This Is Where It Brought Me (#bdayblog)

It's a milestone of sorts, and milestones deserve a blog entry.  I've actually been thinking on this since before the New Year started, how best to commemorate the official end of my twenties.  I considered the top 30 most defining moments in my life, but if we're being honest half of those are too dark for a happy Birthday blog.  Then there was the 30 most influential people in my life this far, but there's way more then 30 and I don't have enough brain power to narrow that list down...the first boy I kissed while listening to Michael Jackson...the elementary school friends I dreamed of musical stardom with...the high school drama teacher I always wanted to prove wrong...the doctors who refused to take my illness seriously...(blah, blah, blah).  

While reflecting though, a phrase kept coming to mind, 'this is where it brought me'.  It is a favorite quote and one I remind myself of constantly, especially when remembering or experiencing less then savory moments in life.  It's also the words I have tattooed on my foot.  So, ah ha!  A 'small' recap on the beginning 3 decades of my life as told by the ink on my skin...

1. a heart

I decided that I wanted a tattoo for my 16th Birthday, really the last Birthday I celebrated in a meaningful way.  I remember I initially drew out a butterfly and I remember how excited I was when my dad was excited to take me. Luckily, I chickened out.  I hated needles more then most things in my life, and I wanted to be so sure of the design I was getting permanently etched onto my body.  I remember passing a note between my friends asking them to vote on which design they liked best, and I remembering realizing that now I HAD to get a tattoo because I'd just told every one I was getting one.  It was nearly a year later when my dad and I finally went downtown and I laid down, humming Mariah Carey as loud as possible despite the blaring heavy metal screaming in the background.  I remember someone mentioning how cool it was that a dad was getting a tattoo when we were leaving, because at 16 I looked approximately 12 and 12 year olds don't get tattoos.  I ended up with a copy of the heart I signed my name with (not as cliché as a butterfly, but still in one of the more cliché spots to get a tattoo), and my mother screamed when we finally showed her, on a beach in Florida a few months later when I asked for sunscreen on my back.  
 

Self respect.
Self appreciation.
Self love.
A secret stamp of Self approval.

2. a star

Its a little scary that I have to go back through Facebook notes to remember which tattoo came next, and also a little scary to think I'd gotten 3 before leaving high school! 

The star in the palm of my hand might still be my favorite out of all my tattoos, that opinion likely being influenced by the fact that it's the most complimented tattoo I have.  It's the most unique skin space out of all my tattoos, many parlors don't tattoo the palms or soles of the feet because the quality can't be guaranteed.  And despite mine being done at some sketchy little joint by a shirtless guy on his smoke break, it actually looks pretty great 10 years later.  A few girlfriends wanted piercings, so we all skipped school one warm afternoon and drove to this place that was shut down soon after.  I was just there for moral support (and because I hated Math class anyways) but the guy took 10 minutes and the $40 in my wallet, and I was in love.  The words behind it were the greatest souvenir that came home with me after our grade 12 graduation trip to the Dominican.  It healed in the grossest way, and my boyfriend at the time was way less impressed then I'd hoped, but I can now ask my baby, 'where is the star?' and he opens my hands.  

No matter how far, and far apart dreams and real futures feel, no matter how far he or she is from your heart, we are all tucked in by the same stars every night. You can cry, and you can kick, or you can merely reach a little higher and realize, the stars are just as simply in the palm of your hand.

3. naked

The tattoo on the back of my neck started a personal trend, personal poetry inspiring ink.  I've found poems that I've written in journals when I was in grade 2 (the first was a very dramatic piece about a heart SMASHING into a million pieces after being stood up at the prom...) and it has served a great purpose throughout my life.  Granted (like Adele and Taylor Swift) the majority of my works are inspired my less then happy feelings and happenings, I have always been very proud of the words that come out of me.  Proud enough to tattoo them on the outside. 

Naked is a poem that was inspired by my sudden desire to be more honest with myself and about myself, while the pressure to simply fit in was as always overwhelming in high school.  I admitted certain things, and I was surprised by the backlash.  There are certainly moments where society makes it harder to be proud of who you are, and I think that's the reason this poem has remained one of my most prized.  

I also remember my best friend at the time getting mad because she already had a tattoo on the back of her neck (I'm sorry!) and it’s the only tattoo I’ve felt compelled to hide at work, as the word is often used in pervier context then a poem about self confidence.  

The clothes on my back 
on my chest 
on my wrist often overlooked, 
are just a state of mind. 
In accumulation 
I've been broken down. 
In time 
I've been able to strip down. 
Finally 
here is my raw canvas. 
Suddenly 
the world and it's colors decide to clash. 
My feet are bare 
to the glass paved busy streets 
and there is nothing left 
to protect my skin 
from Life's ever changing weather. 
I'm naked 
But I'm not the one who's cold.

4. this is where it brought me

High school was over, my physical illness hadn't quite taken control of things yet, but I was proud of how well if overcome/ learned to deal with my depression.  I found myself inside a new circle of friends thanks to a new and out of town boyfriend.  I was terrified and embarrassed when I first attempted to explain parts of my last to the new guy (the way he reacted was actually a red flag that I chose to ignore, oh hindsight), but afterwards I had a revelation.  A surprising number of shitty, shitty things happened to me and around me in the 4.5 years I attended high school but all of those shitty things added up to the wonderful thing that I felt I was after escaping that place.  The things I endured had created he most remarkable empathy within me, a trait I hold dearly.  Those shitty things solidified some of my strongest beliefs, and they made me a worthy fighter.  

