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?

Stuck in the Habits

It’s been incredibly helpful lately to know what I am doing that I would like to change. I now understand some of the reasons behind my behavior. I always knew I had a tendency to addictive behaviors, but I suppose I didn’t comprehend just how deeply this one sank in before the pandemic hit. I’ve gone from excusing and making compromises to full on preferring a digital life instead of the life right in front of me. It was sneaky how it happened, and lock down didn’t help things, nor did the fact that everyone I was close to was several miles away by the time we had to move away from California.

Now, I’ve moved on to acknowledgment. I’m addicted to my phone. Now what?

Dreams

Funny how immediately writing that title rushes me back to a few very vivid dreams I’ve recently had that took place on Lake Tahoe near the Eagle’s Nest overlooking the lake. I remember the awe of first seeing this surreal place for the first time with my husband. My daughter was possibly too little to remember much about it since she has said that she doesn’t remember much about living in California. We have a mural of the special place in our living room. I wanted to be reminded daily of the several rainbows I saw on the ride home after praying, “God, where do you want us? Do you want us here?” I would pray again and another rainbow appeared. I’d excitedly watch it and then it’d fade away as the car moved away. Then I would pray again and again there was a rainbow over Mono Lake. All of this really happened, so it is no surprise that I had a few dreams about it.

We were in the car as many of my dreams go. I’ve always associated life being a road trip or journey. Like before I met my husband, I dreamed of him and I on a log raft that was roughly made and we were trying to keep our individual rafts tied together. I remember thinking when I woke up that this resembled marriage and how no matter how the waters get rough that it would be critical to our survival to keep our rafts tied together. We would need to help one another out in order to come out the other side of rough water safely and still together. I believe that was the only dream I had where we were on the water, but it was thrilling to go over the rapids and dodge rocks. We were in this adventure together. Other dreams I’ve had about our marriage include mountain drives along precarious ledges and trusting my husband to navigate through them carefully. I remember a lot of golden yellow in these dreams, too, so when I met him and he eventually dawned the same colored sweatshirt I definitely had a serendipitous moment inside as he reached out to hold my hand. He truly is my soulmate and often I think of the song in Sleeping Beauty that goes, “I know you. I dreamt of you once upon a dream…” I really did, I just never saw his face until our eyes met on my back porch in 2010. I remember the butterflies and fear I felt. “Love at first sight isn’t really real, is it?” but for me it was. I knew in my soul and I prayed often after those long walks on some of our favorite Maine beaches that it was all real and not a dream. “Was he for real?” He was and he so IS real to this day.

I’m finally breathing again. It feels like my soul fell asleep somewhere along this journey. Major Depressive Disorder is like that I suppose. We walk through life as if we’re a zombie most of the time. It isn’t that I wasn’t happy, it’s just that I was and am carrying so much in my heart that it’s hard to actually be present to enjoy all the happiness around me. I hope someday there won’t be as much of a stigma around people who have MDD and anxiety or even PTSD. Our brains are simply damaged by the trauma we pushed away as a means to survival. I’ve been working hard to understand all the ways my thinking may be negatively impacted by the trauma of my past. What kind of things have I been allowing myself to believe? “I’ll never deserve a man as wonderful as my husband. I’m destined to be a horrible mom. I don’t deserve happiness and success.” Ouch. I hope to bring even more of these automatic, hidden thoughts out to the light because the more I talk about them to my husband, my mother-in-law who I trust like a best friend, and my therapist the more they lose their power. I’m also living in a way that is content with starting over the relationship with my own mother. My father hardly seems interested in the phone or keeping in touch beyond the occasional hello when my mom is on Facetime. He will sometimes send something very thoughtful in the mail, though, so I know he thinks of me and possibly often. He recently sent fondant stamps for my business, ones I had looked at but hesitated in buying because I tend to collect things I love rather rapidly and I didn’t want to run out of storage space. Yet, I hadn’t shared that I loved them and he was more than 2,000 miles away when I found them, so it was quite special when they arrived with a card written in his signature cursive that he was thinking of me. Words of affirmation and gifts have been my love languages lately. Physical affection used to be but I’m finding with the fibromyalgia that cuddling with my little one or my husband is getting harder. I still very much love those moments, though, I’m just far less likely to initiate them now. They are like a little chocolate out of a box around Valentine’s Day on a break room table in the middle of the day for no other reason than unplanned enjoyment. My dad is like that with his cards and gifts even if they’re only once or twice a year. And so are the cuddles from my husband and six year old. And I do love chocolate!

