Sing Me a Song of a Lass that is Gone

"Say, could that lass be I? 
Merry of soul, she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye

All that was good
All that was fair
All that was me is gone" (The Skye Boat Song) 

Yes, I'm an Outlander fan (more the books than the show, but the show will do), and those lyrics have been speaking to me. Last fall, I was on top of the world. I had a bout of pneumonia in September that sapped my energy for several weeks. Then after not getting better after the first round of antibiotics, I went on a "burst" of Prednisone, which as someone with asthma, is something I do every couple of years. Prednisone makes me feel amazing, I don't know why. I went on a fruit-buying spree as soon as the Prednisone kicked in and started making all the things, lugging bushels of produce off the farmstand myself, even though doing so made me cough up a lung. I don't think I've ever felt more happy and satisfied with how my life was going. All my children were well, James was a year out of his afib ablation and feeling better, I was excited for my senior year of college, and all that was coming.

Then November happened. It started one day when I woke up in the morning and noticing that my nightgown had a significant bloodstain over one breast. I knew that was potentially not great, so I tried expressing fluid to see if it was coming from my nipple. It was. I made an appointment with my doctor right away, who examined me and said while she didn't feel a lump, blood was abnormal, and I needed a diagnostic mammogram as soon as possible. Eight days later, which involved much sobbing, begging for an appointment, and fear, I got an ultrasound and mammogram, and the doctor waltzed into the room to give me results saying, "You look beautiful dahling!". Thankfully, my results were normal. On with life. We had a wonderful Christmas, and I was doing volunteer work I love and anticipating my grad school interview, which happened in March.

March 7, I had an all-day group interview for my dream Master's program. I nervously awaited results and booked a tattoo for March 13. I knew about the coronavirus, but like almost everyone, I didn't think it was a big deal yet. That all changed mid-March when everything in my state was closed down. My 12-year-old spent a year in therapy to overcome his contamination OCD so that he would be brave enough to play football. After three weeks of practicing, the league had to shut down due to coronavirus. Then my husband was laid off from his second job as a bouncer at a bar/restaurant. The financial part was not insurmountable, even though he doesn't qualify for unemployment. Still, we are sick at heart for the other employees, who have become friends, that worked full-time in the restaurant industry.

Then word came that my oldest son, who is a Navy airman, was not going to be granted leave and would be deploying immediately after completing some training at sea. I had planned a train trip to Seattle to visit him, after which he'd come home for one last time before deploying for nearly a year. All of that is now gone, and we will not see him until sometime in 2021. Then my college commencement was canceled. Just in my little way, I have had so many things changed and some lost forever, and yet, I know others are facing situations that are so much worse.

Honestly, I haven't been doing okay. I've alternated between feeling panicky about the present and the future and numb to feeling anything. It's hard to see how things will ever be "okay" again, but I know that this feeling can often be a symptom of depression and depression lies. I have taken several weeks off from Crisis Text Line and will take off more time until I feel that I can legitimately help someone who is struggling. Right now, I'm struggling, and I'm trying to put on my own oxygen mask. After my breast cancer scare, I went back to therapy because I realized I have a tremendous fear of death. With coronavirus and all the associated harms from the measures to control it, I have been struggling with the sense of loss of control again. I had a telemedicine appointment with my doctor today, and he agreed I needed some pharmacological help. I'm going on an antidepressant for the second time in my life. I took medication for six months when I was suffering from postpartum depression after I had Felix (which I wrote about here), and it helped me tremendously with getting over the "hump" of depression that I couldn't see a way out of.

I'm not at the point where I feel hopeful yet. I don't know what is coming in the future and I don't know if it will be "normal" again. There is a rational part of my brain that still cataloged my depressed thinking and sounded the alarm that I needed some help. I'm thankful that I'm able to listen to the rational part of my brain even though it doesn't "feel" like things will ever get better. My son will be deployed soon, and I'm "graduating" college on May 10 (I put "graduate" in quotes because if a person graduates from college in the woods and nobody is there to see it, does it make a sound?). These things will happen whether I am ready for them or not. I'm doing everything I can to be as equipped as possible to handle whatever the world decides to throw at humanity next.

I, like the world, am (to paraphrase Winston Churchill) not sure if I'm at the end of the beginning, or beginning of the end. Either way, I am grieving for the loss of the "Lass" who was "Merry of soul" before coronavirus came into all of our lives. I know grieving is not just for death, but for the way things used to be. All that was me is (for now), truly gone, and I'm coping with it like so many billions of people.

All this to say, there is no shame in struggling. It's okay if you don't feel like counting your blessings or contemplating all how it could be worse. Pain is pain, and it doesn't matter if you have it "easier" than some others. By the way, I was accepted into my dream grad program. I haven't been able to process it yet, and somehow I feel I might jinx it by uttering the words. As I used to tell texters who texted to Crisis Text Line, "It's okay not to be okay."

Cleaning Out My Closet

Please excuse this image of me in a culturally insensitive costume in 1984. Somehow it's the only picture I have of me as a child! 

I remember the first time I was ever ashamed of my body. I was five years old, and one night at dinner, which we ate all around the table, I was looking forward to dessert. We always had dessert, just a small, usually home-baked treat served on plates with silverware. That night we had a Pepperidge Farms coconut cake that, to me, was exciting and exotic because it was so pretty in its glossy white box in the freezer. But that night, my mother told me that I couldn't have dessert. I was confused. The cake was cut, and everyone else was eating a piece, even my closest sister Heather who was three years older than me. "Why can't I have any?" I asked. I don't remember what answer I was given, but I immediately filled in the blanks.

I was not ok and, therefore, did not deserve a piece of cake. I was unacceptable. Over the next few months, I paid attention to what I was given to eat compared to others and the conversations my parents had with my siblings about food. Yep, that was it. I remember worriedly stepping on the bathroom scale in my mother's bathroom and seeing the number "50" reflected in digital numbers. I didn't know what that number meant, but I guessed it was not the right one. My mother, who never weighed more than 115 pounds except when pregnant, always monitored her weight. I remember her telling people that she could "eat whatever I want, I never gain an ounce!".  When I asked her if I weighed the right amount, she told me that she hadn't weighed 50 pounds until 5th grade. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t like her. I have one picture of us together, taken when I was 2 or 3 years old. It looks like my head is the same size as hers and we couldn’t look less alike if she had picked up a child at random on the way into Olan Mills.

Soon after, I was washing in the shower, and looked down and saw my rounded belly and my convex ribcage and thinking that it was not right for it to stick out like that. I had an outfit at that time which I hated, jeans and a Hawaiian shirt under which I was supposed to wear a white t-shirt. I remember thinking that my rounded torso in my white t-shirt made me look like "the Dad" from the TV show, "The Munster's," which was on reruns and I used to watch on TV. Yes, six-year-old me likened myself to a Herman Munster.  I wanted to wear prairie dresses every day like Laura Ingalls Wilder (I still do!). I had a closet full of frilly 80’s dresses and I loved the “twirly” ones the best. I would have happily worn them 24/7. My parents explained that dresses were only for special occasions and for church on Sundays and that I had to wear pants for everyday. I didn’t feel like myself in jeans and pants and complained whenever possible about them.

