My Limit

I think I have reached my limit.

My life has always been a struggle, I know most people's lives are a struggle and it's something I should just get used to; so says my mom. "Life is always like that, you should get used to it." But should it be? Should we always have to fight?

I fought through grade school, literally and figuratively. I was fat, ugly, had massive acne (that has still not gone away, thank you hormones) and had some huge emotional issues. I was picked on a lot, and when I wasn't I was feeling like no one liked me and using that to fuel my cutting.

All the same crap happened through high school as well, only I got way more intense. More cutting, drugs, alcohol, hatred, attempted suicide. I did so many things that make me hate myself on a pretty regular basis, but I've mostly moved past them.

Sometimes they haunt me.

I conquered the drugs, the alcohol, the abuse, everything. I've moved on (supposedly). I graduated college with a 4 year degree in just over 4 years. I am raising 2 amazing beautiful girls. I have a husband who is pretty damned irresponsible but so awesome that it overshadows all of it. My oldest is happy, so happy it hurts my heart sometimes.

But I'm at my limit for fighting.

We got a great tax return but it's all going to a new car because the new (used) car we bought a few months ago has crapped out. My husband doesn't think he can go to school and work at the same time. And should he? Rightly, if I was a better wife and mother I would be the one busting my ass a job so he could better himself since I decided to do nothing with my degree.

We are barely holding on and I see no future different from where we are. We're surviving, but I don't want to be where we are for the rest of our lives - struggling, fighting, hating myself, hating where we are, and feeling like the worst wife in the history of terrible wives.

I pretend so well.

Even in these posts where I can write whatever I want I fake it. I pretend to be happy and put together, and most days I am. But tonight I've reached the end. Steven has gone to work for his graveyard job, I'll be sleeping alone again, Reyna is finally not screaming, and my eyes are scratchy their so tired. But I can't sleep, and I can't stop hating everything about me.

From everything I have accomplished and fought to free myself of I should be proud and happy.

But I'm not.  

Postpartum Depression: Let's Be Real.

She’s up crying again, wanting to be fed to sleep again. My eyes are bleary because I’ve taken the anti-psychotic and anti-depressants that make me tired so even unscrewing the bottle top is more of an effort than I can manage. It falls to the ground, “fuck”, I pick it up and drop it again. I look at it - squinting my eyes - briefly debate leaving it there, then hear Reyna’s cries from the living room and bend over again. 

If only I had been a better mother I could be breast feeding right now and this wouldn’t be an issue. Shame and disgust pour from my body, I’m a little surprised I’m not slipping over the feelings as I walk they’re so intense.

I just can’t produce milk.

I slip into bed and get situated enough to feed her while we lay there, my eyes barely staying open. I nod off; my arm jerks the bottle from her mouth, she roots around for it, “I’m sorry, so sorry,” and I stuff it back in before she starts screaming again.

I understand the feeling.

He’s sleeping behind me, he always sleeps through everything. I clench my nails into the fat of my thighs until it hurts, then dig a little harder. I clench my teeth. Release. He doesn’t even work tomorrow. Looking over at Reyna I notice she’s asleep, completely, and the bottle is just lying in her mouth dripping formula everywhere.

She’s only drank and ounce.

I struggle out of bed, the C-section incision pulling and tugging as I crawl from one end to the other. I have to sit on the edge of the bed for a second holding my stomach and breathing before I can actually stand. Tears are forming now, I want to push them away so I swipe angrily with the back of my hand but more replace them. They burn against my cheeks.

I hate crying.

After shoving the bottle in the fridge I stand in the doorway, tears tracking down my cheeks like acid. I lock my eyes on the scissors above the bed in the window sill. I want them. So badly do I want them that I curl my fingers in imitation of holding them. It’s all I can think about. All I can process. I begin pacing, to get them is to wake Steven and while I wanted him awake before I don’t want him awake for me to lose my mind.

Four steps to the right, four steps to the left, stop, stare. Start forward, shake my head. Four steps the right, four steps to the left, stop, stare. Clutch my fingers, twine them around themselves and start forward again

.

His eyes pop open. “What are you doing?”

I shake my head and run from the room, escaping into the bathroom. With the door shut he shouldn’t be able to hear me so I sob. Razors dig into my throat as they tear my mouth, Struggling not to scream I cover my lips.

I want to cut so badly.

Eyeing the room like a prisoner given one chance of escape I frantically search for anything even remotely sharp to drag across my skin. There’s a screw in the wall. Fuck infections. I grasp it, the outside cutting into my fingers as I begin unscrewing it from the wall. It’s only dry wall so I know I can do it.

