A Raging Case of the Baby Blues

When we checked into the hospital back on June 8 (Charlie's birth day, and what feels like a lifetime ago), the nurse on duty asked me if I had a birth plan.

I told her that my birth plan was to get the baby out, hopefully without having to have a C-section.

Well, we all know how that went. I did end up with a C-section after all, and oddly enough, I'm not sad about it. It's what needed to happen in order to bring this little guy into the world:



But I'm not going to lie. I've been doing some serious grieving since Charlie was born. All that stuff about postpartum hormones turning the most sane woman into a complete and total crazy person?

It's the absolute truth.

***

In case you haven't figured this out yet, I have a lot of Type A characteristics. I always foresaw myself with a long birth plan, but I surprised myself by not writing one at all. I had heard from lots of moms that the birth experience rarely goes as planned and that one shouldn't cling too tightly to the dream of a perfect birth. I decided to take their advice and let things just happen.

I don't regret that decision at all. But I won't lie - as relaxed as I was about a birth plan, there were some things I wanted and expected to get from my own birth experience. I wanted to hold Charlie right after he was born. I wanted to watch Roy hold Charlie for the first time. I wanted to hear Charlie's first cry. I wanted to be a witness to my son's birth.

As it turned out, these very simple things I wanted were not things I got. Since I had to be put under general anesthesia for my C-section, I missed out on all those things - and since Roy wasn't allowed in the OR while they were working on me, he missed them, too.

I can't even begin to explain how heartbroken I am over missing Charlie's entrance to the world. I can't stress enough how cheated and robbed I feel to have missed out on such a huge event in my own life.

When I look at pictures of Charlie crying and being weighed after they brought him out to Roy, I can't help but cry. I missed all of it. I am not sure if I'll ever get over it. The circumstances were largely out of my control, but I can't help but feel that if I had been stronger and better equipped to deal with all the pain of labor, I could have spared myself this heartbreak of realizing that there are missing pieces that I will never be able to recover.

There is no way around it, no better way of putting it. I missed the birth of my son.

***

There was one night shortly after we came home from the hospital where Roy and I sat in Charlie's room and talked for a long time about everything that had happened. I was sobbing for some reason or another; I can't remember what set me off, exactly, as it takes very little to do so these days.

It was the first chance Roy and I had gotten to really discuss the whole birth experience and how it had impacted us. I was surprised to hear that Roy was every bit as traumatized by my birth experience as I was. He had to watch me for hours as I battled pain that I would not wish on my worst enemy. He could do nothing to stop it, even as I begged him. He was left behind as they took me away to the OR. He couldn't even watch the procedure as it was happening. He had to wait and wait and wait. He was left to wonder if he'd be leaving the hospital with or without his wife and child. When they brought Charlie out, he was again left to wonder if he'd be leaving the hospital with his child but without his wife.

To the hospital staff, it was business as usual. Another pregnant woman, another induction gone bad, another C-section.

I don't know how to move on from any of it.

So many things went wrong. Things were going wrong even before I checked into the hospital, from actually having to be induced (which I really didn't want) to not having my own OB on call the day of my induction. The drugs they put me on, especially the Pitocin, were just wrong, meaning they did horrible things to my body. The failed epidurals and the lack of pain management? Wrong, wrong, wrong. Being told beforehand that I could have an epidural at any time when that was not the case? Just plain wrong.

I knew that I would have to deal with a certain amount of pain while being in labor. But I didn't count on how much it would affect me emotionally, especially after the fact.

Knowing that both the OB and anesthesiologist on call went home while I was still in an enormous amount of pain just kills me. Kills me dead. I writhed around in bed all that time while we waited for them to get off their asses and come back to the hospital and do their jobs. Fuck.

I hate to say this, but I feel like a complete victim of the system, a textbook case of cascade of intervention. I knew that things could go terribly wrong because I was being induced, but really, what choice did I have? I could have waited longer to see if I would have gone into labor on my own, but my anxiety was already sky-high. My chances of delivering a stillborn baby were increasing daily. I did what I had to do.

I don't regret the decision to be induced, but damn, I find myself constantly wishing for a different outcome. The vulnerability, the humiliation, the pain, knowing the psychological implications for Roy, missing Charlie's actual birth - oh, man. It is too much to take sometimes.

It was the biggest day of our lives. It should have been the best day of our lives (and it was). But in many ways, it was also one of the most horrible. Don't get me wrong - Charlie was worth all the pain and trauma. (And yes - trauma is a good word to describe it.) But I also feel that Charlie himself and all the good he's brought into our lives is a completely separate issue from my birth experience.

Just because you are handed a beautiful tiny creature at the end of a horrific experience doesn't mean that the horrific experience magically melts away. It would be so much easier if the world worked like that.

***

No one told me how paranoid I'd be as a new mother. No one prepared me for how I'd hold my son while imagining dropping him on the floor. I can hear the crack of his soft tiny body as he dies on impact. I can see myself screaming in horror. This is the worst kind of living nightmare that plays over and over in my head throughout the day.

Driving on the freeway is an absolute nightmare. It's business as usual to everyone else, but to me there is a precious little life in the backseat who can't really hold his head up himself. Meanwhile the asshole who just can't be bothered to give a shit about anyone else on the road cuts me off, and I barely hit the brakes in time to avoid hitting him.

I knew that I'd be a worrier, but I didn't know how much of one I'd turn out to be. I have no idea how I'm going to make it as a parent without dying of a heart attack very, very soon. My anxiety is definitely on overload, and I have no idea how to make it go away.

Pregnancy was a walk in the park compared to the nightmare of having an outside baby. I sit around frozen with fear, trying to banish thoughts of Charlie's death from my mind.

***

During our second night in the hospital, mere hours after I had finally gotten out of bed and gone to the bathroom for the first time on my own post C-section, Charlie began crying. And crying. And crying. (Those of you who have never had abdominal surgery, I'd like you to know that trying to sit up and/or get out of bed hurts like hell and takes a hell of a long time.) Roy had been the one who had been getting up to take care of Charlie, but this time, he was sound asleep and didn't move a muscle even as Charlie's cries got louder and more desperate.

I started off by raising my voice a bit, trying to wake Roy up, but he still wouldn't budge. Soon, I was full on yelling at Roy to wake up, but he was still sound asleep. And then I started crying, too - I started doing what I could to wake Roy up, even throwing pillows at him. But he was still asleep.

At this point I was scared out of my mind; I was truly afraid that Roy had died and left me alone, and so I climbed out of bed and hobbled over to Roy and shook him gently, still crying. He woke up, completely startled. I don't think I'd ever been more relieved. It was then that I realized that I would be absolutely lost without him, that I could never have conjured up a more perfect husband.

But the guilt I felt at having to wake Roy up so that he could take care of Charlie - I couldn't shake it. I still can't shake my guilt at not being able to be Supermom. I don't know why I feel like I have to be a perfect mother. I just do.

***

One of the many things that I wanted to do for Charlie was nurse him.

I now understand why women who have C-sections have a more difficult time nursing their babies than those who deliver vaginally. The recovery is not exactly a walk in the park, and it definitely hurts to even move the first few days. It also can take longer for milk to come in.

Due to the trauma of the birth experience, I let the nurses take Charlie for the first night. Obviously, they couldn't nurse him, so he was given formula. The next day we did pretty good with nursing. I was able to get him latched on for every feeding. Late that night he started having regular meltdowns every time I would try to nurse him. We eventually got tired of him screaming at my boob and rang the nurse to bring us some formula. We figured the most important thing was to feed him when he was hungry. We kept giving him formula at every feeding, although we always tried to get him to nurse first.

