten that too.  Our children (and many of us) are zombies to technology and becoming farther removed from what makes us human.  Communities crumble.  Compassion and empathy are terminally ill or dead.  We blame and scapegoat and often time refuse to see the reflection of ourselves in others, especially when it is a truth we would prefer to ignore.  We don’t share in the responsibility that two halves contribute to the wrong.  Apologies fall on deaf ears because no one really wants an apology they want to point the finger.  And everybody wants to be right.  We must try to remember:  truth = subjective.

In my younger days I was shy and introverted and fearful on many levels.  I was easily lead and swayed by others ideas and plans.  I wasn’t my own being.  I didn’t understand the power of knowledge, except what I perceived in others, ignorantly giving them control even though they were equally as clueless as I, but they had charisma.  At a moment in my 20s I realized I was my own person; that I had rights and a voice and opinions and principles and needed to believe in myself.  That moment carried me more than a decade forward.  I basked in my new found cranial activity: sparks flying and ideas creating and excitement for possibility.

Somewhere along the way I didn’t replace a light bulb.  I slugged through darker and darker societal norms and ideas and musts and have tos and need tos and eeuww thanks for the gum I just stepped in.  My principles sat idly on a misfiring synapse, speaking only when it was safe.  I couldn’t lose a job, or offend someone else, or be me without fear.  I bit my tongue and smiled or let my beliefs shrink back lest I be accused of needing to be right instead of offering an alternative perspective.  Mutual respect is on the endangered species list in this Gibsonian world. 

All the while I heard the tapping under the glass and a scream every now and again escaped.  Instead of feeding and fostering the self-confidence and being proud of my knowledge and experience I allowed the primal warriors to slice and attack the very essence of me.  I forgot that my power is my knowledge and no one has the ability to take that from me.  I was captured - instead of fighting my way out and away - I huddled in the corner like a rat defending myself from myself.  My madness grew.

I put trust and expectations in people that don’t see me the same way.  I make allies with those who contribute to my cowering and fits.  Masochistic I know.  My madness becomes apoplectic.  My visions become trepidation.   My bell jar, my yellow wallpaper, my catch 22 trap me even as I try to run like those dreams when you can't ever get away from the encroaching evil. I have two choices:  break the glass, steam off the paper, and fuck the societal pretenses or allow the possession of my soul.   

I’ve been finding pieces of my heart and soul in places long lost, and deeply hidden.  I’ve found people who energize and believe in me, people who respect and love me for me, and we love each other in spite of our flaws and because of our flaws and help turn those flaws into strengths.  We allow each other to be mad, sad, scared and help build each other up instead of feeding on the weaknesses like vampires.  We foster the beauty of life in each other.  We encourage imperfection and nature as what makes us unique and special.  

and those demons and ghosts...you know the ones having coffee with me...I realize that they aren't so bad once you get to know them.  After all they've been with me a long time.  They wanted to remind me that I have a long way to travel free from my oubliette.  But I’ve crawled out of darker places.

08 March 2012

Never be Afraid of the Dark

Melancholy: A pensive mood

On a beautiful sunny day too early in March, greeted by confused spring robins and solar warmth on my head in my wee-hour trek to the office, I feel melancholy. Not depressed, not dark in a shadows sort of way, but in a contemplative moment. Could I be angry for anger’s sake? Could I be pissy for stupidity’s sake? Could I have caught “the mood”? Or is the full moon toying with my sentiments? Honestly, all of the above, yet as I sit here drawn to Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah, Christina Perri’s Thousand Years, and Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain I realize that it is none of the above. And thanks to a friend’s post on Facebook showing beachgoers in Brazil saving a family of beached dolphins I cracked. I realize humanity has a chance.

This winter failed its own definition miserably, and affected me in ways I never expected. I call it RSAD, not Renee sad, but reflecting seasonal affective disorder – take that DSMV! Where was the snow, forcing family home for much needed togetherness, the freezing temperatures that kill the germs and control pest populations for the coming season, the many dark hours indoors, finding adventures in the corners of the house you normally ignore? What of the snow boots and heavy coat we were so excited for Anya to wear while making snowmen and angels with Freyja bounding around the yard in husky revelry, burrowing deep to find buried toys? Where was my hibernation?