 I manage.

Tears fall onto my legs as I sit on the toilet seat and pull the screw across my thigh. The skin parts like water as redness wells up. I stare. The feelings of hatred and worthlessness are still there so I cut some more - until my thighs look like a patchwork of beef.

Undamaged skin is nowhere to be found.

The door opens then. “I woke up and you were gone.” Then he notices.

“No”, he screams while starting across the floor. I stand, feel blood drip across my thighs, and turn away. He wraps his arms around me in an effort to take the screw and I fight him.

He wins.

His arms stay around my body, chin digging into my head because I’m so short. So fucking short. And fat. His fingers dig into my back and I can hear him start to cry. I stand there, arms at my sides, gaze on the screw he’s thrown to the other side of the room, feeling nothing.

I finally feel nothing.

******

While I had a very extreme case of PPD, it can still happen to any woman. It doesn't mean you’re not strong, it doesn’t mean you don’t love your child, and it doesn’t mean that you can’t function and live through it.

I hate that PPD is frowned on, like it’s something you should be able to fight and not experience. It’s hormones; it’s not you hating your life or your baby. You could be the happiest person in the world and still end up with PPD.

Society needs to start making it normalized so that women can get the help they need when they need it rather than feeling ashamed of things that aren’t their fault. 

As soon as I started feeling like that again, I knew what it was. I didn’t experience it with my first but I’ve dealt and struggled with depression for my entire life. PPD was like an intense unstoppable version of that.

5 months later I am finally feeling normal again and I'm med free. I still have super crappy days where I want to curl into a ball and sob for hours, but mostly I’m ok.

My family is what makes me strong. 

Wedding

Before I got married (and all right, after as well because I'm a sucker for a certain type of show) I watched a lot of Bridezillas and David Tutera and Rich Bride Poor Bride. My friend got me into Say Yes as well. I'm fully aware that Bridezillas isn't exactly the best example of what a bride or wedding is actually like, nor is David Tutera completely accurate because who has that kind of money, but I've come to the realization that I was a really weird bride.

First we had no budget - I don't mean that in the go-out-and-spend-as-much-as-you-want-sense - but that we had very little money so each month we were setting aside maybe 15 dollars. Other than my dress and his tux we spent about 100 dollars total. I used a David's Bridal credit card to buy my dress (totally paid off now, yay!) and a different credit card to buy his tux, which happened to be about 100 dollars. 

Pretty right?     

Should we have used credit cards? Nope. Did I? Yes. Feel guilty about it? Totally!

My handsome ring-bearers

My friend said I was the easiest bride ever because my only requirement for their dresses was that they were blue. Other than that I just wanted them matching and happy. I suppose I'm an intensely laid back person. Bridesmaid number one "I feel like I'm freaking out over your wedding more than you are!"

Dollar store supplies turned into pretty awesome decor if I can toot my own skills with a hot glue gun. Anyone can follow Pinterest directions. I dyed the petals that needed thrown by my amazing flower girl, I made the vases for the sand ceremony, I put together all the favors (with the help of some AMAZING friends), I glittered my own high heels, and I didn't hire a wedding planner.

I got to the venue early, after being up all night doing favors and setting up what could be set up the night before, to finish putting everything together. A bridesmaid did our makeup, we were ready to go and only 2 minutes late getting started. I guess I have to be laid back to have 4 children in my wedding party :) (who did completely amazing for the record.)

I forgot the blue streak for my hair, I forgot to put my veil down for the walk up the aisle, I nearly tripped, and I wore blue ginormous granny panties under my dress - a gift from a friend (she thought I would return them, I told her they were going under my dress.)

We played a game during the reception where the party goers essentially got to choose who got cake shoved in their face at the end of the wedding. Of course my husband and I were a tie (I really tried to cheat) so I stuffed an apron down the front of my dress and shoved away.

We were super attractive at this point.

Once the wedding was over I stayed and helped put everything away. We didn't leave with everyone throwing rice (or whatever is politically correct these days), we stayed until everything was exactly as it was before we got there.

I wouldn't change any of that for anything. I think that makes me an all right person. 

Me showing him how I forgot my veil, Lindzy exasperated the kids "wouldn't listen".

Failure?

Most days I feel like a massive failure. I look around at everything my friends have accomplished, my "facebook friends", and I want to curl up and cry. 

What am I doing with my life, my degree? 