We saw a couple of lactation consultants in the hospital, both of whom agreed that Charlie's high palate and impatient temperament signaled that there were going to be troubles ahead if we decided to keep on with the breast feeding. As they said, it was more of a baby issue than a mommy issue.

My milk came in the day after we were discharged from the hospital. I had already started pumping regularly with the hopes that I could get Charlie back to nursing. I contacted a La Leche League member to get some information about finding a lactation consultant I could work with. I explained to her what we'd been doing for Charlie and told her that I was hoping to get him to the point where he would breast feed.

La Leche League members tend to be pretty militant about breast feeding. Formula is apparently the devil and shouldn't be given under any circumstances (according to them). Still, I was shocked that this particular woman began to say things like "Giving your baby formula is like giving him medicine" and "Formula is for babies whose mothers can't nurse them. It's for babies whose mothers are dead."

I hung up from our conversation feeling beaten down and devastated. Do I need to tell you that I was sobbing? Yep, I sure was. I will never understand how anyone can think it's okay to tear down a woman for making a difficult choice, even if it means giving her baby "medicine."

It took me a couple of days to work up the courage to call up the lactation consultant that the LLL psycho had recommended to me. When I did, she urged me to come to the free breast feeding clinic at a nearby hospital.

I never went to the breast feeding clinic. I thought it would be great if I could get Charlie back to the boob, but I didn't have the energy to fight him on it (because it was a fight, believe me). I was more concerned with staying as emotionally balanced as possible, and it was really hard to stay that way when Charlie was melting down while trying to nurse. I also was dreadfully afraid of being judged. Normally, I could have given less than a shit, but I just was not interested in anyone's "breast is best" rhetoric. I already knew that breast is best. So I kept pumping for as long as I could so that Charlie could still get all the benefits of breast milk. Shortly after Roy went back to work, my supply dwindled down to almost nothing. And so I stopped pumping - very recently, actually. One of the last times I pumped I got less than an ounce out of both boobs together, and I had never felt more lonely or barren in my entire life as I did the moment I realized that I couldn't even provide breast milk for Charlie for one lousy month.

I could never understand why women would beat themselves up so badly for not being able to breast feed. It took becoming a mother for me to understand the heartbreak of not being able to feed your baby the most "natural" way possible. There is not a day that goes by where I don't wonder if I should have tried harder. Should I have suffered through a ton of frustration to get Charlie back on the boob? Am I banishing him to a life of obesity and idiocy by giving him formula? While I know that love is truly what matters most in parenting, these questions still plague me.

***

I think I look well put together on the outside, but on the inside, I am absolutely falling apart.

I don't know how I'm going to make it through this. I don't know why it is all so hard. I mean, come on - all newborns do is eat, poop, cry, and sleep! Easy, right?

No. It's not easy. This is the hardest thing I've ever done. It's the scariest thing I've undertaken. The nights and days are long. My loneliness is all-consuming at times. There is no part of the day that's easy. There's not a day that goes by when I don't cry, when I don't wonder why I ever wanted this. It's not that I don't love Charlie. I do - more than I ever could have imagined. But I don't know who this new me is or what she's about. I feel like I am a stranger in my own life. I feel like I will never sleep again, and that is disturbing in a way that I don't even know how to explain. I feel like I am just slipping away and I have nothing to hang onto but these words. I hardly eat (the C-section has really affected my appetite), I barely sleep, and I want to beg everyone I know to come over and keep me from going insane. Every day I have to fight the urge to beg Roy to stay home from work.

I just need to know that it gets easier.

***

Those words above are the words of a desperate woman. I'm not desperate all the time. But it would be dishonest of me to pretend that I am living a life that is full of rainbows and sunshine.

Charlie has changed me in a way that I never could have imagined. It's true when they say that having a child is like having your heart outside your body. I can barely breathe at times because I am so crushed by the weight of my love for my son. It is devastating and beautiful all at the same time.

There are times when I want to run away, when I want to get in the car and take a long road trip and leave everyone behind. There are days when I feel like I won't be able to go on without dissolving. And then there are days when people come over, and I hand Charlie over to them (gladly), and they hold him for a long time, and when they give him back to me, I find that I have missed him so much. My arms have missed holding him, my nose has missed his unique Charlie smell, I have missed kissing his sweet little face.

I don't know how I got so lucky, but I did. And I guess that's what I'm trying to reckon with here: the knowledge of how blessed I am combined with how fucking hard all this is.

***

I don't say this nearly enough, but thank you. Thank you for your comments and your feedback and your friendship. Thank you for taking the time to hear what I have to say, even though it is often long-winded and probably boring. Thank you for your emails and phone calls and texts and visits. Thank you for caring about me and my family. It means so much - I can never say thank you enough.

thoughts after spending an entire day alone

I love having time to myself. As I get older, I get less and less me time. I spent three years living alone starting ten years ago, and even though I was suffering from the Great Depression at the time, I still look back on that time with extreme fondness. I sat in front of the computer and chain-smoked, watched whatever movies I wanted, listened to the same songs over and over, and ate spaghetti noodles with butter for many, many meals. It wasn't the healthiest of lifestyles, but it was mine, dammit.

Since I'm now on maternity leave, I find myself reverting back to old habits I had during that time. I sleep when I feel like it, watch random movies, walk around and listen to my iPod. (Obviously, I am not chain-smoking.) When I get up the nerve, I do some things that actually matter, like washing clothes and diapers for Charlie. But I haven't exactly been all that productive.

I have to wonder why I obsess about getting things done. Is it because I'm an American and we as a society tend to be really concerned with how much we can cram into one day? Is it my personality? I don't know. But what I do know is that I feel really out of sorts about having this much unclaimed time on my hands. I simply don't know what to do with myself sometimes. It's not all that simple to ease into a routine that I have complete control over.

I tend to fall into a mild depression every summer due to the fact that life really slows down for me (and the heat doesn't help). It'll be interesting to see what happens this summer, what with the post-partum hormones and all.

I've been having a lot of anxiety lately. I have a lot of emotions that I really don't know what to do with. Everyone keeps asking me if I'm ready for Charlie, and inside I am just screaming, "NO!" I mean, I can't wait to meet him and hold him and let him change my world, but there is a part of me that just doesn't feel capable of being a good mother. I wonder if it's normal to have this much doubt or if I am crazy or something. I feel like many, many doors are going to shut when I become a mother, and while I know that many doors will open as well, it's still something that I haven't made peace with yet.

I never was a big party girl or anything. Sure, I had my moments when I spent time at hole-in-the-wall dive bars, but it was never a big part of my life. The ability to walk into a bar and pick up a guy if I wanted to was never something I mourned when I met Roy. But now I find myself almost grieving over losing that. I feel like I'm losing my youth in exchange for talk about poop and nursing and the like. I don't know how to feel about it. I mean, it's not like I want to walk into a bar and pick up a guy. But there's a certain satisfaction in knowing that I have that option, even though I actually gave up that option when I got married. It feels like more of a loss now. I didn't even think about it two years ago when I was preparing to get married.

I guess I am making that final transition to what I have always perceived adulthood to be, and I don't know what that means for me. Who will I be as a "real" adult? Will I wear mom jeans and become completely scatterbrained? Will I remain a punctual person or will I always be late? Will I stop wearing the little makeup that I wear now, trade in my somewhat cute clothes for attire that's more functional, and lose whatever sex appeal I have left? Will I be so overtaken by the needs of my child(ren) that I forget my own desires and dreams? Am I going to be one of those moms who can't have a conversation that's not about her kids?

