In Which I Am Profoundly and Irreversibly Screwed Up

It all started several years back. It had been one of those days and I vented my frustration the way I normally did: blogging it out. I took pride in the honesty and rawness of my blog. True Confessions. That summed it up.

Then it happened. One of my neighbors posted on her own blog, ranting about people who are weak and can't handle their emotions and ... I don't remember the details but it was clear she was talking about me. The things she said could not be coincidental. She seemed to avoid me at church from then on and when we talked, she didn't look me in the eyes anymore.

I wanted to scream: "Just because you're so strong doesn't mean everybody in the world can be, too! You should be grateful for the strength you have instead of ridiculing those of us who are depressed and unhappy and profoundly screwed up!"

But I didn't. Because I was completely traumatized by the fact that she was probably right. I should be stronger. I shouldn't complain. I should buck up, young camper, and stop being negative about life. But I was lost, oh so lost, at that point in my life.

One of my friends recently said, "Wow, you really put it all out there on your blog." My reply was: no, no I don't. I don't post anything that would embarrass or harm those I care for. And the things in my life that matter the most are locked away so deeply inside that nobody knows about them, not one soul.

Years passed. The anxiety increased over how I was presenting myself to the world. Is this an accurate representation of who I am? Do I present a fair view of my life? Yes. No. I don't know.

I resolved to stop whining and being negative and cut the snark in half. This is slightly unfortunate because the original readers of this blog enjoyed the snark. They liked how I made them laugh and how they could say, "Yeah, that's exactly what I think ... but I'd never actually say it." I was their Mormon Housewife Sitdown Comedian of sorts.

But that had to stop. The snark was unhealthy. It was negative. And really, I'm actually a relatively happy and optimistic person deep down. I hate negativity. The snark was my way of flushing the negativity out of my system so I could return to the happy-go-lucky Juliana. (As my friend Josh once said, "You're like the drunk chick that everyone wants to hang out with ... except you never drink." That's me, all right. Idiotically cheerful and clueless. At least that's the social part of me. When I'm left alone with my thoughts, I am another beast altogether, which is why I enjoy socializing so much.)

I still stand by my reduction of sarcasm here on the blog because I'm a very kind person and mocking human frailty just doesn't sit right with me. But there were other things that went by the roadside, foremost the honesty, little by little. I was freaked out about all the various people reading this blog: family, friends, neighbors, people from high school that I haven't seen in almost 15 years, ecclesiastical leaders, professional connections, that random guy from Mormon Bachelor Pad--how in the world did he end up here?

Holy moley! How could I write anything that would please all those varied connections? Somebody was bound to be bored or confused or embarrassed on my behalf. So I wrote less and less often. I hardly wrote at all during my pregnancy because I just didn't have a lot of upbeat, cheerful things to say and I didn't want to be accused of ingratitude.

I miss my blog. I'm trying to write a novel right now and it's just not satisfying to me like blogging is. This, to me, is so much more creative for some reason. No rules. No "you can't do that in that genre." No worries of whether or not an editor will agree with my stylistic decisions. Just my voice and my life, through the lenses of my creativity.

The solution is obvious: stop worrying about what everybody else thinks, Juliana! Just be yourself! You're great just the way you are! Be true to who you are, deep down inside, or you'll never be happy!

The problem is, I don't actually like being laughed at. Ridiculed. Looked down on. And sometimes, as important as it is to "be yourself," life is more complicated than that. Other people's opinions matter, and if you make a bad impression, you miss out on cool things. You don't get invited. You are overlooked. People laugh you off as too socially awkward. And that hurts.

Still, I'm pretty much guaranteed to be a social outcast anyway, so I may as well enjoy myself here. This blog entry is proof of my commitment to be more honest, heaven forbid. I'm not really sure I have the nerve for it. But we'll see what happens. If it doesn't work out, I'll polish up my social networking skills, create a new identity for myself and start a new blog elsewhere while this one gathers dust. Because being honest is not just telling the bad stuff--there are a lot of amazing things about me that I never blog about because I don't want to appear full of myself. This blog is, and will increasingly be, a work in progress. Much like yours truly.