When I became pregnant with my first I chose to attend college so I could become something for my child and myself, even though that had never been my dream. I came in last and that was all right. I completed 4 years of college while raising a baby alone. My family helped as much as they could which was tremendous, but I was still alone.

I moved away to attend a 4 year, met a man, got married, had another baby, and am now a stay at home mom. My degree sits in a closet somewhere, the only writing I do to testify to that degree is this blog and my Facebook statuses (which are epic) but none of that is anywhere near what I went to college for.

I was going to be an editor, a writer, an actor, a singer. I was going to DO something to make my child's life better than mine was. 

I cook food at least twice a day, fix snacks constantly between myself, my kids, my husband, my nephew, and all the neighbor kids who practically live at our house. I clean up after everyone, including my husband because he's worse than our 7 year old. A fact that constantly kills me since he's a 23 year old married adult, but I digress. 

I entertain children, I play hide and seek, I make faces and use noises that would embarrass anyone to hear if I did them in public (which I do) all in the quest to make my 5 month old laugh. I help Lindzy with homework, I make lunches, do crafts for her and her class, myself, and family. 

But I do nothing that I wanted to do. Nothing I had planned to do.

Then today I read something, a "what to do when you need to feel good about yourself" article. One thing stood out to me. "what would your 6 year old self think about where you are today?"

My 6 year old self would be ecstatic!  

At that point in my life I wanted to be a stay at home mom to 100 kids with a husband who loved me. The only thing I wanted in my life was a husband who loved me and children because I LOVE children. I love acting like an idiot just to make them laugh, I love holding them, I even love dealing with most of their fits because they're just so adorable. 

I love answering stupid questions (even for the 6th or 10th time) karate chopping imaginary bad guys in public, cuddling with my kids, staying home and watching them grow up. I love having dinner ready for my husband and being there for him and them whenever they need it. 

I wanted a house of my own, a father for my children - something I never had - stuff of my own, happiness, love, and kids. 

Why am I letting myself and other people make me feel like a failure for not doing what they think I should when in reality, this is exactly what I wanted? 

What am I doing with my life? Teaching my children to grow up and be the best women they can be, to be strong, resilient, independent, happy, amazing creatures that love God and their families. There is no failure there. 

Touch.

My husband and I are fighting. Again. Seems like since just before Reyna's birth its all we've been doing. We have these moments where we're totally happy, no problems with each other, and I just want to wrap myself up in a cocoon of him. 

But they're not often and they don't last long.

Usually its not anything serious, just annoyances that morph into major anger because I'm not one to talk about my feelings. Seriously, I'd rather sit in the bathroom and cut my skin until Steven finds and forces me to talk than to just talk.

I guess it makes me feel like he cares, if he's chasing me and worrying enough to figure out the problem. If I have to tell him I'm upset and explain why because he hasn't noticed he's done something wrong, it somehow means less. That's kind of my immature extremely non existent self esteem speaking though, and as much as I try to control it I can't.

We play these online games; I'm the only woman whose ever played them with him so to me it's special. Stupid, but a feeling.  So I've let him know that it hurts when he plays alone, that I would prefer if he doesn't. He tells me won't and I believe him because he's the only person ever that I've trusted 100%. 

But he lied. More than once.

Everything in me broke. It was like shattering into too many pieces to even attempt a fix and and all I could see was every other betrayal I've ever experienced. On top of him not caring about anything in my life lately, he deliberately killed my very fragile trust. I spent 15 minutes cutting myself in the bathroom and sobbing, then calmly walked to bed and fell asleep.

It's been days of me ignoring his touch, giving him only the barest of attention because I needed him to earn me back, subconscious or no. We interacted in front of Lindzy while I broke a little more every time he tried to touch me and I pulled away.

Today while getting in bed I accidentally brushed my half dressed body against his. I nearly cried. Its been so long since I've felt him, since he's touched me, since I've been wanted. I wrapped my body around myself in an effort to stay away, to stay angry.

I'm hurting him as much as he's hurting me. "Do I get no sympathy?" I said no.  I turned away from his problems and his feelings to dwell in mine. 

So I caved.  

I nudged his sleeping body and begged him to hold me. His arms wrapping around me spoon style melted my resistance. My heart. I dissolved into his body and wept.

We're still not OK, our trust so fragile it's like a spider web in a snow storm. But no one can keep refraining from touch. To deny ourselves human interaction makes us less human, it makes us base anger and hatred. So we'll keep touching, keep loving even when all I want to do is instinctively push him away. We'll argue, but only while hugging. 