Honestly, I am scared to death of the imminent changes ahead. I know that it's a trade-off and that I am going to love Charlie (I already love him to pieces), but I can't help but be scared that I will lose myself in the process. I keep thinking back on the things I should have done. Should I have gone to a really prestigious college instead of the state school I call my alma mater? Should Roy and I have opted for a trip to Europe before trying for a baby? Should I have pursued my dreams more aggressively instead of waiting tables and working in an office? I feel like I've played it safe my whole life, and I am continuing to play it safe by doing exactly what I should be doing: being married, having a kid, etc. I can't escape the feeling that I am a fucking stereotype - when truly all I wanted was to be special. I have always had fantasies about winning a Pulitzer or producing a masterpiece of a poem. I feel all of this is slipping away...

The fact of the matter is (and this is something I have to keep reminding myself) being married and having kids doesn't mean that I am a stereotype. It means that I was lucky enough to find someone I love more than anyone else in the world, marry him, and then have a baby with him! It doesn't mean that I am a sellout. It doesn't mean that I have to give up my own personal dreams. It may be harder to find the time for myself, but I can still make it happen. I could still go to a prestigious college if I wanted to (no thank you, I am pretty sick of academic types); Roy and I could still go to Europe (and even take Charlie along); and I could still produce some genius work of poetry (well, maybe not genius...). The point is my life is not over. I know this. But emotionally I don't think I really understand this yet.

But I am trying. Holy hell, how I am trying. And as I try, there's a little guy squirming around in my tummy and a bigger guy sitting beside me on our bed, and frankly, I've never felt so lucky or so full of love. I could travel the world ten times over, write a body of work worthy of winning the Nobel Prize, and attend Harvard or Yale - but none of it means anything without my guys. These changes, they're bittersweet, and I'm not always good at coping with what's to come. But I know I will, because I already have everything I could possibly want - and everything I ever hoped for.

The Invisible Woman

(Disclaimer: This blog entry is probably going to make me sound like a whiny little bitch, but I don't care. I need to get it out there.)

I think I'm invisible. I've noticed that people have stopped noticing me. I express my concerns and feelings and everyday thoughts, and they go largely ignored - by people who used to actually care, no less. Online I am a person who really doesn't seem to be worthy of communicating with anymore; in real life I am a living, breathing incubator and nothing more.

It's a weird place to be. I'm trying not to be offended by the way things have changed, but to be honest, lately I have been horribly lonely. I started feeling this way around mid-January, I think, and I have managed to keep it under control for the most part. I've been distracting myself with school and getting things done for The Big Change.

But earlier this evening I was walking around the halls at work. I was one of the last people there. Someone stopped to make note of how big my tummy is (as usual), and while we conversed about that (as usual), I was overcome by this really deep-seated feeling of panic. It was then that I realized how scared I am of The Big Change. I am scared to be a mother. I am scared of everything that will follow. I have no idea how my marriage will be affected, only that it will be. I have no idea how my relationships with friends and family will change, only that they will. I have no idea what will become of my dreams or goals or the Leslie who I am now, only that these things are bound to change as well.

And I just don't feel ready for this. I don't feel ready for any of it. As much as I love this little boy who is growing inside of me, I am absolutely frozen with fear. I am terrified.

I don't think anyone really understands, and if they do, they're not joining in on sharing the fears. And I hate that. I hate that there are these things that are left unsaid because maybe they aren't PC or "safe" to say. I just need to know that I'm not alone. Why isn't anyone else speaking up? And why do I get the feeling that many people just can't be bothered with me anymore? I feel completely abandoned.

I realize that I sound really overly dramatic, but this really is the way I feel. I feel like I have nothing to cling to anymore except everyone's expectations that I should be grateful that I'm pregnant at all. I feel like people have moved on from being a part of my life because they cannot relate to me anymore. In short, I feel that this pregnancy has come between me and quite a few people, and I know I am in a major adjustment period, and it really sucks right now.

For those of you who have continued to be a part of my life, online or unplugged, thanks so much for hanging in there with me. It seems that a lot of my blog readers have jumped ship, and that has affected me more than I'd like to admit (probably because it has come at a time when I am noticing that some in-real-life people can't seem to be bothered with me anymore). The truth is, a blog is a dialogue, and many people have stopped talking. It's hard to carry on a one-sided conversation. Thanks to those of you who do comment or who read at all. Thanks to all of you who check in with me or who even think about me at all, ever. Things haven't exactly been easy, and it's times like this when I really need people. (I'm a people person, so I need people anyway.) Your comments and emails and phone calls and texts and interactions really do matter.

I think I sound like an absolute basket case right now, but the truth is, this week has kind of sucked so far and I'm exhausted and feeling like I'm getting sick again. I hate our childbirth classes because they are so one-dimensional and are doing absolutely nothing to help me deal with the heightened emotions I feel. I hate the baby boards on the Nest, because they are full of women who just want to tear each other down. I hate that all people see when they look at me is a giant belly. When did I stop being a person? When did it become acceptable to stop asking me how I am? I feel like I am all alone on the world's biggest emo rollercoaster and I am sad and scared but trying to hang in there, because I know things are going to get better.

(Disclaimer, part two: All this that I've written here does not mean that I am not happy to be pregnant or that I don't want Charlie. It means that things are really flippin' complicated and scary right now and that it is possible to feel many different emotions at one time. We tried hard for this baby, and we are thrilled to know that he's coming. No matter how hard things get, I am so grateful for the blessings in my life.)

In Search of a Better Me

A List of Thoughts



1) I find myself tonight in a whirlwind of self-evaluation. What makes me tick; what motivates me? How could I be better? Does anyone else gaze at themselves so critically?

2) I just want to be a better person. I'm just so far from being the person I want to be, but oddly, sometimes I am completely satisfied with who I am and the way I handle things. Is this inner conflict a human quality, or is it just my quality?

3) Sometimes I just don't understand other people, and that makes me want to pigeonhole them and perhaps make them into something they aren't. People in turn do this to me. It's never fair. No wonder we all just can't get along.

4) I decided recently that I was going to try to work on some of my bad habits, and well, the process hasn't been easy. Let's just say that quitting smoking was far easier than breaking these mental and emotional addictions. But I don't want to do things that make me feel negative. I want to be a positive force in the world.

5) The best thing to do when you're feeling a little down and out is to call someone you love. So tonight I did just that. I spoke with my mother-in-law, and then I talked to Myra. For some reason it was them I wanted to talk to; I obeyed the instinct of wanting to hear their voices and am glad I did. And then Roy and I talked a lot over dinner, and as usual, he worked wonders for my tired ol' soul. Now I'm here, talking to cyberland, which is both a void and an overflow.

6) I guess I do have a lot to say and have been feeling slightly lonely lately, even though I don't lack for loved ones or good conversation. It's nice to talk, even if all that comes out is Leslie-babble.

7) This is how I feel tonight. Tomorrow it could be totally different. That's the beauty of this wild unpredictability, this crazy life.

Things Look Up, I Look Down

Do you ever have those days when you're just not proud to be yourself?



Tuesday and Wednesday were very negative days for me. There are many things that are weighing heavily on me. Obviously, Prop 8 is one of them. I am also having all kinds of interpersonal issues with co-workers, one of which came to a head yesterday after I left work early for mental health purposes.

I have to constantly remind myself that not everyone is like me and that not everyone needs to be like me. There's an element of self-righteousness in me that I cannot stand. I really can't. I hate it when people don't accept me as I am, so why do I find it so hard to accept others as they are?



Don't get me wrong - I am very tolerant of other people's belief systems; this isn't really about that.

It's more about finding it in myself to be kind, because sometimes being kind to others who make me angry really is a lot of work.