My little baby turns three in seven days.

My little girl doesn’t want to wear diapers anymore.

My dancing, drumming, piano playing diva will start taking ballet lessons.

I stand on the brink of building the life I dream.

I turned 40 seven days ago.
The tears continue to well and recede. The ringing fear of failure echoes in every fold and crevice. I never wanted to be superwoman…well perhaps when I was 10 and in love with Lynda Carter and Jaime Summers - my fearless protectors, super women. I’ve always gravitated to the female actress, musician, superhero, author, teacher, yet had few female close friends. Today I look around and I’m surrounded by beautiful women, all different; I admire each and every one. They all bring something important to my life, and all are a piece of me. I begin to understand myself, where I’ve been, and my hopes for my little girl. Being a woman, being female: being darkness and light, strength and weakness, intelligent and confused, being soft and firm, being both sides of the mirror. I used to believe this dichotomy a burden.

In yet another year the fear-mongering bandwagon instills apocalyptic stigma to the blinking of an eye, I find the most strength to stand alone. I will not be controlled or spend another moment scared by someone’s extremism. I will not raise a daughter to subject her energy and spirit to the venom of ignorance. I can’t save the world, but I can save myself, and hopefully my child. Truth is a tricky word for no good reason than it is subjective, unlike fact, which I’m sure we could debate as well. Facebook, unfortunately, provides the best example at the moment. I am exhausted reading emails for the latest hoax that no one bothered to confirm before spreading its fallacy to more sheep. How many people will “repost” these same hoaxes gone FB before they get it that they are creating truth out of lies. Wouldn’t it be nice to believe that we can save a little child with “likes”. The accurate information exists with a little due diligence. Bandwagon mentality goes both directions; Occupy rallies people together for a purpose; the end of the world breeds selfishness and greed and ignorance.

Today I woke up remembering the days my husband, then boyfriend, and I lived like rock-stars: we drank too much, stayed up too late and lived in the moment. On an adventure to the Dewey Beach Music Fest I offered moral support to my man and an excuse to enjoy the spontaneity of life. We stayed in a motel room, circa1980s Wildwood-heydays, yet with less enthusiasm for lack of comfort or pretties. After a nap we ventured out to eat and bar hop, dancing and drinking the night away with musicians from all around, showcasing their fab-ness with ego or humility, neither mattered much. After hours of debauchery, shadows crept and the rowdy rumbled to their cells to sleep or vomit or both. I stumbled to a hotel room with friends and strangers, most on the edge of or beyond consciousness, eager for water and a somewhat clean bed. We found ourselves anchovied in a room surrounding a beautiful voice singing Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah. Lzzy’s voice was angelic and brought tears to every person in that crowded room. We begged her to sing it over and over again, mesmerized. Now Lzzy is all grown up and following her dream, rocking the world.

Why does the Twilight Saga thrive? Not from good acting or story writing, but romance. The ultimate sacrifice, ideal, true, unconditional love, the journey, fate, you name it…the sentiment of the fantasy. Christina Perri’s A Thousand Years tugs at my heart like no other in quite some time. Her voice hypnotizes with melody and ethereal tones. I met her in those same days as Halestorm made their way through the trenches, but not as a young female singer, but Nick Perry’s little sister, in love with all the wrong guys and losing her innocence fast. I wish I could have protected her when I met her at that 30th birthday party, she was so young and sweet, and I didn’t want these guys taking her down. Now I listen to her voice on the radio and beam that she survived those days, and more beautiful for her pain and acceptance of her femaleness. Her song speaks volumes for all that we want to believe and hope and feel. The lullaby is what dreams are made of.