Inner Debate

You call yourself an author?

Yes, yes I do.

What kind of writer are you? The kind that doesn't write?

I furrowed my brow.

She continued mercilessly. Yeah, that's it. An writer that doesn't write.

I write, I muttered angrily.

299 words per week? And every week is the first chapter of some new project? That's not writing. That's just playing around.

She was baiting me and I resisted the temptation to give her a snarky response. Snark is my specialty. She wasn't going to let me off the hook, though, so she pushed me. She reached her arms out and pushed me.

I stumbled.

This is the funny part: the stumble. Because the entire conversation was an inner dialogue with me and my Writing Conscience. It began about 30 minutes ago when I could have sworn I saw Brandon Mull (the NYT bestselling author of the Fablehaven series) dropping off kids at my elementary school. Impossible. Is my brain playing tricks on me? Or is my inner writer demanding attention?

Fine. She had my attention. She started arguing with me. I wanted to go shopping. She wanted to get home immediately to get in some time writing. She won that debate but she knew I'd get distracted with housework or crafting or blogging ... ahem.

So she pushed me. Taunting me with maliciously accurate insults first. Then she reached out her arms and pushed me. Granted, my writing conscience is made of Imaginary Friend (err, enemy?) Vapor and an inner shove should be painless. So why did I stumble?

This is getting ridiculous. Tripped up by my own imagination.

There's a lesson there and I'd love to stick around and learn it, but I gotta go. I have some novels to pen.

Water's Embrace

Preparing food. Cleaning the house. Preventing fist fights. So many responsibilities as a stay-at-home mother. Most of my time feels like a whirlwind of children demanding and needing and requiring and asking and pressuring and begging and whining. I carry them and their needs in my arms. They are young. They are fragile. They need me in so many ways.

... but sometimes I want to be carried, too. I want to relax and let the burdens slip away. Last night, after a very long day of children whining and demanding and needing, I slipped away for a couple hours to have a date with my oldest son. We went to a swim party where he went down the water slide 15 times and I floated around the lazy river.

Carry me, lift me, support me, water.

I needed that.

New School Year's Resolutions

So here's where we are right now.

I'm a writer who doesn't write.

I'm a singer who doesn't sing.

I'm a lover of the outdoors who spends all her time inside.

I'm an organization freak whose house is pure clutter.

In other words, I'm a lady with an anxiety disorder that is spinning out of control. My life is chaos. I've tried my hardest to make all these problems go away by consuming chocolate, but for some reason that isn't helping. I'm baffled. I'm going to have to try something else.

Deep breath.

I realize that I'm scared of commitment. Yesterday was a big day for three of my friends. They committed to things and it was strangely coincidental that all three of them reached huge milestones on the same day. It has forced me into some painful introspection about my own lack of ambition. 

Both of my writers' group colleagues finished their novels yesterday. It's either an amazing coincidence or proof of what a good, supportive writers' group can do. Then I woke up this morning to realize that another friend of mine reached her 365th day of blogging every day. She committed to write on her blog every single day for a year and she did it.

And I immediately felt inadequate: "What have you done in the last year, Juliana?" Luckily, the self-pity lasted about a nanosecond as I remembered what I've done:

I can't complain about my accomplishments, and yet ... yet, I know I'm not doing my best. I waste time, I lose my temper with my kids and I'm eating myself to death, literally. This isn't the person I want to be and next week is time for me to shape up.

Let's be honest, folks: January 1st isn't the time for New Year's Resolutions. The time when mothers everywhere can get their lives under control is the first day their kids go back to school. We love 'em. We adore 'em. But they take a lot of time and energy and that makes other things difficult. Things like writing. And exercising. And cleaning. And cooking. And not pulling our hair out.

So I'm making some New School Year's Resolutions and I think Moms everywhere should join in!

The pregnancy is over (holy crap, I'm glad--that was hard). I'm almost four months postpartum so the recovery from the c-section is over. The summer is almost over so I am resolved to spend every morning doing the things that are most important before doing the fun stuff. (Fun stuff like blogging.. ahem.. As I said, starting next week...)

