A Second Chance for Robert

Friday morning, as Charlie stood on a chair at the kitchen sink and “washed dishes” and Simon rode on my back in the Ergo, I read the latest Dear Sugar column.

Saturday I went to the post office and mailed out an extremely late Father’s Day gift to my dad.

The two events are not unrelated.

It’s not uncommon for Sugar’s column to make tears roll down my cheeks, but her most recent advice offering to a father who’d lost his only son broke me wide open. I stood in the kitchen with my grief burning in my body and I sobbed right there for both of my kids to witness.

I’ve done my fair share of bitching about illness and fever and teething lately but the month of June was so much more than those things that have led me here, to this place where I am once again a grieving woman. Father’s Day, for example. I think it may be the most bittersweet day of the year for me. On that day, I smiled and laughed and I meant it because my boys have a wonderful father who loves them and they will never have to question that. I have loved watching Roy grow into his role of daddy and I am so proud of him. All of that is tempered by my relationship with my own father. It’s practically non-existent and it feels like it lives only in my mind. It doesn’t feel real. Only the grief does.

And so while everyone posted on Facebook about how much they love their dads, I had nothing to say aside from a shout-out to Roy. I posted a video about forgiving our fathers but there was no response. Either no one saw it or no one knew what to say or no one wanted to talk about the places that hurt on a day that’s supposed to be celebratory. I’m okay with that. I do love my dad. He’s half of the reason why I’m here today. But we don’t have a relationship. And that I am not okay with.

I will never be okay with it. It’s the grief that keeps on grieving.



Simon’s middle name is Robert, which is my dad’s name. We knew, as soon as we found out I was pregnant again last year, that if we had another boy, his middle name would be Robert as a way to honor my dad. I wonder sometimes what it means to saddle a baby with the weight of a relative’s name. Will he develop a brain tumor like my dad did? Will he live in a way that my dad couldn’t? Will history repeat itself or will he write his own story? I asked Roy these questions today. I needed answers that were once clear but had become muddled.

“It’s a second chance for Robert,” my dear sweet amazing wonderful husband replied.

And it slapped me across the face like it does every once in awhile, the realization that I will never have a dad like the one in Father of the Bride, that my kids will never have a grandpa to play with, that there is a person sitting in a crappy nursing home in Waco, Texas, who is half of the reason why I’m here today and yet he is lost to me. Forever fucking lost to me.

I don’t know what to do with that. It’s been almost 30 years since his essence was taken, leaving this shell behind, and I still have no idea what to do with this howling emptiness inside me. I try to silence it, by sending out Father’s Day gifts and writing cheerful cards that say things like, “Charlie is 2 now! He’s such a smart and sweet boy. Simon is 7 months old and is crawling and pulling to a stand. We wish you were here. We love you.” It’s all bullshit. What I want to say is “Charlie is 2 now. Why didn’t you call? And what about my birthday? Why didn't you call? Do you even realize that you have a 32 year old daughter and two adorable grandsons? If I tell you I love you, will you say it back? I hope you’re not suffering. Are you suffering? I don’t think I can bear it if you are.”

(I know he is suffering.)



My dad will never have a second chance. I sometimes have to sit with this and let the enormity of it pass over me. I don’t know what to do except breathe and feel the screaming space inside me.

My dad will never have a second chance. So we gave his name to our second son because it’s the best we can do to give him the impossible.

My dad will never have a second chance. He will remain in the nursing home with the big picture of John Wayne over his bed and in his fragile and damaged mind he will drift away to happier times. This is perhaps the only thing that makes his suffering okay, the fact that he can escape it.

My dad will never have a second chance. And someday he will die, just as someday we will all die. Of course, we don’t know when. He’s defied our expectations by hanging in there for much longer than I think any of us expected. It’s been a year and a half since I’ve seen him. Charlie was six months old. It was Christmastime. In less than three months, I would be pregnant again with a little baby boy who would be given his name, a little boy he has yet to meet.

My dad will never have a second chance. I understand this, and that is the place from which my sorrow speaks. There is wisdom in that sorrow, and understanding, and compassion. And yet, like Sugar said in her column, I would give it all up to hear him tell me he’s proud of me and that he loves me.

And this is why I find myself here this morning, reaching for healing, despite the fact - no, because of the fact that my dad will never have a second chance. After all this writing and this spilling of my sad, sloppy guts, I still don’t know what to do with all this reality.

And so I will sit awhile. And breathe.



(All pictures in this post were taken by my dad in his college days, pre-illness.)

(If you don't already read Dear Sugar, you should start. Her column is one of my favorite things about the internet.)

Letting the Horses Run Free

I am now three months into this current bout of insomnia. This morning, as I rolled out of bed after spending most of the night tossing and turning, I realized I had hit my limit. I can't do this anymore.

Sleeplessness has been my good buddy for all of my adult life, and I have come to believe that it is not merely a physical problem I'm dealing with; it's an emotional demon - or rather, it's a product of my emotional demons: my stress, my anxiety. I believe strongly in the mind-body connection, and I feel that if I can let go of my mind, the body will follow.

But the mind, that's the tricky part.