What about these two women who don’t know me makes me want to talk about them? They may not remember me, but I felt like a protective mother when I met them, and didn’t understand it until now. They were both young with big dreams and a reality that I had begun losing. I wanted to see them succeed and be strong women in a male dominated world. Men saw them as objects, not as talent and beings full of energy to share. Now I blare their voices with a smile, feeling like a moment shared in time with them connects me to strength and hope once more. And for my daughter to learn and understand what it means to be a woman in all her aspects and places through time, I needed to see these women become.

I stand on a new edge of being. Turning 40 didn’t cause some great awareness or understanding or cliché: it coincided. I’ve always associated myself and my life with the phoenix. What beautiful imagery of a colorful bird becoming, dying, and becoming again. Need I bring a Madonna reference here? For all my teen angst and bad decisions and recklessness I was blessed with the ability to rise again, stronger than before, and hopefully more vibrant. My current transfiguration rests in my post partum, post void, post darkness, posthumous ashes. I don’t need to have lived a thousand years to understand a thousand years. I want to teach my daughter the wisdom of ages of women of life of death and not fear failure. To believe, survive, restore and become all that exists for her world.

I am proud to share my life with amazing women: mothers, sisters, dancers, artists, voices, friends, daughters, each and every one touches my life in positive ways. And in turn bless Anya with hope for a future. She can learn so much more than I because her predecessors opened new doors, continue to break down walls and leap ravines, fight illogic and fallacy, and reveal wisdoms long buried or suppressed. I know I will never stop worrying about her safety and growth, but I must believe that I can provide her the tools and knowledge to survive and succeed, and surround her with good example and strength. The darkness is a place of strength and knowledge and without it I could never have understood myself and my world or come to know my strength. Now to teach Anya not to be afraid of the dark.

11 November 2011

Letter from my Closet

As I scanned my Facebook feed; I came across a topic of the day posted by a dear, old friend, dare I say, ex of my youth responsible for several closet skeletons.  I read the posed question, shook my head and scrolled onward.  Wait a minute.  Did I really just read what I think I did?  Ugh.  Now I understand that my high school years were far from the land of political, religious or moral fortitude discussions, in fact, my youth blazed behind me fast and infamously, but I don’t regret much, though some would say I should, because I am proud of the sum of my experiences both positive and slightly off balance - Elena always knew.  There was never a question of conservative or liberal, Jesus, Buddha or Allah; we all coexisted as bando, druggie or jock with random non-molders.  A boy/girlfriend was never expected to outline their perspectives on life, the universe, and everything before being considered worthy of making out in the park across the street after school - philosophy was better savored in college.

Where was I?  Yes, the posed question.  I shall paraphrase, “When does life begin?”  Pause.  Breathe.  Moment of unconsciousness. 

Letter from my skeletons: To the boy you once were.

Now a father yourself with a beautiful daughter, recovering from a life of debauchery and wickedness, I seek out that former self to lay ourselves to rest.  Many seasons ago you swept a girl away from naïveté.  For one moment allow yourself to see your daughter as a teenager when she comes home in love with the boy next door, from a good Christian family, who rocks her world completely and heedlessly.  Remember her and understand now what your former self could not comprehend.

You were twenty and I turned 16 that year: in my eyes you were an older, fast talker, larger than life…swoon.  I slid into your circle with ease and your family welcomed me as one of their own.  I believed the best in people and assumed I was protected and safe, that honesty directed all things and everything was right. 

This was the 80s decadence and drugs: cocaine, pot, hash, LSD, opium.  I dabbled and experimented, and assumed the same of everyone.  I had a line that I never stepped over, but inched ever so closely, not noticing those around me leaping well beyond the safe zone.  I was hospitalized one night from too much speed, recovering with a slight case of anxiety that haunts me to this day.  I smoked laced pot on several occasions that still seem like hypnotic dreams.  I don’t remember much of the Pink Floyd concert – the devil may know why.  I came from a conservative Greek household and never had the talk, and my parents trusted too much or were merely too afraid to find out the truth.  You took my hand and said it would all be ok.

