My husband just took me on a night away from everything to the mountains where a river flows outside a bed and breakfast owned and managed by the sweetest lady. At once, when with him alone, I felt 20-25 years younger, like that college student searching for a lifelong love. I’ve found him and we’ve been together fifteen years now. My soul has found a release I didn’t know it needed. Who I’ve desired to be all along but responsibility and routine get in the way. He looked at me last night and admitted he didn’t know what to do with himself without our cat and little one biding for their needs to be met. I understand the feeling. It hit me, albeit much more briefly, too. But then I realized I could just be me and not the many hats I wear. I didn’t need to plan the next project or ride to the next activity. It’s classic we had to almost run off away from everyone and everything with those last chores needing to be ticked off first. I didn’t plan to take the day off and wished I had. Some of my tasks have to happen on particular days and I’m the only one doing them so asking for a substitute is something that completely slipped my mind. It would have taken possibly weeks of planning. I left it all off, so being rushed was the consequence. When my daughter rushed outside for a hug, I missed that’s what she meant and told her I had to leave immediately as I slipped my purse into the already open car door. Thankfully, her outstretched arms told me what she had said and I got that needed hug. Why don’t I listen more? Why so rushed all day every day even if on this damned device? Funny how I put off getting a smartphone over ten years ago knowing it’d become that constant thing in my pocket or hand. It has: email, online shopping to avoid the trip into town with our shared car, and ugh, social media, my camera, banking, calculator, navigating…everything like a mini laptop in my pocket at all times. Even on this trip I was checking out the bed and breakfast’s website and maps of the area between conversations with my husband. I swear if it wasn’t for the necessary activity apps now for parents at school and such, I’d ditch this thing and go back. I need more of a break but find now that I can’t go back. The technology is moving too quickly where now we have to be connected or miss essential communications. Blech.
So I’m finding I’m needing more of a respite. It’ll be a dream to be back out there again in the wild. I wish it weren’t too cold still at over 7,000 feet. The season is so short for the wood out here. Our souls were made for the wild, so why has being tamed and tattered to technology become essential?
Jesus, Do You Remember?
Remember when I used to write a lot in a note on Facebook? Remember those really long hours of putting together the words and attempting to always dig deep into my soul and faith? Remember when I had energy and excitement before being married?
Remember when it all came crashing down?
I met my soulmate. We marry. Yet, I struggle deeply with sex. If it wasn’t such a beautiful and pleasurable engagement filled with positive connection and endorphins, I would be entirely celibate. It’s been so long since I’ve felt that particular fear: that I will be hurt badly physically and emotionally. I’ve engaged in therapy and even did EMDR, yet PTSD still exists and is a very unwelcomed companion in the bedroom. It’s funny how many tricks are out there to help: making jokes about sex, building up tension through flirting with my husband throughout the day regardless of if the flirting leads to anything, new positions, more caressing and simply talking in bed with no pressure to perform, holding his hand… I mean, all of it helps, but it’s still hard at times.
I had no idea that I even had PTSD. I had no idea that someone being too rough with me and pushing me past my boundaries would permanently wire my brain to fear being intimate. I also had no idea that it would trigger the immune system and nervous system to go haywire. Yet, here we are, Jesus. I can’t believe typing this is even in itself an answer to prayer. I knew You wanted to dig deeper with me and perhaps it’s because of how invasive a colonoscopy can be that I’m now finally vulnerable enough to bring it to You.
It’s been 14 years, plus. My identity as a wife and mother has been shaped by an inconsistent and damaged drive. Now enter middle age and my body is heavy, curvy, full of the changes that motherhood and getting older bring. It’s shocking how much white hair I have already and that hair dye only turns it a brassy color instead of blonde. I sure miss being a blonde, but hormones have changed all that. I’m literally not the young woman I used to be when I said, “I do.”
Remember that fire? That zeal for life? That adventurous side that wanted only kayaks, the wind on my face, and my love? It’s been the biggest risk of my life falling in love with my husband. Even with his gentleness and patience with me I still struggle. Even if not in the moment, it’ll come later. What is this assault on my heart?
What is this attack of everything I hold most precious? My desire for family: damaged and my uterus a casualty in the battle as well as several miscarriages. My desire for wedded bliss: always assaulted by habitual survival anxieties, fears, and thoughts. My desire for good rest and great connections with those I love in between: under attack with pain, fatigue, and insomnia.
I call bullshit. Jesus, this isn’t the life You wanted for me. I met my husband when I was deeply seeking You. I know beyond a doubt that You brought us together because of his gentle hand with me and his strength with raising a family despite the difficulties. But tonight, I weep. I weep over the woman I imagined never living in reality. I weep over whom I thought I was going to be as a wife and mother. I mourn over my lost babies and the deep cut each left. And I weep over it being unfair to be so broken when all this beauty is around me still. This isn’t the life You wanted for me either. I hardly doubt You’d send loss and pain and fear in the bedroom my way. But can You hold me, Jesus, because I’m shaking like a leaf. You’ve been King of all glory. Would You be my Prince of Peace?
Please heal these wounds as a skilled physician with his instruments. Aim well and sew up my brokenness. Every day I mourn not being able to be more for my family. Every day I feel half the woman I ought to have been. Chronic disease has followed this brokenness. I ask for healing. Meet me here and help me to hold onto the words of Rich Mullins’ song. Please be my Prince of Peace.
Reflection
I’ve been entangled with our 13-year-old cat for nearly an hour. He approached me after I came out of the bathroom. I was in there a while yet again trying to remove unwanted middle-aged hair from my upper lip, chin, and eyebrows. What a strange age to go from merely shaping brows to chasing ingrown, seemingly mutated, ugly black hairs in my far too light complexion for such a phenomenon. It bothers me deeply, but grooming seems to be the only answer. It might be time to seek outside help at a salon. Maybe a good wax routine will help.
I come to this laptop on the heels of a colonoscopy and sleeping off the anesthesia. It usually sets everything right once more. I’ve had a couple surgeries, so I figured I would sleep in my normal cycle tonight. Instead, I’m wide awake and wondering where all these ideas about life and where I’d rather be are all coming from suddenly. Is this a midlife crisis of sorts?
Perhaps it is not. I don’t feel as if I am in crisis. Instead, I feel as though I’ve been revived after mentally and spiritually being asleep too long. All this time focused on activities for the kiddo going into third grade and juggling appointments and ample rest between has thoroughly exhausted me this summer. I’ve had plenty of help. My husband has been amazing with providing rides and co-parenting fantastically and ensuring her routine is adhered to even if I’ve needed to lay down early.