My mind feels like it's a force of its own. I don't feel like I have any control over where it goes or what it does. It's like a TV switching between channels constantly, an iPod searching for the perfect song. I don't know how to relax or sit still or do nothing. And when I need to most, I don't know how to focus.

Sometimes I can get myself into a good trance state. Doing something like slicing a ton of lemons or shredding paper or anything repetitive like that has allowed me to enter into a nice calmness in the past. In those moments I have found myself in a pleasant state of nothingness. I need more nothingness in my life.

Instead, I am distracted. Perpetually dazed by all the stuff that I need to do. By the noise. The incessant hum of my mind.

I know this is the reason I can't sleep. It's too fucking loud inside my head. It's loud in there because the outside world is loud but it's loud outside because it's loud inside. The only solution to all this is to unclutter. To pare down to what's most important and let the rest go. I've been working on this feverishly (when I have the energy) on a physical level, as I prepare for the arrival of the baby. I've been hoping that my mind would catch up. But instead my mind becomes fixated on what's left to be done and how much time we don't have left and how that makes me a failure and how I will never escape all this exhaustive noise.

And on the cycle continues. You see, I don't really know how to let go or be still at all. But I can clearly see that I need to learn how, and that I can learn. Just because my mind has always gone a mile a minute doesn't mean that I can't slow it down. I really believe that I can. It's just going to take practice.

My mom gave me some advice today: while relaxing, I should imagine a big fenced area full of horses. The gate opens, and one by one, the horses run out, until only emptiness remains. Tonight and every night after, I will do my prenatal yoga. I will have a warm bath along with some chamomile tea. I will do my Bradley relaxation practice. And I will look for the horses - and the emptiness beyond. And in that emptiness, I will find rest and peace. It may not be tonight or the night after or even two weeks from now. But the quietude will come and sleep will be mine.

In the meantime, if you have any relaxation tips, please share them. I need all the help I can get.

Desperate Housewife

Today I feel like this:



I'm the orange guy. And the pink one, too. (from here)

Disclaimer: Lest someone think that I am some ungrateful hag, allow me to point you to the explosion of happiness that has invaded my posts lately. I don't even recognize this blog with all its recent annoying happiness.

But now it's time for something completely different.

I have insomnia. It's just a thing with me, apparently. I had the most godawful insomnia (about 20 weeks worth) when I was pregnant with Charlie. I thought I'd gotten lucky this time, because I made it through the first trimester without the horrible sleep issues. The second trimester rolled around, which apparently cued the insomnia. So let's see, I'm 23 weeks pregnant. That means I've been dealing with awful, stupid, mega soul-sucking insomnia for at least 8 weeks. But more like 10.

It's a good thing that such a thing as naptime exists. What sucks, though, is that I am apparently co-dependent and can't sleep without Roy anymore. My last two successful naps were when he was at home one weekend, napping in bed next to me.

But now things have progressed to the point where I can't sleep with him, either. It feels like this is way too early for this to be happening already, but I am really uncomfortable in bed now. I just can't find a position that works for me. So last night Roy slept on the floor. I got a five hour stretch of sleep, which is the best I've done in quite awhile.

But today I was still so exhausted that I could barely think. And then it was like a world of shit exploded on me. I got an email letting me know that my credit limit on one of my cards has been decreased because the payment is late - for the first time EVER. I decided to take a nice relaxing bath during Charlie's afternoon nap, and the shower curtain rod collapsed on me. Roy came home from work and told me that his car needs about $350 worth of work done to it, in addition to the $200 worth that my car needs.

We decided that we needed to get out of the house, so we hopped in the car to take Charlie to the park to do his 13 month photos. But I was hungry. So we drove around aimlessly, while I talked about all the food that Texas has and that California is sorely lacking. I was in the middle of telling Roy about a memory I had associated with Sonic Drive-In when we heard the alarming sound of Charlie gagging in the backseat. We took a quick, fervent look, and there he was with his whole hand in his mouth making himself gag. He did this off and on the whole drive home. (Little bulimic baby.) I never did get to finish telling Roy about how I used to get paid every week back in my freshman year of college, and one of the first things I would do was go to KMart and buy a carton of cigarettes. Then I would go to Sonic Drive-In and order a cheeseburger and some chili-cheese tater tots and a big ol' cherry limeade. I sure did enjoy my vices. I didn't have a lot of money back then either, but I had the luxury of time. And the freedom to sleep in every weekend and go shopping when I wanted. Ahh, to be 18 again.

So we got home and I put Charlie in his highchair. Our planned dinner had not thawed out completely, so I gave him some cheese melted on bread, along with some milk and Cheerios, and called it done. Meanwhile, Kerwin threw up three times, which is always a wonderful thing for a pregnant woman to witness. And now Charlie has been in his crib for the last hour, and he's still rolling around, wide awake. I have no idea what Roy or I are going to eat for dinner, but I am in such a state of insanity right now that I may just eat a whole carton of ice cream.