I guess I really am a work in progress. I've got lots of unfinished spots and many rough edges.



Last night I played with these macros in Lightroom and found that the end products (and the process) did a great job of soothing the savage beast in me.

It's the little things, right?

The Human's Journey

This may sound crazy, but lately I feel like I've been getting messages from Some Great Beyond. I'm not a religious person by any stretch of the imagination, but things have been happening lately. I feel like I'm being fed pieces of a story a little bit at a time. I have no idea how the story is going to progress, how the characters will evolve, or what the ending will be. All I know is that there is a story, and I'm a part of it. A big part of it, as it turns out.



A couple of weeks ago, my department manager's husband committed suicide. This greatly shook up everyone in my department, me included. I couldn't help but feel that his act was a message for me. A message that read: "Don't ever let yourself get this unhappy. Do something. Do it now!"

I should rephrase that. I am not so self-centered that I think that his suicide was a message especially for me. But it came at such a relevant time that I perceived it to be something to which I really should pay close attention.

You see, I've been going through a lot lately. It seems like the whole world has been on this emotional rollercoaster with me. Everywhere I look, it seems that there are people having similar struggles. I read it on their blogs and see it in their eyes. Unhappiness weighs heavily in the words and on the faces of others. More often than not, it seems we are a tired, sad, defeated people (or maybe it's just me). Perhaps this time of great economic uncertainty has seeped into our consciousness in a way that we can't even begin to explain. I'm not really sure. All I know is that life sucks sometimes. It really, really does.

You know something's really amiss when a person holds a loaded gun to his head and willingly fires it. And it's not like this was an isolated incident. This is the third case of suicide affecting someone in my daily life in the last month.

Life sucks, indeed.



Believe it or not, my current level of unhappiness (which can change dramatically from day to day, by the way) is not based primarily on this, but on my job. I've had this job for two years now. I'm grateful for it. I have a stable (but low) income and decent medical benefits, and my boss is very supportive of my scheduling needs. I have some good experience on my resume. I've met some great people. There are definitely worse places to be.

And yet, I am not happy. From day one, I have known that this job wasn't a great fit for me. For starters, I work in a legal office, and I just don't have the intuition for and appreciation of the law. I'm a paper pusher with really nothing to do most days. For some people this might be a good thing, but not me. I'm a hard worker, and I'm really educated. I'm also pretty darn smart and motivated. I have worked hard at doing nothing for two years now, and if it wasn't for school, I think I'd be an idiot at this point. And believe me, I've made plenty of effort at improving things, but so far nothing has worked. It's really worn me down. Some days I am downright angry about it, and some days I'm just numb. But not every day is a bad one. It's not like I spend every second of my time thinking about how much I hate it. It's more like having this subtle little cloud following me around. Other things in my life are bright and shiny, but sometimes the work cloud really affects my worldview.

All that said, within the past few months, things have gone really downhill. I think I have had at least one work-related meltdown a week this summer. Things have gotten to the point where I probably fall into the category of "depressed person." On these days, I can't help but feel like a failure. After all, I am living the life that I never wanted to live: I wake up, go to work, spend eight hours in a box, go home, rinse, and repeat. But more often, I feel scared. I am scared that I will never have the courage to devote myself to my life's work and that I will die a would-have-been.

This fear of mine, the fear of not ever fully realizing my potential, ranks right up there with my fear of losing someone I love deeply. In a sense, if I never forge a life for myself based on the things I feel passionately about, then I will be losing someone who is very important to me: myself.



At the age of three, I would sit and watch my brother work on his cursive writing skills, and I learned how to write my name in a wobbly script. I like to think that it was then that I began my love affair with writing. I will say that if I didn't realize it at three years old, I knew a few short years later what I wanted to be when I grew up: a writer, an author, a sculptor of words, a creator of worlds through the power of the pen.

Knowing what you want to do with your life is like knowing you're in love. You just know. It's nothing that can be explained; it's an abstract feeling with a life of its own, and if you're lucky, it takes the form of something you can see, touch, experience. It becomes something larger than yourself. It's often beautiful, but making it work can be so hard, so draining.

I have been working at writing my whole life. I have filled up probably a hundred journals, written thousands of emails/letters and poems, started hundreds of stories (and written two novels). I have read so many books and blogs and magazines that unless they're really exceptional (or written by my friends), I can't keep them straight anymore. I stare at paintings and photographs and other art objects, and I absorb them. I take an honest look at my life, and then I begin to take it apart and see what it's made of.

I am a writer. Whether or not I am a good writer is irrelevant. I write; this is what I do.



You noticed the certainty with which I delivered that last little bit, yes? It's true: as wishy-washy as I am, that is one thing I do know. But knowing it hasn't made my life any easier. There are still bills to pay, after all.

Truthfully, I'm stubborn. I never wanted to settle for any kind of writing career. I wanted to write stories or novels, and as I got older, my focus fell on poetry. These are not genres that sell, unless you are Stephen King or Danielle Steel or a greeting card poet. But I am not them. I don't know how to create anything that sells. All I know how to create is what I see in front of me. Sometimes I can imagine what exists beyond the frame of my experience and form some impression of that. Oftentimes, the things that I find the most beautiful and meaningful don't seem to be well received by the public. I am okay with that. But there are still bills to pay, after all.



Enter my beloved Canon Rebel, my very first "good" camera.

Long before I laid my greedy little hands on that beauty, my mom bought me my first camera. It was a white Kodak (film, of course). I was eleven years old, and we were on vacation in Colorado. My best photo-related memory of that time we spent in Colorado was buying film that was meant for action shots. So every time one of us took a picture with the camera, the subject would move around like crazy. This resulted in some really hilarious pictures that I will forever treasure. Since that vacation, I have always owned a camera. I have taken great care to document my life through pictures.

We were in New Mexico later that summer, and I snapped a picture of the most beautiful sunset I'd ever seen. To my great disappointment, the picture didn't turn out. (I wish I had known then what I know now!) It was a memory, lost. If I close my eyes, I can vaguely see that New Mexico sunset, but there's nothing to confirm that it was real.

And to me, that's what photography is about: capturing the real, freezing the moment, preserving the memory. The more artfully you can do that, the better. I didn't realize that this was something I really wanted to do until I opened my Canon Rebel on Christmas morning this past year.

I immediately started taking pictures. Of everything. My most noteworthy pictures on that first day were of oranges and a leaf floating in the swimming pool at Roy's grandparents' house. A new love affair had begun: with objects and the quiet lives they lead.



If you've never been a member of the knot or the nest, then you won't understand how cliche it is for a member of those boards to venture out into something like photography or wedding planning after getting married. (It does seem like the cool thing to do, but let's face it - only a very select few can do it well. That's a subject for another post, though.) My own wedding photographer was a knottie-turned-vendor, and for awhile I tried to see myself following in her footsteps. I even turned to her for her thoughts on my photographic awakening, and she gave me some good advice: to pursue my passion and to think outside the box to make it into something. That was in January or February, and I have been thinking ever since.

In the meantime, I've been trying on different roles. I've taken photos of couples, babies, kids, animals, weddings, etc. I have attended a workshop, read books and blogs on the subject, learned how to edit, etc. I even have a name picked out should I ever start my own business. I have a few portrait sessions lined up, and I'm excited about them.

But you know what? There's something missing. Doing portrait sessions is enjoyable, yes. But my heart doesn't feel like it's going to explode with happiness when I'm doing them. I want that feeling. I want to devote my life to something that makes me feel that way.



