Sunday, October 19, 2014

Don't Huff Glitter

I'd love to write something here that grabs your attention while simultaneously making you think my life is all sunshine and rainbows, something that makes you want to be just like me and live in my sparkly clean house and wonder how I manage to make awesome crafts out of toilet paper tubes while wearing really high heels and ridiculous amounts of eye makeup. Something that makes you hate me a little for being so perfect.

Unfortunately, I'm not perfect (this is the part where you act surprised). I tried to be. I tried really, really hard. And I ended up with a face full of glitter and a lot of self hatred. 

Don't huff the glitter, you guys. Just don't

Sometimes my life is dark and messy and broody. Sometimes there are monsters lurking in the dark. Sometimes I don't feel like I can do it. I rarely put on real pants and my house is clean in the same way that Pluto is still totally a planet, but it's real life. It's a little bit random and a little bit weird and I'm learning to love it.

And sometimes there are rainbows and sunshine. My family. My children. My Nikon. My sweet skills with a crochet hook. Other assorted beauty in the universe-at-large.

But all of it, this whole big mess of contradiction stuffed into a freckly and very easily-sunburned package, that's who I am.

I'm working on it. Sort of.

In between slamming Snickers bars and Facebooking and keeping my kids from eating more than five bugs a day and other super-important and possibly top secret stuff.

It's nice to meet you.

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Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Fruit Stripe Flaws

Hullo peeps,

I'm working on the final bit of the PPD saga and writing it all out has led to many revelations about myself. Like how I really, really, really love milkshakes (of course that's a revelation). And am terrible at conflict. And sorta kinda hate myself for no good reason at all.

I also tend toward randomness, which makes for awkward social situations. I found this out last week  when a Lowe's guy practically ran away after my lengthy disquisition on the myriad uses of window plastic. Some people just don't understand.

I'm also supposed to be figuring out big picture stuff like "who I am" and "what I want to do with my life."

HA. Good one.

Anyway, I've had a mystery sore spot on my leg for about a month ... and that's way less random than it seems, I swear. There's a connection. But I'll go ahead and give you the opportunity to run like the poor traumatized Lowe's guy. I mean, I probably shouldn't have said anything about storing body parts, buuuut ...

The pain started in my calf, then moved to the back of my knee, and I woke up on Tuesday and it had migrated to my thigh, so I decided to get it checked out. I wore a skirt to my doctor appointment to avoid the awkwardness of trying to pull skinny jeans up past mid-shin. Don't try it. It's impossible. In fact, I'm pretty sure it violates the fourth law of thermodynamics. Physics is not my thing.

The doctor comes in and introduces herself and we shake hands and then get to questions. I lay down on the examination table on my stomach and she starts mushing my leg around. She can't find anything unusual, but decides an ultrasound would be prudent because blood clots aren't really things you want to mess with.

Mmhmm.

I'm sitting there feeling the phantom tightness of a nonexistent pulmonary embolism in my chest and she stops writing notes in my (super crazy thick) file and goes, "Have you gained and lost a ton of weight recently?"

Uhhh, no. Why would she think that?

Oh yeah.

Stretch marks. Evvvvverywhere.


On my calves. On my thighs. On my stomach. In my freaking armpits. In fact, the only parts of my body that have escaped pregnancy unscathed are my upper back and my forearms ... okay, and my hands and my toes and mayyyybe my neck. The rest of me is comprised of stretch marks and mush and weird random freckles.

I respond, "Nope. Just pregnancy." For the record, I gained 25 pounds with T, 45 with G, and 40 with K. Substantially less than a ton, thank you very much. Like, 1900-something pounds less. SO THERE.

I'm embarrassed. I blush. I think about cracking a joke about how I had to stop stripping for a living.

And I realize the ridiculousness. I'm wayyy more concerned about my scarred skin than the possibility of having to ingest prescription rat poison for the next six months. (Did you know blood thinners and rat poison are essentially the same thing? :O My ultrasound tech was quite chatty. He also told me how fast I would die if my femoral artery was severed. Two minutes. So yeah. Not freaky at all.)

Why does it matter so much?

I mean, what is lost, really, in the grand scheme? Nothing.

And how utterly inconsequential is it in the light of what has been gained?


I am not defined by stretch marks or saggy skin (or wonky eyes or a zit on my chin).

I am not my flaws.

Even 87 percent stripey, I'm still me (and also blood clot free, hooray!). Not that I know what being me means exactly, but I'm working on it.

I know what I'm not, and that's a start.



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Sunday, September 28, 2014

Things That Cannot Be Unthunk {PPD Part 6}

Earlier posts in this series:


I've been waffling about sharing this part. It's personal. Like, really personal. But I think the possible benefits outweigh the risks, so here goes. *gulp*


If you, yes you, stumble across this post and are dealing with suicidal thoughts, please tell someone. Call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or talk to a friend or family member you trust. You are not alone.

This is where I was almost two years ago.

***

Ultimately, I didn't listen to the midwife.
One, two, THREE. Beautiful little humans.
But she got to me. Boy, did she ever.

My worst fears were confirmed. It was my fault. All of this. My inability to cope. My inability to attach to my child.

I simply wasn't good enough.

There was no escape from the problem because the problem was ME. 

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