I have a list of chores to do before the kids get off to school (empty the dishwasher, start a load of laundry, clean a bathroom, make the bed) and I am adding in some new items: I will write every day. Preferably working on both my creative writing and my blogging every day, but we'll see what happens. I will keep singing even though I'm not taking voice lessons right now. I will exercise, ermm, many days. Most days? I'd love to say every day, but see above comments about fear of commitment. It's hard to commit to things you've failed at in the past. But I'll try to figure this thing out.

I think that if I can keep up those commitments, I'll be able to deal with the other things that are really bothering me, like how hard it is for me to keep my cool with my kids. The anxiety will go down and life will be happy again.

What are your New School Year's resolutions?

Cloudy, with a chance of rain ...

I love rain. And I live in a desert. So when I see storm clouds brewing, I hope for rain but don't expect it to materialize. It usually just blows over. It's happened so many times that I have started to just assume that is what would happen.

Ha.

The weather, we reasoned, would be perfect for a trip to Thanksgiving Point Gardens. Last time, the thermometer hit 100 degrees and I was parched. So today, weather in the 80's and a chance of rain sounded great ... assuming those rain clouds never materialized.

I packed up the kids, grabbed a couple nephews and my Mom (who is going back to work tomorrow, so it was a sort of last-minute, last-chance fling) and headed to the gardens. This'll be great, we thought, as long as it doesn't rain.

We got out of the car, paid our admission and stepped into the splendor of ... dropping temperatures and ominous clouds. I really wanted to show off how beautiful this spot of earth is. It's a true untapped treasure in my valley and I just love this place.

Here is what we learned: outdoor gardens are best-suited for dry weather. We were about 10-15 minutes from shelter when I was faced with a choice: head farther into the gardens and hope for good luck or turn back and head for safety. I was so sad at the thought of spending money and seeing nearly none of the gardens and coming all that way for nothing, but the responsible mother in me sighed and said, "Let's turn back."

Just in time, too. The first fat raindrops were already falling and by the time we hit shelter by some restrooms, I was pretty drenched. We crowded onto a big bench and held two umbrellas open in front of us. Thank heaven for those umbrellas! 

The fat raindrops turned into a steady stream of water. Then the hail started dropping at our feet and wind blew water in sheets before our eyes. In a matter of minutes, the cobblestone pathway in front of us was flooded with an inch of rain water and my son was making comments about God promising not to flood the earth and kill everyone again, right, Mom?

Taken from my cell phone

We should have been miserable, but I couldn't help laughing. This is what we looked like: eight drenched puppies sheltered behind two huge, rainbow-colored umbrellas in the middle of a flood. We made quite a picture, I know, because a few minutes later a truck appeared out of nowhere and rescued us. 

I hopped right into a truck with a strange man and felt no qualms about it. He drove me to my van and led me back to my little group of stranded children. It was a grand time. When I returned the umbrellas, I heard the staff asking each other if those crazy people by the bathrooms had been rescued yet. Yes, yes they had.

We drove over to the deli and had lunch with a bunch of other soggy folks. We had ice cream. Then we went back to my car to find blue skies and warm weather. We decided to try the children's area at the gardens and headed back that direction. When we got there, the kids stomped in the water and got more drenched than they had been in the storm. And that seemed just about perfect to me. A wonderful farewell to summer.

Timing

Timing is everything.

We saw a car show and made an impulsive decision to stop and walk around. I got my thrills staring into the pristine interior of a Jaguar E-type, a car which makes my brain go gooey and my knees go weak. If I could have a crush on a car, it would be the Jaguar E-type. We saw a Model T. We saw a Lotus, which I'm not sure is cool but is lodged in my brain as "interesting."

We had a grand time.

And then, only then, did I notice my five-year-old walking around in only one shoe.

Classy, Juliana. Really classy.

All in all, it's probably good that I didn't notice Shoeless 'Lije until halfway through the car show because the kids had fun and I got a thrill of pleasure seeing the Jag. The cars were classy, even if I was not.