At the height of our whirlwind I didn’t know your true poison.  Whether it was the good in you or selfishness not to share; I am grateful for your shielding me from the crack of your world.  A simple I’m sorry and make up adventures always brought my forgiveness and affections.  I felt full of life in your guidance and trusted your desires in our exploits.  Ahh the stump in the field, the basement sleeping bag, going through the toll booth, the boat, the beach…bahahahah some of my best stories come from those days.  Surprisingly for my naiveté I lived.  Abruptly, your world and my world crashed the day the police came, took you away, and I learned that I was pregnant.
       
Eddie came to my rescue with an ear and a hug and encouraged me to tell you.  With a child’s heart I didn’t even know how or why or what.  There was no feeling of options or happily ever after, merely a darkness and unreality.  Your parents brought me to you.  I never understood if it was prison or rehab: I just shut down and my mind thought of nothing.  I remember a large room almost like a cafeteria and everyone gave us some time alone to visit.  I can’t recall if we were across the table or side by side.  I don’t even see your face as I remember telling you.  I don’t know whose idea yours or mine, or if the decision was an unspoken agreement or of there was discussion.  I can’t remember if we talked about options or plans or possibilities.  I don’t remember walking away sad, but I don’t remember you beyond this moment.

That day.  That day so long ago in April was cool and Ed and Missy picked me up and took me to that place in Paoli.  My mom was afraid there’d be protestors and talked to them about how to shield me.  My mom, bless her for her patience with me.  I couldn’t let her come, I begged her not to come, and she agreed as long Ed and Missy promised to take care of me.  You were nowhere or somewhere and not there. 

The required counseling terrified me and robotically I said no thank you and why do you make girls feel so awful about a decision that they make.  The wait felt grey and numb.  I didn’t exist.  I don’t remember changing, but I remember that room.  It was cold and smelled overly-sanitized and was very small.  On the table, shivering, exposed, I heard voices, but didn’t want to open my eyes.  I remember them explaining each part, and thinking, “Why. Why. Why?!”  I wasn’t under general anesthesia because it was too expensive and this was all I had saved.  I heard the machine…r.rrrrr..rrrrr…rrrrrchug chug rrrr chug.  The pain that I wasn’t supposed to feel seared inside and out. 

After that day my memory fails.  The infection that followed brought anything left of me to the brink.  I hurt and screamed and cried and had nightmares that woke my parents from deep sleep.  I had an allergic reaction to the pain meds and wanted to die.  My father raged and sobbed that he failed to protect me.  He never said a word to me, but I heard him yell at my mother, and he bought me flowers as the only gesture he could bare. 

A family friend was looking for a nanny to take with them to the Bahamas to watch their little angels on vacation.  A free trip to the beach and I just had to watch the kids over dinner time so the adults could enjoy their vacation.  My parents agreed this time away would be great for my health.  Suitcase and bathing suit in hand I landed at Club Atlantis with such promise.  The kids beamed in front of their parents and turned behind their backs.  They spit, hit and threw things at me and yelled that they didn’t have to listen to me and I was nobody.  The parents went out to dinner and dancing and parked on the beach and left me to their entitled monsters who took advantage of my fragile state.  I remember the trip occured over Mother’s Day and I sat in the hotel room on the double bed while the kids screamed that they didn’t have to go to bed and they didn’t have to listen to me.  A typical Lifetime-esque show about mothers, their love of motherhood and their children brought me to my knees.  I called my mother gasping for air, crying for so many sorrows.  Worst decision ever.

You stayed in jail after your court appearance, and I think we passed a few letters or calls.  And after your release I went to Wildwood to see you.  In fact, our best picture together was there along the rocks of the bay.  We looked picture perfect, standing there in the breeze, arms around each other.  But holding on was useless.  I resented your lack of participation in the whole affair; the fact that you could never know the darkness I experienced, what lived deep inside because of our innocence - or stupidity.  It never happened to you…like a blowing wind and a whisper it passed you by without a mark.

