I am captivated as a young, lithe athlete rushes through the finish line and collapses to the ground. Her face speaks what my heart feels every day. She can't hear that the din of cheers is comprised of her name. It is just noise. She wraps her arms across her face, afraid to look at the score board to see if she has qualified for her dreams. You can tell she has given everything. Everything. Her gasping breath is pained. Lungs on fire, body wrecked. "Please God, please let it be enough." But she can't look. She can't bear it if her every effort isn't enough.
Her team mate crawls down into a prone hug and breaks the news. "You are enough. You did it. I'm so proud."
I am grateful for my teammates in life. Who join me in the dirt, lift my head, and pull me close to whisper in my ear, "You are enough. I am so proud."
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Therapy
Note: This entry is for therapy's sake. It's a vent. It is part of a process. I don't need random advice. I have a therapist.
"Try to contain and shelve the feelings and memories that we have talked about today. We'll get back to them... and if that feels too stifling or numbing, write."
Well, I'm here.
. . . . . . . . . . .
"Wow. Thank you very much for opening up.""Try to contain and shelve the feelings and memories that we have talked about today. We'll get back to them... and if that feels too stifling or numbing, write."
Well, I'm here.
. . . . . . . . . . .
I should have told him as we met and he shook my hand that he was about to know a whole lot about me. I guess sometimes people come to therapy and resist talking about themselves? I don't know. Not me. I'm here to get stuff done.
He's young. But I'm comfortable enough with him. He listens well... I guess that comes with the territory. He thinks I'm a great candidate for EMDR.
I'll be back next week. I'm so ready to be unstuck.
One sticking point that he gleaned as obvious: A long-held notion that has been ingrained in me since I was young, the notion that I am not allowed to be great. My greatness has to lie in facilitating the greatness of others. To become great would be selfish and arrogant. I am not the heroin, not the main role, but forever a sidekick. I don't even get my own life story. I am destined to be supporting role only. Wife, mother, daughter. Always working for someone else's success. It's strange because as much as instinct wants me to resent this role of helper, I have come to love it. I love being crew chief, support, friend. And I'm damn good at it too! But the shadow of it is that I somehow grew up feeling less. This nebulous semi-belief that am not important enough to be anything noteworthy, is inextricably linked with my stuckness over the past two years. Just when I felt I was coming into my own, life cut me down. I rose again, determined to succeed only to be cut down again, and again, and again. Put into my place.
I am forever wanting to learn and train to make a real difference in the world. I wanted to be a chiropractor, a massage therapist, a dancer, a singer, an artist, a yoga instructor, an author, a midwife, a naturopath... so many things. But what was the point of all that training and experience if my role in life was going to end up being "just" mother anyway? I have been told whenever I get bold enough to want to go back for schooling in something particular, "Some of us aren't meant for greatness. Some of us are just meant to help others become great."
That's good, I guess. Don't get me wrong, I love being a wife and mom. I think it is one of the most important roles in the world. I love helping others become great, reach their goals, strive for more.
I love it!
BUT WHAT ABOUT ME?! Do I ever get to cross a finish line? Do I ever get to receive a certificate? Have enough training to be a voice of authority? Break a record? Win a trophy? Try for more without having my body and soul crushed before I get there? I watch others experiencing these moments of accomplishment and feel an overwhelming sadness that these things can never be mine. Great things are not for me.
Even typing this out feels horrible and selfish a wrong. I'm whining. I'm sinning. My focus is in the wrong place. I should be more humble. And if anything ever feels off emotionally, it's my own fault. Adapt. Accept. Control myself. Deal with it. And don't forget to be grateful.
And so with trauma, PTSD, depression, anxiety- all the things that are beyond conscious control, comes guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Shame. Shame. Shame.
If you feel bad it's because you failed.
I'm failing. At being a sidekick.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Yoga
Wednesday yoga. My escape to me. I set out breakfast, kiss the babes goodbye and pull out of the driveway. There are only two albums on the busted hard drive of my car stereo. They were there when we bought the car. The Dreaming Out Loud album from One Republic has been haunting me. It just fits right now. The morning sun streams down on grand mountain views and the nearby grasses that have gone golden in the heat of summer. The lyrics catch in my throat as the road winds down, down, and the puzzle pieces of feelings fit into place.
...Stop and stare
I think I'm moving but I go nowhere
Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared
But I've become what I can't be...
I think I'm moving but I go nowhere
Yeah, I know that everyone gets scared
But I've become what I can't be...
I turn up the volume and just live in it for a minute. This is me. Stop and Stare.
...Stop and stare
You start to wonder why you're here not there
And you'd give anything to get what's fair
But fair ain't what you really need....
The lyrics swim in my head and live in my chest.
I start the song over and listen again. I pull into the parking lot. 9:11. I have 4 minutes til class starts. I sit and let the song play out.