Threee Months ... and Still Crafting

I'm becoming a girlie girl. Apparently it was in me all along, just waiting to appear at the right moment. Of course, my version of girlie is still based on blue jeans and white t-shirts, but we're adding a bit more style to them now.

I blame it all on having doubled the amount of estrogen in the house. Eden is just so gosh-darn cute in her girlie stuff. She needs it because, really, all babies just look like babies. Not boys. Not girls. Just babies. Until you put them in boyish or girlish clothing and make them look the part. And I've waited so long to have another girl in the house, she will look like a girl, thank you very much.

Here she is at three months wearing last night's project, an organza flower headband. Who knew it could be so much fun to burn fabric?

Wouldn't I?

Dear children,

There are certain things you should never say to your mother.

Yesterday, we learned that one of these things is: "YOU WOULDN'T DARE!!!" when your Mother threatened consequences for your slovenly habits.

You learned that Mom does dare. She dares to take away your favorite clothing, pack away all your toys that were strewn about the floor, unplug the Wii, change your passwords on the computer accounts, and give you each one bowl of dry cereal and a cup of water for dinner.

Oh, yes, children: Mother dares.

What lesson would you like to learn today?

Love, Mom

hand and soul

eden :: delight

my hands
brown, dried out, cracking and weather-worn

your hands
white, smooth, pure
open palms learning to reach and grasp with meaning & intention

my soul
broken and repaired, scratched and healed, happy yet weary

your soul
innocent, pure, unscathed
open heart learning to reach with love & hope

together
two hands united in loving touch, gripping one another, simultaneously soothing
two souls lifting each other to a higher, better place

Fallin' to Pieces

My friend Karen--who is much more than a friend: a role model, a support, a rock--records a new song every week and shares it on her blog every Monday.

This week, when I'm feeling stretched in too many directions and worn thin, her song choice was very appreciated. Music can be so therapeutic.

Breakeven

Thanks, Kaz.

Days like today

I could give you two dozen reasons why I ought to be annoyed, unhappy, frustrated, depressed and generally giving up.

Some days are like that.

But there is one reason why I can't give in to the bitter feelings that are knocking on the door: I want to be happy and if I don't choose it, it won't happen.

So today we choose to switch into survival mode and breathe deeply and laugh, laugh, laugh at how life can be.

Location, location, location

The week Eden was born, my husband received an email from a fabulous company, inviting him to interview with them. Unfortunately, although the company is considered one of the best in the world to work for, they don't have any offices nearby. It really got me thinking about life, especially about convenience vs. deliberate action.

My life right now is very convenient. It's comfortable. Is that a good thing? Or am I missing out on personal growth by sticking with the status quo? I feel like the time for adventure and relocating is probably pre-children. Especially pre-grade school.

My oldest son overheard us talking about what life would be like in southern California or Silicon Valley or Seattle or Colorado and was not happy. He has made it very, very clear that he doesn't want to move anywhere. He is comfortable. Life is good for him. He has friends and just got accepted into a great new school program for 3rd grade. Would it be selfish to take him away from that? Would it make his anxieties and worries (which are already an enormous burden for someone so young) unbearable?

...or....

Would it be like "coming home" when we never knew what we were missing? Would it be like finding that comfortable little niche of the world that makes our hearts feel happy? As much as I love the convenience and comfort of my life in Utah, I don't really love my area itself. Our "main street" is a stretch of one-story, grey cinder-block buildings with enormously ugly marquees in front with large power lines overhead and no greenery in sight. Ugh. It would be nice to live in a city that was planned out and had great character.

It's too much for me to think about. I have a newborn baby that won't let me sleep until midnight and three crazy, wild boys who are awake at 6:15 a.m. every morning. Life is so tiring right now and I am NOT thriving.

...but would I thrive somewhere else? Or just drown completely?

Life is confusing.

Cherished Moments of Youth. (Ha. Ha.)

Ahh those moments of youth, so cherished, so remembered. Those mistakes that we look back on fondly and chuckle over--moments of mortification turned humorous anecdote.