With my soul feeling lighter comes more creative flow during the day to put into my hobbies or work (I bake for a living and also remodel old doll houses that were destined for the trash). Also with the new found lightness, I’ve been able to connect better with my daughter, something I didn’t think was possible because I saw myself as damaged goods and incapable of growing a natural and fulfilling attachment to my little one. It’s sad, I know, but that’s how I really felt. I was so fearful of damaging her with my own adult issues that I intentionally pushed her away. I wasn’t entirely sure why I would be so quick to anger with her and not my spouse. It was because I had a prickly defense system set up and every time something happened that would build a connection, I would automatically say no to it. I found myself still making these responses yesterday. I was on the couch, still not feeling great with my cold I’ve had since Saturday and starting my period, so when she asked for me to look at something in her room, I said no because of how I was feeling. I mean, how hard is it to get up and look at something when it’s barely even 100 feet away? And why did I feel annoyance in her even asking? Why are my feelings more important than a six year old’s? They’re not. And her building empathy won’t come from being declined from joining in on any fun she had waiting for me in her space. So, I got up and helped anyways when she couldn’t move something by herself. And I’m glad I did. It’s time I stop finding excuses to not participate in her imaginary world. Fact is, I don’t like playing in her room because I’m overweight and I don’t fit well in her tiny space, but it isn’t about me. I find discarding my selfishness and sacrificing in small ways like this is exactly what motherhood is supposed to be. That’s the part of the natural bonding experience I haven’t developed yet because I had to be selfish with sleep when she was a newborn. I feel like that whole experience is what led me to paying more attention to my own needs than hers. She needs her mother to show up beyond just building or creating new things for her to do. Any kid would rather have a mother who played Paw Patrol characters and rescue stuffed animals together than a mom who can glue wallpaper on perfectly straight in a dollhouse. She needs me to be present. Instead, I feel like my self-awareness had been limited to figuring out the plan for food that day and how many emails need my attention and are all the notifications checked on my phone? Do we have enough money to do this or the time to go to that? All the while, here’s my kiddo fiddling with her toys and not sure how to create her own imaginative play. Eventually the crafts or tv come out. Instead, now the phone is being put aside and I’m not worrying about it because the notifications are half the time set to silent. And we’ve thankfully discovered a world we are both engaged in: Calico Critters. We’ve pretended the fox is chasing the other critters and of jail breaks and girls vs. boys contests. Thank GOD I’m waking up! My daughter NEEDS her mom. She also needs the food, clothes, etc, but her emotional needs now are my primary concern. Now I don’t care as much if I’m in pain or don’t feel well. This is what’s natural: sacrificing the body and energy for the good of our children. It’s been far too easy to use my chronic pain and illness as a wall to avoid connection. Did my own mom do that? Does she struggle with the idea that it’s going to hurt more than she could bare if she were to get close to me only to lose me? I worry about losing my daughter a lot. I had a dream before she was born that I had one child who was still swaddled in my arms. Someone threatened to kill me for my religious beliefs. It was red and fiery in the sky around us and debris everywhere; very apocalyptic or warlike. They said if I don’t renounce God then they would kill me. I refused, but then they turned the gun on my child and asked again. I woke up in a sweat. Would I have? Or would I have let my child die? The fear of being forced to choose was what woke me. I cannot bear the idea of losing either my God or my child. I never made the connection before that we do only have one child. My body struggled to carry a healthy child. She is our miracle. There would be no other child like her ever and there will be no more children either. Losing her would be losing everything. I definitely had a crisis of faith long before she was born after having that dream. Would I choose my God over my child? If I didn’t, would that mean eternal damnation? I believe I would have risked it for her. She was so little and completely oblivious and innocent to the whole scene. Surely God would understand, right? Thankfully, I don’t live in a world where that fearful moment could happen where I live even with times changing rapidly after covid. God help me if it were to happen. I don’t know what I would choose.

These dreams of Lake Tahoe are far more happier than that nightmare. We’ve built a few cute houses in different forms of the dream. We’ve seen some really surreal sights of an island with a continuous waterfall around it and another with a unique species of monkeys living on it that are not found anywhere else in the world. We’ve gone down gorgeous trails in a small train or winding through roads in our car. We’ve gone through caves like those in La Jolla and watched the tide come in…on a lake?! We’ve seen sunsets and tropical rain bring rainbows. It’s all set at Lake Tahoe, but is it really? Could it be heaven?

No matter where it is, it gives my soul joy to dream like that again, to remember a place of such beauty, peace, and release of all anxiety. I love dreaming of what could be in the places of unexplored territory around and near the lake. We only got to see a small bit of it and although it is still fresh in my mind, I long to go again. I would also love to see Yosemite again. The Cave View is still my wallpaper on my laptop. There are so many places in this world that are extravagant and beautiful. Oh how lovely it is to be present, to no longer carry the burden of the past and no longer worry of the future, just now. That’s what these dreams are for me: a hug from God that everything will be ok and a whisper that she will be ok. We are safe. We are loved. We are protected. We can connect. We can bond. We can thrive.

She’s so beautiful that I’m getting tearful even thinking of it. She loves to dance and sing. She is the crown of creation to me. Now she has her mommy here for her. Thank God I woke up.