More than anything right now, I want to walk into a bar, order a beer, and sit and listen to some live music. I hate beer, and I'm not a bar person, but I feel so trapped right now that all I can do is laugh about it. Just laugh at the absurdity that is being broke, being a parent, being pregnant, being so fucking tired that my eyes might fall out of my head and roll down the street. I imagine that the one simple act of drinking a beer will make me feel human again. Maybe take away some of the desperation.

This week I read The Hours for the third or fourth time. (I was actually on the verge of finishing it when the shower curtain rod collapsed on me earlier today.) I think it's a brilliant and heartbreaking book, but this time reading it felt like a completely different experience. I was struck by each woman's deep desire to make herself believe that she was enough, that her life was enough, that what she was doing with her time was enough; each of them, desperate in her own way.

I feel desperate sometimes. Like I'm trying to convince myself that this life is enough. That it's okay that I've had to clean Charlie's highchair five times today and now there is food all over the floor. That it's okay that I suspect I may never sleep through the night again. That I may never amount to anything other than some frumpy mom, that my education might go to waste as I pop out another kid and perhaps end up depressed again because kids, while they make life so wonderful, also make it so. damn. difficult. I love being a mom; I really feel that it's the best thing I've ever done; but each and every cell of my body is tired. I need a vacation that we cannot afford; I need a beer that I cannot drink; and I need a good night's sleep like I have never needed anything before.

More than anything, I just need to keep it all in perspective, knowing that this is one day out of many, that the bills will get paid (maybe not always on time), that I will sleep again, and that I won't always feel this desperate. Some day I won't have to convince myself that I am enough. I will just know it.

Life/Death

Yesterday we attended (and I photographed) a first birthday party. It was a great time, full of happy kids, yummy food, a bubble and balloon lady, and the most wow-inducing cupcakes ever. Not to mention the birthday girl herself, who was a vision of cuteness:



Since I've become a parent, I've realized how drawn people are to babies and children. They really have something that we lose as we get older: a sense of innocence, wonder, newness. One of the best parts of being a mom is getting to see the world through Charlie's eyes. It's kind of a miracle (and I hate that word) to be able to experience the world whole-heartedly again.



Kids are pure. Even when they become brooding teenagers, there's a purity there that's undeniable.

Today we attended the funeral of a 19-year-old boy named Zack. He was the son of one of my old work buddies, and his death happened completely unexpectedly. I had never met him, but I wanted to show my support for my friend, so the three of us (well, the four of us, actually) packed up and headed out.

It wasn't exactly the way I wanted to spend a Sunday afternoon.

But we piled into the church and we listened to the preacher talk about Zack. And as I held my kiddo and felt my other kiddo swoosh around inside me, Roy put his arm around me and the tears began to fall.

It all just felt so unfair. Yes, death is a part of life. Yes, the tears we shed are for ourselves, not for the departed. Yes, grief is ultimately a selfish emotion, but what emotion isn't self-centered? I still don't think it's right for a 19-year-old to die. I don't think it's right that a mother had to have her son cremated. I don't think it's right that the world keeps on spinning when there's one less person on it.

My heart is heavy tonight. And really the only thing I can do is hug my boys a little tighter, love them a little more fiercely, and be grateful for another beautiful day together.

Father's Day

This is always such a bittersweet day for me. It's even more bittersweet this year because I recently got an update on my dad's condition, and he's just not doing well. I'm not surprised at all, but still, it's never easy to hear that his condition is worsening. We really, really, really wanted to send Charlie and me out to Texas to see him before it gets too late in my pregnancy for me to travel. But we aren't doing so well financially right now, so that's not an option. It makes me terribly sad.

Father's Day has always been a reminder of the way things aren't, the way things could have been. I'm not sure I will ever understand why my dad has had to suffer so much. Life is unbearably cruel, I guess. I know that he would have been an excellent father if he'd ever had a fighting chance against his condition. I know that he did his best with what was left. I know that I will always mourn the dad I didn't have but that I will also celebrate the one I do have. He has taught me so much, and I'm not sure if he will ever understand how grateful I am for that or how much I love him.



The good thing about Father's Day? I'm married to a wonderful man who is a fantastic father. I've loved watching Roy grow into fatherhood this past year. I love watching him and Charlie together. I love how I can hear the smile in his voice when we talk about Charlie or the baby. I love how involved he is in parenting.

The other day I caught Roy dancing with Charlie while listening to Belle and Sebastian, and it just took my breath away. I could not stop smiling. I just love how much Roy loves our babies and how that love shows in all the things he does. I am so proud of him - and so honored to be his parenting partner (and wife, of course).



I am so, so lucky. The situation with my dad is always going to hurt - and badly. But I know it's really shaped me as a person and helped me realize that you can't take life for granted, that each moment is something to be grateful for. And so that's why I consider myself lucky. I've learned some hard lessons and dealt with some things I wasn't sure I would ever be able to get through, but life on the whole has been good to me. I have so much love in my life. I'm so honored to spend my days with my husband, who is the best daddy ever, as we raise our TWO boys to be responsible and loving men - who will someday, if they choose, have wonderful little children of their own.

Yes, that's right. TWO little boys. Baby #2 is a boy! A little brother for Charlie!