I’m a mom of one beautiful little girl who is spunky and shy and creative and wonderfully in love with cats. When I had her, I thought she would be the beginning of a family with my husband, but she broke the mold I suppose. Although talking about it often has me feeling melrose, I suppose that’s not really the word, but it’s 1:22am and I cannot place it… Anyways, there’s bittersweetness to the beginning and end to my motherhood in one child. The beauty of it is we are able to do more with one child. The bitterness in it is I have never really been energetic enough to be a playmate to her. Fibromyalgia, GERD, ITP/MHA, TN are just a few enemies of my motherhood at the moment. It’s a shame I’m now too dizzy from the recent medications to finish these thoughts, but I hope to come back to them later. Jesus, please help me to remember to dig more. I know there’s so much more soul work You want to do with this. Work in me while I rest and process. What kind of broken yet OK stage is this?
It’s Cold
The lapse of time between writing thoughtfully like this has been quite immense. I had a quite beautiful ride bringing my daughter to school today. There is a layer of fresh snow that began melting a bit yesterday after it fell. In the air, you could feel the ice and see its foggy form from your breath as it chilled the air. The mountains are whitened from the frozen precipitation and edge the sky like a wall of rolling rocks as if a sediment giant lay on the horizon and the snow blanketed them as they slept. I can now imagine why I’ve read someone calling them sleeping giants here in the Rockies. I was reminded just how small I am in this grand world and just how small my daughter must feel with the over thirty-year difference between us. I found myself praying aloud for joy of the beauty of the moment and asking for peace during stress and friendship during moments of loneliness. My daughter spoke up, never hearing me pray aloud like that, and asked me if I was praying. Yes, I was, and she wanted to hear it more often although I admitted I usually only leave such conversations to occur in my heart and not pass through my lips. Sometimes, being overcome with beauty is part of that beauty itself.
There are many moments I wish not to remember here in this blog, so I didn’t read much more than just the titles while logging on. I wanted nothing to influence what I felt before writing: peaceful joy and inspiration from the first fresh snow of the incoming winter season. As a practice, I have been trying to find things to enjoy about the things I usually dismiss and say I hate. This results in stewing and ruminating in discontent and grumpy unhappiness. I sure don’t want to spend another of my 40 accumulated years so far with yet one more added disgruntled cold season. Although I’ve been taking a very much-needed break from the many feeds of social media apps on my cell phone, I recall a growing theme I had discovered perhaps a decade ago and had never put into practice: hygge.
I’m friends with a first grade teacher whom was our landlord long ago when we were first married. I recall how carefully she cared for herself. She is a petite woman still today although we may not have spoken directly in over 12 years. She had many adorable throws on her furniture, books lining her living room that she and her husband shared, and she would wear many different types of gorgeous knit sweaters, slippers/house shoes, thick socks, and sweatshirts during the fall and winter. She also often had heated up rice packs over her shoulders or draped over her feet while sipping a warm drink. I never asked her if she was a tea person or cocoa or coffee… Anyways, she even had a small few warm-colored collection of lamps glowing in her living room. Our living room mirrored theirs in layout, but it was not furnished as well yet given that we lived on hand-me-down furniture and quick thrifted finds. Nothing was intentionally picked out or fitted together like her side of the duplex apartment home. Even as I look back on some photos, I feel cold again seeing the bareness of our quick furnishings and lack of intentionality anywhere. Function. Yes, that’s the word for it. We were getting acquainted with our list of bills and sharing tight finances and navigating through some strange illnesses that had me going in and out of work, so it was a reasonable lifestyle and decor to represent our season.
When I think of the significance of hygge and function, I think of the growth that has occurred between now and then. Compared to the third world countries both my husband and I have visited along our life journeys; I had never thought of not having much before when we were living function more than hygge. It’s a typical sort of thing, I suppose, for a newlywed couple to have to start afresh. We, of course, had what were wedding gifts of upgraded dishes from the plastic ones that I carried from college to my first apartment. I fell asleep while watching Fiddler on the Roof with my sister long ago. However, I recall one scene that has stuck with me: a wedding. The families and friends of the bride and groom came together to create a potluck-style wedding across a makeshift banquet table that was adorned with laces and decor from each of their homes. It all came together as a conglomerate of love and generosity to celebrate the couple. I felt that way of our wedding and home immediately after in how it was kept. I remember the Saturdays vacuuming the second-hand rug and fixing the worn-in maroon curtains on the drafty windows. Everything is drafty in New England, even that freshly built duplex home. I remember seeing the fresh pine trees outside (and how skinny they were!) with the newborn snow on the ground. The windows had frost and condensation on them. Could brand new windows be built in such a way to even try to keep the New England humidity out? It seemed to me such things still do not exist. Oh, the mold we carried! It wasn’t from this home we shared half with the couple next door where we inherited deadly black mold spores. This home was clean and yet it couldn’t keep New England’s need to cover everything in its mossy green out.
Yes, we carried mold from one of our homes in New England to the West Coast with us. When we moved to California, we had no idea. It took a few years to grow. I have no energy to write what happened right now, but I wonder at needing to gut our apartment out. Our dumpster at the apartment complex was filled. The apartment left once more to start over. Clean, fresh linens were brought in; our community of friends and family once more coming together for us as in that famous movie. What relief! It was challenging to accept clothing not necessarily to our style and furniture not quite suited to our purposes, but when we moved to Colorado, we were able to donate or re-gift all that was not quite suitable to our future to those who could use it and enjoy it even more. Then, my husband let me purchase living room furniture brand new.
How odd is it that settling in became about material things? I suppose it’s a representation of a matter of the heart more than actual furniture. I breathe in and out deeply now when I enter our home. It’s a freshly built house, nearly clear of any mold spores through careful cleaning habits. I daresay, I never want to experience an autoimmune flare up like that of 2018 when dealing with black mold! This is the home we have arrived at. Much of it is simply still function over hygge, but it’ll more than do for now. We never dreamed of owning a home. Even the nature in which we found ourselves being able to afford the down payment was a happy series of coincidences. Although, some were not as happy as others seeing that we purchased during a pandemic and my husband was able to continue working as many in the world were falling ill, losing their jobs, and many were dying while the global population attempted this concept of locking down and quarantining. What an awful few years!