Rest vs. Responsibility

I just had an amazing moment with my husband as we were discussing how to tackle a parenting dilemma. I don’t say “problem” because it wasn’t a problem. It was a stumper. It was something I was puzzled about because my own self care is quite lacking and although I now have a tidy budget line to use as I would deem for my emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being or even just for enjoyment, it is there. If I choose to use it for enjoyment, then I will not have the vitamins, massage, or comforting tea to get through the roughest parts of fibromyalgia pain during the winter….but I digress.

The dilemma: our daughter is an only child and she’s been sick. It’s been a challenging first year introduction to public school with her frequent illnesses. Some are due to some food allergies we had thought she outgrew. Some are possibly due to anxiety as kindergarten has been especially challenging to her socially. Some are due to simply being sick because, well, kids at her age often don’t think about touching their face, blowing their nose, washing their hands… Anyways, she’s been sick. It’s been more than 24 hours since she was leaning over the toilet bowl. She’s been a comfy couch potato because we found out the hard way that jumping down from a higher-than-usual captain’s bed does not leave enough time to get sick without making a mess. Thankfully, although I struggle with that sort of thing, it wasn’t that bad once I reminded myself of a “life’s bleachable moments” commercial while I tried to see the humor in it. She’s been snug in new pjs, clean blankets, and a new stuffed animal friend since last night. It’s crawling to after lunch time and she announces after nearly 36 hours that she is bored. Huzzah! Some nibbles, a break of the fever, and a food journal (caregivers with food allergy kiddo’s can prob resonate here) creeping back to normal and a loss of interest in the TV (God forbid I use this electronic babysitter to get some necessary tasks done of my own….) She’s feeling better marked in that one statement, “I’m bored…I want to play.”

Not being one to have a handle on my insomnia, overeating, and regular hygiene routine (usually due to disrupted sleep and feeling like it’s “too late” to get a shower in before the day shuffles forward) and also being unsure as to what my actual needs are: I turned to my husband after having a failed explanation as to why it was time to get dressed and prepared for the day. I mean, I’m a strong believer that what people see in behavior is far more impactful than words, especially with kindergarten aged kids. I admitted I was lost because I am now learning all this stuff, too (as well as balancing it with adult responsibilities and relationships) and that I needed his input. He is what I imagine to be “the” healthy role model of self-care. He carefully tracks what he eats to avoid overeating, he chooses healthier options of what he would like to have, sometimes he treats himself, he knows when he needs to “shake a leg” and get out for a walk, and he goes to bed at a reasonable hour (unless he is trying to be there for me in my moments of ruminating over my past or a complicated adult relationship conflict). He also is very good at making sure he works out and spends time alone working out his spirituality. He’s a true introvert, incredibly empathic, kind-hearted, and generous with is time and resources to those in need. He also has healthy boundaries as an introvert and knows when it’s time to call it a night or end a social encounter. Grant it, there are less social encounters than when we were hosting a young-adults’ group back when we were newlyweds, but the social circles we run in center around our little one. And I wouldn’t have it any other way unless he had a desire to be more involved or wanted to go out with the guys for a drink or to shoot some pool, or maybe even go target practicing in some remote sand pit or shooting range, but he’s content where he is and so I’ve left an open invite anytime he might feel like doing something like that to man the helm at home while he has some fun away from family. Truth is, he’s very much a family man and I’ve enjoyed seeing him enjoying our daughter. Introvert or not, he’s still the bee’s knees in my book as I unfold my trauma and discover that I’m actually not an introvert at all.

Anyways, I kinda gushed there for a moment. I love that I’m still very much in love with my husband- something I didn’t think would ever happen for someone like me. I can feel my inner counselor rolling their eyes at that statement, so we’ll just put a pin in it and unpack that later. Back to the dilemma and my kiddo feeling better and mommy struggling to communicate why we don’t usually stay in comfy pajamas all day…

His feedback as the kiddo pouted in their room for a moment was it was time to get some bathing in anyways. We’ve silently assigned bath/shower days for every 2-3 days unless it’s obviously needed sooner due to mud, paint…childhood… and bathing her every single day seemed excessive given her sensitive skin will dry out too easily. She would be presented with getting dressed now or getting dressed after being bathed. After noticing that some of the pouting was due to seeing mom having late starts and skipping showers every other day (where realistically my oily skin/scalp should be nearly daily or a whole makeover of hygiene products- another “put a pin in it” topic) and forgetting to eat meals while “putting out fires” by researching new dilemmas that came up over the week and how to feed a child with certain allergies and food aversions and let’s be honest- how to crochet a flower or pipe a frosted design or wow! that’s neat they made that dollhouse kit look so real! Anyways, drink water, eat healthy food, keep your body clean… lather, rinse, repeat. Part of her pouting was due to she was in her brand new pjs I just got her last night on a run to the local dollar store because we didn’t have tomato soup which is oddly what she was craving after nearly 24 hours with just sugar free Gatorade. They were her favorite color, her size, and matched the stuffy I also found which also all fit under the $20 budget I had from finding a random $20 bill in some paperwork I’ve been sorted in preparation of tax season. So, she wanted to match, was very comfortable in something new, didn’t see the issue because sometimes Mommy has late starts, and wanted to see the “why” before acting. This is where thankfully co-parenting helped release the pressure to have it all together already. The approach was it’s often a life-long job to find that healthy balance of rest and responsibility. It takes work and listening to our bodies and making sure we are healthy before starting our day. Without a healthy start, how can we have a healthy day? I mean, she’s only six so not all that was said and it was narrowed down to, “You need to bathe so will you do that before or after you get dressed. If you choose to bathe after you get dressed that means before you end your day you will need to take a shower or have a bath…” in more or less words.