(A seriously uncooperative little brother! This is probably the best shot the tech could get of him, because he just wouldn't wake up. She lovingly dubbed him Spock. But we like Giggles. And Burt Reynolds. He looks like a Burt, doesn't he?)

Life is good, even when it hurts like hell. I'm so grateful for all the men in my life. Happy, happy Father's Day.

Unlock the Silence

I was so scared to post yesterday. I make it a rule in my life to be honest and open about how I'm feeling, but there are often things I don't share because they aren't terribly relevant. And then there are things, like my history of sexual abuse, that are tough to share because they are so personal. And this is the Internet. And there is such a thing as oversharing. And perhaps my post from yesterday falls into that realm. But I can't think too much about it now, because I have no regrets about telling my story, painful as it is. Because it is, unfortunately, very relevant to what I'm going through right now. And well, encouragement and support from others goes a long way. Thank you so much for listening.

I feel that, in telling my story, or at least the gist of it, I have breathed new life into this blog. I don't feel the need to be silent anymore. I'm not really a silent person; I mean, I love to talk, but it's actually in my nature to pull away from others when things get really, really hard. But sometimes a person's just got to reach out, either by clicking on "Publish Post" or writing an email or making a phone call.

We live in a culture where people constantly guilt and shame us into looking on the bright side. We're uncomfortable with unhappiness; we think that we should always be counting our blessings and being grateful, and yes, we should make it a point to remember the good things in life. But we should never, ever try to gloss over the bad or to ignore the places that hurt. In the long run, it doesn't do anyone any good to "don't worry, be happy." Life sucks sometimes. It doesn't mean that it's always going to suck or that there aren't moments and places of happiness amidst the suckage. It doesn't mean that we constantly should be negative. But there's nothing wrong with saying, "I'm having a really hard time."

I suppose what I'm trying to say here is that I appreciate your comments so very much. You all are very wise, much wiser than the people who have told me, "You've just got to choose to be happy." Um, what?! Really?! Do people really think I don't want to be happy, that I'm perfectly content to feel crappy, that I love talking about my problems? I'd love to poop rainbows if I could, dammit. Depression isn't a choice.

No wonder people don't talk about how they feel. No wonder they always apologize for being anything less than ecstatic about life. There are actually people out there who think that if you're depressed, you can just stop being depressed. And well, that's total bullshit.

***

I did end up writing Charlie's ten-month letter to him. I cried the entire time. I worry constantly that my depression will affect him in some way. I try my hardest to keep the tears under wraps when he's around, because I know babies pick up on that stuff, and I don't want him to feel scared or anxious. I am eternally grateful that he is too young to really remember this. I am also so, so grateful that he is such a happy, healthy, and wonderful baby. I have no doubts that he is thriving, and as wrong as I am feeling these days, it's a lovely reminder that there are some things that I'm doing right.

Yesterday in general a whole lot of tears were shed. Roy and I have made the tough decision to move. This has been extraordinarily difficult. I love our house. Moving in was a sign that we'd arrived. The reality is that we may end up back in an apartment. I have nothing against apartments in general. I lived in them for years. I guess I just never anticipated moving back into one. It feels like a step back, even though I know it's a good one to take. I'm looking at it as an adventure. It will give us the opportunity to really pare down our belongings. We'll probably even get rid of our TV, as we almost never use it. Even more important, we'll be able to save some money. We have a huge amount of debt to pay down. We'll never be able to move on from here if we don't pay it off.

I haven't given up hope of finding another house with cheaper rent to move into. It is relatively easy to find options for living these days, but it seems that the good houses are taken in an instant. We've been looking all week, and it's discouraging to see how quickly the good properties go and how many scams are out there.

***

We're heading out for an impromptu trip this weekend. Roy and I love California's central coast, and so that's where we're headed. A trip like this is absolutely not in the budget, but we're doing it anyway. We really need to.

I haven't really touched on this subject, but Roy is also having some major emotional stuff going on. Quite a pair, we are. It's hard to see my husband be so sad and so down on himself, when to me he is the most wonderful man I have ever known. We are taking care of each other; despite our mutual depression, I don't feel our marriage is in danger. We've been talking a lot and spending a lot of time together after Charlie goes to bed. This week we watched Fried Green Tomatoes, and I swear I cried through the whole thing. It'd been years since I'd seen that movie.

Anyway, I'm very excited about this little getaway, so excited that I've accomplished more this morning than I have all week. I can't wait to be there and to take a million photos and to hold my baby and be with my husband without all this crap weighing us down.

I hope to have some awesome photos to share with you next week. Enjoy your weekend!

10 Months/Identity Crisis

Ten months ago today my son was born. Normally I post a letter to him here, but I am unable to come up with the words. I am buried under so much other stuff.

I've decided to do something a little daring and very, very personal. I'd like to share my history of depression here, in pretty painful detail. I'm not sure what the outcome will be, only that I can't keep hiding behind this screen pretending that everything is okay. I feel that my blog is dying, because I myself, or the Leslie I used to be, has died. I'm not sure who I will end up being or what will become of this space here. I am in this awful in-between state, and wow, it just sucks to be here.

