.... and so it goes...

The Woodchuck Limited Edition Fall Hard Cider is in and currently being consumed... the TV is off... Fiona Apple is on... and I think I am ready to continue where I left off the other day. I began my little story in the third person... why? No clue... it just flowed out that way. But this next bit isn't gonna come out the way. It's just not.

I can not count the number of women that I know, have known, have read about, have seen that have experienced a loss of pregnancy. It is one of the most emotionally painful things that can happen to a woman I think. It was for me. Each and every woman's loss is different. Circumstances are never the same. To compare one woman's loss to another is unfair. That said, my personal loss was like a scene from a really horrible Lifetime movie. I felt like I was in a movie. A very bad surreal movie with crappy acting. It began with the ultrasound guy who said nothing as he poked and prodded and the crease between his brows grew. I knew, I just knew something was horribly wrong. He excused himself from the room. He returned. He continued to say nothing. Being young and inexperienced we sat there... not asking anything for an eternity. I saw them. Two heads face to face on the screen, and yet this guy was saying nothing. I couldn't take it anymore. I asked if it was twins. He said yes, but there is no heartbeat. None. He ended the exam and promptly sent me to the doctor who, after reviewing what he saw, explained that there was indeed no heartbeats, and more than... worse than that... worse than anything I could have possibly fathomed in my entire lifetime.... they were conjoined.

Things from that point on became very blurry. I believe several explanations were given. Discussion over what would happen next occurred. I can't remember exactly, because I was somewhere else asking God... what did I do wrong? I was consumed with that one and only thought. It was the Friday before Mother's Day. They sent me home with the hope that my body would do what it needed to on it's own. It didn't. I got a Mother's Day card in the mail. That I remember very clearly. Monday I had a procedure done, to prepare me for Tuesday.... and on that Tuesday in May I delivered my twins, conjoined, and stillborn and too tiny to even know if they were boys or girls. They were joined at the chest and shared all their vital organs. It was undoubtedly for the best. That is clear. It is known. But that one little thought took up room in brain... What did I do wrong for this to have happened. There was heartbreak. There was unbelievable indescribable pain. The next day my husband went to work. He seemed resigned to it all like nothing had happened and continued his routine. To this day I really don't know what he thought or how he felt or even if he grieved. And this, my dears, was sadly the beginning of the end of a marriage that had barely begun. And with the beginning of the end looming, it was the start of some serious depression, weakness, vulnerability, and in a way.... abuse....

I gave so much brain-space to that one question.... that one thought....

In the beginning....

Giving toddlers ice cream and then promptly leaving.... that is what awesome grandparents do. I am beyond happy that this day, no, this week is over. There were tantrums, and tears, book reports, science projects, sick children, sick pets, a heated argument over money with the Sgt. Dad (he's still seething I think- while he sits in a random tent in a random base in a random part of a war zone). There was a general feeling of crazy each and every day. I've been experimenting with herbal supplements too- not such a great idea I discovered. And then... there was the PMS. So... all in all... epic craptasticness abounded. But I fought, and I muddled, and I cried, and kept moving forward, and now it's Sunday night, and I need wine. So cheers!

There was also what my friend and I decided to call... an 'un-anniversary'... this week. When you're a SAHM sometimes you lose track of the days, the dates, but earlier this week, I noticed the date, and I stopped short and sighed. A sad sigh. There was both a feeling of relief mixed with a bit of grief.

If I had stayed married to my first husband, it would have been our 14th wedding anniversary.

And here is where the real story is. I am beyond relieved that I do not have to spend my days walking on eggshells and feeling like I'm not enough for someone else, and being told that I'm not good enough. I have enough trouble feeling like I am enough on my own. But the grief? The grief kind of took me by surprise. It was the first year that I can remember feeling like that. The marriage was short, but the divorce was... messy. Not celebrity Mel Gibson custody messy, but it was tough and cruel, and painful for everyone involved.