It’s important to note here that I’ve grown especially appreciative of the nature in which my husband has never assumed the role of parenting me with my lack of hygiene, new “filing” system of piles of projects and paperwork about the house, and he has never made a negative comment towards my weight or lack of makeup or how I’m incredibly self-conscious of my thinning brows, lashes, and hairline. Thankfully I’m finding my way around many of those issues I’ve seen myself picking up since she was born. Caring for a small person is precisely what I needed to realize many of my habits were out of expectation of how I was raised and not really my style. It’s not until you’re hit with an emergency or only being able to perform at 20% during the day that you realize how much of that is really ingrained in you as a child through chores and strict private school standards. I mean, I have found success in life before. I cannot remember a job where I wasn’t somehow praised for my performance, but I have a difficult relationship with success. It means I’m open to more criticism by my peers where it’s far too easy to make enemies instead of friends when being hypervigilant in my perfectionism manifests in irritability and fear of failure. On one hand, being in a strict environment means I had the opportunity to expand my education, enjoy the pursuit of always learning as an adult, and be fascinated by the science behind how something works instead of just enjoying a walk and seeing a line of ants and not knowing they’re following the scent of a scout that went before them possibly days before. It’s also offered me access to better paying jobs, which let’s be honest isn’t always the case in a recession and lack of hands-on job experience, and I’ve been able to use my emotional intelligence to connect with others who are recovering from abusive relationships. I’ve been there, I get it.

But the other hand sucks. I’ve been there. But what is there? As I build the framework of what my childhood experience was, will I get to know my inner child? In what ways is my ego lacking or over-inflamed? How can I, as a highly sensitive person, connect the body-mind dots and continue to release this prison of fibromyalgia and an equal fear of failure and success? From what I have watched from other entrepreneurs and public speakers is that I have the grit for success, I’m willing to work hard for it, but I lack not confidence but possibly talent. Then when it comes to talent, some visual arts things come easy to me, so why am I not doing more of that and playing to my strengths for an income? Do I have to attach my talents to income? Or is that an assumption I’m running into because of the schooling I have and the indoctrination that those “who have much, much is expected” ? Some of what my faith dictates of course plays a role, but how much of that is the former cult experience speaking and how much of it is true responsibility? And isn’t my most important role as wife and mother? When did it become essential for me to earn an income to have a purpose here under the sun? And isn’t talent something someone can just enjoy for themselves? I mean, who says I have to share it with the world for money? I enjoy art immensely and I love switching interests often. I work great with piles of paperwork here and there and then I also feel awesome when the house is completely picked up with no visual trace of the projects stacking away in my mind and in my notes or printout clippings of ideas.

I was told one time that I was a visual genius. I’ve taken a test and I am surely not a genius. I’m average with a low SAT score. I’m just the girl next door who learned there was nothing I could say or do to please my parents. Somewhere between moving from the East Coast to the West Coast, I discovered freedom like no other. I was healthy. Every time I see photos of me and my husband from 2015-2016 I remember the freedom and joy and just how light we looked. Our skin glistening from the extra sun and our shoulders loosened by a smaller burden. That’s the lightness in which our little one took form in. That’s the world I hope to recover for her. How do I get back to that?

Foreboding Joy

I love that this came up on my social media reels. I’ve taken to the random watching of videos that streamline into my usual checks of community news, any new trends, and updates from friends and family. Now, it’s conveniently mixed in with little droplets of wisdom from seasoned parents, teachers, therapists, etc. of short clips of parenting, anxiety/depression “hacks” (quick, ingenious ways to solve a problem), and sewing or cake quips and tricks and sped up 30-second-to-2-minute tutorials. My “saved” folder is getting larger because sharing each one doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll be easy to access later and thankfully I just learned how to access my watch history. Although a bit cumbersome to view, the history also allows me to relive those “aha” moments. There’s even a creator whom I follow who does skits of what a trauma impact looks like in a new, healthy relationship. Since hypervigilance is something I’m feeling needs much improvement in my life, I’ve rather enjoyed these every day scenarios they have created of them putting away towels and then their significant other asks why they’re folding them that way. They stop, react in panic, and fawn by saying they can change and do it anyway they want. Their significant other simply asks kindly where that came from because they don’t really mind one way or the other how the towels are folded. They just prefer them clean and dry. The skit transitions to the ex demanding the towels to be done “just so” because “any idiot knows how to do it right” and the like. Then the person snaps out of it and realizes that this person is not their significant other. Their significant other isn’t demanding and is gentle, kind, and genuinely curious and a bit confused by the panic their question induced, but their patience pays off as they both take a deep breath and realize things are far better in the present than the past.