These words, they've been wanting to burst out of me since November. They need to be said. I hope that you'll be gentle. I'm not looking for pity. I'm not sure what it is I'm looking for, only that I know I need to share this. I'm tired of feeling ashamed.

(The paragraphs in italics below were written on November 10, 2009, which is a pretty significant anniversary for me.)

***

Who am I?

How many times have we asked ourselves this question? Me, I've asked it multiple times. I asked myself that question today, and here's what my 30-year-old self came up with.

I am the daughter of a man who was left empty after surgery to remove a vascular brain tumor. I was three years old at the time, and so many of my first memories are associated with my dad's illness and recovery. I remember throwing up in a drugstore bathroom in Houston, the city where my dad was hospitalized and treated. I remember blue curtains in our hotel room. I remember my dad's snake-like scar on his head from where they operated. I remember how my dad threw up quite often at dinner once he was home and recovering. I remember swallowing some of my dad's pills on accident, and I remember big hands in my mouth trying to scoop out the chewed-up bits. I remember fights, angry fights full of screaming and tears and threats of suicide. I remember the heaviness of depression that invaded both my parents.

Despite all this, I grew up a pretty happy, well-adjusted kid - on the surface, at least. I got good grades, was involved in lots of activities, had no real problems making friends or acquiring boyfriends, got into a healthy amount of trouble in high school, but underneath it all, I was beginning to boil over and fester. Looking back, I don't really think I had the coping skills to really understand and deal with what had happened to my dad and how it had affected our family. Naturally, that came later, after I became someone else.

I became someone else on November 10, 1997 - the day I was raped. I was an 18-year-old college student, fresh out of high school and ejected into the real world. My entire life up until that point had been built on denial, and becoming a rape victim forced me out of my safe little bubble world where everything was okay as long as I didn't think about it. I was overcome with anger, sadness, shame, guilt, and hatred towards myself and the world. I almost immediately began to self-destruct, thus leading me to make some of the worst decisions of my life. I entered into a state of deep self-loathing, and I stayed there for several years. Those four years are what I call my Great Depression. Looking back on them, I don't remember many good things. I do remember the rawness of everything I felt. The world had changed, and I had been born into emptiness. Everything that I had built had fallen apart.

Being raped forced me to think, to feel, to become. I will never say it was a blessing in disguise. Because it wasn't. It was quietly violent and shameful and dirty. It was the most horrific thing I have ever experienced. But out of all the pain grew the woman who moved to California, finished college, married a wonderful man, and birthed a beautiful, healthy baby boy. Through all the tears, the rage, the sleepless nights, the thousands of angst-ridden poems, the four years of therapy, I became me.

But who is that?

I used to know that pretty well, but now I've realized that I don't. Not anymore. Because then Charlie was born. And I don't think I really understood right away how much his birth had transformed me. I still don't think I've completely grasped it. I am a different person. And while I am over-the-moon happy with Charlie, there's a black cloud called Traumatic Birth Experience hanging over me. And honestly? I think that Charlie's birth has led to postpartum depression.

The further I get away from Charlie's birth, the more parallels I see between it and my rape experience. There were the cries for help that went unanswered. The real fear that I wouldn't make it out alive. The knowledge that I was completely powerless and that my body was not my own anymore. In the OR, I was strapped down, out of my mind with pain and fear, and there was not an ally to be found anywhere. I was separated from the people I loved while a man cut me open and took out my insides. And when I came to, I was not the same person anymore. A fundamental part of me was missing.

Someone took what should have been an empowering experience and made it ugly and violent. In doing so, I was stripped of all my power and agency. I will never have that experience back; I will never be able to make it right. Am I sad? You betcha. Am I angry? FUCK YES.

After I was raped, I went looking for the part of me that I lost but I never did find it. In time, something else grew in its place. I feel that the same thing will happen in regards to Charlie's birth. That I will come out of this a better person. I hope so, because honestly I do not like who I am right now. I don't like this sadness, this anger. This alienation. This bloody mess.

***

I was in the middle of writing this when I got the news that my dad has been moved into a nursing home after a series of alarming incidents. I found out this information through email, and I instantly deflated. And burst into tears. And made frantic phone calls.

As problematic as my relationship with my dad is, I am not ready to face the fact that his condition is (probably) rapidly deteriorating. I find myself wondering if I should prepare for the worst. But there are no answers. There are never any answers.

And that's the kicker. There's no closure. These events, they just linger on and on. I never get to close the Book of Rape and proclaim it done. I never get to say, "Yeah, it's real tragic what happened to my dad, but I got over it." And I will probably never understand why Charlie's birth had to unfold in such a horrific way, and I know I'll never be able to say, "I'm just so grateful to have a healthy baby that all the birth trauma I went through means nothing." These are things that will always remain with me, that I will carry with me for the rest of my days. Most days, they'll be just a normal part of the burdens that life offers us, and I will be okay.

And then there are days like today. Twelve years after rape, and my dad's on the verge of I-don't-know-what, and my Cesarean scar burns with anger and shame. I feel like things are falling apart once again, and as prepared as I am for this, I'm just not prepared for this.

Today I don't know who I am. I don't know if things will be okay. What I do know is that these same damn annoying wounds hurt - they hurt so badly.