The studio is under construction, but everyone settles into their sanctuaries and lets the growth be uncomfortable. Fitting. The theme of the class is change. Julz always knows. I don't have to say a thing. This is why I keep coming back. My needs are seen and met. Maybe it's cosmic, maybe it's coincidental. But coming here to practice makes me feel seen by the Divine if only for 75 minutes a week.
I know you. I see you. All of you. Exactly as you are. And you are perfect. Let's work.
Julz is one of my many, many angels. She thinks she's just my yoga teacher. But she is the embodiment of Hope. Was I ever that to my students?
You start to wonder why you're here not there
And you'd give anything to get what's fair
But fair ain't what you really need....
The lyrics swim in my head and live in my chest.
I start the song over and listen again. I pull into the parking lot. 9:11. I have 4 minutes til class starts. I sit and let the song play out.
The studio is under construction, but everyone settles into their sanctuaries and lets the growth be uncomfortable. Fitting. The theme of the class is change. Julz always knows. I don't have to say a thing. This is why I keep coming back. My needs are seen and met. Maybe it's cosmic, maybe it's coincidental. But coming here to practice makes me feel seen by the Divine if only for 75 minutes a week.
I know you. I see you. All of you. Exactly as you are. And you are perfect. Let's work.
Julz is one of my many, many angels. She thinks she's just my yoga teacher. But she is the embodiment of Hope. Was I ever that to my students?
We sit in stillness and listen to breath. We stretch and breathe space into all of our places. We find balance in movement. We make all of the effort and sit in acceptance at the brink of our own limitations. My shoulders hurt. I honor them with different positioning and ask them to please keep trying. They do.
My body is exhausted. Not 4 days ago I was sobbing aloud in excruciating pain, begging for mercy, retching uncontrollably, being rushed to the ER. And here I am on a yoga mat. Still. Quiet. Tired. Still just trying.
Sometimes I wish I knew how to give up. I am almost always so grateful that I don't. I don't know how.
I'm just so tired.
When class is over I sit in my car and answer text messages from other angels. Aaron, Jenna, Julio. I just sit as the car gets hotter in the sun, avoiding real life until I realize I need to get home and take my medicine. On the way home I have an epiphany. I think I wanted a 50k so badly through these couple of years purely for the finish line. To feel like I finished something. Accomplished something difficult of my own choosing. To feel like I earned a brief moment of recognition for my struggles. I just wanted a victory. I pull into the garage and sit a while longer until my kids come and find me, and I'm mom again.
My body is exhausted. Not 4 days ago I was sobbing aloud in excruciating pain, begging for mercy, retching uncontrollably, being rushed to the ER. And here I am on a yoga mat. Still. Quiet. Tired. Still just trying.
Sometimes I wish I knew how to give up. I am almost always so grateful that I don't. I don't know how.
I'm just so tired.
When class is over I sit in my car and answer text messages from other angels. Aaron, Jenna, Julio. I just sit as the car gets hotter in the sun, avoiding real life until I realize I need to get home and take my medicine. On the way home I have an epiphany. I think I wanted a 50k so badly through these couple of years purely for the finish line. To feel like I finished something. Accomplished something difficult of my own choosing. To feel like I earned a brief moment of recognition for my struggles. I just wanted a victory. I pull into the garage and sit a while longer until my kids come and find me, and I'm mom again.
I get a call from an unfamiliar number as I eat my avocado salad. It's a therapist's office. We've called so many. Only one has called back. This one takes my insurance. They can't get me in with the person I wanted to see, but would I be willing to see another therapist? I've never heard of him. Okay. I'll take what I can get. I have to start somewhere.
Friday, June 24, 2016
They call me brave
They call me brave.
I submit that there is more bravery in the world than one could ever fathom. Quiet acts of survival, love, support, even stubbornness.
I live out loud because I know I can't do it on my own. I need people as much or more than they need me. I suppose the thing that makes me stand out is that I unabashedly live for connection. To reach out. To lean in. To hold tight. To sit in silent acceptance. To laugh in comfortable companionship. Yes, there is rejection, but it floats away like dandelion seeds on a river surface. It is worth dealing with rejection to have found the deep solace of an answering, "Me too."
I feel the authentically deep need of those around me. I give love because it is needed, and because I need it. I'm not even a little bit ashamed of that.
Maybe that makes me brave. Maybe I don't know any other way to be.
I submit that there is more bravery in the world than one could ever fathom. Quiet acts of survival, love, support, even stubbornness.
I live out loud because I know I can't do it on my own. I need people as much or more than they need me. I suppose the thing that makes me stand out is that I unabashedly live for connection. To reach out. To lean in. To hold tight. To sit in silent acceptance. To laugh in comfortable companionship. Yes, there is rejection, but it floats away like dandelion seeds on a river surface. It is worth dealing with rejection to have found the deep solace of an answering, "Me too."
I feel the authentically deep need of those around me. I give love because it is needed, and because I need it. I'm not even a little bit ashamed of that.
Maybe that makes me brave. Maybe I don't know any other way to be.