Roy and I watched Autism: The Musical last week. It's a documentary about the Miracle Project, an organization that works with kids with special needs. It's a pretty amazing film, and you should watch it if you have the chance. It is the coolest thing to see these autistic kids get up in front of a crowd of people and be able to sing and perform, and while watching it, I laughed and cried, sometimes in the same breath. None of those kids could have gotten to that point without their own Coach E, who taught them to push the boundaries of their minds and sing their broken, beautiful hearts out.

I want to be Coach E. I want to give a voice to the voiceless.



There are so many wedding and portrait photography businesses out there, and I subscribe to quite a few of their blogs. I started doing this for research purposes, because for awhile there, as stated before, I was seriously thinking of taking on the wedding photographer role. It seemed to make sense at the time. After all, I had a camera and a decent sense of what makes a picture look good (but don't get me wrong - I am far from knowing all there is to know and from being really good at photography), and I'm sure there are people out there who would pay for my services. And we all know that if you want to make money being a photographer, then wedding photography is the way to go.

It also was the safest and easiest choice. The bridal industry is pretty easy to break into, relatively speaking. If it wasn't, there wouldn't be the enormous amount of bad wedding photographers currently working!

What I have finally realized, though, is that I really lack the passion and drive to be a good wedding photographer. It's a hard job that you have to really want to do. While I respect the hard work that wedding photographers put into their job, I'm not willing to do it because it's just not my thing. I understand that this is one of the most important days of a couple's life, and I don't think I would respond well to that amount of pressure. Plus, I would probably get distracted by a brick wall and miss the ceremony.

And then there's this other thing about wedding and portrait photography. It's a production. It's being set up to unfold in a certain way. The stars of the wedding are wearing costumes and are made to look more beautiful than they usually are. The pictures are taken so as not to appear posed, but they are not as candid as they seem. I don't mean to sound harsh or overcritical or to downplay the emotions experienced during a wedding or a portrait session. The emotions are real, that's for sure. And a gifted photographer will capture them well, creating something concrete for the couple or family to hold onto for the rest of their lives. They will look at those pictures and see themselves at their most beautiful, when they were young and happy and in love.

But what I want to know is this: what happens when the beauty fades? What happens when times get hard and things look bleak? What happens when death comes calling? Who is going to be there to capture those moments?



I want to introduce you to some important bodies of work by some extraordinarily talented photographers. These collections of photographs are not easy to look at; as a matter of fact, they make my heart hurt. They usually make me cry.

I have never been one to shy away from sadness, though, so here goes:

Mashed Potatoes for Breakfast
Days with My Father
Life Before Death
Remember Me

Depressing? Yes. A complete and total downer? Yes.

But necessary? Absolutely.

Without these photos, we would never have the pleasure of knowing these people. And this is important work, just as important as shooting a wedding.



In our wanderings around our town, Roy and I have come across quite a few homeless people. I am admittedly fascinated by them. Perhaps this is due to the fact that they seemed to be non-existent in my hometown, and so I didn't grow up taking it for granted that there would be a homeless person with a sign asking for help at every freeway off-ramp.

But they are everywhere. Every-fucking-where. When I pull up to a stoplight and see a homeless person holding a sign on the corner, I take care to avoid their eyes. I don't know why I do this. It's not that I'm afraid (although I kind of am) or put off by them. It's that I just don't understand what led them to that point of desperation. Who are these people, and how did they get to where they are now?

The other day I was at a stoplight, and again, there was the token homeless person with a sign asking for help. At first I wouldn't even look at him. But then for some reason, I rolled down my window and held out a dollar. The guy began walking towards me, limping like crazy. He had this huge, happy grin on his face. He thanked me profusely. I began to wonder why I had been avoiding eye contact with him in the first place. Is it because I see in him the very thin, very fragile thread that binds us yet separates us at the same time?

We're not so different, you know. We're all just a little lost. We're all just looking for something.

I want to help these lost people, to reach out to them, to show them a better life. I want to document life as it is for them. And I want to portray life as it is for the rest of the world's lost souls: from the stay-at-home mom who hasn't had time to brush her hair to the businessman eating alone at lunch time to the kid who got picked last for dodge ball.

There's more to life than the happiest moment. There are all the moments that follow, that precede, that come in between. And I am a big fan of the everyday. Just as I love dilapidated buildings and silent objects, I love wrinkled faces and heartbroken eyes.

Everyone has a story. And I want to tell it.



So, you see, I've been taking in all this stuff for quite awhile now. All these disjointed pieces are forming this vague picture in my mind. It's a lot like planning a wedding or writing a paper. You start with a bone. Then you build a skeleton. You add in the organs, nerves, muscles, blood. You craft many layers of skin and sew them together, and then you have something flawed, rough, and beautiful.

That's what I'm doing. I'm building something organic. I have this mound of Play-Doh in my hands that's made up of words, photos, smiles, tears, chocolate, and flowers, and someday I will understand what it all means and what I'm supposed to do with it. I will understand what my life's work really is.



In a way, I already understand.

It's the fear of loss, more than anything, that motivates me. Long before I had fears of losing myself and my dreams, there was someone else that I lost. You know how people always talk about the one that got away? For me, that was my dad. (You can read about him here.)

My entire life is a reaction to what happened to him. It's the reason why I'm so hard on myself, why I expect so much of myself, why I am so scared to be left behind, and why I am so sensitive to those who are less fortunate. It's why I embrace the sadness in life as something beautiful, why I always am upfront with my feelings, and why I am so quick to admit when I'm wrong. I can't think of a single issue I have that doesn't have something to do with him and the effect it had on our family.

This isn't necessarily a negative thing. I think I have managed to make the best of a devastating situation, and I have had a lot of help, especially from my mom and brother. (Oh, and therapy! Let's not forget the amazing things that therapy has done for me.)

The point is, my dad never stood a chance against the massive AVM in his brain. It was out of his control. The way he is now is largely out of his control as well. I am in a position to fulfill my purpose in life and to live up to my potential, and he is not. I feel it is my duty to always do my best, to do more than my best - because he can't. This is why I think so damn much about this stuff - because even though he may never notice or pay attention to me or the things I do, I want to be a person of whom he would be proud.

To be less than that is not enough.

And this, my friends, is why I dream. It's why I write, why I take pictures, why I try to soak up the things that make up the world. It's not all for me. It's also for him. And it's for all those others who can't as well.



And here I am, back at the beginning again. I've come full circle - from adulthood to childhood and back again. Life is funny that way. You never know where it's going to take you.

All I really know is that this has been a glorious ride so far, full of the terror and giddiness of the unknown. And despite some of the choices I've made and the heartbreak I've experienced, I really wouldn't change a thing.

As I said in the beginning of this blog entry, I am not a religious person. I don't necessarily believe in fate or absolute truth or that all things happen for a reason. While I often contemplate the universe and our origins and endings, I ultimately don't care where I came from or where I'm going when I die. What matters most is what I do with my time as Leslie.

I think someday I will do something great, whether it's giving birth to a baby who grows up to be a lovely human being, writing an awesome collection of poetry, or documenting the life of a decrepit old house or an ordinary person for the world to always remember. Or maybe, just by facing another day, I have already done something great. There's something heroic in continuing to push on, right?

Yes, I think so. And so, I go on. Pen and paper in hand, camera around my neck, with that ache of love and longing inside, I go on.

If This Uterus Could Talk

Last night we all gathered in support of Z and her husband, who had found out earlier in the day that Z's pregnancy was not viable. Z was right around eleven weeks pregnant, I think, but the baby never really developed at all. Z will have to undergo a D&C tomorrow. I have never been through this, and I can only imagine it is similar to what hell is like.

I found out about Z's pregnancy about six weeks ago. I didn't know it then, but her story has become inexplicably wound up with and connected to my own story.