The summer I turned six, I was sexually abused on multiple occasions by a trusted family friend. Like most children, I had a sense that something "bad" had happened, but I immediately blamed myself and was too afraid to tell anyone. I started becoming overly emotional, once bursting into tears when I came down for breakfast and my brother said "morning" in a perfectly reasonable tone. I spent a lot of time crying that summer. So much so that my exasperated parents started sending me to my room when the waterworks began.  I also kept telling my parents that something was hurting when I went to the bathroom. I remember being taken to the pediatrician, who said I didn't have any visible signs of irritation or infection and told my mother to change the laundry detergent just in case. I became obsessed with being "clean," wiping myself with dry toilet paper until I bled. These are textbook sexual abuse signs, but in my parents' defense, it was the 1980's, and this was a subject that most people knew nothing about. What I cannot defend is how my mother reacted when I finally told her. As the singer/songwriter Kesha sang, “there are some things only God can forgive." Needless to say, these experiences cemented to me that my body was wrong. I had a deep shame about my body that I’ve never quite conquered.

One day when I was about seven,  I tried to put on a pair of corduroy pants and couldn't button them. When I brought this to my mom's attention, she chided me for outgrowing them and told me that I needed to stop snacking. I will always remember those children's size 6X pants. They were a hand-me-down from my much slimmer older sister, burgundy color and made a swishing sound when I walked and my thighs rubbed together. After that, I asked my mother how many calories people should eat every day. She was doing something and said offhandedly, "a thousand." That answer became my reality. A few years later, when I developed a restrictive eating disorder, I allowed myself to eat no more than 1,000 calories per day. Years later, I realized that she probably thought I was asking how many calories a CHILD should eat, but I should point out that that number is low even for a child! I do not want to portray my eating disorders as if they were caused by my mother; they weren't. Eating disorders are very genetic, and looking back, I realize that my mother had a very disordered relationship with food. I know that she didn't purposely put her own issues onto me, but it happened.

Which brings me to 2019. After six sons, I had my only daughter in 2017. When I was pregnant with her, I failed my glucose tolerance test. I chose to move forward with treatment rather than taking the longer 3-hour test. I wanted to be proactive because having high blood sugar can have all sorts of effects on the fetus later in life. I was scrupulous with my treatment plan, and my blood sugar was so well controlled, my daughter was my smallest baby by over 2 pounds. From the beginning, she's grown quickly. She has been over the 95th percentile in height and weight since she was two months old. But because of my own body image issues and the unresolved pain and trauma with my mother, it has been my worst fear that I will pass my issues onto her. Having a daughter that is big for her age has been surprisingly hard for me. I suppose because it reminds me of....well me. I have to fight against the idea that she's "too big" and that she, as a girl, should be smaller.

Yesterday she was very sick and had to go to the doctor for a breathing treatment. The scale registered a decent weight gain since her last checkup, and I am ashamed to say, THAT is what upset me about that visit. The rest of the day while I gave her breathing treatments, I was googling different weight charts in an attempt to reassure me that her size is "ok." How messed up is that? She's beautiful and brilliant. She correctly uses words like "actually" and "probably," and at age 2.5, she knows all her colors, shapes, and many of her letters. Every morning she tells me all about her dreams, but since she doesn't know what a dream is, she excitedly tells me about her adventures. She loves vegetables and playing outside with her brother. A "normal" parent without all my baggage would probably be more mindful about the example they're setting and make more of an effort to offer healthy food and cut down on snacking. Modeling healthy eating and an active lifestyle is the responsible thing to do.  But there I was, panicking. I must do better for her, she deserves it. I deserved it too. I can't change my past, but I am determined to change my future. No more secrets, no more shame. That blonde little girl with the big head was ok. She deserved love and acceptance. And my brilliant daughter does too. Even while I recognize the flaws in myself and my mothering, I need to show compassion for both that little girl and the almost 40-year-old she became. My daughter looks up to me, and I feel that responsibility heavily.  When I was pregnant with her, I saw a registered dietician who specializes in disordered eating and had twice-a-week therapy. I always thought that the universe was telling me I couldn’t be a good mother to a daughter and that’s why I had six boys in a row. But maybe the universe was just waiting for me to be ready to shed the effects of my trauma in order to become the mother she needs me to be?

I think I can, I think I can...

The Push

My very first Christmas tree. 

"I can't do this anymore. It's killing me." 

Those words, uttered by my husband, changed everything. You see, at the time we were still Jehovah's Witnesses. We had been having a conversation where I was trying to convince him to make more of an effort to participate. What else could I do, believing as I did, that the everlasting lives of us and our children depended upon it? I was scared for him, for me, and most of all, for our children.

We were married in our church (called a Kingdom Hall) and from the beginning, we tried to be "good" Jehovah's Witnesses. But every year it got harder and harder to go through the motions. Both of us were suffering from depression by this point, and our marriage was in trouble. In our religion, we believed the husband had to be the "spiritual head," and I tried every weapon in my arsenal to try to make that happen. I was encouraging and nagging and even insulting and cruel.  I tried not bringing it up and then bringing it up regularly. I prayed for him and asked others to do so. I could see that his belief in God was slipping away.

Finally, it came to a head one night at date night at our usual restaurant when he looked in my eyes and told me that our religion was killing him. It took the wind out of my sails. Over the next few weeks, I knew I had to make a decision. My religion dictated that my role would be to tell on him to the congregation elders so that they could reprimand him for his lack of faith and try to convince him to do his duty to his family and our congregation. If he didn't, I could patiently martyr myself as a long-suffering wife with an "unbelieving husband." But I couldn't do that to him. I knew what he had been through already and besides, I had been having doubts myself.

I chose to take a leap of faith, into what I believed was an abyss of no faith. Once I had made that decision, I started to explore my fondest dream. From a child, I always secretly loved Christmas decorations and would imagine what kind of a tree I would have if I ever celebrated Christmas. Of course, I believed these thoughts were wrong, so I always felt adequately guilty. However, I was going to celebrate Christmas that year, if it was the last thing I did. And I really thought it might be. In the whole lead-up to Christmas, I was so scared that what Jehovah's Witnesses call "Armageddon" might come before I got to celebrate Christmas. That's where my mind was at the time, I was in the in-between of still believing but not wanting to be a part of my faith. I wasn't ready yet to think that it wasn't true, that took longer.

But oh, that year, I decorated for Christmas! In my long-ago guilt-ridden fantasies, I had already decided that I would not have a monochromatic tree of all silver or all gold ornaments. I thought they were striking but too elegant. I wanted an old-timey tree with colorful decorations. I haunted thrift shops and bought enough ornaments to decorate a real tree because my dream Christmases had always involved a real tree. The very day that Zamzow's started selling fresh Christmas trees that year, we put one up. In a way, that simple act, celebrating a holiday that many people in their 30's are already tired of, it healed me.

I still love Christmas, I always say that I haven't had time yet to be jaded and I had been starved of that and so many other things for the first 33 years of my life. In one of my favorite books, Outlander, when the heroine had been accused of witchcraft and nearly sent to the stake, her husband defends her. When she asks what he would have done if she had been convicted of witchcraft, he answers, "I would have gone to the stake with you and hell beyond, if I must." I'm thrilled that my leap of faith involved neither being burned at the stake nor hellfire, but at the time, it really felt that frightening and dramatic. Cult beliefs are hard to challenge. Thankfully, when I went to the "dark side," I only found Christmas...and freedom.

Anesthesia Thoughts. My LSH Hysterectomy Recovery.

10 days after my surgery, I did my first full 2.5 mile walk, it felt great! 