Monday, June 20, 2016
The Body Keeps the Score
Small disclaimer: If you haven't read this blog before, it is one big mess of TMI. I have no filters. You WILL know far too much about me, should you continue. You've been warned. So ask yourself now, "Do I really want to know?"
As the noisy, flashy, firework kind of stress in my life has diminished, it has come to light that trauma has truly left it's mark on my brain. I find myself split in two, partially detached enough to be fully aware, and partially immersed in my post traumatic reactions. I watch myself experience episodes of depression, sensory overload, anxiety, uncontrollable sobbing over nothing. There aren't many flashbacks, and it doesn't mimic the PTSD I experienced after my car accident in high school, re-living the accidents over and over. I'm beyond most of that. Though at times I am distantly haunted by scenes of blurry remembrance in the hospital, trying to process what had happened to my body, having no control and no say through the pain of being poked and wired and prodded.. Or scenes of staring at the chair legs, vaulted ceiling, and paint-spattered wall of my old family room and kitchen while my dismay at the puddle of paint that spread under me and how it would ruin the floor. They don't torture me in that same, flash-bang, terror kind of way. Unfortunately, now, it's a puzzling labyrinth of discovering how my brain and my neurology have been rewired. I have been listening to The Body Keeps The Score by Bessel Van der Kolk. It has been fascinating to start to understand what my body has recorded and why, what parts of my brain have shut down or lit up due to mere moments in life, and what I need to do to utilize neuroplasticity and reprogram once again. Sometimes I feel silly. Overly dramatic. There is so much worse that people have been through. I want to logically talk my brain out of having been so effected by the laundry list of repeated trauma. Shattered ankle, torn rotator cuff, kidney stones, liver lesions, near-deadly IUD and unexpected open abdominal surgery, sprained shoulder, broken foot and torn shoulder labrum. These are not child abuse or war or genocide. But there isn't any logic to it. It has rewired, and I am left to deal with the tangle. I am tempted to shut down and shut up (as if that were really possible for me), but I know that in such instances, loneliness can spell regression and even suicide. While I have experienced depression and anxiety, I haven't had even the inkling of suicidal thoughts since I was deep in teenagedom and such things were empty threats for attention. I had a dream the other morning, in my waking sleep. I was standing at the side of my neighborhood road, where cars cruise down the hill around the bend, and I just stepped out in front of one of them and it ended. It felt so good in that second. So simple. To be done. That is when I jerked awake, thinking, "Oh crap. I need professional help." And also, chuckling darkly to myself, "With my luck, I wouldn't die." These are thoughts I want to be ashamed of and keep secret. But I won't. Secrets like that kill. And I don't want to die. Not even close. I love my life, my home, my family, this freaking wonderful, amazing planet and the incredible people that populate it. The nearest I can tell is that my brain is just finding the nearest possibility of ending the chaos. I'm tired.
I spent the weekend before last, crying. All the time. At everyone who talked to me, or looked at me. Everything was a trigger. I came home from lunch with a friend and sat in Aaron's office and sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Over and over. I'm sorry for putting you through all of this. Thank you for staying with me. I'm sorry this mess is yours to deal with too. The only thing that took me out of it was hours of hiking and running in the pouring rain with Aaron. Forced immediate presence. Be here now, in the rain, mud, dirt, rocks, trees, sticks, ridges, waterfall. It was glorious. It's so bizarre to be so madly in love with life, and be.... malfunctioning.
Sunday afternoon, I lay in bed clinging to the promise that I have spoken out loud to my family and friends: My story isn't over yet. I would never just end it. I will always keep trying. I wore my semicolon project bracelet as a security blanket and watched myself sob into my pillow. The next day I felt normal. Actually normal. I went for an incredibly peaceful solo run. I did laundry and played with my kids and danced in the kitchen. I felt the fire of real fight inside myself for the first time in weeks. Real hope. Monday I woke up jittery and anxious, but functional. I went to Costco, where I experienced a bizarre sensory overload episode with marked immediate memory loss. In Costco. I couldn't even remember what time of day it was for a while. My head was buzzing and I had tunnel vision. Every color, every movement, every sound, took over. A separate part of me watched in puzzled fascination and gave me the advice to start grounding. Feel your toes in your shoes. Identify 5 things you can see, 5 you can hear.... Somehow I made it through checkout and out to the car where I had a full anxiety attack and cried hard. I did grounding exercises and breathed myself down for ten full minutes before I could drive myself home. And then I was fine. Exhausted, but fine.
A couple of days later, after discussing my symptoms and various traumatic experiences with my yoga instructor.... my dad, my friends, a couple of strangers... (there really is something wrong with my filters).... I narrowed in on my surgery being the main episode I am suffering most from. It won't go away. It has been a year. Why can't I get over it?? Then, standing in my closet, anemic and exhausted and packing for a trip, I had a mind-blowing realization. My period is a trigger. For over a decade I have had a regular menstrual cycle that makes me wonder how I'm alive. It is easily more than 10 times the volume qualification to be medically defined as menorrhagia, or "abnormally heavy flow". When my surgery occurred, I went to sleep expecting my uterus to be removed along with the offending IUD, and when I woke up, confused, stitched and stapled, even that choice had not been mine. Every month, when that horror comes (and even the weeks leading up to it), my body experiences the terror of being stripped of choice and free-will all over again. My period is victimizing me. Holy crap.