I hospitalized myself that fall because I couldn’t come to terms with my pain.  It’s not that I ever wanted us back – the naiveté and school girl fantasies no longer resided in my heart.  I needed to understand life and everything I could know about what life meant: my ignorance of the ways of the world, my foolishness, believing so blindly, my anger at my parents for leaving me unprepared and exposed.  My desire to define the existential questions didn’t find answers: I was ill-equipped for my journey.  I hid myself from my classmates, friends, family, the world.  It took me a long time to realize that I went there to hide amongst the suicidal, drug addicts, the abused and neglected, since I felt unworthy of the normalcy outside the walls as well as needing protection from that scary outside life. But I didn’t belong there.  The anger I learned in therapy never left, seething beneath the surface, and prompted so many reckless and bad decisions thereafter.  I know now that I was punishing myself, not forgiving myself or you.

I carried that Scarlet Letter in my heart for too long.  It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my own little girl that the guilt and pain slipped back into my sub-consciousness.  How did one life deserve to arrive and another not.  I didn’t deserve motherhood.  And how would I look into her eyes knowing that she will be an only child, but shouldn’t have been.  I know now these were silly mind games to play with myself and left me wallowing in a pit of despair that I didn’t deserve.

So your question about when does life begin prompted me to reply that life begins when there are organs and a brain to support life functions.  I wanted to cyber scream, “You Bastard!”  I wanted to send you an email blasting your selfish question.  I wonder if you understood my position.  I wonder if you felt a pang like I did.  It’s not fair to hold you to that image of who we were then or expect that your closet holds these same demons.  But then I slipped into that time of long ago and realized you and I never made peace with that time.  I’ve held you accountable instead of asking both of us to forgive each other and share a moment of empathy for our youthful foibles.  I’m not here to have a religious or scientific discussion about the start of life, the difference between life or the potential for life.  I’m not here to guilt you or me into some sympathic apologies.  But I am here to ask you how you come to terms with your question yourself.

My skeletons have packed their bags and walked into the light.  I’m grateful for modern technology for bringing us cyber together and laying a potential life to rest.

08 August 2011

For Deb - Rule #112 of What I Wish Someone Told Me about Pregnancy

As the oldest of 4 girls I played mommy young and happily. Each new little sister was the best Baby Alive a girl could ever want: they cried and needed fed and rocked and loved – my living dolls. My dreams foretold the joys of motherhood and the fabulous glow of pregnancy – barefoot of course. I couldn’t wait to find that special someone to create an amazing life – my prince charming. The years went by as did relationships begin and end, and my dreams turned dark like lies, mocking my hope. Just as my clock neared midnight that amazing moment came like a magic wave of the wand…key fairy godmother singing bibbity bobbity boo.

Reality check: scared, knowing how many miscarriages and false positives exist in the world as well as watching all of my friends go through fertility treatments with futility, I didn’t actually accept the reality nor did I feel worthy when so many had failed before me, especially after a several weeks binge of living up the non-parent life with wine and parties and adventures o my. I told my hubby, who was thrilled (stifle fears and worries here), and we agreed to only tell immediate family since I had this twinge of concern. We asked those in the know to pipe down until we were prepared for the world to know, and day by day we accepted the new reality, but kept buttoned up for the bulk of the tests.

The landmark week 8, first doctor’s appointment, arrived and I hoped this would assuage my fears and growing anxieties, but, alas, over 35 meant high-risk doctors, testing, and decisions and quitting my 2 pack a day smoking habit as well as my party nights. I cringed, thinking about being a pin cushion and fearing for the health and well-being of myself and unborn, let alone what decisions I may have to face and did I already cause damage. I feared the worst and began building a wall between me and the world. I selected the non-CVS route and instead went with genetic marker tests and ultrasounds, with the more invasive amniocentesis only-if-necessary. I nervously went to the counseling and blood tests and regular ultrasounds and waited. I waited for the joy of pregnancy to begin.