And so, this is her story. And this is my story, too. And maybe, just maybe, it's your story as well.

***

I have made a solid effort to keep baby talk out of my blog. I wrote this post and then decided that I wouldn't talk about the issue any further until I had a pregnancy to report. The blogosphere is full of blogs devoted to trying to conceive, infertility, pregnancy loss, and just babies in general. While I don't look down upon those blogs at all (I actually really enjoy reading them), I didn't want my blog to become one of them.

The reason for this is because I wanted to keep my private life private. Despite some very personal posts that I've written, I don't reveal everything about my life, my past, or my feelings. This is the internet, and I don't always feel safe to let it all hang out.

Another reason I have chosen not to discuss certain things is because I don't want to obsess about them. Having a place like this blog, a place where I can pick and choose what I want to talk about, is therapeutic for me. It gives me a break from reality, which lately has seemed very grim. And in a sense it gives me a chance to paint my life in a way that is positive, which always helps when I'm not feeling so great about it.

I transferred these preferences for keeping my private life to myself to the rest of my life as well. If I posted on any online message boards, my signature didn't indicate anything about my sex life or when I could expect to ovulate or how many cycles I'd been trying or what I'd been diagnosed with. If people that I didn't feel especially close to asked me if we were trying to conceive, I would say no. (If you were one of those people, sorry about that. It's nothing personal, I swear.)

So why all the secrecy? Well, frankly the contents of my uterus are no one else's business, unless I choose to make it their business. However, enough time has passed that I feel like sharing (some of) my business with the rest of the world.

My uterus is very, very empty. And she needs a public forum.

***

Back in October, I went off the pill. In November, I charted my first cycle. During that first charted cycle, we had a small oops moment that resulted in about a minute of panic and about ten days' worth of "Wouldn't it be cool if I was actually pregnant?" We both knew then that our excited reaction pointed to something that we never could have anticipated so soon: we were ready to expand our family. We were ready for a baby. Those feelings came out in this post, although I was trying like hell to not reveal the reason behind them.

There is no way I can describe the hope and promise that one feels at the beginning of the journey of making a baby. It was a time when I looked at Roy (and myself) in utter amazement, not believing that we had finally made it to this point. After so many years of fumbling with condoms, late periods/possible pregnancy scares, and trying to avoid getting knocked up, I was ready to embark on the journey of parenthood. The level of commitment that it brought to our marriage made me love Roy so much more.

Of course, I wasn't pregnant, but we began actively trying in December, over half a year earlier than we originally intended. My theory: it could take us awhile to actually conceive, so starting early was actually a good thing.

As it turns out, I was right. Nine months later, I am still not pregnant.

***

In the nine months that we've been trying, here's what's happened (in no particular order):

Mandy and Paul got engaged and married.
I got two SLR cameras and started thinking seriously about photography.
I shot two engagement sessions.
I went to the OBGYN to talk about my long cycles (and they later got shorter).
Roy got a new job.
Roy took his comps (and passed).
Roy graduated.
I planned and hosted Mandy's bridal shower.
Roy and I got our asses kicked in school.
I completed my internship.
Roy completed his internship.
I taught for the first time.
My dog was put to sleep.
All of my melanoma blog people have died.
Myra moved away.
Beans moved away.
My uncle got sick (and is now on the mend).
We went to Vegas.
We stayed at the Morey Mansion.
I had my mole removed.
We found out our wedding videographer is no longer in business.
I learned Photoshop Elements, Lightroom, etc.
I deleted my knot/nest account.
We celebrated our first wedding anniversary.
We went to Minneapolis.
Z and her husband got pregnant and then lost the baby.
Two of my friends have been diagnosed with infertility.
I finished my thesis proposal, and it got rejected by the graduate committee, thus delaying my graduation date.

And so on and so forth.

You see, it's not so much that nine months is a long time to try to conceive (it's actually considered average). It's that so much has happened that it feels like we've lived a whole lifetime in these nine months. So much has changed, highlighting the fact that the state of my uterus has not.

***

Six weeks ago, when I went over to Z's house and saw her chart indicating her pregnancy, I experienced my first true blow related to TTC (trying to conceive). Z and her husband conceived their first month trying, and they had started trying about seven months after us. Once I was able to actually make sense of what I was seeing on Z's chart, I excused myself to the bathroom. I was shaking. I just couldn't believe it. I was now in a position that I never wanted to be in, and it was the first time that I truly began to consider that something might be keeping us from conceiving easily.

I got a taste of my own bitterness that day. I could hear it in my voice when I told Z's husband how lucky they were to get it on the first shot because it sucks to have to try for awhile. I heard that and couldn't believe it was me. But it was. And I immediately felt like such an asshole for letting my own baggage interfere with their good news. Later, I sent Z an email and apologized. And then I cried and cried and cried. It was one of the worst nights ever. I felt so torn. I was happy for them, but I was so sad for us. And I was so angry at the randomness of the universe and at myself for letting that "Bitter Betty" moment slip through.

It took me about a week and a half until I felt like I had accepted Z's pregnancy. I had several days where I just cried in my office at work, feeling like a complete and utter loser for not being able to be so overwhelmingly and joyfully happy for Z and her husband. My sorrow was never really about Z; it was about me and my failure to get pregnant and my desire to join that exclusive pregnancy club. And yet I was almost immediately invested in Z's pregnancy, wanting to know if she was feeling symptoms, when her next appointment was, etc. Despite my own frustration with our situation, I already loved the baby that Z and her husband had created.

***

And now, Z's baby is gone (for no apparent reason), and Z and her husband are reeling, and my heart just hurts for them. I didn't sleep much last night. I got up and watched an episode of 90210 around 3 AM. Ironically, it's the episode where Kelly's mom finds out she's pregnant and experiences a big moral dilemma about whether she should keep the baby.

Why can't we all be so lucky to have that choice? Some of us have no choice in what happens with our bodies or with our babies. Infertility is on the rise, and so are miscarriages. Everywhere I hear stories about women who have lost babies or who can't get pregnant without medical intervention, and it is all so heartbreaking. It makes me want to stop now because right now, with the loss of Z's baby, I don't know if I can take anymore.

I love Z and her husband so very much and am wishing them the best with their physical and emotional recovery from this tragedy.

***

Where does this leave us?

We have been trying for less than a year (but not much less), and many people think that you shouldn't seek medical attention until you've been trying for at least a year. I used to think that way, too. And then I realized that enough time has passed and that we want some answers. We are both 29 years old and would like to have at least two children before we are 35. It's time to start ruling some things out. We have absolutely nothing to lose, and we are tired of being in the dark. If the tests come back clear, then we will be able to breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that nothing is obviously wrong and that it's probably just a matter of time until we get pregnant on our own. If the tests indicate that something is wrong, it's better that we find out sooner rather than later.

I am terrified, sad, and angry that we are headed down this road. But part of me has always known that it wouldn't be easy to get pregnant. (I am basing this on some very wild years that I had - I really should have ended up pregnant, but I didn't. This is not a very scientific reason, and I am aware of that. Let's call it a hunch.)

Despite my less-than-stellar feelings concerning our TTC journey, I don't want to be one of those people who constantly posts things on their blog about what is and what isn't appropriate to say when someone is trying to conceive or has issues with infertility. I don't want to be the girl who's been trying for sixteen months and jumps down the throat of the person who is upset because they have been trying for six months without success. Trying to conceive month after month without success is hard, and you can't quantify the pain related to it, and you can't treat TTC/infertility like it's some kind of contest. And you certainly can't control the ignorant and insensitive things that people are going to say to you. All you can control is your reaction to it.