I sigh deeply now and relax my jaw. We are no longer in those years. Instead, we are here, blessed to slowly accumulated healthy, mold-free blankets, sheets, curtains, one single cushy couch, cozy beds with pillows (although, how is it I cannot find one that suits me well enough to keep back and neck pain away?), and sweaters and sweatshirts. I’m crocheting hats, mittens, and socks. We are warm enough to see that the windows in Colorado, although they let a little of the cold in through the glass, manage to keep the drier state’s winter out. Thermal curtains in a soothing color adorn our south and west facing windows. Everything about our clean (yet, there could be a cobweb or layer of prairie dust here and there at any given time) new world breathes out promise of better health as a whisper of hope to me. I feel its peace and breathe in gratitude. This is living hygge.
I thought more suitable words would come to express this transition, but as I reach for another blanket and plan out finding a new sweater or sweatshirt, pair of slippers, and figure out which pattern to cover my lap with while crocheting today, I believe this will all do. It isn’t so much about how much one owns as it is about intentionally appreciating the function of such things. It’s a joy in the simple and cozy. Cozy. Yes, that’s it. It’s time to just get cozy and ride out these colder days. If I keep myself warm, I will be able to live out these good vibes inside and banish the grumpy. Sure, grumpy will happen when needing to rise from a warm bed, but it doesn’t have to stay. I’m thankful for my electric tea kettle. I think I will also find something to sip.
Building Routine
It’s hard to believe that it is already February 2024 when my thoughts are still stuck on 2018 or 2019. I have not caught up much seemingly. I have, however, had a major surgery that was the nail in the coffin on whether or not we would have anymore children. My husband had had the snip back in 2019, so we had already made up our minds that I was too high risk and not orienting to motherhood well enough to attempt to bring another life into this world. Admittedly, I wish many more parents had taken a good, long, and hard look at themselves and their mental capacity before having another child. What we didn’t want was to make our home too tumultuous to enjoy. All the pros and cons were weighed. It is obvious that our now seven-year-old would benefit from being an older sibling and possibly even greatly enjoy it most of the time. The love that would be added to our home is indeed something worth mourning over. I am not sure how many times I would need to revisit this hole in my heart. I’m not even sure if it is something that should be healed completely or even if it will heal completely, but I do know that I have begun to accept our small family as a fact instead of a tragedy. What is evident, as I have observed in other families of only one child, ours has their needs that require extra time and attention. I had wondered if something would come up and I can only pray that the recent weeks are not some self-fulfilled prophecy coming to roost.
As a pre-cursor, I have been actively seeking therapy for the last three years for what I had thought was a sensitivity to loud noises and instead unraveled as a deep-rooted anxiety and depression struggle hidden behind some PTSD and what I now think are minor childhood traumas. It’s incredibly interesting to me how the human mind can stuff things down which seemed insignificant and how they’ll raise their heads at the most inopportune times. But the fact remains, it was not safe for us in our last neighborhood nor was it quiet enough to get ample rest between the long days of parenting no matter what tricks I tried. Many of my anxieties receded when we moved into our friends’ basement and the quiet little prairie our current home sits on has offered much rest for my heart, body, and soul.
What I didn’t expect was that my daughter would soon develop signs of an anxiety issue herself. I have been much more careful in recent weeks with no longer discussing any deep topics of worries, aches and pains, or anything negative (like a conflict with my mom or a different family member or whatever company billed us incorrectly, etc.). Here’s the pattern: nearly every ache and pain I even mention to my husband, my daughter will later express that ache or pain in her body in the same manner. What’s more is she has already been having several body aches and belly issues for what seems to stretch on years now with the last two weeks being marked by a rotten stomach virus. Everything she eats hurts her belly. She finally threw up last night after about 8 days of these aches. Today, she is eating light but at least she is keeping down fluids (with a timer set to remind her to drink again so she continues to get more fluids), but she is overall responding to the medications we’ve been guided to give her.
I’ve known for quite a while that belly aches mean possible anxiety. We’ve worked out a few allergies from her diet and now are quickly finding a little bit more rhythm in how she eats. Thankfully, I just noticed a few days ago that it isn’t that she doesn’t want to eat meat, but she simply doesn’t like fish or poultry. She will eat ground turkey if it’s a burger, meatball, or taco meat, but anything else she turns her nose up at. Knowing she will eat ham (especially deli ham rolled up with some veggies for lunch), bacon, sausage (if not too spicy), pepperoni, and beef. What a relief that she’s very similar to my dad in meat choices. He is picky with his fish but does not like poultry. Either way, knowing she will eat some meat will make working around her dislike for all beans/legumes (that are not green beans) and her allergy to soy… feeding her enough protein just got far easier. She will eat some peanut butter but tires of it easily and is the same with peas. For a kid who doesn’t appear like a picky eater at all, it sure is hard to put together a meal with an egg, soy, and dairy allergy whom used to claim to be vegetarian. Phew! I’m so glad we can do some pork or beef now even if my husband won’t eat pork, really.
We got our little one into therapy at school before this last bout of illness. We haven’t completed all the screenings and the last one will possibly be this week, but what good timing! She began having more aches and pains and worries around her health that seem far bigger and amplified than before. She also seems terrified of her teacher if she has to raise her voice and has been washing her hands for so long and so often that her hands are rough and red. I’ve done my best to encourage her to only sing a song once while washing and let her know when it’s needed to wash hands. For example: not after every time she touches her face. When I remember, I also send her to bed with Vaseline on her hands. Today, I pulled out my fast-absorbing Vaseline lotion out of my purse for her to use. Hopefully keeping it on the coffee table this afternoon will help her to remember to put it on after every time she washes her hands after the bathroom. The concerns over her overall health with every ache and pain is the biggest trial at the moment. Once this virus clears, I’ll be interested to see if these are together signs of obsessive compulsive disorder or if the anxiety simply increases while sick.
Given my husband’s history of OCD and my bumpy and mysterious symptoms usually related to fibromyalgia, I am concerned she is already a product of her environment. It is hard not to feel responsible for the storm raging inside such a young soul, but tempering that with how we’ve already been doing the best we could by her is truly the only way to proceed. We are giving her as safe of an environment as we can and doing what we can to try to get her caloric and water intake up. Thankfully, she’s growing great according to her doctor. Her doctor also believes we’ve done as much as we can without invasive type of solutions like asking GI to do a scope on her or an allergist to do a bunch of scratch tests to sus out anymore allergies. She also, just at the last check up, believes this last bout to be viral and not anything more serious: something that greatly eased my daughter’s worries.