Like the time I put on lightweight khaki pants that were a wee bit snug and, when I heard an ominous stretching sound and looked in the mirror to see if they'd torn, saw only a slightly worn seam but no tear. So I kept wearing them for hours. Went to the store. Saw family. Then at night took them off, turned them over to inspect and discovered a ripped seam that was many (many) inches long. I had been wearing pants torn open and exposing my undies to the world for hours.

So humorous.

Or at least it will be someday. Not today. Because that happened yesterday.

But yes, someday I'll have a good, long chuckle about my struggles to fit back into normal clothes after my most difficult pregnancy. Some days I feel so young, so childish, so unpolished. Still so much to learn.

Ha ha?

Words words words

Words are wonderful things. Tonight I am not "sad" but woebegone, lugubrious and melancholy.

By definition, these words are synonyms, yet each word tastes slightly different on the tongue. Of all the flavors of sadness, tonight belongs to melancholy. I am not depressed. Nor am I despondent. I am melancholy. You can throw in a touch of somber and a hint of glum. Stir them together and you can taste the exact flavor of my mood.

I spent far too many hours reading the cheapest kinds of words while I was on bed rest recently. Cheap words are flat, lifeless ... like stale white bread, they have no flavor or substance. I like words that cost me a moment's hesitation--processing, feeling, understanding the subtle implications of why that particular word may have been chosen.

I love old, boring, slow-moving novels because they spend more time feeding my soul than stuffing the greedy tastebuds of a bored mind. I couldn't help myself when I was on bed rest--my brain took a 10-week vacation and refused to process anything but the simplest of words, so I read the simplest of books.

Yesterday morning, I sat staring through the light and dark contrast of my window blinds, wondering if I would ever rediscover my love of literature after feeding myself on the sugar and spice of young adventure novels. I thought sadly that perhaps there are times in life when we discover we have simply changed and lost a taste for what we previously valued. I thought perhaps I'd never truly enjoy E. M. Forster or Charles Dickens ever again.

Then, as I sat brainlessly scanning the saved programs on my DVR a few hours later, I settled on a recording of Hamlet that my husband had recorded. It was brilliant. Beautiful. Emotional. The flow of Shakespeare's words filled me up and awakened something that had been lying dormant.

I feel as if I'm coming home to myself after months of mental drudgery and cognitive coma. And even if I'm feeling mournful and melancholy right now, it feels good to be able to express it with just the right words.

The Momifier

Fell asleep after a couple hours of baby tears. Realized this little easy-to-soothe baby is actually an easy-for-MOM-to-soothe baby. She refuses to be soothed or fed by her father, which we figured out after I tried to go to bed early to catch up on some lost sleep. Around midnight, I realized in tears that this little girl will accept no substitute for the Momifier. (See, it's like Mom + Pacifier....)

I'm half flattered to finally have a child who is a real Mama's Girl and half terrified that I will never leave the house alone ever again.

Woke up this morning to the sound of Elijah throwing up in the bathroom. Second time this week. No symptoms of illness other than a first-thing-in-the-morning vomit. Huh.

So has it been a bad day? Baby getting more difficult to soothe and a barfing five-year-old?

Nope.

Someone near and dear to me underwent surgery today in a crucial step in the process of in-vitro fertilization. As I read about all the shots and medicine and doctor's visits and expenses, I cried for her. Parenting is so hard--even before you are a parent, for some people. Pregnancy is so hard--even before you are pregnant, for some people.

I want to get in the car and drive away from here to be with this person, just so I can buy her flowers and show up on her doorstep with a great big, tangible symbol of my love. But I can't, so I sit here and send text messages and positive vibes. And I hug my slightly-more-temperamental-than-before baby and feel grateful for all the goodness of life, especially the hope that the IVF will work and there will be another new baby to love sometime next year.

Baby Love

~ My new baby, Eden, arrived a couple weeks ago on a date that was void of mathematical poetry or numerical beauty. The day was, however, one of the most beautiful days of my life. ~

Watching my husband's car pull out of the driveway into the rain. My emotions flood me.

I'm not ready for this. Just me and four children. Four children. Four.