I stood in my closet and sobbed.... again. Then I texted my first line of trauma brain spill- husband, sister, trauma-familiar-judgement-free-zone friends. I could hardly believe it. They all said it made perfect sense.
What are my choices now? Face the primal fear of surgery again? My every fiber wants to scream bloody-horror-film screams at the thought. Leave it be and wait til menopause, allowing the mental and emotional rape to continue month after month? Gosh, it sounds horrid calling it that, but I won't apologize for stating what I feel.
One thing is absolutely clear. I need help. I need a doctor that I can trust and feel comfortable with.... if such thing actually exists. I also need a really good therapist. And the $1400 that the hospital owes me and is refusing to pay..... and a lawyer.
As the noisy, flashy, firework kind of stress in my life has diminished, it has come to light that trauma has truly left it's mark on my brain. I find myself split in two, partially detached enough to be fully aware, and partially immersed in my post traumatic reactions. I watch myself experience episodes of depression, sensory overload, anxiety, uncontrollable sobbing over nothing. There aren't many flashbacks, and it doesn't mimic the PTSD I experienced after my car accident in high school, re-living the accidents over and over. I'm beyond most of that. Though at times I am distantly haunted by scenes of blurry remembrance in the hospital, trying to process what had happened to my body, having no control and no say through the pain of being poked and wired and prodded.. Or scenes of staring at the chair legs, vaulted ceiling, and paint-spattered wall of my old family room and kitchen while my dismay at the puddle of paint that spread under me and how it would ruin the floor. They don't torture me in that same, flash-bang, terror kind of way. Unfortunately, now, it's a puzzling labyrinth of discovering how my brain and my neurology have been rewired. I have been listening to The Body Keeps The Score by Bessel Van der Kolk. It has been fascinating to start to understand what my body has recorded and why, what parts of my brain have shut down or lit up due to mere moments in life, and what I need to do to utilize neuroplasticity and reprogram once again. Sometimes I feel silly. Overly dramatic. There is so much worse that people have been through. I want to logically talk my brain out of having been so effected by the laundry list of repeated trauma. Shattered ankle, torn rotator cuff, kidney stones, liver lesions, near-deadly IUD and unexpected open abdominal surgery, sprained shoulder, broken foot and torn shoulder labrum. These are not child abuse or war or genocide. But there isn't any logic to it. It has rewired, and I am left to deal with the tangle. I am tempted to shut down and shut up (as if that were really possible for me), but I know that in such instances, loneliness can spell regression and even suicide. While I have experienced depression and anxiety, I haven't had even the inkling of suicidal thoughts since I was deep in teenagedom and such things were empty threats for attention. I had a dream the other morning, in my waking sleep. I was standing at the side of my neighborhood road, where cars cruise down the hill around the bend, and I just stepped out in front of one of them and it ended. It felt so good in that second. So simple. To be done. That is when I jerked awake, thinking, "Oh crap. I need professional help." And also, chuckling darkly to myself, "With my luck, I wouldn't die." These are thoughts I want to be ashamed of and keep secret. But I won't. Secrets like that kill. And I don't want to die. Not even close. I love my life, my home, my family, this freaking wonderful, amazing planet and the incredible people that populate it. The nearest I can tell is that my brain is just finding the nearest possibility of ending the chaos. I'm tired.
I spent the weekend before last, crying. All the time. At everyone who talked to me, or looked at me. Everything was a trigger. I came home from lunch with a friend and sat in Aaron's office and sobbed, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Over and over. I'm sorry for putting you through all of this. Thank you for staying with me. I'm sorry this mess is yours to deal with too. The only thing that took me out of it was hours of hiking and running in the pouring rain with Aaron. Forced immediate presence. Be here now, in the rain, mud, dirt, rocks, trees, sticks, ridges, waterfall. It was glorious. It's so bizarre to be so madly in love with life, and be.... malfunctioning.
Sunday afternoon, I lay in bed clinging to the promise that I have spoken out loud to my family and friends: My story isn't over yet. I would never just end it. I will always keep trying. I wore my semicolon project bracelet as a security blanket and watched myself sob into my pillow. The next day I felt normal. Actually normal. I went for an incredibly peaceful solo run. I did laundry and played with my kids and danced in the kitchen. I felt the fire of real fight inside myself for the first time in weeks. Real hope. Monday I woke up jittery and anxious, but functional. I went to Costco, where I experienced a bizarre sensory overload episode with marked immediate memory loss. In Costco. I couldn't even remember what time of day it was for a while. My head was buzzing and I had tunnel vision. Every color, every movement, every sound, took over. A separate part of me watched in puzzled fascination and gave me the advice to start grounding. Feel your toes in your shoes. Identify 5 things you can see, 5 you can hear.... Somehow I made it through checkout and out to the car where I had a full anxiety attack and cried hard. I did grounding exercises and breathed myself down for ten full minutes before I could drive myself home. And then I was fine. Exhausted, but fine.