When I became aware of anything after my hysterectomy, I was waking up from anesthesia and my first thought was how thirsty I was. My post-op nurse brought me no less than 3 cups of ice water and I drank them right down. I wasn't in pain, I felt pretty great, though groggy. I heard the nurse telling somebody that I was ready to go to the second floor and all I could think was that L&D at St. Luke's was on the second floor and did I have to have another baby?? My groggy brain couldn't remember being pregnant and I really didn't feel up to giving birth at that moment, thank you!

I vaguely remember saying "Not the second floor!" to the nurse and him assuring me that they actually have a surgical observation department there. I was so relieved! No baby! I had four of my children at that hospital so I was wheeled up to the second floor for the fifth time but for a different reason. When I got to my room, they asked me if I wanted to walk from the door to the bed and I did. I felt a little bit shaky and couldn't quite stand up straight because of my incision pain but I did it! They put boots on my legs that squeezed them to prevent blood clots, it was kind of relaxing, like a massage. The only thing that bothered me was having a catheter, I have had them before, in labor, but only when I also had an epidural. It's not a pleasant feeling when you're not numb.

Once I was settled into the hospital room, I called my husband, who was at work. After his procedure in October, there was very little I could do for him so we decided that it was better for him to be at work rather than sitting around in the hospital. I was tired and not really up to visitors anyway. I immediately started plotting to get the nurses to agree to let me get up and have my catheter out, but they explained that I needed it so my bladder could heal after the trauma of the surgery. I was on a clear diet but got to have black coffee which was heaven after having to skip my coffee that morning. I rested and watched classic TV and the nurses were absolutely great! My tendency to downplay everything caught up with me though. I hadn't asked for any pain medication since I got out of surgery and around 9 that evening, the pain became unbearable. I learned my lesson about trying to be a hero, and that surgery is not like childbirth! I've never been in the hospital except to have a baby, and sometimes, not even then. When I gave birth to Dori, for example, I made lasagna that morning while in the early stages of labor, had him an hour after arriving at the birth center,  and came home in time for dinner. James used to say that my births are so quick that it's like a trip to the "baby store". So recovery from anything is new to me and I wasn't quite sure how to handle it. My instinct is to push myself but in this case, it's not a good instinct.

The next day I finally got the hated catheter out and walked laps around my room to prove my legs worked and got to eat for the first time in 48 hours. James came to pick me up and I was able to walk out of the hospital on my own steam.

The physical recovery, for me, was- nothing. It is easy for me to forget anything happened. I haven't had much pain at all and almost no bleeding. Emotionally? Not so much. It isn't so much that I'm sad that I had to lose my uterus, I am completely happy not being able to have more children. But apparently, a surgery like that causes your ovaries to become traumatized and go on hiatus for a bit. So I have symptoms that are similar to sudden menopause, but temporary. I find myself crying over everything lately. Feeling sad but about nothing in particular. I can be a little short and testy with my family. I'm also very tired in the afternoon which I'm told is normal.

So almost 3 weeks later I feel....unsettled? Every once in a while, I get a feeling like you have when you're on vacation and it hits you that you forgot some important thing at home. I'll be doing something else and get this thought, "my uterus is gone!" and have a wave of panic. I'm sure I'll get used to it, I mean, they can't put it back so I guess I have to!

Overall, it's been a roller-coaster. I went back to my normal routine very quickly and definitely experience some more pain and swelling when I overdo things. Some days I feel like nothing happened and other days I feel really tired and emotional. I know that's all normal but I feel like I'm stuck in a weird in-between stage, not quite in recovery mode but not quite back to normal.

In a lot of ways, I feel so much better than I did before surgery. My asthma immediately improved. My resting heart rate, which had been creeping up over the preceding year is back to my normal 60's. I know once I'm fully recovered and my ovaries "wake up", I'll feel like myself again. But for now, I am having occasional hot flashes and a weird empty ache feeling. I'm looking forward to spring and better days ahead!

The Lump of Coal

The Lump of Coal

I don't feel well.

It feels like there's a lump of hot coal in my belly, just to the right of my belly button.

Sometimes I feel an odd tugging as if something is pulling my internal organs every so slightly over to the right.

Sometimes I'm doubled over as the hot coal inside my belly smolders and burns.

It's been like boiling a frog.

At first, it was "just" heavy bleeding. Bleeding so much and so quickly that no tampon, cup, or pad could contain it. Sleeping strategically, with both a cup and a giant pad, I would be careful even in my sleep so that I wouldn't shift enough to bleed through the pad when the cup overfloweth (as it always did) so I wouldn’t bleed on my white sheets. I’ve been menstruating for a long time, 26 years, and it was the first time it seemed feasible to wear an adult diaper or put one of those Chux on the bed that they use when you give birth.

Then it was the dull ache that wasn't menstrual cramps, wasn't a stomachache, was just...there.

Then I noticed that my digestion was impacted, as my uterus burgeoned up out of my pelvis to a size that rivals that of a four-month pregnancy. Except I'm not pregnant, and the hormones that women have in pregnancy that allows their uterus to expand without resistance are not present. So my stomach is being pushed upward by my uterus, and this creates bloating and heartburn that used to be a pregnancy symptom.

I toss and turn, hugging a pillow to my stomach and curling around it, hoping to contain the pain.

My toddlers have to sit next to me instead of on my lap because I can't stand any pressure on my lower abdomen. Even their elbows and knees as they squirm around make me wince.

When the doctor probed my belly before my ultrasound, I flinched. It hurts. It's tender and hard below my seven-kids-bread-dough belly, like a painful, overinflated balloon with a lump of hot coal inside.

I've never taken naps, not in 18 years of raising children. In the last two weeks, I have desperately needed naps. By the afternoon, I'm so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open.

I was bleeding for 3 weeks straight in June and for 2 weeks again in December. I wear a pantiliner or a pad more than I don’t.

My last period made it so I could not leave the house.  This bleeding involves sudden, huge gushes that come out too fast for the maxi pad to absorb, so the blood runs down my legs, feeling exactly like I've wet my pants, except it is blood.

Last month, when I thought the bleeding was finally over, I got in the shower,  and after I washed my hair, I looked down and saw that I was standing in a puddle of bloody water with blood streaming down my legs like I was Janet Leigh’s character in the Psycho shower scene. It is alarming to have that much blood leave your body, especially when it’s not supposed to happen. I am so tired of bleeding. On that occasion, I sobbed as the blood went down the drain.

I'm ready for surgery.  I need to get my energy back and not feel that a little more of my life force is ebbing away every day. I need to walk up a flight of stairs without becoming short of breath. I need to be able to stop having my period and pain rule my life and determine what I will do on any given day. I need to rid myself of the burning hot coal that is stealing my health and my perception of myself as a young, vibrant woman.

One of my professors once described me as having the energy of five people. Now I would settle for the energy of one regular, 38 year old person. Since I had Gretel my symptoms have gotten so much worse and they are impacting my quality of life more and more by the day. I’m ready to close this chapter of my life.

I'm ready.

***Today I had a hysterectomy! No more lump of hot coal! (though my incisions will be a bit touchy for a while)

One Flew (out of) the Cuckoo's Nest

My oldest son turned 18 in April and went off to Navy boot camp this summer. He has now spent several months thousands of miles from home, and it's been a huge adjustment for everyone. I have six other children at home, including two toddlers. I remember when I was in my 20's and had five small children, imagining that I would be happy and relieved when my children were grown and moved out. It didn't turn out that way!