Recently, I heard that bitterness is a choice. This came from a very wise someone who posts on a message board that is full of the most bitter and angry women I've ever seen. Granted, we have no known infertility problems right now, and I don't really know what these women are going through. At the same time, it does no good to play the infertility card constantly like these women do. I understand the feelings of anger and sadness that can come from not being able to join the pregnancy club, truly. But I don't understand the need to drag everyone down as well.

I am terrified of becoming this way. And so I keep reminding myself that it is what it is. Whatever "it" is, I know I can handle it - no matter how big or scary.

***

I feel quite sure that Z is probably terrified too. Because being a woman is terrifying. It's about subjecting your body to the dangers (and the rewards) of housing a fetus. It's about early miscarriage, blighted ova, late losses, stillbirth, and infertility. It's about giving birth, breastfeeding, parenting, working, loving, giving, creating, and living. (And don't get me wrong - I feel that women who are childless by choice are great and don't mean to exclude them in any way with my description above. In a world that is overpopulated and yet is so geared towards keeping women as incubators and housewives, I respect the choice to not have children. It's just not my choice.)

Life is overwhelmingly tragic sometimes. It's scary and sad. It's filled with moments of doubt and anger. And it doesn't make a whole lot of sense a lot of the time.

But life is beautiful, too. I believe that. I believe that Z and her husband will get through this and have beautiful children. I believe that Roy and I will get pregnant and that we will also have our own beautiful children. I believe that everyone else I know that is struggling with reproductive issues will receive the gift of a child. Until then, I wish all of us the serenity and grace to wait patiently. I am happy to wait if that's what it takes.

***

There. My uterus has spoken. And for the moment, she is satisfied.

Purging/Cleansing/Becoming

Today finds me tipping the scales at 150 pounds.

Most people are very surprised when/if they find out how much I weigh. I have always carried my weight well. It's pretty evenly distributed. Plus, I have a lot of muscle left over from my many years of dance lessons and waiting tables.

But the fact of the matter is - I am 5'3". I have a small frame. I am what most would refer to as a petite person. I have always had narrow hips, small boobs, and a pretty flat stomach.

I still have the narrow hips and small boobs. But my stomach is a whole other story. It's become this whole other entity. I see myself in pictures and I cringe. I look pregnant a lot of the time. And that would be okay - if I was actually pregnant.

I have become so frustrated with my body, with my overindulgence, with my fatness. I don't really think that I am fat, per se, but I think that, like most Americans, I am a huge consumer. I buy things I don't need, eat things that are bad for me, and waste my precious time doing mind-numbing, habitual, meaningless things.

Today finds me tipping the scales at 150 pounds - and searching desperately for change.

I need to change. I am not a terrible person, but I have some really self-destructive habits. I want to be better. I want to be healthy, centered, kind, and positive. I want to be a good wife, friend, daughter, sister, employee, etc. I want to be a good person, the kind of person that people are proud to know.

So I have decided to change some things about my life. Perhaps I will change in the process. Or maybe I don't need to change at all. Maybe it's all about attitude.

The changes have actually already begun. But first, a flashback.

Last quarter, I was consumed with school work, stress, and general feelings of negativity and resentment. At the same time, I was also thriving and learning new things and feeling extremely happy about all of it. It was an odd place to be, full of tension.

I let a lot of things slide. Going to school four nights a week while working full-time forces one into pure survival mode. Our house was dirty, the dishes often left unwashed. Our laundry rarely got put away. Both of us stopped cooking and instead began eating out all the time. I began drinking soda every day, a habit that I worked very hard to beat back in the fall. There were many nights that I didn't sleep well, as insomnia has always been an issue for me. There were many days that I was just generally cranky and negative.

Now school is out, and I have my life back. And it's time to take control of the mess (not just the physical mess, but the emotional/mental messes as well) and clean it all up. It's time to purge.

Here are some of the ways I've begun to purge and cleanse:

1) After almost two years of being a member of the boards on the knot and the nest, I deleted my account. Both of those websites have operated as a safe haven for me to have fun, make friends, and blow off steam. Sometimes blowing off steam takes the shape of pure, unadulterated drama. I have found myself in the midst of a few dramatic episodes. They are usually fun at the time, but after the fact, I begin to feel bad. I am just not a person who can be nasty and not feel badly about it afterwards. At the same time, I often feel justified in being direct about how I feel concerning a person or situation, which can sometimes translate to nastiness.

I got involved in a particularly dirty exchange of words about a month or so ago. To me, it was harmless fun. It didn't mean anything to me. And then it began to get very personal. It didn't hurt my feelings, because I could see straight through my attackers. (The very things they were attacking about me would have been embraced by them if they actually liked me.) But it was a little unnerving to me to be involved in something with people who obviously take themselves very seriously.

I thought the situation over for a couple of days and then came to the conclusion that I should delete my account and stop visiting the boards. I'm not a chicken shit, but even though I hate drama, I am sometimes likely to get involved in it. Deleting my account removes the temptation of getting involved at all. Let's face it, I have too much of a guilt complex to be mean and then not feel badly about it - no matter how much that person may have deserved it.

Also, there's the fact that I have spent the last year or so going back to the boards because it's just a habit. I don't even really have a positive association with most of the regular boards I used to visit. Many of the members annoy the crap out of me, and there are too many cliques. So, why keep going back?

So I deleted my account, and I deleted all my links to all the different boards I used to visit. And frankly, I don't miss any of it. I miss some of the people, but it's easy enough for my friends to get in touch with me.

The act of deleting is very cleansing. I feel good about this decision (but I hope all you knotties and nesties who read my blog will keep reading, because I actually like you guys).

2) Roy and I have spent this week going through all of our stuff in preparation for the yard sale we're having this weekend. Wow, we have a lot of crap. I would love to have the courage to go totally minimalist, but right now, I don't. I was able to part with about 10-15 pairs of shoes and a whole lot of clothes and books, though. My goal is to hopefully not buy any more books for awhile and go to the library instead. Also, this summer I plan on making more space in our apartment, which may mean getting rid of more stuff. At the end of the quarter, I literally could not focus at home. The mess and clutter really got to me.

3) For the past month or so, I've had a standing date to go to the Farmer's Market with Mandy and Paul. Every Saturday morning, we walk there and buy our produce. The produce is delicious and cheap, and buying it there really helps the local economy. Going to the Farmer's Market is a small step towards becoming a more environmentally conscious person and family. I would like to either carpool to work or find a job closer to home so that I could walk or ride my bike. I would like to use cloth diapers for our future children, make our own baby food, and have flower and vegetable gardens. I really just want to give back to the world that has given so much to me. As issues associated with our overconsumption increase, I really feel that this is an issue that we can no longer ignore. (To give myself some credit, I have been a religious recycler for years. I have also talked about global warming to anyone who will listen. Most people don't, sadly.)

4) This week, I stopped consuming fast food, sweets, and soda. I have always been a terrible eater. And yet, up until the past year or so, I have been able to maintain a healthy weight and appearance just by having a high metabolism. Now that I'm married, off the pill, chained to a desk all day, and approaching 30, it's become apparent that I need to be diligent about diet and exercise. Yes, I have said all this before. Yes, it will be hard. But yes, I can do it. Yes, I can stop looking pregnant while not being pregnant. Yes, I can feel better in my own skin. Yes, I can change my habits. It can be done.

So here I am, weighing in at 150 pounds, really wanting to slim down in all areas of my life, except love and happiness and prosperity. I will accept all of those in abundance, naturally.

But before all the rewards comes the work. I know this, and I accept it.