A couple of days later, after discussing my symptoms and various traumatic experiences with my yoga instructor.... my dad, my friends, a couple of strangers... (there really is something wrong with my filters).... I narrowed in on my surgery being the main episode I am suffering most from. It won't go away. It has been a year. Why can't I get over it?? Then, standing in my closet, anemic and exhausted and packing for a trip, I had a mind-blowing realization. My period is a trigger. For over a decade I have had a regular menstrual cycle that makes me wonder how I'm alive. It is easily more than 10 times the volume qualification to be medically defined as menorrhagia, or "abnormally heavy flow". When my surgery occurred, I went to sleep expecting my uterus to be removed along with the offending IUD, and when I woke up, confused, stitched and stapled, even that choice had not been mine. Every month, when that horror comes (and even the weeks leading up to it), my body experiences the terror of being stripped of choice and free-will all over again. My period is victimizing me. Holy crap.
I stood in my closet and sobbed.... again. Then I texted my first line of trauma brain spill- husband, sister, trauma-familiar-judgement-free-zone friends. I could hardly believe it. They all said it made perfect sense.
What are my choices now? Face the primal fear of surgery again? My every fiber wants to scream bloody-horror-film screams at the thought. Leave it be and wait til menopause, allowing the mental and emotional rape to continue month after month? Gosh, it sounds horrid calling it that, but I won't apologize for stating what I feel.
One thing is absolutely clear. I need help. I need a doctor that I can trust and feel comfortable with.... if such thing actually exists. I also need a really good therapist. And the $1400 that the hospital owes me and is refusing to pay..... and a lawyer.
Friday, May 6, 2016
Some emerging truths
I might never run an ultramarathon. I might, but I also might not. I'm starting to be okay with whichever of those it ends up being.
I'm in a weird stage of healing. It's not unfamiliar to me. It's that stage where you can finally do things, but you can only do them slowly, and partially, and for only as long as your healing body is cool with them. It's not clear how far you'll be able to push yourself in the end. In this stage, I come out of my cocoon and check out what time and stress have done to my body. Extra padding around the waist, hips and thighs, weaknesses in certain joints and muscles (most of them, really. Hypermobility Syndrome sucks). I start to really face the crumpled and damaged pieces of my psyche and spirit. And then I have to decide what to do about it. I buckle down and put it under some more stress in order to maximize my new potential. I have work to do. I have to imagine the caterpillar slightly underwhelmed when she emerges to check out her new wings... new potential for beauty and flight to higher, further places that any caterpillar could have imagined.... but her wings, they are wet and floppy. It takes time, and sun, and vulnerability, and work, and stress before she flies.
All of the things I thought I was are being redefined. The 'things I'm not' like to parade around in my head sometimes. They are noisy. I'm not as fast. Not as strong. Not as thin. Not as attractive. Not as flexible. Not as capable.
But I really like some of the things that I am.
I am more honest. More patient, More humble, More kind. More loyal. More understanding. More encouraging. More gentle. More raw.
I'm beginning to understand that life can be all of the things, all at once. Hard and amazing, Heaven and Hell, torturous, beautiful, raw, peaceful, hectic, dark and light, full and empty, loving and lonely.
I say "beginning to" because if I declare a lesson learned, another one starts. Wouldn't want to tempt fate. If you know my story, you can understand my hesitation. Life just keeps on coming.
I look back on two years ago and I'm not even remotely the same person. There are parts of her that I mourn. And that's okay. I'm really happy... and sometimes really sad too. And that's okay.
I used to point my determination at specific acts. I will run a 50k. I will get my yoga cert. I will climb this mountain, I will get down to 18% body fat. But I think for now, my goals run more along the lines of... I will love fiercely. I will stay vulnerable. I will be present. I will keep trying. I will stay hopeful.
I've been planted in this beautiful spot for healing. There is something special in the works- though I can't quite name it. Our new home, new church family, new area is exactly what I need right now.
She's gonna be great, this new me.
I'm in a weird stage of healing. It's not unfamiliar to me. It's that stage where you can finally do things, but you can only do them slowly, and partially, and for only as long as your healing body is cool with them. It's not clear how far you'll be able to push yourself in the end. In this stage, I come out of my cocoon and check out what time and stress have done to my body. Extra padding around the waist, hips and thighs, weaknesses in certain joints and muscles (most of them, really. Hypermobility Syndrome sucks). I start to really face the crumpled and damaged pieces of my psyche and spirit. And then I have to decide what to do about it. I buckle down and put it under some more stress in order to maximize my new potential. I have work to do. I have to imagine the caterpillar slightly underwhelmed when she emerges to check out her new wings... new potential for beauty and flight to higher, further places that any caterpillar could have imagined.... but her wings, they are wet and floppy. It takes time, and sun, and vulnerability, and work, and stress before she flies.