***

As you can see, life has been unbearably tough lately. Of course, I am so grateful for all that I have, but things do feel like they are falling apart. Because, you see, the past has a way of worming its way back into the present. It is so damn maddening to know that we can do all the right things and work our asses off to heal and become better people, but that something can happen to take it all away. It sucks that often those who hurt us the most get to go on and lead their oblivious lives, while we are left cleaning up the mess. The hardest thing is that I am back to feeling so hurt and scared that there is no doubt that I am nothing but a victim, when for years I struggled to become a survivor. I prided myself on surviving being raped and all the emotional fallout that resulted from it. That pride is gone. I have been stripped of myself. I have so many moments when I don't know how I will go on. I love my son, I love my husband, I love my family and friends, but they can't save me. The only thing I can do these days is take baby steps and hope that in those small movements lies the key to healing.

Thank you for letting me share.

10 Days

It's been 10 days since I last posted here. I wish I could say I've been writing the Great American Novel, but that's pretty far from the truth. I haven't written a thing anywhere, not even in my journal, since my last post here. I have so much to say and yet I have no idea how to put it into words.

Let me start by saying that I still wonder why I'm keeping this blog going. I think I'm starting to really let go of my love affair with the online world. Neither Facebook nor Twitter thrill me anymore. I barely read blogs anymore. I'm starting to feel very disconnected from everything, and with my decade-long internet obsession, I'm not convinced that this is a bad thing.

I want something real. I'm tired of these elusive strings of code that bind me to others. I'm tired of status updates and blog traffic and talk of how many followers one has or doesn't have. I used to love the fact that blogs were the thing to do, but now it all feels so fake to me. It doesn't feel genuine anymore.

I'm sure all of this has a whole lot to do with the depression I've got going on. Of course I am questioning everything in my life and wondering why I do what I do. I think about my purpose in life and wonder if things (such as blogging) serve that purpose. Of course, all this would be much clearer to me if I understood what my purpose was in the first place.

More than anything, I am torn about how much detail to go into regarding my emotional landscape. Things are tough. I have good times and bad, but the bad times can be really scary. I am still doing the therapy thing, and I feel disconnected from that as well. I talk to my therapist, lay out all my history for her, but I'm skimming the surface. It all just feels too deep, too overwhelming, too dark to even begin to pull apart and examine. I am terrified that I won't make it through this with my sanity and my family intact.

I think back to my Great Depression a decade ago and I remember the only things that really helped were making positive life changes and letting time do the rest. Roy and I have been talking about moving to a new house, which appeals to me more and more, especially since we have newish neighbors who we don't really care for. We've talked about selling everything and buying an RV and driving across the country. We're not in the best position to do something like that, so instead we made a short list of lifestyle changes we'd like to make. And I'm doing everything right. I try to eat well, get some exercise, hang out with my friends, have time to myself, etc.

And yet the depression, it just hangs on and on and on. I miss my family terribly, I often think of my dad's deteriorating condition, I halfheartedly take pictures and read and do other things I enjoy. I'm just not right. I feel so wrong. And I want so badly to believe that everything is going to be okay.

Sadness will set me free.

I'm a person who has high expectations for herself. I'm driven. I'm motivated. I'm passionate. I believe that life should be lived, not wished away.

Depression has stripped away all of that. The high expectations are still there, naturally, because there's all the self-blame for being depressed in the first place. But I've put everything aside in favor of just surviving. All my dreams and goals have been put on hold as I row my way through this river of darkness.

My computer desktop is a mess of folders full of pictures that need to be sorted and edited. I come across interesting articles and bookmark them for later instead of reading them right then. My thesis materials sit, gathering dust. The laundry remains unfolded. I don't have much energy to comment on blogs. I don't even really have much to say on Facebook or Twitter.

And I don't care. Because getting through this moment, with myself and my family intact, is all that matters.

I feel free. My psyche is chained up tight, but yet. That freedom. To just exist, to not expect greatness, to let my son watch Ugly Betty with me, to give him a bottle instead of solid food sometimes, to go out for lunch everyday, to spend hours in bed, to spend an entire day with my hair unbrushed, to clean when I feel like it and let the dishes pile up when I don't.

I sound completely self-indulgent, and I don't care. What is depression if not the complete turning inward of a person? I can't care too much about the rest of the world right now. I need to take care of me and mine.

Someday the pain will lessen, and my psyche will be set free. For now, I'm counting on the sadness to bring me to my knees, so I can admit that it's okay to be ordinary.

(Thanks for all the love you've shown me through this, everyone. I'm not really all that good at responding to comments. But I read and appreciate every one. Your words have helped me so much.)

I haven't felt like writing.

Those old emo ups and downs are kicking my ass, folks. I haven't known what to say here. Or anywhere, really. I've just been kind of quiet.

I went to therapy today. We talked about how high my anxiety has been since Charlie was born and how I feel like an inadequate mother (well, an inadequate human being, really), and the session ended with her telling me that I need to learn how to be kinder to myself. It was a total duh moment, because DUH! My whole life I have been so hard on myself, and I'm not sure where this tendency comes from, but seriously, getting past the DUH! of it all, I've had enough.