Of all the things "they" don't tell you about when you bring home a newborn baby, I think this is the most unexpected. I remember the stereotype of moms being sad when they have an empty nest, but my nest is actually quite full. So why am I so sad?

When my son was in boot camp, I found a lot of solace in a military mom group, where us moms dealt with the culture shock of having our children suddenly thousands of miles away and unable to communicate, save via weekly letters. In some way that I can't fully explain, I think the transition would have been gentler if he had gone to college as so many kids do at that age, although I'm sure being a college mom has its own challenges! Having a child embark on their own life has brought about, for me, such an overflow of emotion that it caught me by surprise.

It's not that I want my children to stay home with me forever, God knows that we had our struggles during the teen years, after all! It's just a mixture of immense pride, love, fear of the unknown, and sadness that this phase of my parenting him is over all at once. When I think back over the last 18 years, I have regrets of things I did and didn't do, times I was too quick to anger and too harsh, and times that I wished my days away because of the monotony of parenting a young child. But it's not that I'm stuck in regret, I think that despite everything, I did enjoy his childhood. It is hard for me to believe that so much time has passed. I am as astonished that he is an adult as I would be if I woke up tomorrow and my 20-month-old daughter announced that she was moving out!

Since I was 18 when I got pregnant and 19 when I gave birth, part of it is disbelief that I am old enough to be some adult's mother. Because I started my family so young, and then, after a five-year gap, started over with two babies in my mid-30's, I feel like I don't quite belong in any "mom group." To use a nautical analogy, I feel unmoored. What am I now? How can I be an empty nester with a full-to-bursting nest? How can I be both a teenage and advanced maternal age mom? Am I a new-old mom?

As I write this today, my oldest boy is flying back to his barracks after a week-long visit over the holidays in which we revisited some of our traditions from the years he was home with me. He also showed his out-of-shape and weak-muscled mother how to lift weights! We took him out to dinner, we spent time just hanging out, and I cried a lot. I'm excited that he's going back to his newfound profession and routine. I'm so very proud of the man he's become. But I can't help but see visions of the bright-haired toddler that I used to take on a daily walk in the stroller, while he excitedly pointed out houses and cars and his favorite, the grey horse down the road who would walk over to the fence and say hello.

I think I'm ready to let that boy go on his adventures. I pray he will fly high, but come back down to earth (and us) sometimes.

I was in a Cult.

I'm finally ready to say it.

I was in a cult.

I didn't know I was in a cult when I was in it (nobody ever does). It's not like you're getting ready on a Sunday morning and say to your kids, "come on guys, we have to get to the <insert worship facility> so we can work on our cultism!". No, it's insidious. Everything seems reasonable to you. When I look back at the things I believed and the things I did, I feel like the stupidest person alive. Did I BELIEVE that nonsense? But I did! And I know that I'm an intelligent person. How did it happen? How did I let it take over my life? Why didn't I heed the giant waving red flags and sirens along the way?

Here's how it works: You either are raised in the cult from a very young age so the behavior and beliefs become normalized OR you come into the cult later in life, when you're seeking something to give your life meaning. Cults are very good at "love bombing" and seem to have a sixth sense about people that are searching for belongingness (which is on Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs) and purport to be capable of filling that person's need. Of course, once you're "in," the love-bombing stops and you become just another rank and file member. But, by then, your world has shrunk to the four walls of your worship place, and the only people you have relationships with are those that are also "in."

When you're in a cult, everybody polices each other. It's human nature to deflect and as long as you're pointing the finger at someone else, it takes the heat off yourself. When you are in a cult, the leaders tell you that if you do, say, and think the "right" things, you will be safe. Another common factor in cults is focusing on apocalyptic "end times." My cult was no exception. Every day, we were to prepare and be on guard for this end time. So it didn't matter if you ever got an education, got a good job, or even got married. Having children was actively discouraged because what kind of monster would deliberately bring children into a world that was seen as soon to come to a violent end?

The real reason that people were discouraged from having outside goals or relationships or even to have children was a straightforward one: why would they want people to have divided loyalties or something else to spend their time and money on? People with small children were less likely to be actively involved in <insert pointless mandated activity>

I remember being chastised many times by our "religious leaders" about the fact that I had (at the time) five children. I was asked rude questions about my sex life and birth control choices. I found myself reflexively apologizing for my fertility. A story about some medical condition or accident of contraception was expected. It didn't make it ok, but if the other person heard that you were remorseful for your rampant irresponsibility, they could excuse you and nod sadly at your folly. Looking back, I genuinely regret the time I spent being less happy about my pregnancies than I should have been. I regret all the sheepish explanations I gave to those who chastised me.

I wasted 29 years of my life on a false and harmful belief. I was never faking, I was a true believer. I blocked out all criticisms, dropping anti-<insert cult here> pamphlets as if they were poison. I turned my head away from the protestors outside of our yearly gatherings. Now I think, "if only I had listened!"

I can't put all the blame on the leaders though. I did it. I participated. I shunned people. I hurt people. I raised my children in the cult. I am guilty. I could spend the rest of my life wearing a hair shirt and beating my chest (oh, how easy the Biblical allegories come to those raised in bible-thumping cults!), but I choose to do something else.

I'm going to speak out when the occasion calls. I'm going to raise my children differently. And I'm currently enrolled in college, with the goal of getting my Master's and becoming a licensed therapist. That's right, a big part of my successful exit from a cult is a secular, licensed therapist. I wouldn't have had the tools otherwise. I hope to help others with the tools they need when they are ready.

Unlike cult members, I will never seek out others and force my beliefs on them. I will never tell people how to live. I don't even mind if someone reads this and thinks, "That isn't a cult!". I am not here to tell anyone how to feel. I just know that for my husband and me, this was a terribly destructive force in our lives. It has taken us years to unravel the damage, and some will never be undone.

But, we are happy. For 25 years, I had a nightmare about some invisible force that I knew was coming. I had to shut all the windows and doors of our house, otherwise, it would get in. Each time I dreamed this, I would be panicking, racing around the house, trying to get all the windows closed, while my family laughed at me and persisted in undoing my work. When the cult I was in talked about end times, I knew that that was what I was dreaming of. How frightening for a child to live daily, feeling that the world would end in a terrible fashion, while spirit and earthly forces persecuted members of my religion. That was a heavy burden for a child who was already prone to anxiety. I also developed obsessive thoughts centered around religious themes and at one point became convinced (at 8 years old) that I had committed the unforgivable sin and would be destroyed by God.

I still have moments, over 5 years from the time we exited the cult, where the realization dawns on me that I am no longer carrying that weight. That I don't have to live every day in fear of end times or keep myself segregated from those that aren't in the same cult. And every time, I feel like I've won the lottery. I'm free!

P.S. I have deliberated avoided using the name of the cult I was in because it doesn't even matter which one I was in. But, if you're interested, it was Jehovah's Witnesses.

A Simple Kind of Life

Recently, I was washing the dishes (by hand, because I hate dishwashers, or at least our dishwasher) and as I was rinsing the bowl in the picture, I had some thoughts. This plain white mixing bowl is actually very special to me. I've had it for about 16 years. I vividly remember where I got it, it was from a Lilian Vernon catalog, that mail order gift company. I used to love those catalogs! As a SAHM with no car, my days were very long and I often filled my time by poring over magazines and catalogs. I used to love the Lilian Vernon one because the kitchen items were affordable and since we also didn't have much money, I would always dream of what I would buy if I could. 