All of the things I thought I was are being redefined. The 'things I'm not' like to parade around in my head sometimes. They are noisy. I'm not as fast. Not as strong. Not as thin. Not as attractive. Not as flexible. Not as capable.
But I really like some of the things that I am.
I am more honest. More patient, More humble, More kind. More loyal. More understanding. More encouraging. More gentle. More raw.
I'm beginning to understand that life can be all of the things, all at once. Hard and amazing, Heaven and Hell, torturous, beautiful, raw, peaceful, hectic, dark and light, full and empty, loving and lonely.
I say "beginning to" because if I declare a lesson learned, another one starts. Wouldn't want to tempt fate. If you know my story, you can understand my hesitation. Life just keeps on coming.
I look back on two years ago and I'm not even remotely the same person. There are parts of her that I mourn. And that's okay. I'm really happy... and sometimes really sad too. And that's okay.
I used to point my determination at specific acts. I will run a 50k. I will get my yoga cert. I will climb this mountain, I will get down to 18% body fat. But I think for now, my goals run more along the lines of... I will love fiercely. I will stay vulnerable. I will be present. I will keep trying. I will stay hopeful.
I've been planted in this beautiful spot for healing. There is something special in the works- though I can't quite name it. Our new home, new church family, new area is exactly what I need right now.
She's gonna be great, this new me.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Not Okay
On January 6th, I stood on a 16 foot ladder, painting a new wall that was built in effort to make our house more sellable. We were frustrated, but hopeful that the new wall and a new realtor would be the change we needed to finally get out of this odd, lovely house that we grew out of 5 years ago. To pull ourselves from the mire and finally move on. It was supposed to happen.
I had been on the ladder for 20 minutes or so, in the very tippy top of the ceiling vault. Slowly, I felt the ladder begin to slip. I clung to the top of it as it scraped down the wall. "Oh, no..... oh, no! Oh no, no no! Somebody help me!" My 10 year old son ran to my aid, trying to push the bottom of the ladder and hold it in place, but the weight and momentum was already too much for him. The ladder foot hit the opposing wall corner and flipped. My arm, with an almost-healed previous shoulder sprain, caught the wall and wrenched the paint cup out of my hand. I detached from the ladder as it clattered against my shin. I landed almost upright, on both feet, but the left one was sideways. The impact sent me into immediate shock. I saw stars. I screamed. The muffled sound of my kids screaming and crying registered around me as I slid my back down the wall and I lowered myself, trembling, into a puddle of spilled paint. "No, no, no. Not again. Please. I can't do this again. I can't."
I stayed on my back, shaking uncontrollably, and consciously slowed my breathing as tunnel vision tried to take over. In broken, labored speech, I tried to talk my children out of panic. "It's okay, I'm not okay, but it's okay. Call Dad. Bring me my phone. It's okay."
My phone buzzed the moment I got hold of it. It was a text from my lawyer for the IUD case. His firm had decided not to take my case. Awesome.
Who to call? Alicia had enough on her plate. Michelle. No answer. Nicole was closest. I'd call her. No answer. Cindy. Cindy makes all the sense. She's got medical training, and she's super calm in emergencies. "Hey Cin." My voice was shaky. "I need help.... I fell off a ladder and I'm injured and laying on the floor in a puddle of paint. I think I broke my foot." She would come.
It seemed like the whole world wanted to talk business or check in the moment I was out of it. I got a myriad of texts from different people all at once. Annie, James, Greg, Aaron, Jenna. I needed to cancel the house showing. I needed to get the paint off the floor and wall before it dried there. I needed to breathe. I needed not to be injured.
Talon let Cindy in. She jumped into calm action. Checking me for head injuries, asking for juice to raise my blood sugar. We had no juice. Just leftover sparkling cider from New Year celebrations. She cracked it open and I sipped sparkling cider through a straw, still lying in paint. What a celebration.
I couldn't get over the mess I had made. Cindy finally grabbed a rag and cleaned up most of the paint just so that I would shut up and focus.
"I can't do this again, Cin. I can't."
"It's not like last time. No matter what, it's not as bad as last time. You can do this. You're probably experiencing some PTSD. You're okay."
"I have a race in 6 weeks! I can't cancel my first ultra AGAIN!!"
I called my brother to ask if I could come get checked out and get x-rays. As usual, he was willing. Cindy made calls and rearranged her schedule so that she could drive me to Salt Lake. I called Aaron and told him to meet us at Mike's office. My kids brought my old crutches to get me to the car, and an old towel to protect Cindy's car from my paint splattered clothes. Crutching to the car on a double sprained shoulder was horrid.
Cindy kept me talking, and laughing through the pain as we made our way to Mike's office. He was waiting there with his staff, and Aaron.
X-rays and adjustments. The films didn't show any breaks, but that's common for new foot injuries. Stay off it, rest, ice. Come back in if you can't weight it once the swelling goes down.