Consider this my real summertime manifesto. I hope that I can meet the challenge.

Words and Photos on a Rainy Sunday

I absolutely love clouds, rain, and storms. Needless to say, this past week and especially this weekend have been heaven for me. It has been a quiet weekend, but those are the best kind to have when it's raining outside.

I've been working on several school activities this weekend. For starters, I have to critique some of my classmates' work for my creative writing class. This is proving to be tougher than I originally anticipated, because most of it doesn't really strike a chord with me. I don't find any of it bad, but I don't find it particularly good either. So I'm not really sure what to say.

I am also supposed to turn in a creative work of my own tomorrow, and I've had little success with writing something worthwhile. So I started going through my poetry folders on my computer to find some promising pieces. I revisited some very old poems of mine, and man, they suck. Some of them are decent. All of them need work, even if I once filed them in the "Finished" folder. It's amazing how my perspective on my poetry has changed. I think I am going to turn in a couple of poems that have already been published. Even though they've appeared in print already, they are by no means perfect. It'll be interesting to hear other people's points of view.

In addition to school work, I've been doing a lot of soul searching and thinking about what it is I can realistically devote my life to. I haven't come to any real solutions yet, but one thing I do know is that I don't want to be a sellout. I have been emailing with Crissy, who was my wedding photographer. She also happens to be a person I admire greatly, because she is talented and brave and a positive influence on others. She has reiterated some simple truths that I need to revisit, and I am very grateful for that.

Along with these big things, there are the little things that I've enjoyed this weekend: sleeping in, grocery shopping at Trader Joe's, a smoothie from Juice it up, some fresh flowers, a sandwich from Togo's, a couple of unbearably cute kitties, good music, my awesome husband, and a few photos.

It's been a good weekend. I wish I wasn't dreading this coming week so much.

Where I'm Going, Where I've Been

Before I recap my Vegas trip, I have some thoughts that I'd just like to get out there. I'm not sure if I'm asking for advice, but if you have any, feel free to share, O wise readers.

At the risk of sounding both cheesy and egotistical, I have always felt that I am meant to do things that matter. I have always wanted to make a difference. Even as a child, I understood that my way of making a difference was through the written word. My teachers genuinely thought I was a very talented writer and encouraged me to no end. Everyone who knew me told me that I was going to be a writer someday. Everyone believed in me, and I believed in myself. I had big dreams.

And some things never change. I still have those big dreams, but I have given up on making them a reality. Maybe "given up" isn't the right phrase - instead, I should probably say that I have temporarily lost my way. When I was 20, I dropped out of college and began writing like mad (I was also extremely depressed, which really fed the writing fever). Eventually, I went back to school and got my BA. During those years, I continued writing (mostly poetry) and got some things published. I decided to start graduate school for several reasons: 1) If I am going to end up teaching, I would rather teach college students; 2) I love learning, and I love school; and 3) I didn't want to decide on a career right then.

Once I started graduate school, I stopped writing on a regular basis and instead focused mostly on my studies. As most people who are in theory-based programs can attest, grad school sucks the creativity out of its students, making them into automatons who talk about structuralism, liminality, and feminist theory. (I am exaggerating a bit.) And truthfully, part of me is so excited by the wealth of knowledge that is at my fingertips. But the other part of me is so burned out and so tired of forcing myself to write papers and meet deadlines.

I am in my third year of grad school, and I am no closer to figuring out what career I want to pursue. I think I would be a great editor, and it seems like a solid career. Many people have told me that they can see me as a college professor, but that's not how I picture myself (not at this point, anyway). I could do freelance writing, open a bookstore, work at a newspaper, and so on and so forth. While all of these things appeal to me on a certain level, I feel like I am running away from what I really want and the things that I am meant to do. (I am chuckling a little at that last sentence, because I'm not really a person who normally feels driven by destiny.)

At what point did I let go of the dream? It had to have been in high school - once I began thinking seriously about college, I was surrounded by people who wanted me to choose a career path. What's a girl to do when she can't follow her passion, when she is forced to choose something realistic? She begins to embrace a life of mediocrity, because that feels like her only choice.

And that is where I find myself at this point in my life. I have been standing at a crossroads for quite some time now, hating my job, wishing to be done with school, and looking forward to the weekends so much that I don't really enjoy the present moments all that much anymore. I have seen who I might become, and it scares me. I don't want to be the unfulfilled woman who hates her menial job and is bitter because of it. I just want to be happy with what I'm doing. I can accept that bullshit is going to come with any job (and anything else in life, for that matter), but I refuse to accept that hating one's job is a way of life and that I must work solely for the sake of making a living. Maybe that is completely naive of me, but at this point, I just need to believe this.

I don't think Roy realized that when he gave me my camera for Christmas, he wasn't just giving me something to tinker and play with. He gave me the spark of creativity that I have been missing, and in a sense, he gave me my dream back. With my camera, I have been able to capture pictures of the world as I see it (albeit usually blurry, unfocused, and badly arranged/composed). I have realized how happy I am when I am doing something that allows me to be creative. I have so missed feeling like this.

My goal is to keep taking pictures, to keep writing, to begin submitting my poetry for publication again, and to not deny myself my dreams. I am not sure where this road is leading me, but hopefully it will take me to a place where I feel happy and excited to face the world every day. Hopefully I will begin to feel that I have had a positive impact on the world and those who surround me as opposed to being an unproductive robot.

As Joseph Campbell said, all I really need to do is follow my bliss. Hopefully it will lead me far away from my current place of employment.

New Links!

Yesterday at work I updated my sidebar (is that what it's called?) with a ton of new blog links and a whole new section! I actually read more blogs than that, but these are the ones I enjoy the most.

Funny, but yesterday at work, I was feeling very troubled, and organizing all my links made me feel much better. I wish I could say that I'm feeling better this morning, but to be quite honest, I'm still feeling really negative. And tired. Let's not forget how tired I am.

Even so, I hope to have my first Music Month post up later today.

For a moment, it's all so very clear.

Do you ever have those moments where you can see yourself with perfect clarity?

Today was one of those days. It was truly the most horrid day I've had in quite some time, but strangely, nothing significant happened. It was just another day where I rolled out of bed (late, as usual) went to work (late, as usual) and did next to nothing all day (as usual), and came home and did my normal random things.

On the other hand, something amazingly significant happened today. I was granted the ability to see all my flaws with perfect vision.

I actually consider myself a very self-aware person. I am probably too self-aware. I have always known what my flaws are and am usually very good about owning up to them. My philosophy is that no one can hurt me by pointing out my weak points, because I know myself much better and can hurt myself so much more. It's a defense mechanism. And while it's admirable to have insight into one's motivations and character, it also feels like complete bullshit sometimes.

There are just some flaws that I don't want to own up to. There are some flaws that I'm truly ashamed to have. I'm afraid to admit to them because I'm truly scared that they make me a bad person. And I have never wanted to be a bad person. I've always tried to do my best and be my best.

In the distant past, I had those days where I didn't like myself at all. For the past few years, I'm not sure if I've had a single one of those days. Sure, I always have doubts about whether I could have handled something better or whatnot, but I've usually been able to like myself despite my failings.

I realize that this is all very cryptic, but I don't really know how to describe what it is I'm experiencing at the moment. Let's just say that I feel really weak, sad, scared, and on the verge of a major existential crisis. There are times when I don't know what I'm doing, and this is one of those times.

Tonight my flaws feel incredibly deep. And when I look in the mirror, I see someone that is a stranger. I'm not sure if I can be friends with her.

I'm hoping that when I wake up tomorrow, I will feel differently. Maybe this is all a product of being tired.

God, I hope so.