At this time, we were living in our little two-bedroom apartment in Boise which had blue carpet. I decorated with my hand-me-down furniture and what few knick-knacks we could afford. I remember that I dreamed of a yellow kitchen in those days and one day, realized I could afford to buy a few things. I circled a set of plain white mixing bowls that were on sale and added adorable lemon salt-and-pepper shakers. We didn't have the internet then so I called in the order (on the phone!) and waited excitedly for my purchases to arrive. I don't even remember what happened to the salt-and-pepper-shakers and all the mixing bowls have been broken over the years except this one, but it reminds me so much of the simple days when I watched every penny and was so excited to get a set of cheap, plain white mixing bowls from a mail-order catalog. 

In many ways, my life is just as simple now, by design. I look around my house and see so many well-loved things that I have had since I got married. A cake pan, a pasta strainer, I have always had the attitude that you keep something until it can't be used anymore, there's no need to replace things! Because of that, I have been using a box grater with no handle for probably 17 years! But it works! I still have a casserole dish that I received as a wedding present nearly 19 years ago, cobalt blue and missing a lid. Probably half my kitchen items were wedding gifts, and the other half are Fiestaware that I bought at Goodwill and thrift shops. 

As I closed my business, I made a conscious choice to go back to a simpler existence. These days, if I get my step count on my Fitbit, the kids are happy and not fighting, and dinner is on the table, I consider the day a success. I'm still learning to adapt (again) to a simple kind of life. Most of the time, it feels just fine! 

Going Big and Going Home

 

Seven years ago this month, a stay-at-home mom of five pressed "submit" on her first Etsy listing. I look back on my then nearly ten years of being what I affectionately referred to as a "housewife" almost as if it were a dream. I was great at it. Really, really, great. My house was orderly and tastefully decorated. My children were in coordinated clothes. I myself never left the house without full makeup and often wore clothes I made myself. Oh, how I loved it. Baking a pie in the afternoon while listening to AM radio. Scrubbing the kitchen floor with a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water. I was a relic.

And then I went through the looking glass. A twisting, winding path that would lead me to the picture above. On the floor of Nasdaq as confetti rained down. Yes, I was nearly 7 months pregnant at the time and my lower back was killing me, but I had traveled to NYC. I rode the subway! I visited Etsy HQ and sold my soap in Times Square. And if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere (as the saying goes).

But did I make it? I'm still not sure.

This year I closed my shop. It was a painful decision. I had more than 30,000 sales on Etsy by that time. I should be proud, I worked really hard at it for a long time. For a brief shining moment, it was my dream and I imagined myself turning it into an empire. And then it turned into something else. By the end, it stung.

The beginning of the end started just a few months after that moment on the Nasdaq floor. That July, had given birth to my sixth child but something wasn't right with me. I was suffering from postpartum depression that caused crippling anxiety. I could hardly bear to open my emails in the morning. I started to avoid them, going longer and longer before responding to customers. I had handed over the day-to-day operations to my husband and teenage son while I recovered. But when I had imagined going back to handling everything, I found that I wasn't ready. So my husband (who worked full-time) was burning the midnight oil every night making products while I ordered supplies and printed labels and answered emails and our son shipped orders. Things started to slip through the cracks. I remember clearly sitting on my bed with my laptop open to convos, holding the baby, with tears streaming down my face because I was dreading opening my messages. I started to get complaints about the slow response time and the slower shipping time. They were legitimate complaints but I felt powerless to address them. My mental state was not good and I simply couldn't handle being back at work yet. But I felt obligated to stay open because by this time, I had taken out loans for operating expenses and these loans required me to be open, making daily sales. At this point, I was also responsible for making a good portion of our family income. With a new baby and new expenses, I couldn't do anything else but keep plodding along.

Then one day, I opened my shop and realized I had lost my five star rating. I was devastated. It was then that I realized something had to change. I ended up going on vacation mode in order to catch up and started to do that whenever I felt the need. During the times that I was closed to catch my breath, I noticed that I felt happier, freer. I knew that my focus had changed and that my business was no longer bringing me joy. And wasn't that the point in the first place? To make our lives better?

By the beginning of 2016, the seed was planted in my head that my shop had an expiration date. In August 2016, I started college at Northwest Nazarene University as a 36 year old freshmen. It was time to move on to my next stage. I also found out I was pregnant with my seventh child, my only daughter. I felt like the universe was telling me I was making the right choice. But I knew I had to keep my business going until I could wrap it up in an organized fashion and after I had paid off all my loans. I also wanted to get to 30,000 sales just because. After my daughter was born, I had learned my lesson about overextending myself and I took a lengthy maternity leave. No more returning convos from my hospital bed as I had in 2015.

I closed my shop for good in October, after making my final payment to the bank that loaned me operating capital. It was over. For the first time in seven years, I was able to decorate my house for Christmas, set up my Christmas village, bake cookies and watch movies with my kids. As sad as I was (and am) about the end of PuurBody it was 100% the right decision. I am so grateful for every customer that believed in me and took a chance on my business when it was so new. I feel guilty sometimes that I was not able to "go big" but instead chose to "go home" but I know in my heart it was the right step.

I am not sure what I will do about my product formulas, which were all painstakingly developed by me and were hard for me to even share with my husband when he started learning to make products. I have received many emails from former customers who want to order my natural deodorant. I thought of just giving them the formula but I don't feel ready to give up my "babies" and am not sure what I will do with my proprietary information in the future. Sometimes I'm tempted just to whip up a batch of deodorant and gift it to those who have asked but I feel that would start me down the road to another business and I really don't want to go there! I definitely have the entrepreneurial spirit and often think of ideas for other business ventures and have to mentally slap myself to prevent me from doing them.

Now I am a stay-at-home-mom again and a Sophomore in college, pursuing my Master's degree. Life is good. I have come home.

Finding my Joy

Since I wrote last, I have been in homebody mode, in my winter break for college and stuck under a historic winter storm that has dumped unprecedented amounts of snow and meant that we have been hovering around zero degrees farenheit.

I've been thinking a lot about what I want for this year, as people are apt to do after New Year's and I'm finding myself gravitating to many of the same hobbies that I have not had time for in years. Meal planning, couponing and crocheting have all been happening. I have crocheted a soft pink lacy blanket for the expected baby girl and started another. I am anxious to get back to my studies as I find that I really enjoy being a college student. This upcoming semester I will be studying some subjects that I really enjoy, like Literature and Christian Theology.

I dyed my hair platinum blonde with rose quartz ombre in what is left of my bright red hair that I had months ago. I am still feeling unsettled and sometimes like I'm not accomplishing enough but I am thankful that I am adapting well to my new reality. Gone are the coffee-fueled all-nighters and the pressure to meet sales goals. Now I am taking my sales as they come and spending more time working on the things that are truly "Important to Me". I also watched the documentary, "For Joey" about Joey Feek and her cancer battle. It is really hard to feel sorry for oneself when presented with a story like that, and that's a good thing.

I used to be a Top Etsy Seller, but I'm not anymore. And why I'm Okay with that (Usually)

They Are Not Long - Ernest Dowson

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

Love and desire and hate;

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses,

Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

I came back to my little old blog because this is where it all began. That picture on my blog? It was taken almost exactly 6 years ago, right after I opened my silly little Etsy shop with zero expectations. I feel like I've lived 100 lifetimes since then and become someone I don't even remember becoming.