Lately, my focus shifted to giving her a good day after the doctors and to spend more time playing with her. Any time that wasn’t spent that way was keeping up with Girl Scouts training, continuing to plan my business’s year, and researching different products and books available to help ease my daughter’s every day battle between worry and belly aches and not drinking enough fluids. She mentioned she wanted some donuts while we were shopping for a picnic, so I got some supplies to do just that. I’m thankful I know how to bake and cook seeing as this is how we have to supply ourselves with food now that nearly everything in the stores or in restaurants doesn’t accommodate soy-dairy-egg-free all at once. I also made cinnamon rolls. She will have a little of something, almost half, before she can’t eat any more of it. I really wish the poor little one would be able to eat more. Even things she loves, she’s eating so light…
Part of my focus and reading up on children with anxiety has led to a push for routine in our house. I’ve always been a bit of a non-routine person. It’s something I didn’t notice until I was a stay-at-home mom with little to no schedule. Now when I look back, school and college provided me a schedule. My retail job had odd hours set around that schedule. Then, my office job would be the same as any other 9-5pm job. Without a job outside the home and being able to design my hours between side-hustles and managing my own business, I happen to only have one requirement: 2 cups of coffee before my day stretches beyond the couch. Even when I wasn’t drinking coffee, all messages, social media notifications, and emails would be cleared out before picking what the day would bring. With the kiddo now in school, I at least have a calendar again as well as a way to track when appointments, orders, and other commitments will happen.
Along with a sick day folder I made to keep the little one busy, I pulled out the goal notebook I created in November 2023 before the new year that contains every to-do list I could imagine and every goal written out as short, mid, or long term. I finally feel focused somewhat. Each day is becoming more regular with a normal bedtime (always before 11:30pm unless giving in to a binge-watch, and usually closer to 10-10:30pm these days), waking up to take the little one to school instead of sleeping in and having the hubs do it, and staying awake instead of collapsing back in bed. I’ve been pulling out the laptop daily to stay focused, too, in doing at least one task a day from the several pages ahead of me. My website is underway, my business cards reordered, much of my Girl Scouts training done, etc. Even when she’s home sick, I’m plugging away refusing to let much more than what’s necessary keep me from building this routine for her. That’s what it is, though, for her. If I don’t build a routine for myself, how can I expect her to learn one?
She now has a responsibility chart. She had one before, but I liked how this one broke down the different parts of the day and offered more space for activities. As she grows, she will have more responsibility added and that’s the season we were cusping on anyways. She’s outgrowing her clothes, too, so one task is cleaning out her clothing and figuring out what might be needed in the next shopping trip. She’s cleaning her room a bit more on her own now. She also now has a list of things she has to do to earn screen time instead of just letting me sleep in while she binge-watches Paw Patrol. My husband has been helping her with it on Fridays while he works from home and it was a huge success. Breakfast, lunch, dinner plans with a regular time for each are next. We already eat dinner together nearly every night of the week at 5 pm-ish depending on if something needs more time to cook or not. Instead of asking her to do dishes before she can comfortably reach the sink or cabinets to put away clean ones, we have her setting the table and rinsing her dishes before putting them in the sink. Sometimes she will help load the dishwasher. We always had her help with chores, it’s more about the intentionality behind it for me, to be honest. Building a habit is something I have to be actively a participant in. I have already built my own habit of three 24 ounce glasses of water a day that starts while picking up the house. Kitchen and living room first. Clutter out of the living room, dishes to the sink, wash dishes, wipe counters, sweep/vacuum…
It’s building and the routine is bringing comfort already; and although it didn’t seem like an unsettled home, it is also bringing stability. The laundry is in the dryer and dishes are mostly done. There will always be more, but the routine builds a rhythm of a predictable home. The bathroom might not be scrubbed yet but is scheduled to soon be on the same day each week. School attendance hopefully will be back to a full week next week. I’m looking forward to a new daily cycle. I hope it will be the first step in helping the little one with anxiety. I have already noticed mine is improving immensely.
Burden vs. Independence
Unfinished from drafts from March 2023
My emotions are so incredibly raw today. I forget what exactly set it off, but there were quite a few very, very deep tears cried this afternoon. Anyways, whatever triggered it, I was unloading and reloading the dishwasher and talking with my husband. I didn’t want to be the reason for financial problems or upset. Maybe we were talking about coffee and having expensive taste? Maybe medications? I’m not entirely sure, but in the middle of dishes and the space between my ears and the distance of my husband’s work desk across the shared space of the open living room/kitchen area it was dropped: I feel like a burden. I depend on medications, which I feel are keeping my depression at a manageable level to not feel suicidal and at a level where I can work through my issues in therapy…but I *depend* on them. There’s no discussion about tiering down yet I’ve always felt I would have by now. I *know* I’ve said to others while working as an intake coordinator that there’s a reality that chemical imbalances exist out there and would you ever ask a diabetic to tier off their insulin? Or that medications like mine are simply another tool in a toolbox to work through cPTSD and other real brain injuries. Yet, here I am believing all that is fabricated simply to make others feel better and it all has nothing to do with ME. But why would I be exempt from all of humanity? Why would I be exempt from very convincing science stating that the hypothesis of these things (depression, cPTSD, PTSD, anxiety, etc) are often hardly, hardly ever the patient’s fault. There are indeed certain habits that will exasperate symptoms. There are certainly lifestyles or life choices that contribute to falling victim to ill mental health, but those circumstances are often the exception to the rule and not the rule.
My husband is indeed someone I see as a soldier who often battles for me in these kind of wars I have within myself. He’s my steady voice of reason in the middle of the nonsense of remembering my dad swearing and angrily venting to my mother, not seemingly caring if I could hear, about the hundreds of dollars I would rack up in medical bills. I hid so much I was feeling from them from physical to emotional pain. The ironic part is I’ve recently heard my mother say over the phone, “I thought you told me everything,” when I told her I was bullied a lot in school. She taught at the school I went to and she thought that meant she heard and knew about everything. Nope. It felt as though she only cared about her reputation there. As long as the other teachers thought she was a good parent and the students she had saw her as a good teacher then she must be doing well.
Health Update
Health update, the long and detailed picture:
As many of you know, Tea Sweets is closed for the remainder of the year. I’ve already written and discarded a few posts about this, but I think it’s now a good time to make an announcement since some questions have been coming in but I haven’t had the energy to address them fully.