And now my husband is pulling away from the house, leaving just me and my surgery incision to care for the kids. I'm not sure which is flowing faster--the raindrops outside or my tears inside. The decision to become a parent is always a scary one, one which overwhelms me and turns my world upside down.

So I guess you could say the whole nurturing and mothering thing has never come to me automatically. It's an acquired skill. I adore my family with all my heart and I am--finally--really, truly happy to be a stay-at-home Mom with ambitions that swirl all around raising a happy family. Amazing that I've finally gotten there, left previous ambitions along the roadside and winked at the possibilities of other ambitions that are waiting down the road. Right here on the journey, I am happy.

I'll tell you a secret: happiness is not always independent of being really, really scared and overwhelmed. Happiness does not preclude being totally freaked out.

I have learned for myself that we are sometimes closest to God when we are in way over our heads. And we cannot grow spiritually bigger unless we are stretched. And I am happier when I am growing and becoming a better person. That doesn't mean the process is comfortable, though. It hurts.

So right now I'm home alone with my kids for the first time since baby arrived a couple weeks ago. It's finally hitting me that a year ago I was really THRIVING in my life. And now I'm back to SURVIVING. It's really painful to realize the full impact of what that means--the sacrifices, the family upheaval, the emotional ups and downs. It's pretty heavy.

It's pretty exciting, too. And miraculous. And it's taking all my willpower to not run into the bedroom to go stare at my new little baby, Eden. She's a delight. A heaven on earth. I cry every day as I stare down into her innocent face.

In the middle of the night, I awoke to her hungry cry and thought, "I cannot sit up. I cannot feed her. Too tired. Too hard. I can't do it." Of course, I did it. And then my husband swaddled her up to go back to her bed and I should have been grateful to get back to sleep, but I asked him to hand her to me. Just to say goodnight one more time. And I couldn't let go. We just stared at each other. I smiled at her inquisitive eyes and tiny, pursed lips. She stared at me and I told myself she's liking what she sees. I hope that's true.

So that's the story of my new life. My old life is buried behind months of bed rest and sleep deprivation and pregnancy blah. I haven't been Juliana for a long time, now. It hurts to miss the old me that had freedom to go shopping without kids or visit friends or do paper-crafting or, of course, blog more regularly. Now those things are the precious little bits that I have to fit into a world of baby chaos.

And somehow, as I type this, it's okay. It's okay to be overwhelmed by my crazy life and it's okay to feel inadequate--that's all part of the process.

Four kids. Wow. I'm taking a deep breath. Here we go.

The Wrong Reason

There are good, healthy, normal reasons to want to deliver your baby. Things like going into labor. That would be a perfectly rational reason to say, "Gosh I hope the baby comes soon."

Then there is me. My other children have birthdays that are, for lack of a better phrase, mathematically beautiful. The numbers all line up with numerical harmony oozing out of them. They almost bring a tear to my eye.

I was hoping this baby would come on 04/14/10 because it has a beautiful rhythm to it when you say the numbers in procession. No luck (and all for the best.) With time running out, I am trying to find more dates filled with mathematical poetry. 04/26 would be acceptable. I'm sure you know where I'm going with this because you're all as OCD about numbers as I am, right? Of course right. 0+4+2=6. Voila! Not too bad. We can make an equation out of it. Just disregard the year.

On the same note, 04/31 would also be acceptable since 4=3+1. 04/28 is acceptable since 4x2=8. I wonder if 427 or 429 are prime? It wouldn't be much, but it would be okay.

05/05 would make me cry geeky tears of joy since we could add the year into the equation: 5+5=10. How marvelous!

But there is one number that is inescapably beautiful: 04/24/10. It just sounds nice with the repeating four. Zero-four-two-four. Nice! But this birth date can also be an equation (including the year!) because 0+4+2+4=10! Doesn't it make you want to just stare at those numbers all day? (If you're not sensing a large dose of self-mockery, please ... please ... please readjust your expectations of this blog.)