Considering how great my star still looks, the words on my foot look terrible.  In my opinion!  The phrase arching with my natural arch was a pretty brilliant move (again, my opinion) but that skin apparently did not want to be tattooed.  I actually had the words redone a few years later, and the exact same spots refused to hold any ink while healing.  My husband says the worn look is fitting, considering the sentiment.  

Alone
and beneath
beneath and barely humming
kissed with eyes chocking shut
denial over heart.
Vows kindled some forest fire
while I was simply swimming in waves
upon waves
upon posture
upon waves
where fire doesn’t exist no matter how hard you doused 
upon waves 
in that gasoline.
Hope catapulted one million
doses
away
a passport stamped by creeps
Saturn
my creator and back.
Washed
rinsed
echoed
pretendingly sufficient smiles.
Corrosion 
and murder
to death
to dust floating in the brightest sunshine
gracefully tanning the strongest brow
worth every bleeding penny 
in an overflowing pocket.
This is where it brought me
and I am home in this. 

5. the light at the end of a tunnel

The tattoo on my left wrist is something I drew inspired by a poem that was (embarrassingly enough) inspired by the breakup of my post-high school relationship.  I was sad, and admittedly I crave tattoos when I'm feeling big feelings.  To be honest, I remember half joking, 'I want that pain, but a tattoo would be far more socially acceptable then cutting myself.'  This boyfriend was in no way worth hurting myself over, but it was the first time in a long time that I craved that I'd even thought about that kind of physical release.  Ironically by that point in my life the scars on my wrist were finally starting to fade and I realized I wanted to commemorate them.   

I was on my college bestie's couch in the middle of the night when I sketched this little box on the back of something in my binder. 

From here to there
seems one million miles away
Here is hollow
and lonely in bed
and thinking about the life and dreams that come true there
There is hope
It's a straight line 
from here to there
but the lights are off
and Love erased all street signs
so don't judge me for not running
I know there is where I finish
I know there
is there
I have mustered the fire
to take the first step
the light is that much closer
and we will collide
one sunrise
just like that

6. breathe and love

When Endometriosis Really kicked in I struggled with many things.  Being so physically ill made my anxiety unbearable and not knowing why I was so physically ill was suffocating.  There was a lot of 'why me' and 'why bother'. There was a lot of guilt and embarrassment.  I questioned everything and everyone, and one day I came across the only real answers I'd ever need.  

We come across situations that boil down to big questions. Big questions that we assume require big answers. But the answers are simple, even in, especially in the midst of an attack. Breathe, and love. They are the answers to all our biggest ponders. No matter how much easier it may be not to, we need to choose to breathe. No matter how much smarter it may be not to, we need to choose to love. At the end of the day, at the end of it all, we are blessed with the ability to breath, and the opportunity to love. It’s what humans have in common. Love makes it easier to breathe, and breathing makes it possible to love. No matter how frustrating, or dangerous, or terrifying, or painful it may be, breathe and love. Always breathe, and always love. 

7. hold on

The tattoo on my right wrist took a while to get.  While I'd finally received my diagnosis, and I'd found ways to cope with my anxiety, I still spent most of my time sick and alone in the bathroom.  With my arms wrapped around my middle (my right wrist the most visible) I'd always remind myself to hold on.  And then usually end up singing that epic Mr. Big tune, 'hold on little girl, show me what he's done to you, stand up little girl, a broken heart can't be that bad...' My heart has reserved a very special spot for that song ever since I first heard it on my last day of Kindergarten.  I figured it was a reminder worthy of being permanent. 

Hold on

because

you are her,

the brave

the beautiful

leader

of a lonely army.

You know you can

and you need to,

I know

you want to

so

hold on.

8. dreams do

After getting just about a tattoo a year, it was a long time before my (currently) last tattoo came to be.  I've compiled ideas, images and words that I'd love but realized I was running out of unique and fairly discreet skin to etch them on, and u knew that I'd want a tattoo to commemorate my baby(ies) whenever that might happen.  

It did happen, and it took me almost a year to decide on words from a poem that I'd written while he was still in my tummy.  It's in the crook of my arm where his head continues to fall asleep nearly every single night, and I had it done while we wandered New York City as a perfect little family.  It is by far the warmest, and fullest, and happiest sentiment as far as tattoo inspirations go.  Which I suppose sums up where it has all taken me, in 3 decades.  I'm still sick, I still have anxious days, parenting is tough and I hate winter, but I am entering my 30s as a warm, and full, and happy woman. 

dreams do

come fiercely true

through love

and sex

and magic

pure magic

shiny

fairytale magic

growing

swimming

and all mine

under a beating heart

dreams

realized

waiting to be born

for to be born

is to come true

in a world

far more beautiful

then when we fell asleep

Princess Prescriptions

Today's extra deep breaths made me want to take a moment to praise all those who have suffered or are suffering with their prescription medication journey.  I don't mean that in the addiction sense, though I do not doubt the weight of that battle.  I'm referring to those of us who need prescription medications to survive, but have to endure the trial and error before finding what works best.