I have been having IBS-C type symptoms for maybe two years now. I thought it was all diet and weight related, so I have been working on that. I saw some improvement when I started taking Prilosec after a scary ambulance ride to the hospital last year due to chest pain. The ER doctor thought I had GERD, which I had back over ten years ago. Thinking it was a relapse, I buckled down on my diet to get my weight and cholesterol under control. I’ve managed to lose around 25-30 lbs (unreliable scale). I postponed going to see the gastroenterologist because my pelvic pain issues became more bothersome and I don’t like St. Mary Corwin Hospital where I was referred. I put the whole GI thing on the back-burner while consulting a specialist about my endometriosis. That discussion led to a full hysterectomy (leaving only my left ovary) on September 9th.
I’ve had a few ER and PCP visits that lead to a few X-rays that showed nothing serious except some pretty bad trapped gas and constipation. I was given directions from my PCP to use Miralax every day and track all the bathroom stuff- yay 
. I’ve now been trying all that for about two weeks.
Last week, the fibrous papule on my nose began to bleed every time I washed my face. I also was getting dark, large bruises with no memory of how as well as a minor petechiae rash on my arms, face, and chest. Being in remission from ITP (a bleeding disorder where the immune system destroys the clotting part, platelets, of the blood), my doctor had advised to contact him if I had 3 or more symptoms at a time that the disease was back. I scheduled some lab work with Rocky Mountain Cancer Center and simultaneously scheduled an appointment with my dermatologist to make sure the nose bleeding was an ITP thing and not cancer/worrisome. Unfortunately, the bump was worrisome and I was surprised that she wanted to remove it right away while I was still there and send it off to be tested.
Meanwhile, I was called by Rocky Mountain Cancer Center (hematologists, aka blood specialists, are also very often cancer specialists) to schedule a follow up right away. I spent the last few days wondering what was wrong because they didn’t rush to see me that day, my labs hadn’t come back from a few days before, and the next available appointment was five days away.
Fast-forward to yesterday: I get a notification that my skin biopsy results were posted online while I was in the waiting room at my hematologist’s office waiting to repeat labs. I didn’t have access to the previous bloodwork, which was odd because usually Labcorp has them posted the day after a draw and it was around 7 days later. I check the skin biopsy results just in time to see the bump was benign/not cancer just as my name was called to get another blood draw.
I then meet with the hematologist’s nurse practitioner, someone I wasn’t expecting or had met before, my hematologist must have been off fighting cancer for someone. She is just as confused as I am as to why I’m there because my labs last week were 94 (normal is 200 and up, but my numbers rarely are over 70 with my unique blood disorder called May-Hegglin’s Anomaly) and today they were 60. I catch her up with the bleeding symptoms, including slow healing from the surgery, and my benign result from my formerly bleeding nose bump. We agree a 30-point drop in my platelets is worthwhile, given my other symptoms, to check again next week.
Around 20 minutes after dinner, I went to get up off the couch. I felt a twisting, pop, then sharp pain in my right lower abdomen. It knocks the wind out of me for several minutes while I lie still waiting for it to pass. It finally does, but the sharp pain dulls to a persistent ache and cramp. When I went to the restroom maybe another 20 minutes later, I have bright red stool. Panicked, my husband and I ask Joyce to come watch Haley and we go to the Parkview ER.
I’m taken back immediately when I describe what happened, which unfortunately caused a panic attack in knowing how triage works by now. Thankfully, as three nurses figure out how to help me, one taking their time with my IV calms me down long enough to have a normal-ish blood pressure again, although still high.
Hours later and an abdominal CT scan later show symptoms of healing from surgery but that my colon wall has thickened. Assuming it was a virus and knowing I’m already in queue to see a GI specialist at Parkview in December, I’m sent home with advice to up the Miralax and fiber. Apparently many viruses can cause scary stool like that and I’ll get fully checked out later.
Incidentally, the CT scan showed my bladder wall was also thickening and that my lungs have minor dependent atelectasis, all symptoms of healing from surgery. However, seeing that minor dependent atelectasis means my lungs aren’t inflating completely when I breathe, it explains my fatigue and slow healing. The ER didn’t mention it, I just read every report after any hospital visit in hopes to understanding better what’s going on. I’ll ask my PCP in my follow up after the holiday what it all means. At the moment, this incidental find is only my own understanding of the ER’s notes. The CT also showed two cysts on my left ovary, so that little left over from the hysterectomy is causing some chaos still- great… and I also have a periumbilical hernia from surgery that’s thankfully only a sac of fat and not intestine…
Anyways, I’m in a lot of pain, refusing to take pain killers much to the shock of the ER, and waiting for the GI specialist to weigh in on this two-year saga of discomfort. Labs all pretty much look normal besides the platelets…which are still going to be rechecked next week.
So, now the internet is up to date. I have no idea right now how I’ll feel each morning. My energy is high then it’ll crash fast when I start on something on my to-do list. Insomnia has always been a thing for me since college, so sleeping doesn’t help. I’m thankfully in taking enough oxygen to not need any help there, but working out besides walking or yoga won’t happen until my lungs heal. Hopefully they’ll heal on their own since the internet has informed me it’s a pretty normal thing after major surgery. With a hernia, it’s no surprise to me that I’m feeling twisting pains when I get up too fast. Thankfully, besides moments of panic while actually deciding on going to the hospital and actually being there waiting to see what’s wrong, I’m emotionally doing just fine.
We got home after midnight last night and I spent quite a while trying to understand all the medical terminology in the ER report before getting some sleep. I thankfully woke up in manageable pain and got to work at 7am to fix up our Thanksgiving feast we’d been planning for weeks. With a turkey in the oven and enough veggies to leave my doctors satisfied that I really mean it when I say I eat enough fiber, I’m finally showered, rested (resting..?), and avoiding texts and messages for now. I’ll slowly get to them but the point is if it was really bad, I wouldn’t have been able to make a feast or even leave the hospital, so Mom, when you read this please don’t panic. Worry doesn’t change a thing except our internal experience. God is in control.
Anyhootles- it may be some time before I’m back to baking. I had a plan to be back before Halloween and that didn’t happen, so I decided just to focus on one day at a time. With GI not happening for a few weeks, I have no idea if it’ll lead to another endoscopy/colonoscopy like the last time I had GERD in 2014. Thanks for reading and please pray all this heals and is simply just a buggar of a virus that got my colon really good like the ER doctor suggested last night.
Here’s a cute photo of me snuggling Haley’s kitty she threw at me when she saw my tears before going to the hospital last night. Bless her heart! Thank you, Grammie, for coming to her/our rescue last night so she didn’t get to witness my panic.