All my tests came back normal and strong and healthy – yeah! But that didn’t seem to lift my mood. As each milestone test returned I hoped for a smile and flutter of excitement, but instead I vomited for 7 months and developed reflux and the heartburn seared holes in my esophagus; I could no longer walk from planters fasciitis in both feet, the equivalent of bursitis in both thighs, and a dropped groin – let’s not go there, all right?! The pain moving from sitting to standing and walking or rolling over sent red hot flashes through me. I longed for the days I sat outside drinking my Hoggarden or Sauvignon Blanc or Vodka martinis with my packs of smokes and all the time in the world. My body changed for the miserable and I wondered why I ever thought pregnancy beautiful.

I couldn’t break my smoking habit, but patted myself for cutting back to 6 cigs a day. I had to hide myself for fear of chastisement and disgust. The doctors encouraged my continued efforts and allowed me this small piece of my former life. They asked how I felt and I replied cautiously, “ok as can be expected.” Slight grin. I hated people, especially those who kept berating me for “not enjoying pregnancy” and that “I should be thrilled and happy” and “I needed to change my attitude” and “get over it”. O each little word out of each ugly mouth gave me visions of ripping their heads right from their shoulders, spinal cord swinging and stomping on their pathetic, foolish brains. SHUT THE FUCK UP!

I wondered if I was cut out to be a mom after all. I was happy living my rock star life complete with rock star husband and fabulous freedom and adventures. I worked hard and played hard and lived life like no tomorrow. My belly grew, my drinking ceased, my smoking declined, my hours of wakefulness became nil and my mental state went black. I beat myself up: how could I be so resentful of what I always dreamed? I’m a monster for feeling the way I do. I couldn’t pull myself out from the quicksand. My exhaustion and pain fed my depression, which fed my exhaustion and pain. No one understood, and how could they: I was the bad person. At the same time I was warring with the demons in my head a delicate balance grew within the household - my husband lost a child at birth a wife-ago, feeding his own concerns as birth day closed in, stewing below the surface, preventing either of us from comforting the other. The house simmered just below boiling.

An unexpected moment of happiness occurred at my 22 week ultrasound when I learned I would bring a daughter into the world. Hubby and I enlisted my mother to come along to this level 2 ultrasound, not only would yiayia get to experience the joy of modern technology, but she would act as a buffer as they told me it was a boy – my husband was certain. The heartbeat more real than the Doppler at the ob/gyn office, the image of ten fingers and toes, left arm in the “drama” position and possibly thumb in mouth made me awestruck, the measurements and movements and the reality... Then the tech asked, “Do we want to know what the sex is today?” I replied, “I do, but hubby wants to wait. Send him outside.” Hubby interjected, “No, no I want to know.” “Well, it’s a girl. You see these 3 lines….” And I heard nothing else. And my hubby turned an ashen-shade of white. That moment of utter joy carried me through the day. Yet the darkness in my grey matter slowly wrinkled the truth with suggestions that it wasn’t 100%, the baby’s position could have been off, or maybe they made a mistake. I hoped, but couldn’t believe.

The sickness in my head wouldn’t let sunshine stay long. I spent each day crying and paralyzed at the office. The pain increased daily, allowing me to offer only meager smiles and cordialities. I spent more time traveling from desk to bathroom than I could fathom, and the intolerable pain making me dread any form of movement; pushing up from my seat with my arms, I would hold my breath until I could maneuver my legs to hold me upright. The first few steps I took seemed impossible, exhausting all the energy my body contained. By the time I made it to the bathroom I usually had a small accident (panty liners and I were well acquainted) and had to rest my head against the cold metal stall before I attempted the trek back to my desk. When I could, I spent lunch time in the car: heat on, the seat slightly reclined, phone alarm set for 30 minutes. I relished the days that I could do this because that brief 30 minutes helped me until I could leave for home. Some days if I couldn’t nap I sat there crying to the radio or into my daydreams.