 All drugs (both medical medication and recreational) work differently for everyone.  One drag of cheap high school pot out of one of my famous apple bongs and I was a giggly mess for hours!  But I had plenty of friends who never reacted to it, or had very negative reactions to it.  And unfortunately that's how it works with prescriptions as well.  And not just the antidepressants and antianxiety meds I'm going to type about, but all drugs that come from a doctor.  I had friends warn me not to start taking birth control (I wasn't even close to being sexually active, but my complexion was mortifying), because they didn't want me to go through mood swings, and gain 20lbs like they had.  I never had any issues with the first pill I tried though, my face cleared up fairly well, and I remained on that brand until the Endo broke through a few years later!  And that brand wasn't making my Endo worse, but different hormones would help more so I made the switch.  

 I also started Celexa in high school, after watching an episode of Oprah and realizing that what'd I'd been feeling for a while was depression.  It was always a fairly low dose, as it often is for depression, and it worked wonders.  Of course high school has the potential for all sorts of upsetting and sometimes traumatizing instances, but in general my mood was very stable on Celexa (along side talk therapy).   Once I got sick though, my depression was nothing in comparison to the anxiety that followed the constant vomiting and diarrhea and pain, and the low dose of Celexa didn't cut it anymore.  

 I went from 10mg to 30mg, as higher doses of Celexa can be helpful for anxiety.  And it did help!  I mean, there were (and always have been) days that required Ativan (another prescription that has never caused me any negative side effects), but I was so glad that Celexa and I could stay together.  A year or so later however, I experienced a very decent break after yet another specialist denied my illness, and I ended up spending a few weeks in a mental rehab program. During those weeks I met with a psychiatrist (until then it was just my GP writing my prescriptions) and he suggested that Celexa wasn't a proper anxiety treatment, and so I began the ups and downs of drug trials that so many people have to go through.  I honestly don't even remember which drugs I tried, but there were 3, and each of them made me feel the way I HATED the media for always portraying people on antidepressant/anxiety meds.  Sluggy, moody, irritable, dizzy and nauseous.  Like a lame zombie that discourages anyone else from giving this class of medication a chance.  

 In the end, I was happily moved back to Celexa, this time 40mg.  I felt lucky, the prescriptions I'd needed through the years always seemed to be right the first time around.  I was even able to remain on a low dose of Celexa during my pregnancy.  But then I had my baby!  And a long with my Endometriosis reading it's hideous head again, I was met with PMDD, all of which sent my anxiety into a raging fit.  I was taking Ativan way more then even I wanted to.  Turns out however, 40mg is all the Celexa you're allowed to take.  Something to do with a new study showing possible negative effects on your heart rate, made physicians very weary to prescribe it especially when there are so many other options.  

 I got in to see another psychiatrist and he suggested adding the minimum dose of Zoloft to my maximum dose of Celexa.  Zoloft and Celexa are basically twins, so in effect it would be like getting 50mg of Celexa.  Perfect!  My GP however, who was suddenly an expert in the field while flipping through her resource book, said that plan made no sense.  Usually SSRIs from different families get mixed together, not the same family.  It had made total sense to me, but apparently I am a pushover, and I agreed to work my way all the way onto Zoloft and all the way off of Celexa; replacing my Celexa with Zoloft gradually.  It made for a remarkably miserable-feeling Christmas holiday.  

 The first step was to take my 40mg of Celexa with 25mg of Zoloft (the minimum dose) for a week.  I experienced some dizziness which wasn't comforting as far as my anxiety goes, but that side effect passed eventually.  Step two was to take 30mg of Celexa with 50mg of Zoloft for two weeks.  I was plagued by the most remarkable indigestion, heartburn that felt like a heart attack and nausea that kept me from Christmas dinner.  All of which are in fact anxiety triggers for me, so suddenly this plan seems counterproductive.  I convinced myself it was all par for the course and that its eventually pass the way the dizziness did, so step three was 20mg of Celexa and 75mg of Zoloft.  So then on top of the daily heart attacks and cautionary runs to the bathroom, there was the oddest jaw pain (of course I googled, and it's fairly common), and then this soul crushing chronic fatigue.  

 My baby could sleep through the night, which meant I'd sleep through the night, and I'd still be exhausted all day.  I could sleep 12 hours straight and not feel awake.  I mean I couldn't actually, because I have a child, but it felt that way. Endometriosis causes me chronic pain and morning sickness, both of which are upsetting and confidence-killing but I learned to mother through it.  Having ZERO energy though?  That equals zero motivation, zero desire to get out, and leads to zero joy in the every day things.  And that makes mothering far harder then it already is.  And it makes staring at a tiny screen typing out a not-super-relevant blog very daunting.  To the point that it's taken me 3 evenings to get this far, and now I'm over it!  So, end of story:

 I went back to my GP and expressed my disappointment in the progress, and she suggested, 'let's try taking your Celexa and adding the minimum of Zoloft.'  Oh!  Genius!  Of course I couldn't say the F word out loud, because my baby who'd just gotten a tear-free needle was in the room.  All I can really do is laugh at it, and hang on tight.  Because of course I can't just switch back to the doses that were originally suggested.  Now I wait (anxiously) to gradually get back to where I need to be, going through it all again but backwards, hoping that in another two weeks I'll be able to say it was worth it. 