I don’t believe I ever acknowledged the role of trauma in my life before what seems much more recently. If it came up, it was always something like, “Oh yeah, and that happened but I dealt with it already,” as if it was just a date on the calendar. However, as I started to really lean into this body-mind connection while seeking treatment for fibromyalgia then adding in psychiatric/talk therapy (noise issues in my neighborhood were causing literal pain in my body, irritability, and sleep issues and we had to scramble to find a way to relocate mid-pandemic). So, yeah, that happened. Living in a bad neighborhood with violence (I shuddered when I found plenty of broken glass bottles, places the homeless slept and possibly did drugs so I was always looking out for needles, graffiti, a vandalized car outside our apartment that I had saved with my argument for breaking a lease along with police reports and news articles of gang activity and a few murders only doors down. I threw it out because now we are 3 years beyond needing it), anyways…living in a bad neighborhood with violence, abusive language, and living with what felt like a target on my back for reporting some neighbors for noise…to say the least, my past bubbled up again.

This definitely is a very tricky thing to write about. Part of those reels and the reason why I was even in the activity history pouring over once more every reel I had watched was because one reel discussed how a traumatized brain actually sustains damage that interferes with memory. I always knew abuse happened because once diagnosed with PTSD back in maybe 2004-2005, I’ve been aware that certain things will trigger a flashback. This type of response is quite fascinating to me. With the flashbacks I had with my first boyfriend after my trauma (I was sexually assaulted by an ex), I’m all-too aware of the sudden chills with sweat and my body remembering those sensations with a freeze response. I would feel foreboding anxiety. It was a pure fear, but I couldn’t necessarily see the actual memory. It’s quite complex when one pieces it together that way, actually. In movies isn’t a flashback a clear memory much like those skits in a social media reel? But for me, it never was. It was as if my body had the memory even if my mind did not. I didn’t really go very far with that boyfriend as our relationship only lasted maybe 6-8 months, but it puzzled me in my therapy sessions that I could only remember this one assault incident where it seemed my body remembered far more than that. Was it the manipulative nature of my abuser? He had talked me into quite more than I was comfortable using the Bible incorrectly as a way that showed he had power over me because a man was to rule a woman. When I got out of that relationship, found it necessary to take my college career away from the state I had been abused in, and started to date again, I just clearly remember the confusion. What did the Bible actually say about that? We weren’t married, so why did I allow him to treat me like that? And did I really believe that’s what was correct?

The rest of my college career was hallmarked by working out who I was as a scholar. I found out that I had dyslexia, short term memory damage, and possible ADHD (that was finally ruled out senior year) after I did a whole battery of tests at the academic center because I was concerned that my nearly all A’s had turned into C’s and I couldn’t seem to remember content as clearly as before. I got help by getting written permission to access others’ class notes and I was given a space in the academic center to quietly take a test while being monitored. I was given time and a half to complete tests because it was discovered that I had a very slow reading rate and I had quite a bit anxiety surrounding getting the words correct. I was eventually able to overcome the anxieties and thankfully finished my college degree with a high enough GPA to carry into grad school. It wasn’t easy, though! If I wasn’t on the phone with my new long-distance boyfriend, I was reading ahead in classes, listening to my books on tape as much as was available at the time, and using each student’s notes to piece together what was being said in class. Alongside all this, the flashbacks thankfully stopped, but maybe it was because we never went around base two in that relationship? I also engaged in therapy more to rule out the ADHD as a former trauma response due to hypervigilance that commonly happens to those who have been through narcissistic abuse. Think of a doe always darting their eyes and ears back and forth in a field. Are predators near? Will I be attacked? Is it safe here? Am I safe? What if I say the wrong thing? Do the wrong thing? What if I completely fail? What would ___ think of me then? I can hear them now, “You need to work harder. You’re not paying attention. This is a give-me class. You have the answers right in front of you. There’s no excuse for this. You must be stupid! If you weren’t stupid you would know this! All you have to do is memorize what the teacher gave you!” That last one didn’t even come from that relationship. The overlap of times I was in trouble as a kid sometimes confusingly get tangled up as if I were that doe in a field hoping there are no arrows pointed at my heart and that no mountain lions exist just beyond the wood.