Happy Thanksgiving and thanks for reading
Music & Cancelling Monthly Subscriptions
As I’ve been exploring who I am from every facet while I heal, the role of music has been quite huge. Leading up to my hysterectomy, my emotions have ranged from fear to loss to relief. Currently, the relief has made the entire experience worthwhile. I had my doubts on the day after and it lasted a few days. It seemed like such an extreme thing to do to my body to try to find relief from decades of pain. However, although I’ve found that orgasms are not as intense, I am not even two full weeks away from the actual surgery. I’m still pretty sore, but not the kind of sore that requires constant ice or medications, thankfully. I’ve lost a little weight, 12 pounds since surgery day. It has been holding at that 12-pound mark for a few days, so I believe I’ll plateau at this weight for a little while before restrictions will be lifted and I can become more active. Listening to my body has been a new discovery altogether. I have energy enough where lifting a laundry basket is automatic only to be reminded by my sore abdomen that I must not lift anything heavier than my cat.
This weight restriction is by far the hardest. Flour, pots of water, even a full gallon of almond milk have been either impossible or difficult for me. Who would know unless they were where I am with a healing wound that we lift with far more than our biceps? I thought the scars would bother me, but honestly they haven’t at all. They’re going to be deep and raised, I can already tell. That might be because I had an allergic reaction to the adhesive they used and it had to be peeled off prematurely. I think the years of wanting to show off my stomach are a lifetime away just like high school and college. As age begins to change my body from youthful and vibrant to seasoned and settled in, my heart begins to feel the same way. I feel as though I’m now in the Fall season of my life. The colors are changing on my skin and hair. I have bumps and age spots slowly rolling in and I still haven’t decided if I’m just going to allow my hair to start to go white. I have creases growing deeper, but I wouldn’t call them wrinkles yet. It’ll be a decade or more if I’m lucky before wrinkles are a thing. Greying and white hair were always something that happened as early as my 20’s as well as most of my family, but embracing my body and what it’s been through to keep me alive has become a humble respect instead of regrettable flaws.
I have to admit, I’m finally beginning to embrace happiness for where I am in life. I understand why I’ve been hypervigilant in the past. I grew up in a system I’m only beginning to understand that required me to always be on edge about my worthiness. Whether it was my worthiness in appearance, attitude, or aptitude, it was always there. And now, with my husband assuming all my roles but baking/running my business (which is thankfully on hold with no fears for the future with a new business already awaiting my return once I’ve recovered), I’m in a humble place of reflection. It’s interesting to me that it took having no responsibility but rest to take me out of the hypervigilant mindset. I hadn’t even realized that my pace with self-employment and housekeeping and trying to figure out my role as mom to a seven-year-old was keeping me from letting my guard down. I’m beginning to realize that the threats I experienced in our last neighborhood only seemed all the more threatening was because of the state of mind I was already in from my upbringing. With appearance, attitude and aptitude as paramount attributes to acquire for acceptance and salvation, I had no idea that my A-type (see what I did there with all the A’s?) personality would be crushed by a neighborhood that purposefully broke all the rules as a way to unwind from a world that required my neighbors to conform. I half wish now that I had joined in on the loud music and smaller forms of partying then maybe yelling outside the window to turn that down wouldn’t have had me in danger of popping an aneurism or something. But, it happened, not the aneurism thing, but the stress was damaging only to me and not the people around me. I mean, sure, they probably were tired of hearing me ask repeatedly for them to stop, but it’s much better to live with a “be and let be” attitude than to try to get peace and quiet in the middle of a noisy city, especially in an area where noise ordinances are not seen as anything of concern to anyone but the sheltered white lady from rural Maine. Sheltered. That term was often used by my older brother when he was in high school and beyond. He now works for the military as a civilian. I’ve also dated military before and also know what he means. I believe, looking back on that experience, that my naiveté in thinking everyone cared about rules and ordinances would give me peace and quiet in the evenings. Only the rural areas will give me that. Thankfully, that’s exactly where we are now. And now I can recuperate in the peaceful quiet save the state highway that runs by our home. I always lived off a main road, but this one is busier than the little paved hardscrabble we lived off of as kids. All the same, it’s rural and peaceful with plenty of wildlife to keep the experience alive.
I thought being angry at my neighbors meant I had some huge underlying issue within myself. They were loud, rude, and downright mean when I asked for quiet. Yet, not only was it a difference in culture (they grew up there and things were always like that according to their word), I don’t think the clashes of race in recent American history helped the situation much at all. I really believed myself to be an antiracist only to discover that I had much, much growth and awakening to be even considered an ally. Honestly, though, I just didn’t want their cars running exhaust into my kitchen window or their music to override my daughter’s cartoons. It was eventually accepted that if this was their way of life then I’d better get with it or get out. And I was fearful about retaliation like sliced tires or more break ins or even assault if I continued to speak up about the noise because a young person who moved in with her aunt began to hurl insults and threats my way. I never stuck around long enough from car to apartment to hear them, but when a lady who was off her mental health medications (possibly due to the covid lockdowns since everything became far worse when no one was going anywhere) openly threatened me by pounding on my door. The police intervened and unfortunately because I had nothing on video since my door camera didn’t kick in until maybe 30 seconds into the pounding and “I’m going to kill you!” comments, they couldn’t do a thing. She claimed it never happened. Her word against mine. I found out later that she told a friend of mine that I worked for the FBI and had been spying on her. Oddly, she wasn’t even one to blast music at 10pm on a work night. I still don’t know what came over her except maybe she thought my privacy film on my window was something like a 2-way mirror and she had been watching too much TV. I had bought the film off Amazon because our buildings were maybe 5 feet apart from each other and I found it odd how we could see in each other’s homes. We still had curtains for night time… anyways, how bizarre and the cops agreed. I sure hope she got the help she needed, but we definitely scrambled to get out. It was refreshing to live outside that neighborhood, even if it was in our friends’ basement for a bit under 6 months. Maybe it was 4? 3? Hard to say. I was still on-edge. She was one sick lady. I could handle a teenager screaming smack at me and having the other neighborhood kids call me a racist, but that threw me over the edge. I was fearful the kids would take action more than just taunt. Although I know my place in the world of trying to become a better ally, it still hurt to hear something as nasty as racist. I was there when they crashed their bikes and their caregivers weren’t home. I was the trained first aid and shoulder to cry on. It’s a shame something like loud music would change their view of me when all I wanted to do was make their lives safer by having me in it: another adult watching out for broken glass in front of our homes where the kids played or vehicles driving by a bit too fast. Another adult with a band aid and quick run to their house to get their adult if they got hurt badly. Classic white savior stupidity or genuine care for young kids? I guess I’ll never know for sure, but I really cared about their well-being, you know? I even considered becoming a Boys & Girls of America youth leader, but I’ve considered many roles beyond mom only to come to the conclusion that giving up any of my mom hours would create too much strain on my schedule if she or I were to get sick, and we were still picking up every bug at Sunday school or play date.