However, that's only a day away and the chances are that my numerically poetic day won't be The Day. But I can still wish and hope. It's completely the wrong reason to wish myself into labor, but I challenge any of you to sit around on bed rest for nearly 10 weeks without your brain doing funny things to you. Perhaps this proof of mental boredom alone is a good reason to wish this baby here sooner rather than later.

Remembering

I think I forgot a lot of things this week. I am grateful to be pregnant, but I think I forgot exactly how miraculous it is for me. It happened naturally and exactly when I wanted it to happen. That's never happened before. I was incredulous and excited and nervous and shocked when I saw that positive result. I was sure that it wasn't real. I was certain I was going to miscarry. It was too good to be true.


But it was true. It's still sinking in because it is so surreal.


And then there's the whole issue of gender. I mean, I really wanted a girl. I said it didn't matter... but it did. I have always known #4 was the end of the pregnancy road for me and I really, really hoped I'd finally have a girl. It was my last chance. The first time the ultrasound tech said it was a girl, I was ecstatic ... but wary. When I had an ultrasound a few weeks later, I asked, "Is it still a girl?" I still couldn't believe it.


This whole process has been a gift from heaven. Like manna... a miracle.


And then I got miserable. And ungrateful. And took it all for granted. And just wanted to be done with pregnancy so I could see this child and hold her in my arms instead of my abdomen. I spent an emotional week cursing everybody in sight for how miserable I felt.


Then four things happened that eventually, slowly, progressively broke down my ingratitude and helped me find my happy place again.


(1) My husband reminded me that things happen for a reason. He reminded me that maybe the obstetrician wasn't trying to ruin my life but may actually be inspired to let my pregnancy last a little longer. (I cringe to actually talk about religion on my blog because I don't want to open this space up to anti-religious sentiment in the comment section, but that's a fear I need to get over. My religion is an integral part of who I am and I hope people can respect that.)


When he said that, I was still feeling hurt and angry about how my OB had treated me earlier in the day but it resonated true and I admitted that to myself ... if not to my husband.


(2) My nurse, who is coincidentally a neighbor and co-religionist and somebody I now consider a friend, sympathized with how miserable I was and told me she'd experienced some similar feelings. Then she said quietly, "I just needed to remember who was in control and let Him handle it." I cried because I clearly wasn't feeling all faithful and close to God and willing to let Him be in control.


I WANTED CONTROL. And I was in tears because my OB had just taken it away from me.


Again, her words resonated true, not only on a religious level but on a "Hey, Juliana--remember how you have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and worry too much about everything? Why not be all c'est la vie and Qué será, será and Let it Be?" I needed to just let go and find trust.


(3) I started to think about what my obstetrician had said to me (cruelly and insensitively as it seemed to be phrased.) "You're just driving yourself crazy and you need to be ecstatic about going to 39 weeks." I was so mad. I am not choosing anxiety attacks and unhappiness.


Right?


Well, yes and no. I can't control my anxiety level right now very well. It's a physical thing for me that is a part of my genetic makeup. I can keep it well reigned-in when I'm not pregnant with exercise or, if it gets bad, medication. Both are out of the picture right now so my coping strategies are very limited.


But on the other hand, yes. I'm a grown adult and I can take deep breaths and at least cope better than I have been coping. I can't make it go away, but I can at least limit how much it influences me.


That's one thing I do have control over.


(4) Most importantly, fate gave me the spiritual guidance I needed in the form of this week's Gospel Doctrine lesson. Since I haven't been to church in two months, I've been trying to stay current on our Old Testament study from home. This was the perfect lesson for me this week.


After being freed from slavery (not a minor blessing--a major one), the Israelites were starving. So they were sent manna--a gift straight from heaven. Again, not a minor blessing. A major one. (You know, not starving.) After eating this nonstop, however, the people grew tired of it. They wanted something more. They started lusting after a change of meal plans. I can't blame them. Honestly. I think I'd probably go a little crazy, too. I probably relate well since I haven't cooked my own meal in two months and I am lusting for my own style of food a little bit, too.