Recounting all this to me is essentially the crux of the healing I hope for. If I am to lean into that trauma, acknowledge that the body remembers (see The Body Keeps Score, just the title alone tells all and it’s still on my reading list), and pursue releasing these events, then maybe, just maybe, that will free up some time for joy? Or relaxation? Perhaps we are all somehow part of all the characters in the movie Encanto? Some days, even just moments, I feel like Isabella; where others I feel like Louisa. There definitely is a lot of pressure behind keeping everything together while also feeling like I have to be perfect all the time.

Perfectionism. I was taunted as “Miss Perfect” in school. I don’t think I realized until just now that it was always by the same person. She would also call me “Teacher’s Pet” or “Over-Achiever.” In retrospect, I wonder if that’s why I tried so hard to befriend her- some sort of odd trauma bounding. If I had one caregiver in particular always calling me a little B* or witch when I was irritable… I actually was quite irritable especially towards my siblings who frequently called me dumb or slow or stupid. They’d gang up on me frequently and since they both were more quick-witted with the name calling or come backs and insults, it just made things far worse. In fact, I think everyone in my immediate family participated in some sort of name calling. One caregiver was constantly, “You must be an idiot or dumb because/if ____” then the other would call me a B* for snapping harshly at being teased. How is it that teasing wasn’t corrected instead?

So, it makes perfect sense that I constantly feel like a pendulum swinging between being really stupid/helpless to being too smart. Fact is, I’m quite proud of being a talented artist that got into the Maine College of Art in 8th grade for their early study program. I was also in the East-West art show where one of my pieces was lost. I think I had 2-3 pieces in that show. I have a whole folder of science fair and art and academic awards including that fancy scam one of being in the Who’s Who of High School Students then later Who’s Who of Female Entrepreneurs (is that even a thing anymore or were they just looking for money to be listed in such directories?) I know my parents would take us out to eat if we got good report cards, but I never did feel like they were really proud of me even if they said it. I must have been that every time I would achieve something there would be a lack of surprise and more of an expectation. If I ever just went about my time like a normal kid then I wouldn’t be good enough because at my baseline I’m only a B-C student. But in hyperdrive, I’m an A student and B’s are unacceptable. I’m not sure why my parents were surprised and disappointed by my 680 SAT score. They focused more on the “above average” IQ scores which were not used in actual screenings in the real world. What’s wrong with being average? I love being good at art, don’t get me wrong. It’s a beautiful thing to envision something then make it come to life. It’s amazing to be able to write like this, too, but I could do without all the pressure. I mean, what if I got to enjoy school instead of dreading it? What if I got to relax and got to know the kids in my class instead of asking them to just shut up? I get now that that irritability was a trauma response. I was terrified of bringing home a “bad” grade. I had already been held back a grade yet I was held to the same standard as my older sibling who actually is a genius. They now work as a 2-3 college degree holding civil engineer bringing in a 6-figure salary or something. I went crying into the academic office for help only to find that college was difficult because my reading speed and comprehension didn’t expand beyond the 10th grade AND that I’m dyslexic. No wonder why I couldn’t pick up reading until I was almost seven!

Helpless. That’s often the feeling I get when I am the most anxious. I remember feeling it when I thought everyone in a new group of friends didn’t like me. I remember feeling it when my daughter was born. I remember feeling it when being alone a few times. The hardest thing about it is I don’t really remember the circumstances around feeling that way. I know it’s happened at work plenty of times, but how and when and how long did it last? I only remember one time being on the phone with one of my former bosses who suggested I might have anxiety because she seems to have to “talk me off a cliff” a few times a week. I don’t remember any of those conversations but I’m well aware that they happened. The one where she suggested my GI issues could be anxiety, too, and I only remember because I was already out for a walk to calm my nerves. Was a customer mad at me? Was I spending too much time ruminating over an email or solve some issue? Was I worried I couldn’t keep my numbers up or that my boss didn’t like my performance? Was I terrified that maybe my brother was right- that I am indeed unable to “make it out in the real world” which he’d meanly say to my sibling and I about our lack of some skill set that still seems dubious to me.

I’ve gone to the hospital plenty of times with abdominal pain utterly terrified my insides would burst or my chest pain is a heart attack or I had some hidden deadly disease eating me alive. Several tests and yes, even years, have brought me all over the spectrum of health care experiences, both good and bad, as things got ruled out. Whatever it was I was ailing with, there was definitely no pending doom lurking over my shoulder. There were a few notable finds, albeit incidental, if you would. I didn’t miscarry multiple times due to my blood disorder, but I did figure out what kind of blood disorder it was after it was unnamed for several years. I didn’t figure out the vertigo or sudden passing out, but it was later discovered by a pharmacist then later confirmed by an ENT specialist that combining two different medications can cause interactions as well as holding my breath too long. I had no idea hyperventilation can look like a deep, heavy sigh and unconsciously holding my breath. Nor did I know combining that with getting up too soon with a few of my medicines that the room will literally spin only for me to see stars. When I see those stars, I can barely break my fall with my hands, which might be why they still frequently bother me. It was important to know all that! I haven’t passed out ever since! And I found out if a medicine is making me spin that I can shake my head just so and it’ll stop…or I can have some spiked fruit punch. That last one helped at a wedding. Sitting down for a moment when I feel woozy also helps, but it never really goes away completely. I have found that being incredibly excited, happy, or hyper will turn it off, so it wouldn’t surprise me if it is a body-mind connection. Hyperventilation is hardly anything like what I see on TV.