I hurt inside and out. The cycle never ended. At night sleep failed to refresh me because of the pain ravaging my lower body, the symbiont creature in my belly, the burning in my throat and the hourly trek up and down the stairs to the bathroom – whose brilliant idea was it to buy a house with only one bathroom on the first floor?! I learned to crawl down the steps on my hands and knees and back up on my butt – talk about land of the living opposites. By the time my body rested enough for sleep the urge came on again. I couldn’t sleep downstairs because the only comfortable place was my 4 inch memory foam topped bed with 27 pillows fixed just right. I dreaded the arrival of little miss with feedings and the promise of no sleep yet to come – I was already too deprived. Lost in the mist of depression and physical pain all I could dream was sleep. I remember my days-of-ago motto: I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead - how foolish! No one understood and my dirty little secrets consumed me.

I didn’t want to resent the little creature or the new life we faced together. Even when the stomach sickness subsided sometime around month 7 and the kicks and spins in my belly replaced some of the sadness and woe, I never really felt aglow. I resented missing out on everything that once made me happy, and resigned myself to the new life – really what choice did I have. At the same time I looked for a doula to assist me through delivery and educate me on breastfeeding and postpartum depression – I anticipated the likelihood. My spirits rose slightly as I prepared to evict the little alien from my body one way or another and teach her the ways of the world. I felt there was never a time when I could confide my story to anyone at least until I met my postpartum group. Each time I made a small attempt to hint that I wasn’t the glowing baby factory that a woman is expected to resemble, I watched eyes go blank, jaws slacken, and heads tilt. With a wave of the hand I was labeled “ill” or ridiculous or dramatic. I still harbor anger towards those who could have (should have) seen that I needed compassion and strength, not a waving, pointing finger and insults or brushed off or ignored. I thank my little symbiont for saving me. From the day she arrived nothing else has mattered. I had never heard of perinatal depression, and it scared me more than delivery – it shouldn’t have…and that’s a tale for another day.

25 July 2011

If sheep could read

I'm fairly private and tech savvy.  I keep all my Facebook options to Friends Only; I typically only accept friend requests from folks that I want to keep in my life, speak to regularly, and genuinely care about; I don't allow FB apps (anymore); and I don't fall for any of the virus posts, millionaire emails, or allow bank account access to anyone but my bank and another bank for wire trnasfers that I am initiating.  That being said, I am noticing how my privacy is really not private any longer.  SURPRISE!  Not.

Due to some recent business ventures I've accepted friend requests from folks that I normally would have declined, not because I'm a mean, heartless bitch, but because I really wanted Facebook to be the place where I kept in touch in this crazy world with friends and family ONLY.  I didn't want to friend co-workers past or present unless we were friends outside of the office or we have a commraderie that would extend outside if we had time; I didn't want to friend old school acquaintances whom I didn't really plan to stay connected or agree with their philosophies on life; I didn't expect to use Facebook as a marketing tool.  And Google+ really?  Not right now please.

I've ventured out into the world of dance instruction and have needed to market my business to attract people that may be interested in lessons, especially from an old friend.  I've also tapped my inner sales woman and been marketing Arbonne products to said expanded friend base.  I of course offer my discounts and freebies to these friends and families.  I am also slowly (but not forgotten) working on a project to open my own business in the ARTS.  These ventures have eroded that sense of security that I once had on Facebook.  I've friended one timers and friends of friends that I will most likely never speak to again...until the next party.  I've friended acquaintences to shamelessly market myself, my services and my goods.  I've friended all sorts of family because I love my family, but, then again, they now also have access to this blog, which is sometimes not a pleasant read.  I've allowed the ease of technology to creep into my personal space and blast to the world. 

I started this blog to help myself and others who have or may or are suffering post-partum.  I wanted people to read it so that they may better understand me or themselves.  I wanted the writer in me to re-emerge and spread the word.  The problem is that at times this blog became more of a journal than a public blog, and I found myself not wanting to Facebook blast that particular post, hoping that only my die-hards would actually peer into my soul.  Or that if one of my friends or family did see that "one" that they would take it for what it was and not "react". <-- and for you english friends, yes, I do prefer the British punctuation rules to our MLA.  LOL.