I don’t think I’ve decompressed from those 2 years in one of the worst neighborhoods in Colorado Springs. Gang activity, a few shootings, one murder, broken glass, used needles, either a homeless camp or illegal dumping ground… down the street from the apartment we saw online was drastically different than Google Maps/images brought up. We thought we did our due diligence to make sure we were moving into a nice, clean place, but this online find was bad just like our other online find in California that was roach-infested. We didn’t have roaches in Colorado, but we did have issues with a loud neighborhood. It didn’t feel unsafe until the crazy lady next door unfortunately succumbed to her mental illness and I oddly became the subject of her paranoid imagination. Vandalism was getting worse as the lockdowns continued. The photos I found in our filing cabinet I had kept for two years (mostly because I forgot they were there) were haunting. Smashed in car windshields, graffiti everywhere, more broken glass and trash. When we got out of the apartment for fresh air, I would only go to the very public hikes around town. The less homeless, the better, so I could separate myself from the rubble of our breaking down neighborhood. It was an honest mistake. There really isn’t much anyone can do when moving to a new state to ensure where they are picking is to their liking. We did all the checks on social media and anywhere we could think of. I still find it remarkable how different online was as compared to reality. And to top off the entire nightmare, the property management group we were going through were not only unfair in their practices, but they found every excuse to not return the full security deposit- a battle we decided we didn’t have the energy for although I’m sure we were entitled to every penny and simply didn’t feel like going toe to toe with rich white lawyers over just a couple hundred dollars. We got out without needing to pay the remaining of our lease, which nearly happened, so we just left. I wish it still didn’t make my blood boil just how badly we and the other tenants who were trying to also move away from that “dumpster fire” were treated. Unfair treatment was indeed the theme of 2019-2020.
But we got out. And hanging out with our friends in their finished basement was almost like a vacation for me…except the basement part without any full-sized windows. The neighborhood was very quiet and safe enough that by the time Halloween rolled around, going door-to-door for candy was a welcomed last-minute decision. I loved that my daughter had a little girl around her age living upstairs from her and they both loved her little brother. I also loved having a mom not too far from my own age to talk to about just how bad things were, which seldom was the conversation, but we got close connecting over our controlling past. Her cult was much more obvious than mine, but we drew close to each other, both thankful we escaped and had husbands that celebrated us for who we are and not just for our bodies. We even felt connected with our faith being very similar. Although Anglican, I enjoyed talking about how thankful I was to be able to worship God freely without guilt.
Music. During the two years living at our old apartment, 2019-2020 being the worse year, music wasn’t something I enjoyed at all at any level higher than conversational level. I used to enjoy churches that were nearly like a concert when you walked in. I’m not sure when that changed for me. Was it when my husband and I started to go to a Baptist church in rural Maine together? I had gone to quite a few different churches trying to figure out what I liked, a few of them were loud. A few were in the middle. When exactly did noise become a thing? I thought maybe it was because my ex had turned up music while driving dangerously fast and erratically on purpose to scare me during or after a fight or maybe he hit me while listening to loud music? I’m not sure on the latter but I clearly remember the bad driving, but even after scanning my memory, I don’t think I can come up with much besides my hearing has been getting worse over time. I always knew since diagnosis of MHA that hearing loss was a thing, so when the tinnitus set in only a year or so after my daughter was born, I knew it wouldn’t ever go away. I vaguely remember going through some hearing screenings and thankfully no real hearing loss was recorded, but I have noticed sensitive skin in my ear canal, more frequent yet minor (clear up on their own) ear infections and almost always having itchy ears. I still have all the same symptoms 5-6 years later, so I figure that must be it.
If not the hearing, then maybe it was simply feeling unsafe or overstimulated?
Overstimulation. Sounds like my childhood learning how to seek approval through actions, attitude, accolades, and straight-A’s. For my classmates, I was too good. For my parents, I was never good enough. For my siblings I was annoying. To my peers, I was arrogant. Who was I, really?
Leading up to my surgery, I knew we already had decided years prior that babies were too risky for my body… my husband got “the snip” in 2018 in hopes of keeping me away from a high-risk and longer recovery time kind of procedure. Yet, 5 years later, here I am in the aftermath of a complete hysterectomy. I had already gone through the regret and even almost chickened out that moment they were rolling me away before my husband came back from the parking garage. I’m thankful I didn’t have the chance to chicken out because I don’t remember what happened next. I was probably already under anesthesia. The regret was thankfully only due to the deep, almost black bruising of the surgical area as well as the pain, which was far worse than I had expected. The pain I had from my appendectomy/cystectomy in 2011 wasn’t at all the same. However, now that I’m approaching 2 weeks after surgery, I’m finding that my recovery is going far smoother than it did in 2011. My scars are deeper, and the surgery was far more involved this time, but healing is better and I’m not taking much more than Tylenol every so often. Ice is still my friend, but as I type this, I’m lying on my bed on my belly with a laptop. Modern medicine has matured along with me, I suppose.
It’s funny, yesterday my pain was nearly akin to the period cramps I used to get. I remember opening my phone to look for my tracking app for my cycle only to remember why I deleted it- I cancelled my “monthly subscription” and would never have a period again. I triumphantly dug out the period supplies out of the bathroom. They’re now in a giveaway pile to a family with two menstruating young women. Currently, I’m surprised by the relief that I am already at the previous “crampy” stage of my pain. Before surgery, it was nearly always there and sometimes I’d need Tylenol to bring it to manageable levels. I’m ALREADY at my pre-surgery self. And I have little to no care about the scars. I thought I’d be crying over no more babies, but I believe this is a huge milestone for me. Even if I go down the road of, “If I had only stuck to one birth control, my body would have reset faster giving us more room to try” or any of the other “if-only’s,” I believe I’ve radically accepted, to borrow a term my therapist uses often, that there will always be “if-only’s” in life. Right now, in this present moment, I am content. We tried. We did what we could with what obstacles were in our life- stress, frequent illness, navigating high-risk health conditions, and life changes. We tried what we could to get the timing just right in light of all these obstacles including time to grieve a loss by trying a new birth control method, etc. The path before can be defined as “we did the best we could with the best we could.” And we have this pretty amazing seven-year-old.