I can't keep living this way. It is seriously exhausting being me. Something needs to change.

Or else I don't know what's going to happen. Maybe they'll haul me off to the mental ward, I don't know. This is insane. I'm so tired of being so hard on myself, for expecting perfection from myself, for apologizing for myself, and on and on the list goes. I just need to find a balance. I just need to not be such a bitch to myself. I just need to recognize that all the allowances granted to others are acceptable for me, too. I just need to learn how to be. In peace and quiet.

I have been so tired lately. During Charlie's naps, I crawl in bed and I don't get up until he wakes up. Sometimes I fall asleep myself. Sometimes I just lie there with my eyes closed. Either way, I'm learning how to rest amongst all this darkness. I'm learning how to be, without that hateful inner voice telling me I should be doing dishes or laundry or writing my thesis or editing photos. I'm tired of the shoulds. I should be this, I should have accomplished that, I should be stronger, I should be better. Fuck the shoulds. The shoulds are killing me.

And yet there's that deep part of me that will remain beholden to the shoulds. Too much of her, and I end up just like this. Face down in a puddle of my own darkness. I don't know how to change that deep part of me. I don't even feel like I have the energy to try.

A week ago, I opened the door to let in the light. Life felt promising, like sunshine. I felt like I was making my way through the worst of it.

But these tears tell another story. The worst is either here right now, or it hasn't shown its face yet. Whatever the case, I feel like I'm drowning in my own desperation.

Hold on to the center.

Yesterday I went to the doctor and saw the nurse practitioner since my doctor is out of town. This picture was hanging in the room.



Creepy!

A few tears later, I was on the phone with a local psychiatric office making an appointment to see one of their psychiatrists. The appointment was today. I was a little nervous, because I was afraid they'd just throw a prescription at me and send me on my way. Luckily, I got an MFT, who sat and talked with me for an hour. We made our game plan and we're going to stick with just therapy for now, and if I absolutely need meds, then I'll get them. I like this approach. I'm very much a holistic and homeopathic person, so going for anti-depressants is a little scary. I'm not completely opposed to them, but for now I want to see what just therapy will do. (Just yesterday, though, I was ready, willing, and able to accept meds. Funny what a little soul-searching will do.)

In the meantime, I'm taking care of me and Chuckles and my cute little family. And I'm not doing much else. I figure everything else can wait while I reread my favorite poetry books, drink green smoothies, write in my journal, take Chuckles to the park, and lounge around in bed. Depression is debilitating, that's for sure, but it's also oddly liberating. All the extraneous stuff is stripped away in favor of what must be done.

The title of this post comes from the Tao Te Ching, which is probably the closest thing to a Bible for me. I was reading it today in the waiting room and noticed "Hold on to the center" most of all. So I figure that's what I'm going to do. Hold onto the center. Wherever it is.

In like a lion...

This is my formal request to March to be nice to me. Or else I might get all evil and stuff.

*shakes fist at March*

Today was totally awesome until the end of the day when I collapsed into snivels and sobs on the way home from the park. Why that happened, I have no idea, or actually, wait, I do. And that's why I'm going to see the doctor tomorrow, to confirm what I know is true, because once I get the confirmation, then we can start to fight this thing.

I know that I am depressed.

Not like OMGImissedtheNordstromsaleIamsodepressed depressed. No, this is the real deal. And it sucks. It sucks so bad.

I have a feeling that my blog's going to be kind of one-note for awhile as I muck my way through this. Or maybe no-note if I should decide to keep the inevitable meltdowns and breakdowns to myself. This depression stuff's not pretty. So if you want to read about unicorns, you should probably stop reading my blog.

(I really want this shirt, though.)



That picture's a pretty accurate representation of how I feel every day. Just willing myself to get out of bed to do it all over again. The ceiling is so interesting, and I'd much rather stare at it than think about how much things suck right now.

Sleeping forever sounds pretty good, too.

Not to worry, my friends. I am nowhere near tossing myself off a cliff, nor would I ever put Charlie's life in danger. I am just deeply, darkly, disturbingly drained.

However, I also know I'm on the road to healing. Depression is a complete emotional parasite, but hope is everything. And thankfully I've got tons of that.

Top Tune #11

This song came up on my iPod today and it hit me like whoa. I've posted about it before, but I don't think I really understood what this song meant to me until today. I love how dark it is, but underneath all of that despair lies hope. It was a good thing for me to hear at this point in my life. I think it may even be my new anthem.

I have an appointment to see the doctor (well, her nurse practitioner, actually) on Tuesday. On Thursday, I finally realized how sick I am of all the ups and downs. Things have gotten remarkably worse since the first of the year. I do think I know what's going on, and I'm sure you all can guess what it is as well, but I feel like someone has my heart in the tightest grip ever and I don't want to say those words. I don't want it to be that thing.

I'm scared. I'm sad. But more than anything, I'm exhausted. And if this is indeed what I think it is, I'm going to need mega-help to make it through.