 We have to trust our guts, but we also have to trust the process and hang in there.  This much I have learned.  This much, and the fact that this club full of the mentally ill is an unfortunate club to be a part of but full of such bravery.  I got lucky 12 years ago, knowing now that I would not have survived this shitty roller coaster back then.  The trial and error is far easier when you're in a place surrounded by unconditional support, and plenty of help getting through these days.  I know there are so many out there who haven't been as lucky as I've been and aren't in the supportive environment that I'm in, while going through it.  I commend those people, and I praise them.  And extra deep breaths.  

Princess Holidays

This is my favorite time of year, in general, and also for reflecting on all that's come since this time last year as most people tend to do. And it has been SO much. And the coming new year holds SO much already. And I'm a little overwhelmed. 

Overwhelmed shal be my excuse for the lack of 2015 blogging. 
In July (which is already 5 months ago, geezes) our utterly glorious baby turned one, and I underwent my third Endo-cleaning laparoscopy surgery. Very soon after I fell off the wagon, for lack of better words, as far as my anxiety goes. Recovering from surgery with a baby, coming to terms with the fact that despite past efforts and despite getting pregnant my disease continues to grow and spread, coming to terms with postpartum PMDD was overwhelming. Literally feeling the Endometriosis growing back immediately after surgery was overwhelming. Realizing once again, after working the same job for 3 years, that I am too sick to hold a job was very overwhelming. Coping with the constant guilt that accompanies a sometimes-debilitating chronic disease as been depressingly overwhelming. Needing to adjust my antianxiety prescriptions has been extremely overwhelming (and dizzy, and full of headaches). Accepting the Endometriosis treatment that will start in the new year (which I won't talk about until the new year) already has me feeling very overwhelmed. 

Do you know what has been the MOST overwhelming, though? The amount of good, and love, and laughs, and support, and family milestones, and true friendships, and small business success, and marital happiness and comfortableness that has filled this last year, despite all the afore mentioned. 

Of course it is not possible to reflect without seeing one million mental pictures of my baby. Growing up way too fast! He turned a year old and suddenly he is such a real, and wonderful little person. He runs and never walks, he gives the sweetest spontaneous hugs, all of a sudden he's starting to find all these new words ('car' and 'wowwww' are his current fave), he loves to sit and flip through all of his books, he has a favorite TV show and loves the water! He has 4 adorably sharp teeth (and I spend time daily praying that they all grow in straight). He is not a patient person yet, but so determined, and his little concentrating face is one of my favorite faces. I'm fairly certain he prefers his daddy to me for now, which I'm strangely ok with! He has had a persistent little cold for the last month and yet he shrieks and laughs and plays all day every, which honestly is an inspiration. Almost as inspiring as how independent he has (had to) become already. 

My dad has been in Florida for a few weeks now, so when my husband is at work I don't have someone to watch him while I have to be sick in the bathroom. I hate how much time he's had to spend in his crib, but for now it's the safest place for him when he has to be left alone (knock on wood, he hasn't tried escaping yet). I KNOW I'm not anything close to a neglectful parent, but to me it just FEELS like I am always sick, and he's always stuck in his bed. But he has never complained about it. He continues to be completely content sitting on his pillow, with the iPad on and his snack dish and a few books. He has given himself his bottle, and on very special occasions he's put himself to sleep, because my worst flare ups always seem to happen at nap time. I hate it, but it also makes me so proud. I tell myself that I do such a good job as a mom when I'm with him, that he doesn't even need me when I can't be with him. His ability to entertain himself is also pretty reassuring, considering the slim chance of ever getting a sibling!

I think my favorite thing to do these last few months, is taking him to the mall or the grocery store and letting him run around. He gets so excited to watch new people, and waves at everyone. Not a single person can pass us without smiling a real smile, and that alone feels like we are doing our part to make the world a better place. 

And 'a better place' seems like the perfect lead into my next point on my list of things to reflect upon; a group of women who have made my world a better place, and myself a better human being. They certainly aren't my oldest friends, we don't share adorable childhood memories (actually, I knew of and didn't really like a few of them in high school), we don't agree on everything and we are all SO different in SO many ways, but they are the greatest friends I have ever had. Next to my family, I have spent the most of my 2015 time with them, and when we're not together we are constantly texting each other (to the point where we've all had to mute our text group). 

Almost two months ago we managed to get away together, for a entire weekend, just us and no babies and no husbands. We didn't dress up and go out, we didn't take advantage of the freedom to nap or sleep in, we just got to really know and appreciate each other. And become best friends and not just mommy friends. Which is a big deal for someone who's felt pretty shafted in the best friend department for a very long time. 

Between parenting time, and play date time, sick time and napping as much as possible, this year I have managed to run my very own 'small shop'. BoBeads was something that was only meant to be a unique Christmas gift for my afore mentioned mommy friends, and yet the numbers at the end of my first year are so exciting. It has been a huge learning experience (and year two is already beginning with huge serious-business lessons), a great test of my patience and time management, and the perfect creative outlet. 