I still take big, deep breaths frequently throughout the day. They definitely help but I also am only aware of maybe the ones I take when I’m preparing a meal and I’m trying to have everything ready at the same time to serve it all at once. That kind of stress is a little fun and also hair-pulling at the same time. What I recently became aware of was just how irritable I have become ever since my daughter was born. I mean, what in the world? I love that little girl so much but I’m afraid to play with her. I’m afraid of hurting her yet I snap back that I’m too tired and already gave her a boundary because mommy doesn’t feel well? I’ve been trying to pay more attention to my attitude towards her. She’s now at the age where she notices that kind of attitude and might even start modeling it in her own behavior. I mean, honestly, I should have noticed ages ago that I’m just distant and snappy with her. I do things with her but not without my phone and I immediately feel like I have to answer every single message or notification that comes through. It’s gotten so bad that I’ve been giving myself a timer on certain apps so I put it down. I mean, how hard is it to just pay attention to her and enjoy her? It’s getting easier but I would like to do far better. I’ve been treating her like I treat myself and I don’t like how I treat myself, so I changed the inner dialogue instead. She’s my husband’s daughter. I treat her now like a princess because she comes from the one person I love most in this world. The hardest part of being more intentional in enjoying her is realizing just how panicked I was that someone would be angry or feel hurt or left out because I wasn’t paying attention to my phone instead. It has more to do with how I think they’ll react than how they actually will or are more likely to react. So we craft together a lot and we read together (great time to snuggle!) and we play with her stuffed animals together. I now have a book of activities for her to do with me. Some of them are even experiments. And I’m relieved that it’s becoming easier. And when I had an unexpected order on the way to ballet class, I took her to a thrift store while my husband got the oil changed. While in the toy section looking for a few props for photos for my next project, she of course kept finding some really neat things. It’s only weeks past Christmas and I was still touched by her excitement and I did have the money. If anything, I probably should have asked my husband first, but when her best friend came over that afternoon it was quite fun to listen to their giggles as they played with a popup, hot pink camper-tent thing. We had found it for only $4 and it was the exact one she would go, “OH! LOOK!” every time we were in the store. I’m thankful she’s always been the “OH! LOOK!” kind of kid instead of one with the “gimmes.”

She’s endlessly been playing with that thing since we got home along with some new toy food, a play stove that doubles as a stool (folds open to stove top that lights up), and some pop-it’s we both found over the weekend. Her original toy kitchen has been outside by her clubhouse and she’s been far too cold to want to play with it. Her favorite game is restaurant. She’s converted her camper to a bus, a food truck, then a true camper to go camping in. Out of everything I picked out for Christmas, I’m thankful to see that she’s really enjoying these even more. I have noticed every game where I’m completely engaged in with her that she tends to want to do that even more.

It was right around waking up to noticing her growing up far too fast that I also counted how many summers we had left with her in grade school. My husband had pointed out that it’s been three months since we visited Yosemite. It was somewhere on that trip that her bellyaches were more than just butterflies. Fast forward to now, we narrowed it down to a soy, dairy, and a possible gluten allergy. As her bellyaches faded, so did some of my aches and pains. Although I still have insomnia, especially during that lovely one week out of the month, I have found my depression lifting, too. My irritability is calming and becoming far less frequent and I’m far less likely to snap back an annoyed answer. I’m more patient and able to give a simple answer. I’m more able to see my daughter just being six instead of as an interruption to solving another “problem” of a notification. Is there a word for this phenomenon? Of being pissed that your phone just won’t shut up? That even if it’s left for 45 minutes that there will be a pile again to sift through? But eating gluten, dairy, and soy free for at least these past three weeks (elimination diets take time) has shown me that maybe 50% of my issues are gluten, 25% dairy, and 25% trauma. That leaves 0% at my best guess that’s because of nerve damage due to shingles. That that darn infection didn’t cause my fibromyalgia. Trauma did. And gluten magnified the issue exponentially. And I’ve been lactose intolerant since I was a teenager. I’ve just never intentionally taken it out of my diet quite like this besides when I went vegan.