So allow me to sit on my rocking chair, children, while I tell you a story. How my silly little hobby became a business that at one time provided half my family income. How I went from 0 sales to nearly 30,000 on Etsy and how I ultimately, failed.

Six years ago I was a stay-at-home mom with five children and I was just trying to navigate the economic times, which for us were...bad. My days were spent figuring out how to make it all work. I baked, I sewed, I took care of children. I loved it. But I thought I could help stretch the budget a bit by making soap. Then I thought I could sell a few bars here and there for some extra cash. Oh, poor, sweet, naive 2010 me!

Well, anyway, it ended up exploding more than I could have imagined. On April 16, 2015, I found myself standing on the selling floor at Nasdaq, along with other Etsy sellers, ringing handmade bells as Etsy.com went public. At six months pregnant, I traveled to New York and walked down Broadway. I sold my products at a booth in Times Square. It was amazing and memorable.  In the last 6 years, my business has kept food on the table during the worst of the Great Recession. At one time, it paid for a bi-weekly cleaning service and a part-time employee. I bought my children clothes and books and shoes and gadgets. We went to Disneyland twice. And then I had my son, Felix. From the first night in the hospital, I suffered from extreme PPA which meant I couldn't sleep and sat on my bed crying while worrying over my Etsy reviews, which were suffering. I simply couldn't keep up anymore and my husband and son were taking over most tasks. After I got over the worst of my depression, which took at least 6 months, I no longer had the desire to outsell everybody. All I wanted was...peace.

Yet, how could I continue contributing to my family in the way we had become used to? So I soldiered on. I stopped being able to create new fragrances and products, so I just kept making the same old things. I lost my competitive edge. I didn't keep up with changes, I didn't keep my product line fresh. I phoned it in for a good year. And it showed! This past summer, I found out I was pregnant with my seventh child, a girl after six boys. A child that will likely be my last child ever. I do not want a repeat of July 2015. I need to find joy in my life again and move on to the next step. I don't have the energy to compete with other shops, I'm not good at innovating right now. Basically, I suck. I'm no Estee Lauder. And that's okay.

This fall, I enrolled in Northwest Nazarene University in order to ultimately get my Master's Degree. I have plans for the future again! I'm a full-time student at 36, pregnant with my seventh child! I have a son that will be going off to college himself in 2018. It is a busy and exciting time. I have cried a lot of tears at the prospect of my Etsy shop becoming a footnote in my life, or maybe a sidebar. It certainly will not be the focus of my day-to-day activities as is has for so long. I will still continue making products but likely I will cut my product line down by at least half.

It has been a grieving process realizing that I need to do this, it feels like somebody died. I've cried a lot of tears over this.  But I hope, in time, it will just be a happy memory of what I did from 2010-2016, and I won't feel the embarrassment that I currently feel at having not "made it big" or "created an empire" or whatever if was that I was so hell-bent on doing for so long. I've learned so much in the last six years. Mostly, that where I am truly happy and fulfilled is right here, planning my weekly grocery shopping or baking bread. It was quite a ride, and now that this era is coming to an end, I'm both sad and grateful.

Thank you to everyone that helped me make it happen.

I will be back!

Tired Mama Cooks

I love tuna casserole. It reminds me of being a kid! Unfortunately, my husband does NOT like tuna casserole. Something about texture. Whatever.

He recently told me to stop not making all the things he doesn't like (enough double negatives there?) so I threw together a made-from-scratch tuna casserole while he was at the gym. No sodium laden condensed soup here or weird cracker crumb topping (though I secretly like that). It's so easy and cheap! And it was a win with my kiddos.

Tired Mama Tuna Casserole

• Large can of light tuna (12 oz) in water
• Two cups milk (lowfat is fine)
• 4Tbls olive oil or butter
• 1 tsp celery salt
• 1/4 tsp sage
• 4 TBLS flour
• 1lb whole wheat penne
• 1/2 cup seasoned bread crumbs
• 1 cup shredded colby-blend cheese

Melt butter in saucepan, add flour, stir into a smooth paste. Add celery salt, sage, and milk. Cook and stir until thickened and bubbly and then 1 minute more. Drain tuna, add to sauce. Cook pasta (I do mine in a rice cooker!) to just past al-dente, drain. Grease large casserole dish, add noodles, then sauce, mix gently with a wooden spoon and smooth the top. Add cheese, then seasoned bread crumbs. Cover with foil and bake at 350 for 30 minutes. 

'Twas Brillig. My Fight with Postpartum Anxiety (PPA)

"...Beware the Jabberwok, my son 

the jaws that bite, the claws that catch"

On July 6th, I drove to the hospital to be induced. I was expecting my sixth child. A much wanted, beloved baby boy. I was nervous about the induction but with my history of precipitous labor, it seemed like the best choice, particularly since I was GBS positive and wanted to have time to receive my antibiotics. However, although I was 39 weeks +2, my cervix was very unfavorable, so I knew it would be a long haul. When we arrived at the hospital, my doula was there, and my awesome midwife started the induction. For the first 10 hours, nothing really happened. We walked the halls, ate breakfast and then lunch, napped. It was peaceful and relaxing. At dinnertime, still no change so we decided that we would start some pitocin. I sent my husband James home to be with our other children. My doula and I walked to the lobby and went up and down the stairs and did squats to try to get the baby lower. At 7pm, my water broke! It seemed things were finally happening. I called my husband and my midwife back to the hospital and labor began in earnest. I remember feeling so taken care of and loved throughout the entire experience, which ended up being a 24 hour marathon. At 8:02 AM, 24 hours after arriving at the hospital, Felix Heathrow was finally born. When I saw his face, it was like seeing the faces of all my other children. He was so beautiful, and so healthy. 

It was truly the happiest day of my life. As the mother of six, it seems to me that with each child, the love I feel for them is multiplied by the love I feel for my other children. So by the time Felix arrived, I had so much love, I felt that I could burst. After getting settled in my room, I sent James home again to be with our other children. I wanted to be alone with the baby. We spent a blissful day, him resting on my chest, me breathing him in. But that first night, things started to change. At midnight, a nurse came to get vitals on both of us. I had had an IV for the first 12 hours after his birth and was pretty uncomfortable and by then, had been awake for 36 hours. When she put Felix on the scale and announced his weight, I was horrified. It showed he had lost a pound in 12 hours! How could that be? It turned out to be a scale malfunction, but after that I was on high alert for problems with his weight and feeding. By 3AM, I still hadn't slept and called James and through tears, told him I needed him with me. The night seemed endless. Finally morning came and I was dying to be released from the hospital. I felt that if I could just get home, things would be better. 

"But I'm not sad!"

Postpartum depression can be a very isolating experience for mothers experiencing it, however, there is a lot more information out there than even a decade ago. Newly delivered mothers are often told to be on the lookout for sadness, excessive crying, feeling detached from their babies. I had none of that. I was downright blissful when I snuggled with my perfect little bundle of baby. The whole world receded and I cared about nothing else but caring for him. But I was terrified. Every night, as dusk settled, I became more and more agitated. Nighttime was a nightmare for me. When I slept, which wasn't often, I had terrifying dreams that left me exhausted. I felt like I existed in a horror movie that I couldn't shut off. When I cried, it was tears of terror. I developed an almost violent aversion to my business, the business I had worked so hard on for the past four years. The business I grew from a tiny seedling into an enterprise that provided my family with income. I literally couldn't stand to return emails, or even look at my inbox. I stopped answering my phone, shut off the ringer because every sound from my phone was like impending doom. 