The Lord was displeased. It reminds me of a scripture in the LDS Doctrine & Covenants: "And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things, and obey not his commandments." The Israelites had lost sight of the fact that they were eating MANNA FROM HEAVEN after being FREED FROM SLAVERY.


Kind of like how I am EXPECTING A BABY GIRL after being FREED FROM INFERTILITY.


You know, not a minor blessing. A major one.


And as much as I hate to imagine the wrath of God kindled against me... I had to admit, He was probably displeased with me under the circumstances. For a good reason. My attitude started to change. I stopped worrying about when things would happen. I stopped feeling sorry for myself. My Braxton-Hicks contractions started getting stronger and I realized I might get to experience some parts of the Female Experience that I'd never experienced before. Like real contractions. Or my water breaking. Or actually going into labor. Or feeling my baby settle down lower into my abdomen. Or a dozen other little things that are not usually considered "blessings" unless you're a woman who has always wondered what those last few weeks of pregnancy are like and never known. Or a woman who has actually been a little sad not to know what a real contraction feels like. (Just one or two would be fine... and THEN we can do the c-section, a'ight?)


The coming weeks are no longer this crazy, unhappy thing to be endured. They are a time of wonder and excitement, not knowing what will happen next because anything is possible. I might get pre-eclampsia and deliver tomorrow. Or I might go all the way to end without experiencing any labor pains. Or my water might break or I might actually go into labor on my own. Wouldn't THAT be strange?


And now that I've had time to process everything and digest and get a little more perspective, I'm thrilled to go to 39 weeks because it'll be a time of endless possibilities. And I'm grateful (again) for my gift from heaven.

ecstatic.

It should be illegal for an OB to tell a patient, "I won't make you go past 38 weeks" and then tell her two weeks later, "Oh, we can do an amnio before that if you want to deliver sooner" and then tell her "It'll be a real victory to get one more week out of you" and then after the week from Hades tell her, "No, no... you are going to 39 weeks unless you become toxemic." [Toxemic read as "deathly ill."]

I was up in the middle of the night with such a severe anxiety attack from my elevated blood pressure that I told my husband in tears, "I just can't do this anymore. I can't make it another week. I don't know how I can make it to tomorrow..." When I lay in bed, the room is silent except for the sound of my blood rushing in my ears. I can feel my entire body move with every thump-thump-thump. I know it is melodramatic (sorry, see previous wording about anxiety attack) but I just feel like I'm going to have a heart attack and die any moment.

I feel sick. I'm scared. The baby has the cord around the neck--but only once, so I am not supposed to worry about it. My amniotic fluid level has gone from 19 to 15 to 8 in the last few weeks. But I'm not supposed to worry about it. My blood pressure is really unstable, but instead of giving me a prescription for a BP medication, I've been told that I now have to spend most of my time in bed. Doing what? Other than having constant anxiety attacks? For weeks?

Last week, he told me I'd have an ultrasound [edit: oops, I mean amniocentesis] this week and now he says the specialist I see tomorrow "might be talked into it."

People keep telling me there's a light at the end of the tunnel, but this tunnel is evil and magical and keeps growing longer the farther I walk into it. Don't tell me "it'll be worth it" or "hang in there, it's almost over." I know that. I've done this before and it was worth it. That's why I am doing it again even though I'm pretty sure I'm going insane.

After my appointment, I decided to give in to those feelings of depression that started building, because, as I told my husband, "Depression is far preferable to anxiety at this point." Unfortunately, I've become too **** emotionally resilient in the last few years and the depression started to lift almost immediately.

I wonder if anybody has invented depressant medication. Not anti-depressant .... I need stuff that'll make me depressed because when I'm depressed, I don't care about anything. When I'm anxious, I care about everything. EVERYTHING. Last night in the middle of the night, I told my husband I was tempted to have him go find a large rock and just knock me unconscious because it was unbearable. Today the doctor told me I'm "driving myself crazy" and I need to stop it. Yeah.... I'm TRYING to have constant anxiety attacks because they're so ****** fun. He told me I need to be "ecstatic about going to 39 weeks."

What do you think? Is this blog entry ecstatic enough?

Happy Easter

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.