I have more to write on this topic, but I just heard the car door of my family returning from school. More thoughts later on music, but what a day today has been already!
New Amsterdam
Being visual definitely has its perks. It’s very enjoyable to watch a show while working on a project and be able to make connections with real life. I recently started a new show. It’s something that I love to do to help pass the quiet evenings when I’m working or maybe just relax at the end of the day. I have many hobbies, so there’s always a long list of things to do when the little one is asleep from house hold chores to hooking a new playmat/rug out of some pretty yarn I splurged on. I might have to advertise to sell more donuts and cakes so I can do that again. My latest interest has been Calico Critters and their miniature world as well as all the knock-off brands out there. A favorite cabin just came in the mail from Poshmark for Little Woodzeez’s version of this world and the color scheme is on point to some of my favorite colors lately. I never did have a particular favorite color, but brighter colors popping here and there in a calming/nature-inspired space have definitely been a favorite for as long as I can remember. In fact, one time when we were working on collages from piles of magazines in middle school in art class, I remember most of the class had cars and favorite pastimes like water or jet skiing (I grew up where there were several lakes and one around the corner of our school). Some had celebrities and favorite bands and other icons from pop culture whereas mine had trees, flowers, ocean views, hiking trails, etc. on it. I was a bit embarrassed by my love of nature and being so different from the rest of the class that I lied about why I had made the collage and said it was a gift for my dad. I actually ended up displaying it in my room shortly after it came home from school after its display in the hallway for a few weeks. It was everything I loved and it also went along with the pages torn and hung up from National Geographic my dad got in the mail regularly. I remember the beauty of the Trobriand Islands and had oceans, palm trees, handmade boats and homes, and tribes in their traditional clothing scattered about. It would be something to travel to there or New Guinea and stay for a while. I don’t believe with how sensitive my back and how hard it is for me to sleep well that I could stay in a hut, but a hotel or AirBnB would allow me access to fulfill that dream of traveling to the very corners of the planet only recently unearthed by modern civilization.
I have thought about the tribal way of living for a majority of my life. It of course would come with much disfunction as some families have, but what if it didn’t? What if living in a tribe would mean I didn’t feel on my own to figure out big emotions and complicated relationships? What if living in a tribe would have meant better support as a brand new mother and now as a struggling parent? Would that mean I would have better self-esteem? Anyways, the return to nature is incredibly soothing as our living room wall has a mural made of that neat vinyl stick-on wallpaper and our curtains and pillows match with its watercolor trees. The natural tones and colors that seemingly took forever to pick now offer a comforting space to recuperate from the aches in my soul. Our bedroom is less intentional as it was decorated with second hand gifts but it still offers an invitation to rest and relaxation. If there was anything in art theory that I am a firm believer on it would be that cool colors and nature soothe and that warm, vivid colors invite social interaction and even passion or excitement.
Back to the Netflix series I’ve recently been watching. Once upon a time, there was a moment in that series where Georgia and Max are spreading the ashes of Luna, Max’s sister, over a lake (something I’ve learned is illegal in several areas). Not only did I gasp at the scene, but I sobbed quite openly and had to hit pause for some time. Everything in that scene down to where the car was parked looked identical to where we spread the ashes of my son, Jevan Zechariah. Even the leaves were as vivid as that day we took a moment to pause at the end of the bridge to pray then later carved his initials in a birch tree. We love that lake and had spent several hours just talking about the present and future while kayaking. We even heard a moose charging in the woods that day we had decided to try for children knowing I had cousins that struggled with fertility. It was possible that would be my journey, too, and my bleeding disorder was still undefined and there was risk involved. We had no idea what that road would look like and we also couldn’t fathom the loss at the time we would have a few years later.
A Book?!
I started something huge yesterday: I started writing a book. Yes, a BOOK. YAY!
I’ve been feeling for a long time that I had a lot to write about as far as my views on colonialism, oversea missions, and unconventional political views go. I’m feminist, cis-gendered, bisexual, pro-choice, anti-racist, libertarian AND a Christian. How do all those even fit together anyways? In short, my book will tell the story of searching for God’s truth when political convictions don’t match the Word of God. I sincerely believe He has called us to bend our convictions to His perfect plan even when the social injustice movements around us don’t match up. I’m hoping to work out the details of these convictions as this will be the very first time I’ve attempted to put them into words. I’m also ultimately hoping to figure out what the Great Commission means to me and my family as I seek out God’s will in my life.
I have a burning desire to travel and change the world. I also realize I am a white female, only one person, and that the unreached areas are in remote third world countries that are far different than my WASP background. I completed a minor in Missions at a Christian college, but I barely pulled a B or C in Multicultural Communication and since I’m dyslexic, I had a hard time learning Spanish. I still barely remember much of the Spanish I learned in both high school and college and I have no idea if I would need those language skills someday…
I’ve greatly enjoyed the construction trips I’ve taken in the past where we refurbished or built churches and helped repair roofs after a hurricane. When an emergency happens, like a car accident or wildfire in town, I immediately jump in to help, sometimes immediately into danger. I’ve been certified in first aid and CPR since I got hit by a car in Niagara Falls in 2006. I’ve worked with organizations like Habitat for Humanity, World Hope International, World Vision, Teen Mania Ministries Global Expeditions, and American Red Cross. I feel passionate about fair and equal housing and clean water and a well-rounded education, especially in the arts and for girls as much as boys, across all cultures and tongues.
It’s been an increasing challenge for me lately to accept the part of myself that was bisexual. It’s also hard talking about it openly with my husband because I don’t want him to feel any less like a man. On the contrary, I find him to be one of the sexiest men alive. Appreciating the female body is so different for me now. I no longer sexualize seeing a nude female in contemporary or ancient art. It’s freeing to recognize beauty for what it is instead of desiring it for my own pleasures. In that respect, I’ve been careful how I share this piece of myself with the world. I’m thinking for now it is safe to say that I won’t be including that in my book. I don’t think the world is entirely ready to hear the apologetics of a former bisexual in a committed, loving heterosexual relationship.
I recently saw the documentary “Super Size Me 2” where the host starts his own fast food restaurant to expose the fast food industry for what it is. It’s quite remarkable and exactly what had been on my heart and mind for several years to do with my own faith: I hope to expose that humans are fallible whereas God is not. I want to step carefully, though. There are plenty of people out there who would disagree with my faith experience, so it is definitely part of the goal of this book to handle the opposing view with gentleness lacking all airs of judgment. Is such a feat even possible?
summersolstice1115 