After inly a few months of business I was able to expand and create The Mommy Made Bazaar, a showcase for mothers who have also created handmade businesses or represent family-friendly brands! I wanted to find a way to support other women who 'go to work' after finally getting heir kids to sleep at the end of the day or hustle during nap time, and while I've questioned why I willingly took on the extra stress (I have a Spring and Christmas show under my belt now), it's been an awesome experience. The small business community is so supportive, and the women I've been able to connect with this way are inspiring. The events also raised over $600 for mommy-centered charities, which is a lovely bonus! Moms supporting moms, supporting moms!

I started out selling BoBeads to local moms in person, and now I have my own .com website and a very decent social media following that has allowed to to connect with customers as far as England, Turkey, Hawaii and New Zealand! And all the while, I've been able to contribute to my family's finances, which is extremely comforting for someone who's been too sick to get a 'real' job. Being a stay at home mom has been very rewarding (even if it wasn't really by choice) and I know it can't last forever so I take full advantage of the time with my baby, but being able to also pay our rent really minimizes the guilt that comes from not being able to work in the stereotypical sense!

Lastly, this year has been so full of family time, and I could not be more thankful for that alone. Even if I never got to experience and enjoy any of the other goodness I just typed about!

For his own reasons, my husband had to take 8 weeks off work, and while he needed to rest and regroup we also took full advantage of the extra 8 hours a day we got to spend as a little family. We found places to day trip, we took turns napping (any parents without this arrangement are insane!), we watched movies as a family and ate all together at the dinner table. We froze while joining our baby in the bath tub, and went out in public to show him off as much as possible!

We managed to take two family 'vacations' (you can't really call it a vacation once a baby is invited) this year, and each has been filled with so much love, and excitement over sharing the memories. Wandering the streets of New York City with my baby was literally a dream. My favorite people in my favorite city! And now we are in sunny summer-time Florida for the second time as a family, soaking up the sun and the glorious moments that a happy toddler creates. 

It's not just Little Lindley family time that has been plentiful these past few months, though. The majority of our days include at least a little Grampa time, and in all honesty I'd choose that over owning our own fancy house any day! There are still plenty of people who question or judge the fact that we live with our baby in my dad's basement, but in our situation it is the very best situation. And few things make me as happy as seeing my dad and his grandbaby together. Watching Judge Judy, lol. 

This summer I also flew with my baby to Kenora with my mom, to spend time with her mom. It was a trip that I dreaded and tried to get myself out of because my physical and mental illness were at an all time high, I hate flying, and Id be single-parenting for a week. But in hindsight I am SO thankful we went. My Nana moved in with my mom just a few weeks ago, so this summer was the last time I'd be able to visit that tiny city, and the only time my baby would get to be there. I was able to go to all the shops and the beach that we went to as kids, all the while getting some quality time with one of my favorite cousins and her kids, and watching my baby bond with his Nana. Despite the ups and downs of my relationship with my mom, I only ever want my baby to love her as deeply as I grew up loving her.

And then there's the family time that includes my baby sister. Huh! After 20 months of exploring and teaching and bike crashing in Australia and Thailand, my sister finally came home to visit. And meet her nephew for the very first time. And just break my heart in the most wonderful way. 

We have all been able to spend these very few days as if we've always been together and it's no big deal, but stopping to think about the significance of her trip home, and seeing her play in the ocean with my baby has been a remarkable gift. He's almost a year and a half old, but he's now been able to hug both of my long distance traveling siblings, and that simply completes my heart. 

And that's that! My fingers hurt now, and my brain feels broken! Actually, that's something else that's proven overwhelming; 'mom-brain'. Lol. It sounds ridiculous, but it is a for real affliction that has hit me HARD this past year! My dreams for 2016 include more productive brain cells. And for my baby to start sleeping through the night again. And a successful hysterectomy. And to get to watch one of my mommies birth their second baby in a tub! And being able to add 50% to my business revenue. And winning Starbucks For Life. Or even just A Week. And hearing my baby say 'I love you'! And also finding Bieber tickets. 

Wishing you the happiest, healthiest 2016 possible
Princess Georgia, xo

Be You Louder

Today I got a private message via the fancy new Instagram instant messaging (was that really necessary?), that instilled a deeply proud feeling inside of my heart. 

It was never the plan to start littering my follower's feeds with posts about my illnesses (both physical and mental) but I received such support in the comments sections. I quickly came to realize how therapeutic it was for me, to type the things in my head and have really people hear them. To share real unfiltered, unconcealed (usually unshowered) photos of my life and have real people see them. To be heard and seen, and not abandoned, even by people I'll never meet and who owe me nothing, is therapeutic. 

Today though, it wasn't a 'you are so strong' or 'hang in there' that moved me. Today I received a private message from a young mother living in Turkey, who came across my Instagram feed while doing 'panic attack' research online. (THAT is why hashtags are so necessary, lol I don't care what anyone else thinks!) 

Here was a person just like me, a million miles away, so thankful to have found someone who seemed to really understand what she'd been going through. And that's the thing! We can have dozens of friends and family members who support us and love is no matter what, but no matter how hard they try, no one can actually understand what you're going through unless they're going through it to. And despite not wishing what you're going through on your worst enemy, it is a special kind of comfort when you find someone who is. 

When I was first diagnosed with depression in high school, I didn't tell any of my friends because I assumed no one would understand. When I got so sick that I had to quit my job and was living at home in my late 20's, I literally ran away from anyone who MIGHT ask, 'so what have you been up to?' I have been alive for 30 nearly years, I have been (some sort of) sick for maybe 13 years, and a good 8 or 9 of those feeling too embarrassed or guilty to be honest about who I really am. 