8 days later the breaks showed up. Ryan ordered a CT scan. 4 days later, on CT day, I was handed a disc and told to take it to a specialist. 5 days after that, Dr. Gorman told me surgery wouldn't help the outcome, but with breaks in 4 places, I'd be out of commission til April.
After the initial trauma faded, I felt like I had it. I could handle this well. This was peanuts compared to what I've already been through. I'm way tougher than all of this. I borrowed a peg-leg knee crutch, which made it easier to be independent and didn't exacerbate my shoulder injuries. If I just kept living, I'd be fine. Right? This was just another upgrade.
Less than 24 hrs after listing with a new agent, we got the house offer we'd been waiting for. Two days later, we went house shopping and put in an offer on a dream house. I had been so careful not to fall in love with houses before I could buy one, and finally, it was time.
The very next day... the day that we found out that our buyers backed out, a friend and fellow Wasatch Mountain Wrangler's body was found in an avalanche field. Mourning took precedence, and the house went back on the market. The dream house turned into a dream again.
The thing about upgrades is that you have to break down some stuff first. Winter with no running, no mountains, no yoga, no sunshine, and consistent low-level pain has started to take it's toll. We had the big Wrangler Formal last week and while dancing on a scooter wasn't ideal, the night with my friends, being recognized as Crew Chief of the year, laughing and dancing.... it was life-giving. I thought I could make it. Stay positive. I can do this. But my confidence was waning.
I can hardly live in my house. We have had something like 16 or 18 showings in the past 11 days. I have scoured my house on one leg and with one good arm more times than I can count. And every showing feels like a personal inspection and rejection.
My body chemistry hasn't been good or normal in a very long time, but since my abdominal surgery, my hormone balance has been worse than ever. The only real option a doc will give me is a hysterectomy. And I don't know if I can face another surgery and recovery right now. I wish I hadn't kept my uterus last May. I mitigated it as best I could, and finally conceded that I needed to attempt to do something... again. I decided to try a progesterone cream to try to balance out the estrogen dominance that causes me to lose more blood than 10 normal women do every month. The progesterone makes me angry. Really angry. Depressed. Isolated. Not okay. I stopped using it two days ago. But damage is done. My spirit is a little bit broken. I hate living in my own head. I hate that my amazing husband has to deal with me. I hate that I yell at my kids.
Friends keep asking if I'm okay. When I am with you, I am. When you are in front of me, I am. Honestly. But most of the time now, I'm not. I'm not okay. I think I will be in time.
I love you all. I love that you care. If I knew what could be done to make things better right now, I would do it. I would tell you. You can ask me all you want. But I can't tell you what you can do to help if I don't know.
As much as I want to crawl into a deep pit and disappear, I am not done. I will never stop fighting. But sometimes fighting looks like shutting down and waiting out all the things I can't control. It looks like withdrawing, and putting up walls, and hiding from the awful jealousy for those who can get out into the sun.
So if I don't answer your texts, emails and calls sometimes, if I opt out of plans, if I say I'm fine when I'm obviously not, it's because there isn't much you can do. It's because I'm deep in survival mode. I don't want to vent anymore. I don't want to express my anger or impatience or sadness anymore, because it just makes it fresh and throws me into a new shame spiral, and drives us all mad. I don't want you to feel bad about it. I love you. And I love that you love me. You might just have to let me be a portion of myself until I can feel whole again. I'm trying. And that has to be enough.
I had been on the ladder for 20 minutes or so, in the very tippy top of the ceiling vault. Slowly, I felt the ladder begin to slip. I clung to the top of it as it scraped down the wall. "Oh, no..... oh, no! Oh no, no no! Somebody help me!" My 10 year old son ran to my aid, trying to push the bottom of the ladder and hold it in place, but the weight and momentum was already too much for him. The ladder foot hit the opposing wall corner and flipped. My arm, with an almost-healed previous shoulder sprain, caught the wall and wrenched the paint cup out of my hand. I detached from the ladder as it clattered against my shin. I landed almost upright, on both feet, but the left one was sideways. The impact sent me into immediate shock. I saw stars. I screamed. The muffled sound of my kids screaming and crying registered around me as I slid my back down the wall and I lowered myself, trembling, into a puddle of spilled paint. "No, no, no. Not again. Please. I can't do this again. I can't."
I stayed on my back, shaking uncontrollably, and consciously slowed my breathing as tunnel vision tried to take over. In broken, labored speech, I tried to talk my children out of panic. "It's okay, I'm not okay, but it's okay. Call Dad. Bring me my phone. It's okay."
My phone buzzed the moment I got hold of it. It was a text from my lawyer for the IUD case. His firm had decided not to take my case. Awesome.
Who to call? Alicia had enough on her plate. Michelle. No answer. Nicole was closest. I'd call her. No answer. Cindy. Cindy makes all the sense. She's got medical training, and she's super calm in emergencies. "Hey Cin." My voice was shaky. "I need help.... I fell off a ladder and I'm injured and laying on the floor in a puddle of paint. I think I broke my foot." She would come.