The effort of withstanding the adrenaline in my system made me sick. Every morning I was dry heaving in the bathroom. I shoveled food that was served to me into my mouth without tasting it. I didn't care about my appearance anymore. Through nine months of my pregnancy, I wore winged liquid liner every day. When Felix was born I never touched my makeup bag and cared not. I hadn't been out of the house without makeup since I was 13 years old. Through 5 prior pregnancies and postpartums, I still put effort into how I looked, because it made me feel better. Now I showered and brushed my hair mechanically and didn't so much as look at my myself in the mirror for days on end. My business suffered. I closed my shop for a couple of weeks because I was in no shape to run it, but felt guilty about not having it open and reopened it, leaning on my husband and teenage son to do the bulk of work. I simply couldn't do it. The simplest tasks were overwhelming. I spent hours psyching myself up enough just to look at my orders. I didn't want to put the baby down long enough to make products, holding him even when he slept. 

And then he had his two week checkup. I was terrified he was losing weight and it turned out I was right. He wasn't nursing as well as he seemed to be and was still well below his birth weight. I truly believe that my anxiety was causing my milk supply to suffer as well. I was horrified, guilt ridden. I felt that I had let my baby down, that he was starving and I had not noticed. I visited two lactation consultants and got on a grueling regimen of round-the-clock pumping and nursing. And I knew that I had to treat my anxiety. I called my midwife and explained to her what was happening. As much as I didn't want to be on medication, I felt that it was the best chance of me being functional for my children. When I took my first pill, I cried. I was afraid of the side effects, afraid of it affecting the baby, afraid of everything. But I started to feel better, bit by bit. It wasn't a miraculous recovery, I'm afraid. Recovering from PPA or PPD often takes months. But things started to get better. 

Am I "cured", three months in? Not even a little. I am still more anxious than I would like. It is still hard for me to complete daily tasks, but I am trying. I took back over the reins to my poor beleaguered business that had suffered so much from my neglect. I have always been extremely ambitious but I had to give myself a huge break on this one. I had done the best I could and my business was in the ditch. It was going to take a lot of effort to pull it back out. Now I consider it a success when I answer my emails promptly, when I am productive in making products, when I am attentive to my children, when I make dinner and go to the grocery store. This isn't a story about supermom, I am far from that now. But I think this experience has made me a more compassionate person. I never understood the crushing weight of anxiety and how it makes completing simple tasks a huge victory. I never understood breastfeeding struggles and how much work it takes to get a baby gaining weight again after things weren't going well. I never understood people that didn't push themselves to achieve more and more, and I didn't know the simple joy in struggling so hard to be "normal" and succeeding, at long last. 

I didn't slay the Jabberwocky, he is sitting quite calmly in the corner as I go about my day, subdued. And I can live with that. 

Don't Go Breaking My Feelings...

 Today my fourth boy Dorian turns five! I always think that five is a huge milestone, as it's purportedly when many of the brain functions become fully developed. I think of my children as becoming themselves from birth to five and by five, they are THEM.

Five years ago today I was a stay at home mom with one child in school (wow, how times flies!) and two little ones at home. I woke up on April 16, 2008 knowing that it would be Dorian's birthday, but DETERMINED to get a start on making all the meals for the freezer that you're "supposed" to make before having a baby. I had been putting it off because my first three children were all born past their due date, so I expected Dorian to follow suit.

When I woke up with contractions, I told myself it couldn't be, and went about my day. Around noon, I finished making two pans of lasagna and as I straightened up from the refrigerator after putting them in, a contraction almost doubled me over. After two more hours of being in denial, I finally called James to tell him "maybe" make himself available for a quick exit? At 2:30 my midwife convinced me to come in "for a check", well, it was a good thing because Dorian was born at 4:01, an hour to the minute after we arrived at the birth center! Some "check" it turned out to be!

10lbs 4oz, Dorian was finished "cooking" apparently and ready to be born! We came back home just as the sun was setting and even ate my famous labor lasagna for dinner. I boasted that few women give birth and then eat the homecooked meal they made on the very same day,  haha!

Dorian was born an "old soul". He hardly ever cried as a baby and I mean NEVER! However, he is a sensitive little guy and when we do something that makes him sad, he says, "you're breaking my feelings". All my pictures of Dorian are of him being pensive, in Disneyland, at the beach, in the mountains. I tease him I'm going to make an album of Dorian being serious and/or crying in all kinds of fun places.

Even though he is quiet and serious, Dorian loves his brothers. Nothing makes him happier than cuddling with them and his baby quilt that I made him on the couch. I'm always wondering what's going on behind those grey eyes, like the strong silent type, he keeps things to himself. I know that he's going to do great things when he's a big blonde man and I can't wait to see it! Love you Dorian!

I had to Share...

I posted this on my personal facebook page, but then I thought, "what the heck, why not share it with EVERYBODY!"


As God is my witness, I will never be hungry again

Fifteen years ago, I jokingly repeated those words as I embarked on a journey to heal my body and mind from the grips of food obsession. Or not so much food, the food was only a symptom of the emotional pain I felt, along with an intense desire to simply vanish into thin air. 

I had an eating disorder. 

It started out innocently enough when I was about 11, and in the terribly awkward preteen stage. I had started to put on weight that summer, and was concerned that my body, always strong and muscular, was turning into something I couldn't abide- fat. I was raised to be intensely aware of my appearance, and to never look unnattractive. I felt it was my duty, to my family and to others, to appear as attractive as possible, and I remember catty conversations with my female relatives about women who were X pounds and "can you believe she wears a size xx?". I began to see my natural growth and development as something to fear, and so I started counting calories. Except...having no real idea how many calories I SHOULD take in, I thought that aiming for 1000 calories a day was plenty. I memorized food labels and calorie charts, and realized that for a hungry 5ft 3" adolescent girl, it was really HARD to stay under 1000 calories! So I cut out fat, all of it, sugar of course, and meat. 

That left me with dry toast and salad with no dressing. 

I weighed myself 10 times a day and when I didn't see the results I was hoping for, started skipping meals as well. I did this all through my adolescence, until my eating disorder spiraled out of control when I was 17. I had been having problems at home, and my stress caused me to lose 12 lbs in 10 days. My clothes were hanging off me, and I was thrilled! In order to continue this "progress", I decided to stop eating entirely, except for crackers when I felt I must eat, and my latte addition (which is probably all that was keeping me going at that point). I went as long as three days without eating at all, during this time I was supporting myself by working full time and lived in my own apartment. Day after day I trudged home and went straight to bed, with no energy to do the things that a normal 17 year old girl would do. My employer started bringing me breakfast and insisting I eat it in front of him. I did, because I wanted people to think that I was normal and the secrecy in my condition was huge. My hair stopped growing, my muscles, gained from a lifetime of walking everywhere, turned to pasty flab. My skin cracked and peeled. I looked terrible and felt worse. I didn't date, I didn't have the energy and since I looked like death warmed over, no boys asked. I developed narcolepsy, falling dead asleep in the middle of a conversation with my friend who stopped by to watch a movie with me. She let herself out and worried about me. 