And so begins... a slight biography... a glimpse to the past... something I've wanted to write for a really really long time....

In the beginning there was an awkward young girl that had had her heart broken, and had been led on and played more times to count than fingers on your hands. It was the summer after graduating high school and she was desperate for love. In hindsight it seems silly to be so focused on a notion that she couldn't even begin to comprehend. More than love, really, she just wanted to be wanted and to be looked at like she mattered to someone.

Enter, Slick Rick. That's what we'll call him. Because he was incredibly slick, and well, it rhymes. (I like rhymes.) He watched. He waited. He hid his interest behind friendship. He spent time with the guys that were interested in the young awkward girl, and he convinced them to leave her alone. She wasn't worth their time. And once he had cleared this path, he struck. Flowers, compliments, jokes, being available when no one else was. He quite took the awkward girl by surprise. And the awkward girl's friends said- what are you waiting for, he's so into you. Even her mother was wowed. And so, she gave in. 

Fast forward a year.... Everything was grand. They rented an apartment together. They worked hard and paid there bills and planned a life together.... and then he wanted out. The girl, perhaps not so young and awkward now, begged and pleaded that he stay. That they could be happy. That the other girl wouldn't treat him as good as she could. He relented. He stayed. He worked. Every night, every day, seemingly every moment, and this girl became increasingly lonely... and being so young... and immature... her eye wandered. There was a fling. Not an affair, just a not so innocent relationship with another friend that could have led to something, but never really did. Slick Rick caught wind of this relationship. He questioned and accused, and the girl was honest, and repentant, and once again she was the one begging him not to leave. He didn't. He stayed. Resentments built.

Fast forward another year... A beautiful wedding was held. A fairy tale wedding with all the bells and whistles. All the friends and family. The bridesmaids wore purple, the brides favorite color. It was an amazingly beautiful fall day. It was perfect. Who could ask for more? Two months later, this young girl found herself pregnant. She was excited and scared and Slick Rick, her now husband, seemed sort of apathetic to it all. They began house-hunting and planning and there was optimism and old resentments seemed to blow away with the wind. But they didn't. They were hiding under an area rug. That is certain now.

They found a lovely home, and began the whole home-buying process and prepared for their first ultrasound. Folks teased the happy couple, afterall, the young woman was only five months along, and already, she was quite large, it must be twins.

The ultrasound revealed the truth. It was indeed twins. But something was terribly, horribly, disturbingly wrong...
There was no heartbeat....

I'm gonna stop here. This next part may or may not be easy for me to write.... and folks may or may not like it. This was my life. The way I saw it anyway, and I've wanted for so long to sit down and write this out. You wanna read it? Great. If not... I totally understand. I'm thinking this is more a catharsis for me anyway. Perhaps tomorrow I will continue... or the next day....

Right now though, wine! Cheers my deary dears!

I AM ________???

Usually I am not one to follow the curve so to speak. I don't buy into fads, and I don't jump on the bandwagon... unless it's serving fruity drinks. I stay just on the fringes of most clique-y type things. Always have. Some things never change. So today when You Know It Happens At Your House Too issued a little challenge to folks in bloggy-land, initially I shied away from it, because that's what I do. I even started working on a blog entry about painful social awkwardness... which is on hold now. After seeing post after post from her today on my FB wall and reading blog after blog... It hit me... I NEED to do this. To put my inner dialogue down on paper for 5 minutes. To write a few affirmations that I can come back too and say yes... that's me. This is who I am.
So here was the challenge:

"Set a timer for five minutes and write. Write using the prompt I AM __________. Don't edit, don't proofread, don't change it. You are not required to share it with anyone, even though I hope you do, but keep it close by so that on those days when you are feeling really horrible about yourself (we all know that we have those days), you can look back and remember all the things that make you wonderful."

and here goes:

I am a mother to 4 amazing intelligent funny children.