It makes it hard to scream and hate when someone is absorbing all your tears with their chest.

Best laid plans... and all that

I'm sitting here on the couch feeling pretty damned lazy. 

Reyna is laying beside me kicking at my arm, grabbing her toes, clutching her stuffed bear/blankie, scratching at the couch because she likes the sound and making happy noises (I think, it's hard to tell at this age).

 Lindzy is in her bed sleeping, I can hear her moving around and talking in her sleep; something she does all the time. Her bed is piled with blankets and stuffed animals and pillows. She also has a chapter book up there that she reads to either my mom over the phone or our dog before bed.

 Our dog is in bed with Lindzy also sleeping, though I give it about ten more minutes then she'll hear me watching TV and start whining. I'll walk in to the bathroom and she'll have her head stuck out of the bunk bed bars with her tail wagging. I'll ignore her. 

Dishes are piled in the sink, I guess piled is a bit of an exaggeration but they are stacked. Water bottles are on the window ledge because we use it as a table and there's a plate sitting on the other side of the couch. The floor could use a vacuuming, though not terrible it's been a at least a week. I have crafts that I really want to do so boards and glue guns and felt is all over the place. I just don't have the time.

But instead of cleaning like I should have today, I read to my daughter. I fed her some baby food she finally decided to like rather than spitting at me, I gave us both a shower where we played for at least 30 minutes, and I played "my hand is coming to get you run away" with Reyna.

I taught Lindzy how to play Hearthstone - an online card game - helped her color on her new back pack, listened to music while we talked about all the games we'd play at her birthday party (no kinect outside, bad mom), and we watched the new Grey's Anatomy because my 6 year old is determined to be a doctor.

I made tuna fish and egg sandwiches while we all played a "choose your own adventure" game and talked. We cuddled. We loved. I didn't do anything I was supposed to do today.

Who cares? 

Coming To Terms

I never thought I would care about having a c-section.

Those mothers who complained about not getting to expirience birth were just ridiculous. After all, you're still having a baby. You still birthed a baby regardless. I was actually thinking about opting for a c-section based on my supposed baby size so the thought that I might be one of those mothers never occured to me.

My labor was induced at 39 weeks after a car wreck and because I was in constant pain while also being pre-eclamptic. I was in labor for 36 hours,  more than half was hard active labor.

By the time the doctors came in to say I needed a c-section I would probably have agreed to anything. I was exhausted, hadn't slept in days, my epidural hadn't worked for more than a few hours, I was in pain from my car wreck, and the pain shooting through my stomach and back had me actually crying - which is something I absolutely don't do.

My husband isn't so great at comfort unless I ask - he's extremely oblivious - and I am not great at asking so I went through most of the 36 hours of labor alone. He was freaked out and scared when the doctor came in, more so when they rushed me from the room and into a sterile operating room before strapping me to a table.

It was quick and brutal.

I could feel them pulling around in my organs,  my entire body jerking against the bonds that held me down. I was so tired and combined with the drugs they gave me I was barely able to stay awake. Even though I desperately wanted to watch.  When they pulled her from my stomach I became violently ill - throwing up nothing all over the anesthesiologist. I managed a glance over at my husband just in time to see him holding Reyna before throwing up on myself again.

My daughter was pressed into my arms,  blankets wrapped around us both to hold my arms in place because I was out of it and basically unable to move. Wheeled to my room where I was unable to breast feed. I couldn't even take pictures of my family holding Reyna.
Everyone left shortly after, even my husband,  because they all needed to work.

That night I heard the woman next door giving birth (and why are the walls in a birthing center so thin anyway?), her husband coaching her through it,  heard the baby being born and I started sobbing. Everything hit me at that point.  I missed it all.

I laid in my bed while Reyna slept beside me and cried, tears coated my pillow and clogged my throat until I could hardly breathe. I felt so stupid,  caring how Reyna arrived when it shouldn't matter because she was here and safe.  Had I went through with a vaginal birth (unlikely) she had a high chance of death based on how she'd turned and the cord around her neck they were unaware of.

But it didn't matter.

I watched her breathe, watched her stir, and turn her face from side to side. I loved her so deeply it hurt. Yet I still felt betrayed for not having had the experience of a vaginal birth.  I think part of it is that with my first I didn't have my husband.  I was alone and the entire time I just wanted a husband to experience birth with.  This time I had it,  but I didn't.

It still bothers me that I didn't get it.  That's probably not ever going to change. But that's ok,  because I'm allowed to feel.