I blog, and I Facebook and Instagram about my Endometriosis and the Anxiety Monster because of panicking moms in Turkey. Because of people all over the world who should never feel embarrassed or guilty, because I no longer do. 

Efron Induced

September, 8th 2015

You know what's weird?  Experiencing a panic attack in the car. 

Usually the moment it starts I head for the bathroom.  9 times out of 10 it's my own bathroom, which says a lot about my current social life.  The bathroom is my designated recovery zone.  I usually end up sitting on the toilet for a few minutes, then sitting on the floor for a few minutes, and going back and forth until the attack is over.  Sometimes I think that my panic attacks usually happen at home because my brain NEEDS to have them, but also knows that home is the easiest place for me to recover. 

This time though, my husband and I were in the movie theater.  Zac Efron was tripping on PCP, and the camera angles went weird and the soundtrack got too loud, and I panicked.  Which is new.  New is fucking infuriating.  Make believe things never used to make me panic.  I never used to get dizzy watching a huge moving screen (a roller coaster would literally murder me right now).  I never used to HAVE to cry during an attack.  Now I do, and I fucking hate it. 

Initially I retreated to the theater bathroom, obviously far less comforting then my own bathroom.  There's usually terrible music, there's no room in the stall to sit anywhere but on the toilet, and no matter how far away from the door your stall is and how empty the rest of the bathroom is, someone always chooses to use the stall right next to yours.  It wasn't good enough. I tried for another few minutes to sit back in the theater and hold my husband's hand, but I needed MY bathroom.  In order to get from the public bathroom to my bathroom, we needed to get in the car. 

It's actually only a 5 minute drive back to our house, but it blew my mind.  When you're panicking in the bathroom, it's just you and the fan, and whoever you're texting.  That's it, that's the whole world, for the time being.  Driving home though, I saw the truth; the entire universe continues to spin whether you're functioning properly or not.  There were other couples starting their movie date night, people stocking up for the weekend at the LCBO, people walking through the parking lot with their gym bags.  There was an older couple walking hand in hand, a bunch of people gardening or cutting the grass.  Cars and trees and intersections and what seemed like the entire rest of the world being completely normal and care-free, while I held my seat belt away from my chest trying to talk my pounding heart down, and attempted to hold my tears in until I got home. 

Literally 5 minutes down a single street (also, granted a painfully long traffic light..that's painful even when I'm not dying), and I have never felt so fucking small.  Now I can't deny that while I can't even sit through a crappy movie...while I can hardly breathe...there are a million people being productive and contributing to the world.  There are people giving birth and people getting home late from work, people researching a cure for cancer and getting on a plane to go build schools in a third world country.  And I can't even breathe. 

When I'm on the bathroom floor, I'm oblivious to such things.  As far as I'm concerned, the rest of the world pauses, while I catch my breath. 

Mother vs. Monster

It is harder.

It is so much harder dealing with my illness, and the anxiety that walks hand in hand, now that I have a baby.

I don't think I ever thought it would be easier as a mother, but I hadn't imagined it'd be this much harder. And my heart hurts a lot admitting that. I keep hearing outsiders wonder, 'Why would you have a baby if you can't take care of it properly?' And that's how the Monster makes me feel.

I had surgery 5 weeks ago, and that's when my current spiral (a term Google taught me, very similar to 'falling off the wagon' but for someone who before had their mental illness in check) began. I still don't know why this surgery, and everything surrounding it, felt so different...so much worse. This was my third Laporoscopy and the first two went swimmingly! Of course it's natural to be anxious before you're about to be sliced open, but I was fairly confident going into this one. More then confident, I was excited, knowing that this surgery would bring me relief from my physical illness, and that would make mothering even more wonderful.

The hospital policies had changed a bit since my last surgery, and that threw me off. I didn't get my IV (always the worst part for me) until I was in the OR instead of in my pre-op room where my husband was there to hold my hand. The newness lit the anxious match. The anesthetist missed my first vein and the flop sweats and creepy crawlies kicked in. And this time, I honestly don't know why, I fought going under. Suddenly I hated that sleepy high! This was also when I realized for the very first time (due to the tickle on my nose from the oxygen mask) that they strap your wrists to the table, and had the drugs not kicked in when they did, I would have been on the floor at that point.

So I went under in a panic, and that's how I woke up. Coming in and out of sleep, not knowing where I was...a nurse had to find my purse and rummage through for my Ativan. And that was where it all started, this 5 weeks of feeling like a shitty mom thanks to the Anxiety Monster.

While I was in surgery I had an IUD put back in. The idea was to stunt my cycle as soon as my insides had been cleared of all current Endometriosis, in hopes of warding off new growths for as long as possible. This particular IUD releases progesterone, which was all fine and dandy when I had one 2 years ago, but it turns out having a baby can permanently FUCK up your natural hormones...and my postpartum hormones instantly clashed with the IUD hormones. And when I say clash, I mean more of a war. A blood bath of a war leaving nothing but destruction in its path.

