I
have two disclaimers.
First,
I'm (obviously) not anything special. Duh. I don't even
know why this needs to be a disclaimer. LOOK AT ME.
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Okay, besides the fact I'm a ninja. |
ALL
of us have things we'd rather not talk about. Most people, in fact,
have gone through struggles that make my life seem like a frolic in a
lavender field. The problem is that we as a society have a terrible
tendency to sweep all the hard things under the rug, be it depression,
eating disorders, miscarriages/child loss, addictions or whatever
else. This gives them a power they should not have.
My
goal in sharing this is to open a dialog about issues we don't talk
about in “polite society.” We cannot let the fear of judgment
paralyze us. Sharing is cathartic. Sharing is
right. We should be able to expose our jagged edges without
fear of retaliation. No one should EVER be shamed or trivialized for
their “issues.”
We
all have a story. It is worth sharing. And it is worth fighting for.
Second,
I would NEVER, EVER, EVER want anyone to think I don't love my
daughter. If you're reading this in 10 years, G, YOU ARE THE MOST
KICK ASS DAUGHTER A MOM COULD ASK FOR. I love your passion and your
feisty spirit. You have taught me so much about myself.
I
would do anything for her.
But
we had a rough start.
***
The
pregnancy test showed two lines. No it didn't. It couldn't.
Statistically the chances were slim to none. I was still
breastfeeding around the clock. T was only seven months old, for
God's sake! Surely not.
And yet, there it was.
The
feeling I remember most was shock. Chance and I had kind of “ha ha”
joked about having another child after T was born (due to some
circumstances I may or may not go into later). And there was that one
time (isn't there always?) ... but it was highly unlikely.
Go
ahead. Laugh hysterically at my dumbassery. I would, too.
Part
of my brain was happy and excited. A very small part. The rest of me?
Not so much. The first thing I thought after the flash of blind panic
was, “DAMMIT! I JUST got skinny!”. So delightfully shallow of me.
Next
came the tsunami of doubt about my parenting abilities. I could
barely handle one kid, let alone two! What the heck was I going to
do?
Then
came nervousness. It washed over the sore spot of my little identity crisis and I couldn't breathe.
And
then it was all smothered by rage. Not an
in-your-face-choke-you-until-you're-purple kind of rage, but a
simmering malcontent. This
probably had a lot to do with feeling like my life had spun
completely out of control. I didn't want another thing to think
about, another thing to lose.
And
I was terrified, terrified,
I was going to lose the baby.
In
my religion, there is a doctrine about “following the footsteps of
the Lord.” It's a great doctrine. It encourages you to think before
you act and walk in love and all kinds of other good stuff.
Unfortunately, if you have a perfectionist bent, it can become
all-consuming. At this point in my life I had completely bastardized
this doctrine to mean there was ONE way to do things, ONE right path,
ONE white choice, the rest blacker than black.
This
was how I rationalized having all these embarrassing feelings. I had
gotten knocked up at the wrong time, obviously. I had completely
upset the balance of the Sovereign Lord's plan for my life and the
life of the tiny human inside me. Because of my stupidity, this baby
was doomed. God was going to take it away. I was not equipped to
handle it. I had made a mistake.
The
idea was completely ludicrous. And it stuck faster than dog
hair on peanut butter. Little voices began whispering horrid thoughts
in my ear every moment of every day.
You're
going to lose it, it would slither.
Or:
There
is something terribly wrong with it.
Or:
You're
going to have it and it will die before its first birthday. *evil
maniacal laugh* Not even kidding. That is exactly what I heard.
Or:
You're
going to have it, fall in love with it, and it's going to die in a
fiery car crash on its sixteenth birthday.
I
know, I know. Terribly conceited. Illogical. Just plain DUMB. My
emotions did not care in the slightest. I felt myself begin to
fracture under the stress of thinking these things over and
over. I became completely convinced I could not attach to this
child. If I didn't love it, maybe, just maybe, it would hurt less
when God took it away.
Of
course, I also felt terribly guilty for even thinking these things in the
first place. But I could not bear the thought of losing a child, and
I surely would lose this child. Thus saith the Lord.
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100 percent bat shit crazy, you guys. |
When
we announced the pregnancy, things got worse. "What is wrong
with you?" "Do you know what causes that?" "How
the hell are you going to survive having two children under two?"
"Are you crazy?" (yes, but still … ) My favorite was,
“Babies should not be having babies!”
I
did not throat punch these people. Maybe I should have. Without the
“shell” of my identity, I internalized their criticisms. I sunk
deeper into the pit of despair.

The pregnancy dragged interminably. Any fleeting moments of happiness were swallowed by anger and overlaid with panic. I was terrified,
every single day, that I would lose the baby.
Maybe
not then, maybe not in five years, but something awful was bound to
happen eventually. All because I was a stupid person who made a
stupid mistake.
I had lost my mind.
I think you're doing a wonderful job talking about these issues. I come from a religious background too and i have been paralysed by the "God will take this away" fear too.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much. Getting it out in the open is definitely helping with the healing process.
ReplyDelete