It seemed like the whole world wanted to talk business or check in the moment I was out of it. I got a myriad of texts from different people all at once. Annie, James, Greg, Aaron, Jenna. I needed to cancel the house showing. I needed to get the paint off the floor and wall before it dried there. I needed to breathe. I needed not to be injured.
Talon let Cindy in. She jumped into calm action. Checking me for head injuries, asking for juice to raise my blood sugar. We had no juice. Just leftover sparkling cider from New Year celebrations. She cracked it open and I sipped sparkling cider through a straw, still lying in paint. What a celebration.
I couldn't get over the mess I had made. Cindy finally grabbed a rag and cleaned up most of the paint just so that I would shut up and focus.
"I can't do this again, Cin. I can't."
"It's not like last time. No matter what, it's not as bad as last time. You can do this. You're probably experiencing some PTSD. You're okay."
"I have a race in 6 weeks! I can't cancel my first ultra AGAIN!!"
I called my brother to ask if I could come get checked out and get x-rays. As usual, he was willing. Cindy made calls and rearranged her schedule so that she could drive me to Salt Lake. I called Aaron and told him to meet us at Mike's office. My kids brought my old crutches to get me to the car, and an old towel to protect Cindy's car from my paint splattered clothes. Crutching to the car on a double sprained shoulder was horrid.
Cindy kept me talking, and laughing through the pain as we made our way to Mike's office. He was waiting there with his staff, and Aaron.
X-rays and adjustments. The films didn't show any breaks, but that's common for new foot injuries. Stay off it, rest, ice. Come back in if you can't weight it once the swelling goes down.
8 days later the breaks showed up. Ryan ordered a CT scan. 4 days later, on CT day, I was handed a disc and told to take it to a specialist. 5 days after that, Dr. Gorman told me surgery wouldn't help the outcome, but with breaks in 4 places, I'd be out of commission til April.
After the initial trauma faded, I felt like I had it. I could handle this well. This was peanuts compared to what I've already been through. I'm way tougher than all of this. I borrowed a peg-leg knee crutch, which made it easier to be independent and didn't exacerbate my shoulder injuries. If I just kept living, I'd be fine. Right? This was just another upgrade.
Less than 24 hrs after listing with a new agent, we got the house offer we'd been waiting for. Two days later, we went house shopping and put in an offer on a dream house. I had been so careful not to fall in love with houses before I could buy one, and finally, it was time.
The very next day... the day that we found out that our buyers backed out, a friend and fellow Wasatch Mountain Wrangler's body was found in an avalanche field. Mourning took precedence, and the house went back on the market. The dream house turned into a dream again.
The thing about upgrades is that you have to break down some stuff first. Winter with no running, no mountains, no yoga, no sunshine, and consistent low-level pain has started to take it's toll. We had the big Wrangler Formal last week and while dancing on a scooter wasn't ideal, the night with my friends, being recognized as Crew Chief of the year, laughing and dancing.... it was life-giving. I thought I could make it. Stay positive. I can do this. But my confidence was waning.
I can hardly live in my house. We have had something like 16 or 18 showings in the past 11 days. I have scoured my house on one leg and with one good arm more times than I can count. And every showing feels like a personal inspection and rejection.
My body chemistry hasn't been good or normal in a very long time, but since my abdominal surgery, my hormone balance has been worse than ever. The only real option a doc will give me is a hysterectomy. And I don't know if I can face another surgery and recovery right now. I wish I hadn't kept my uterus last May. I mitigated it as best I could, and finally conceded that I needed to attempt to do something... again. I decided to try a progesterone cream to try to balance out the estrogen dominance that causes me to lose more blood than 10 normal women do every month. The progesterone makes me angry. Really angry. Depressed. Isolated. Not okay. I stopped using it two days ago. But damage is done. My spirit is a little bit broken. I hate living in my own head. I hate that my amazing husband has to deal with me. I hate that I yell at my kids.
Friends keep asking if I'm okay. When I am with you, I am. When you are in front of me, I am. Honestly. But most of the time now, I'm not. I'm not okay. I think I will be in time.
I love you all. I love that you care. If I knew what could be done to make things better right now, I would do it. I would tell you. You can ask me all you want. But I can't tell you what you can do to help if I don't know.
As much as I want to crawl into a deep pit and disappear, I am not done. I will never stop fighting. But sometimes fighting looks like shutting down and waiting out all the things I can't control. It looks like withdrawing, and putting up walls, and hiding from the awful jealousy for those who can get out into the sun.
So if I don't answer your texts, emails and calls sometimes, if I opt out of plans, if I say I'm fine when I'm obviously not, it's because there isn't much you can do. It's because I'm deep in survival mode. I don't want to vent anymore. I don't want to express my anger or impatience or sadness anymore, because it just makes it fresh and throws me into a new shame spiral, and drives us all mad. I don't want you to feel bad about it. I love you. And I love that you love me. You might just have to let me be a portion of myself until I can feel whole again. I'm trying. And that has to be enough.
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