The first night after surgery I woke up in the midst of a panic attack. This is called a nocturnal attack, they are horrifying, and this one was triggered by a super strange (not necessarily a nightmare) dream that I could not keep myself awake from. In all my anxious years, Id never experienced an attack triggered by a bad dream. It was a full blown run to the bathroom floor, get the garbage can ready, cold cloth, frantic texting attack. The same thing happened every night afterwards. At first I blamed the painkillers. But it only takes one good attack to start the spiral.

If I felt an attack brewing 13 months ago, I would drop whatever I was doing, I would take the Ativan, I would take my sweet time laying on the floor, I would call in sick, and I would sleep for hours until the panic hangover passed. But 13 months ago I didn't have a baby.

Two weeks ago an attack came out of nowhere (that's kind of a lie, I was super nauseous, so I'm sure that was the trigger) while I was feeding my baby his nap time bottle. We were just sitting on the couch watching the last night's Bachelorette, and I kept telling myself to ignore the hot prickles and the pounding chest. The second you at all acknowledge the Monster though, he just tightens his grip. Suddenly I was sure I was about to throw up and/or shit my pants and/or pass out, and his bottle lands on the floor next to where I sit him and run the the toilet. Of course he crawls in after me with absolutely no idea, as I call my dad who's upstairs in his office, and ask him to come finish nap time. And then I bawl.

Panicking and bawling because what the fuck would I have done if we lived on our own, or my dad wasn't home to look after my baby while I was dying in the bathroom? It is MY job to give him his bottle and rock him to sleep, and for the first time since becoming a mother, the Monster was robbing me of that. Robbing me blind.

Over the next few weeks, I continued to wake up sweating and pounding and frantically trying to keep awake out of weird dreams. Our son isn't confidently sleeping through the night still, so as I'm grabbing my glasses and my phone and my tummy pillow to run to the toilet, Id also wake my husband up to let me know that he had to be on call if the baby woke up. Again, that's my job.

The nocturnal attacks murdered my confidences and engrained a sense of anxiety in my brain again. I was growing afraid to go to sleep, and the attacks started happening during the day too. Being a mom means being a receptacle for guilt. Our baby had a rough delivery which kept me from holding him for hours, and that's a guilt I honestly don't think I'll ever overcome. Every mother (parent) experiences guilt revolving around what you are and aren't feeding your baby, whether you've got them on the right schedule, whether you should go back to work or not. Since becoming a mother though, no parenting choice or incident or judgement has made me feel anywhere near as guilty as the Monster has.

Some days it feels like my baby is spending more time in his crib with Bubble Guppies on, and I'm spending more time on the bathroom floor telling myself to just breathe, then we're spending time together. And that guilt is crushing. It got to a point where my husband had to take a few days off work because my dad was away for business, and I NEEDED someone else around just in case it struck while I had the baby. And that made me feel pathetic.

It is so much harder, being sick and being anxious now that I am a mother. However, this baby has me far more motivated to climb out of this panic pit, then I ever have been before. The Anxiety Monster crawls between me and my baby, and I've never wanted revenge as desperately as I do now.

So I did a lot of research, and talked to my doctor. Nocturnal panic attacks (whether you have a preexisting disorder or not) are on the list of the IUD side effects. No, I never experienced that side effect the first time I had an IUD in, but my natural hormones were in a completely different state back then. So a week ago I had it taken out. I am back on my original birth control (hello, high school Jorja!) and will take it constantly for 3 months, before reassessing the situation. I have a RAGING period now, but no weird dreams I can't wake up from, and no desperate attacks since.

Now all that's let to do is stay conscious, stay brave, and continue to work through the lingering anxiety that always follows a hugs episode. As luck would have it, my baby and I leave for a week away with my mother up north at 6:30am tomorrow, so the timing of my anxiety recovery is in no way ideal.

I know the Monster wants to travel with us, and I just need to be aware of that, and accept it. I will believe that taking as many Ativans as I need to survive the flights and the days away from my comfy place, is totally acceptable and we can worry about weaning off it again once we are back home safe. I will not feel like a pathetic failure of a mother is I need my mother's help to survive these next few days without my husband. I will be brave, and soon enough it'll all be ok.

The battle continues, maybe it will continue forever between me and the Monster. But now I am a mother, and that makes it all very different.

#momlife

Today I felt the full spectrum of #momlife, in one small moment. 

In the last year I have blogged an amazingly disappointing amount.  That's just a fact.  What I hate even more, is the weeks that go between the pages in my personal journal.  These are the most important days of my life, and yet I'm writing about them far less then every other day of my life.  I'm still trying to wrap my head around the psychology behind that...maybe I wrote more because back then my brain needed more distraction, and I needed more time to process my thoughts, and understand my days, where as now my feelings are obvious, and I know that this is where I am supposed to be, and this is my life. #mombrain is something that lasts far beyond 'new mommyhood', I'm not even going to try to ponder all that right now. I know though, that a big part of why I don't write, or type is exhaustion. And the fact that there aren't enough hours in the day anymore!  And also, I now run a small business that's heavily social media based, so while I used to journal regularly in the bathroom (where I've always had to spend too much time), I'm now answering emails and using adorable apps to create adorable graphics for my adorable Instagram contests. (Case in point, I started typing this two days ago...) 

All of which is beside the point.  Except for the exhaustion.  That is in fact the whole point. And the exhaustion peaked today. 