I am a wife to the most amazing man. He saves me daily even though he's on the other side of the globe.

I am a survivor of emotional abuse from my first husband. I still have the scars but I am stronger for it.

I am Stronger than I ever knew I could be. Walking away from abuse, surviving pregnancy loss, living without my love so he can provide for our family.

I am funny as hell. This is a given. I come from a long line of funny albeit depressed people.

I am suffering from depression, but get up and keep moving every day because I have love in my life.

I am introverted and antisocial and socially awkward and- you know what? That is ok! Because it makes me who I am and I have people in my life who accept me the way I am and that totally rocks!

And POOOF.... my 5 minutes are up! Seriously. I did proofread... I do that. I make no apologies for that. Now that this is done and I'm feeling pretty dang good about it... I'm gonna go back to my Litany of Social Awkwardness which will be coming soon to computer screen near you. Take this challenge... even if you don't blog. Take the challenge on paper with a pen or hell... even a crayon... maybe a sharpie. Affirmations that make you proud will also make you smile, and smiling is good (said the depressed girl whose antidepressants aren't working so great!) DO IT!

Awkward & Awesome!

p.s. I am out of cigarettes... and that is not good.....

Let's Make Some Noise!!

"Scars remind us of where we’ve been, they don’t have to dictate where we’re going." -Criminal Minds, Agent Rossi

I borrowed that quote from an amazing FB page: https://www.facebook.com/CSP.Angie. It is a page created by a very brave woman- Nova Scotian author Angela Hartlin. She's written a book 'Forever Marked: A Dermatillomania Story'. 

I am sure you are sitting there thinking, what the hell is that? Is that even a real thing? I could bore you with medical mumbo jumbo and statistics and whatnot, but that would make for a ridiculously boring read, and that is not what I'm going for here. In plain terms it is a struggle. For me (and many like me) it is a constant battle for control over insane amounts of anxiety. Basically, I am super happy it is getting colder out and I will no long be miserable hot because I feel like I can't wear tank tops and pretty dresses because of the scabs and scars on my arms from picking my skin.

Ewwww... right? I know. I look at myself sometimes and think wow.... did I do this to myself? Yep, I sure did. When the world is off kilter and I feel less than stellar about myself I do it. I pick. I pick at every bump, lump, spot, knot, blemish... whatever. On my face is one thing, usually make-up can hide the damage and that is good. But my arms, and even my legs bear the brunt of my anxiety in a very physical way. I started this when I was very young, but in recent years it has gotten much worse. I'm an adult now, and one would think I would leave this sort of thing behind with acne and puberty and junk. But no. I'm still at it. Currently I am sporting any numbers of scabs on my arms. Someone recently said to me- the mosquitoes must love you, and I agreed because it was easier than explaining what I do to myself when no one is watching.

There are over 12 million other people in this country fighting this type of illness, and yes, it is an illness. One my doctor thought the meds I am taking would help. They don't do much really... the meds that is. Doctors don't either for that matter. It wasn't until recently that it was actually recognized as a mental illness. And yet here I sit.

It is a release, a means of controlling something when everything else seems completely out of control. It's a high, it's a low and it's something that a lot of folks just don't understand and no one wants to talk about it. When I'm having what I call a 'bad day' and my feelings are low and I feel bad.. I pick... a lot. I already have several scars, and there will be more, no doubt. I am trying like hell to get a grip on it, but now the cooler weather is coming, and that means long sleeves and camouflage, which means an excuse to pick... because no one will see.

So here is written another post lacking my usual wit and sarcasm because this is serious shit, and I'm hoping by writing about it and ending my own silence that it will help me. You all who read my posts have been genuine and kind and non-judgmental, and basically you're totally awesome, and I appreciate that... and hopefully I can get back to some wit and humor soon... cuz this shit blow giant snot bubbles....

Until then... the wine cup is empty... and my bed is calling to me..... Cheers!