Calendar Girl by Stars

if I am lost for a day
try to find me,
but if i don't come back
then i won't look behind me.
all of the things i thought were so easy
just got harder and harder each day.

december is darkest,
and june is the light.
but this empty bedroom won't make anything right.
and out on the landing
a friend i forgot to send home
who waits up for me all through the night.

calendar girl, who's in love with the world
stay alive
calendar girl, who's in love with the world
stay alive

i dreamed i was dying
as i so often do;
and when i awoke
i was sure it was true.
i ran to the window
threw my head to the sky,
and said whoever is up there, please don't let me die

i can't live forever.
i can't always be.
one day i'll be sand on the beach by the sea;
the pages keep turning, i'll mark off each day with a cross
and i'll laugh about all that we've lost.

calendar girl, who is lost to the world
stay alive
calendar girl, who is lost to the world
stay alive

January Febuary March April May, I'm alive
June July August September October, I'm alive
November December, yeah all through the winter
I'm alive
I'm alive

Moving Forward, Leslie-Style

My last post was kind of a downer, yes? Well, life is like that sometimes. Thanks for all your support during this time. Seriously. When I see things like this (which kind of disgusts me, frankly), I am reminded of how blessed I am to have loving and supportive people in my life - online and off. You make it easier for me to move forward.

Speaking of moving forward, I have started to do that - as much as you can when your life revolves around baby poop and sleepless nights, that is. While I like getting my feelings out there, I don't like to wallow. It just doesn't feel good to me. So I'm taking it one day at a time and doing a few different things to help alleviate the baby blues:

1) Reading - I take a little time out of each day (usually about 15 to 30 minutes before going to bed for the night) to lose myself in a book. Recent book purchases have been It Sucked and Then I Cried and Bad Mother. And then I went through my sister-in-law's books and then borrowed ten or so from her. I doubt I'll get to all ten, but really, I need options. There's nothing like literary therapy.

2) Movies - I've recently watched Little Children (really great, and I loved the odd narration), Revolutionary Road (good, but I think I expected more), the Three Colors trilogy (a rewatch, and totally awesome), The Usual Suspects (another rewatch and also still totally awesome), and Boy A (good, but the ending was a letdown) - all while feeding Charlie. I find I need the distraction just in case he starts getting fussy, because it makes his prolonged crying easier to deal with.

3) Sleep shifts - Roy and I started doing this last week, and it really has made a huge difference. We used to alternate nighttime feedings, but it got to the point where we were both being woken up when Charlie would start crying every two hours (or less). Now one of us attends to him from 10 PM until 3 AM (usually Roy) while the other sleeps, and we trade from 3 to 8 AM. This means that theoretically we are both getting five hours of uninterrupted sleep and a much needed break from feedings and diaper changes. This also means that Roy and I never get to sleep together anymore, which totally and completely sucks.

4) Cleaning - I have mixed feelings about cleaning these days. On one hand, doing it makes me feel like there's one thing I have control over. On the other, it's a job that really never ends, and thus that makes me realize that I have no control over it whatsoever. Still, I like keeping things as clean as possible for Charlie, although one glance at our house right now makes me cringe.

5) Creating closure - I'm a highly ritualistic person. When I am ready to move on from something that has ended, I tend to pack up everything having to do with that thing while reflecting on it. Such was the case when I packed up my pump and all my other nursing/pumping items on Sunday night. I cried a bit thinking of that relationship that I will never have with Charlie. I still wonder every day if I should have tried harder. Deep down I know that I tried as hard as I could at the time, especially considering the emotional burden of my birth experience and postpartum hormones.

6) Taking care of me - I've decided that there are some things that I am not willing to sacrifice as a mother. Showers and makeup aren't one of them. I know of many, many new mothers who go without both, and frankly, getting ready for the day makes me feel really good about myself. Even though there are days when I just stay home, when I look in the mirror I want to be happy with who I see. I don't feel good when I see myself looking haggard and rumpled in my pajamas. I also have gotten an eyebrow wax and a pedicure, something I don't think many new moms can say.

7) Music - I hadn't listened to my iPod in weeks (since before Charlie was born), and I busted it out the other day. This song came on, and I was bowled over by its awesomeness. It was like hearing it for the first time. Our current (constant) soundtrack at home is the sound of ocean waves (to make it easier for Charlie to sleep), so it was fucking amazing to hear something different.

8) Getting out - I have made it my mission this week to get out of the house every day. Charlie and I haven't been anywhere fancy, but just the act of being with the rest of the world does wonders for my mood. I come home feeling much more energetic and positive. I also have taken a couple of trips out without Charlie (while Roy is with him, of course). Again, I don't go anywhere special - it's usually to the grocery store or something, but it's oddly freeing to have the car to myself now and again.

9) Being around people - In my heightened emotional state, my first instinct is to isolate myself because I hate to think of myself unleashing the crazy when others are around. But actually, when I'm around people, the crazy tends to die down and I feel more normal. It's when I'm alone that I'm in more danger of dwelling on hard-to-handle issues.

So, there are days when I'm okay. And there are days when I feel so depressed I don't know how I can face the day. But I end up doing it anyway. It's that survivalist instinct, I guess. Overall, I am hanging in there and handling things the best way I know how.

Stay tuned for a fun post coming up!