In the first few months of being a parent you're amazed to learn how little sleep you need to survive.  Or perhaps you simply ignore the tired ache in your brain, because 'they're a baby and they're supposed to be up all night long!'  I also didn't care much about accomplishing anything but keeping my baby alive and happy in those first few months.  I've always hated laundry, vacuuming could be done another day because it's not like he's crawling around yet, I definitely don't NEED to shower (just change my undies and my spit-up covered clothes every day) because there's an abundance of perfectly capable baby wipes everywhere I look!  I was also already sick enough from the Endometriosis that was semi-dormant while pregnant, that I didn't have to spend much time eating.  Any 'free time' I had could be spent sleeping when he slept, and I loved it. He made the schedule, and I went with it.  And I loved him so much I didn't care if I ever slept again!

Months later, it's not that I don't love him that much anymore.  In fact I'm amazed every single day because I love him more then yesterday, when yesterday I already thought there was no way I could love anything any more then I love him!  Eventually the house really did need to be cleaned though, and my booming mommy social life meant needing to actually shower, and I was oddly driven to create a mountain of work for myself by starting a little business. Suddenly the lack of sleep hit me like a brick wall.  Over and over, and every morning when I woke up. 

Until he started SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT!?!!!?!  Which requires multiple punctuations, because I think at some point most parents terrifyingly accept that they will never sleep a full nights sleep until their kid is like 15...only once they're 15 you'll be up all night worrying about them making the wrong friends and missing curfew, and holy shit was that the front door?!  Did he just sneak out?!  But around 6 months old, after a little work, our baby started sleeping 9pm-7:30am.  Every night! Sometimes he'd need a little rock after (I assumed) a bad dream, but his new night sleeps were so glorious I couldn't care less about the fact that he still hates to nap unless he's on you, or in the car.  I could go upstairs to 'my office' for a few hours, and still get a very decent nights sleep, and my brain and my body quickly got (re)used to it.  When he'd have a random off night, it would throw me RIGHT off too. My brain got used to functioning WITH sleep again so quickly, that not getting enough sleep suddenly felt much worse then it did before.  Regardless of the months I spent never sleeping in the beginning. 

This week, every night has been an off night.  For 5 nights now he, and therefor I (because Daddy is working the early shift, and operates heavy machinery, and therefor needs to sleep all night more then I do), have not slept more then 2.5 consecutive hours. And yet he's still up for the day at 7:30am.  And he still thinks real naps are dumb.  And today it broke me, for a small moment. 

It wasn't just his shitty sleeping at fault, of course.  This strange phase of his obviously had to align with my lady-cycle.  And when you have Endometriosis every day feels like a PMSing period day, and the actual PMSing period days feel like the first few aching, exhausted, barfy, far too emotional months of pregnancy AND the excruciatingly painful, draining, barfy last few days of pregnancy, all at the same time.  It may not sound like much (maybe I didn't use enough scary words), but it was enough to break me, for a moment. 

Side note: how does HE function without sleep?!  No, he doesn't have to work and clean up, and plan a Birthday party, and book 5 appointments, and fill 5 orders, and push a stroller around.  But one would assume that GROWING, and learning where your ears are, and how to feed yourself, and how to walk, and where the the treats are hidden must require some sort of energy-making rest, right?!

After being up and down all last night, to the point where we kicked daddy out of bed (to go SLEEP upstairs) so that I could at least lay down and rock him every hour, I thought I could at least look forward to a co-sleeping nap after our morning snack.  I played our Disney lullabies, turned the fan on, snuggled him close, and rocked us.  It's actually something I've grown to love deeply.  He's slept-slept in his own bed since day one (besides these off nights), never in our bed or a bassinet in our room, so I quickly (secretly) fell in love with the fact that he napped better/longer when we were doing it together.  After two songs he was out cold, and I rolled him off my throbbing shoulder, and closed my eyes.  And 15 minutes later he was screaming and crying and flailing, and I lost it. 

I ugly-cried like it was my job, sobs and snots and huge exhales.  I just lay there under our covers with my hands over my eyes, while he sat up and started flopping around. They were sad and frustrated and overwhelmed tears.  They were 'I can't/don't want to do this anymore' tears.  And then those tears made me feel like a fucking asshole, so then they were guilty tears! But what happened next brought on like, a monsoon of tears.  Happy, blessed, thankful tears. 

He found his sucky that he'd hid under the duvet (his favorite new instead-of-sleeping game), and he stuck it right in my face!  Because that's what suckies are for!  For making the sad stop!  Then he used my forehead to balance, and leaned over top of my face and kissed me.  My nearly one-year-old kissed me, without being asked to.  And my chest exploded.  Just exploded. 

In the last 51 weeks we have had the lowest lows and highest highs, as a family.  And in that little nap time moment I felt them all, all over again.  From feeling like an absolutely miserable failure, to realizing that in less then a year we have grown the most remarkable human being.  He is just a teeny boy, but a long with crawling and dancing, facial features and how to sign 'more', he knows how to empathize.  Most importantly, he knows how to love.  At 51 weeks old, he realizes that he has the power to make the world a happier place, and he accepts that responsibility.  And we did that.  And I think, in quite a timely fashion, that moment was the greatest moment of this #momlife so far. 

(That moment, and also the first time he used his pincer grasp!!! Fuck I love the pincers!!)