What I want to conquer in 2023 is this: how do I work out the childhood trauma I have from perfectionistic parents, having a depressed and highly critical parent, the other parent having PTSD from Vietnam, and two siblings who wouldn’t leave me alone when I showed a weakness anywhere? Then there’s the name-calling of everyone around me. Then there’s the teachers and pastors who ignored my cries for help. Then the strange church atmosphere I grew up in that I’m now convinced was some odd cultish thing. Then the rape and not knowing why I still hyperventilate after sex. I’ve been married for 12 years and sex is something I’ve been avoiding lately. It’s incredibly deep and vulnerable. I’ve even begun avoiding my husband’s deep conversations because sometimes it’s just easier to turn it all off than to keep sorting through the big mess. I even see conflict in Girl Scouts through my lens of trauma. And it. sucks. I used to run or do something to work out. I had my ankles checked and still no word back on a specialist to take a look and possibly drain the cysts on them from injuring them at the same time when I fell down a steep flight of stairs in 2020. That same year I sprained my knee and dislocated my shoulder twice, too. This growing older thing sucks, too. I need to work out, though. How else am I going to get through this?

I haven’t read it yet, but this article comes from a reel I just couldn’t find no matter how hard I looked for it in my activity history. It’s called 4 Ways to Stop Foreboding Joy: When Joy Feels Scary . I didn’t know it was actually a thing. I’ve been spinning around the sun for 6 years now wondering why I’ve struggled to connect and bond with my daughter. She is clothed, fed, warm, safe, and every good thing we can do for her we have. Yet I still struggle. I thought I’d be a natural mom. I thought not only would I feed her natural foods and learn apothecary to treat her boo-boos and maybe wear all organic cotton and never use food coloring, but I thought I’d be a natural at nurturing her. I had cared for so many kids and babies before her between church and friends’ kids and nieces and nephews. I love snuggling babies and got really good at rocking out little gas bubbles and changing a diaper with one hand while pulling the wipes far enough out of their reach. But somewhere around potty training, I just got more and more clueless. It was pretty much where the chapters of the “What to Expect” books stop, and nearly everything in those books didn’t apply to our little one anyways. Breast feeding was a joke, pumping even worse. The pediatrician had these amazing handouts that gave me everything I needed and thankfully those were a lifeline for me. But what now?

I’m in that state of staring down the last twelve summers with her being in grade school. I have no idea what I’m doing. Thankfully, as terrifying as that notion is, I’m assured I’m not the only one from what I’m finding online and in several books I’ve tried to pick up on the topic of parenting. None of them have spoken out to me yet. She’s so unique and gentle and kind and loving. How do I shepherd that? So far nothing at Target or on Amazon really fills that lingering question and the Bible is a bit lacking on the topic specifically. So, I’m trying to approach it this way: love and kindness and patience. Gentler answers and more delighting in what she delights in. If she wants me to wear purple while playing a game, I protest hardly at all if at all. If I’m not sore or sick, I’ll play outside with her. If I can fit in her bed because her stuffed animals are no longer in the way, I’ll climb in. It’ll take time, but the biggest fear I have is hurting her. It was the biggest fear I had the first time I held her. I thought I was going to drop her. But by keeping my distance and not awkwardly trying to nurture a bond between us it has the potential to become her biggest trauma. I don’t want her to ever feel as I do from stumbling through life with no words of wisdom or real connection to my strict parents besides blood and history. Also, I keep worrying I’m going to lose her like I lost my other babies. It would hurt so, so much worse to lose her now. I’d rather die than lose her. That’s the part that’s in my heart that fears joy.

So, I listen to a lot of podcasts that bring me peace. My favorite lately is this one. It reminds me of who I really am and how God sees me, not how I or anyone else sees me. I struggle to see the person my husband sees or my daughter or mother-in-law sees because I grew up hearing many awful things. In church, I felt like God didn’t even like me because of all the ways I could be dirty or wrong or broken and that was before I was even old enough to commit any real big sins. I was always good at school, so how could I have and yet everyone around me hates me. I’m so glad I ditched that internal dialogue of my teenaged years, but what I haven’t been able to shake is the impact it’s had on me. And now that I’m happily married and have a beautiful daughter and I’m forming normal, healthy relationships both in business, at a much healthier church, and in the community, how come I can’t shake that voice yet? I’ve listened to this podcast maybe 20 times now. I need it to rewrite all the bull-oni. And then can I “maybe free up some room for joy or relaxation?”

I sew, craft, bake, cook, clean, and play plenty now, but I’m still tempering my heart. God, please give me the courage to keep going in this healing journey. It would be easier to keep indulging in pastries or find a different drug than sugar. But easy street hasn’t made anyone happy yet. I want to really be that happy person everyone in my childhood church used to pretend to be. Yet genuine. God, You say You gave me new life and made me a new creation, so please take away my pain and my fear and help me be loveable again and give me the courage to love anyways even if it’ll mean the greatest heartache of my journey ever. She needs me and I’m just not sure I’m showing up yet in the ways she needs me.