Yesterday I tried to use PayPal to pay for our dinner delivery online so that neither of us had to trek out in the sweltering heat if we didn't have to.  Well guess who did anyway?!  Let's try and make this short-ish, shall we?  Apparently, I have to a) give PayPal direct access to my bank account, or b) get their credit card, or c) pay a $4.95 convenience fee for the equivalent of a gift card in order to continue using their services.  Now mind you I've had PayPal since the days they were in their infancy, and well before the concept of "account verification" was conceived by their greedy leadership.  I rememeber the notices stating..."hey get verified, but it's optional!"  Now they tell me since I have cumulatively sent $2000 over 12 years, I now have to do a, b, or c in order to continue using their pay service.  WTF.  They have my debit card.  The equivalent of my bank account, not a regular credit card.  I should not be forced to give them my direct account information to be used as a wire transfer instead of a payment service.  If someone steals my card numbers it's easier to replace, but my bank account numbers?!  Come on!!!  You are not a bank or a retailer, you are a payment service!  You should not legally be allowed to force me into providing you my bank account information.  That makes you not much different than my favorite Nigerian Scam artists.  Even my bill payments and other banks don't force my direct bank access - I can use a credit card or debit card of my personal choice.  So now I can no longer purchase from Amazon, EBay, or several other of my regular vendors.  O well.  The reality is none of the corporations that have control of our broken economy really want it fixed, so I won't spend my money the way or where I am accustomed any longer.  Fuck You PayPal!  O, BTW...look into the 2004 Class Action suit against PayPal to understand more.  I guess I should have paid more attention to it back then.

So here I am blogging away.  A fairly harmless one today.  I have a lot on my mind, but I'm not in the frame to share my abyss at the moment.  So enjoy my worthless tirade on privacy and paypal in lieu of emotional meltdown.

08 July 2011

Poison

What is the worst thing someone you care about can say to you; 6 inches from your face at the top of their lungs; something that feels the equivalent of being stabbed? Let me share: “I hate you. My family hates you. I don’t care.”

According to Merriam Webster the word hate is defined as:
noun
1. a. intense hostility and aversion usually deriving from fear, anger, or sense of injury
    b. extreme dislike or antipathy : loathing
2. an object of hatred
verb
1. to feel extreme enmity toward
2. to have a strong aversion to: find very distasteful
intransitive verb
1. to express or feel extreme enmity or active hostility

You can’t take back words. They resonate and bang around your brain at varying octaves and tones in waves. I’m sorry never erases the venom that stung. The poison will eat away until there is nothing left. You can kill a person with words.

Yes, sometimes being responsible sucks: it includes, putting your children and partner above all else, making some people unhappy with your decisions, and making sacrifices that are unpleasant. No one said that being responsible was easy or comfortable. But that’s what makes the world go around: responsibility and respect…it’s what makes us civilized.

07 July 2011

Rant

I'm not really in the mood to write today, but I haven't been "in the mood" for a very long time.  Such is the story of my modern life in o too many ways.  I'm washed up and feeling quite old and worthless.  Being a mother is for the young, but society encouraged us to change our views on such nonesense and we became older mom: superbeing.  Bull shit.

Where does wife, friend, sister, daughter fit in or self for that matter.  One group of people says that you should work to teach our daughters to be strong women; another group says bring back the stay at home mom for our children's welfare and security; and yet another says daycares are best; and then still, stay at home dad's are just as good.  I don't knock anyones opinion, but I do knock people stepping in on my decisions for my family.

Don't question my authority, decision or ideas.  Do not go against my wishes and don't believe that your views are superior in any way.  My family is my family and I make decisions for its welfare and safety and comfort.  These decisions take careful consideration of working hours, finance levels, child care and discipline, home care and maintenance, travel options, available time and nourishment and most of all my ability to function to make it all happen.  I don't expect anyone to agree with me wholely, but respect that I am a smart, educated, common-sense filled female and don't tread on me or the family I have created.