Then I started having heart palpatations. This wasn't the "skip a beat" feeling or the fluttering because of having low blood sugar. My heart felt like it would burst out of my chest and I woke up one night from a sound sleep feeling like I was about to die. That sobered me up quick. I had covered my skin problems with makeup the thickness of spackle, but this I couldn't ignore. I got up and went to the kitchen right then and there, opening the unused pantry, where I had a can of tuna, a package of saltines, and a jar of mayonaise that somebody had given me. I was starving, and crammed crackers into my mouth while I prepared a very bland tuna salad (with no salt because of course I didn't cook). I ate half the sleeve of crakers and all the tuna. I knew I had to change. 

I had no resources for counseling, I was on my own and had to work, so I devised a very basic plan. I would teach myself how to eat again. Every day, I went about my non-food day as usual, but came home and started making a meal for myself. I always liked breakfast, so I started there. At first, I chopped up one small potato, and cooked it in a dry pan. Then I fried one egg, with no butter. After I learned to eat that without hating myself, I increased it. After a month or so, I was eating a pretty good meal every day, two eggs, with a tiny sprinkle of cheese, a smidge of olive oil in the pan to make them more palatable, and a good sized potato. Soon I added dry toast. Then I added a pat of butter. By the time summer came around, I was eating 1,000 calories a day again. That was huge for me and I finally felt strong enough to eat other meals as well, yogurt for breakfast, a bagel for lunch (this was the low-fat high carb 90's!). 

I read a study years later that found that girls with eating disorders have changes in their brain that make them literally forget how to be hungry and to eat, and that simply provding scheduled meals reversed those changes. I had stumbled on an effective treatment quite by accident. 

I have not been free of relapses, during periods of stress I have to remind myself not to listen to the inner dialogue that tells me that I don't "deserve" to eat. I have gained a lot of weight from having my babies, but every time I would embark on a weight loss plan, it would trigger me to begin starving myself, and I'd have to abandon the plan. 

But now...

Fifteen years later and I've FINALLY made peace with food. I don't think about it, obsess over it, feel bad about it, crave it, love it, hate it, I just EAT what I need and no more. This healthy plan was motivated by James and we're in a healthy competition to regain our pre-marriage bodies! At the age of 32, after white-knuckling through most of the last fifteen years, I feel like I've turned a corner. 

Yay for that! 

"Insanity Is....

"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results" ~ Albert Einstein

This is true. I know this is true, you know this is true; why do we humans keep hanging on to things when we know nothing will ever change?

I came to the decision this week to cut off ties with a close family member, this decision was final, very necessary, long overdue....and very, very painful.

I'm 32 years old, and I have a GREAT life. I have managed, against the odds to have a great, long-lasting marriage (nearly 14 years!), five wonderful children, and a cozy and sweet home. Not to mention great friends (you know who you are!) and a thriving business. I'm lucky, very, very lucky. But I wasn't always so fortunate, and like "All the King's Horses and all the King's Men", I've spent the better part of my adult life trying to put Humpty-Dumpty back together again. I thought that by my sheer determination, I could right the wrongs and make things better. I now know that its not possible, it was never possible, and the only reason I've been trying so hard is because...the alternative was too sad.

The "sad thing" happened a long time ago now, but I'm only just realizing it. I remember watching a movie some years back, where the heroine was talking about how she felt when her parents died. She said, "I don't have anyone to be proud of me now". The reality was, I never had that, and in pursuit of that "proudness", I've only hurt myself. Accepting that I will never have that as long as I live is the hardest part. I told myself when the email that ended my relationship with this family member was sent that I WOULD NOT cry, and I didn't. But in the days since the email went out, I find myself bursting into tears over the silliest things! I know that its normal, expected, healthy to feel this odd type of grief but I wish I had had the strength to take this step years ago, because I'd feel better about it by now.

This isn't something that I took lightly, and you may be thinking, "what on earth could have happened?". I am not angry at this person, I am not vindictive, and this wasn't some kind of rash thing that I can go back on. I made sure that when I made the decision, I took the steps necessary to ensure that my decision, so painfully won, will be upheld. I made a promise to myself that I will never let this person hurt me ever, ever again, and this means that I have already had my last conversation with them in my life. I will not regret it, it is done. I know in my bones that I did everything I could do to carve out a semblance of a relationship and I'm glad because now I can walk away with no shame, only the knowledge that I have finally stood up for myself, and the hope that telling my story can help anyone struggling with a relationship they know is unhealthy, but who lacks the strength to do anything about it, much as I lacked the strength for so long.

I also want to show my boys that some wrongs can never be fixed, and actions have consequences. All I can do now is strive every day to be a positive force in their lives, so that when they are my age, they will not have to be typing on a keyboard at 1 am with tears streaming down their faces :)

Holy. Cow, my last two posts have been serious downers, but I have much sewing to discuss, so once I dry my eyes, I will get right on a post that is chock full of fun fabrics and happy thoughts!

The Dark Side of Excellence

Andrew and Elvis at our cabin getaway

This post is a bit more serious and much darker than my usual posts, but it's something close to my heart, so I hope you will bear with me :)

This week we learned the very sad news that a child at Andrew's school had committed suicide, and along with the police investigation at the school; there was some reflection on "what went wrong". Tonight my thoughts are with this dear child's parents; losing their child at such a young age (only 8th grade) and under such circumstances is the greatest pain that a parent can experience.

This tragedy has made me reflect on the unique challenges that "Gifted" children face, although it's not talked about much. The assumption is of course, that gifted children have an advantage in life, a leg up on others, and as such, have no struggles at all save which school to go to, one of the Ivy Leagues, or MIT. This is simply not true. Technically, children who are "outliers" in either direction have a much tougher road that the children that fall effortlessly into the mainstream. Here are my children's stories:

When Andrew was born, we knew almost right away that he was "different". He talked at six months and walked at eight. When he was 9 months old he was walking like he had done it his whole life, saying "hi!" to everyone. As a child who was "gifted" myself, I dreaded him going into school feeling different. Because of that, I specifically and purposely avoided educational material and the flash cards that I was "supposed" to expose him to. At that age (only 19 myself), I thought that maybe if I didn't draw attention to it, nobody would notice Andrew was highly intelligent. When he was 5, I enrolled him in a regular Kindergarten and took a deep breath, hoping he would fit in. Not so! Within a month of school I was informed that he was headed to the Gifted program. But not yet. They didn't have the resources to test/teach children younger than second grade. I had never taught Andrew to read, and he COULDN'T read entering Kindergarten. But somewhere between September and January of Kindergarten, Andrew taught HIMSELF to read, and by the end of  Kindergarten read at high third grade level. Great. The gig was up! We made arrangements for Andrew to go through the rigorous testing that precedes a child entering the gifted program and all the extra help that entailed. I was torn between hoping he would meet the requirements and hoping he wouldn't. He did. He scored in the top 2% nationwide and at the tender age of seven years and one month, was sitting down with a school psychologist to have his IQ tested. I hated that part, and his IQ (which is high) will never be revealed to him as long as I have breath in my body. I didn't want him to be chained to a number for the rest of his life. I actually cried when I got the report; but this was (to me) the best part: When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Andrew; my baby seven year old, answered that he wanted to be a "pizza delivery man like his Daddy" (James worked a second job delivering pizza at the time). That answer is so Andrew! I thought to myself then that this kid was going to be fine.

Going to school as a gifted child marks you. You are expected to be (as one parent said at one of my early meetings with other gifted parents) "the best of the best!", and yet you are not allowed to talk of your accomplishments for fear of "bragging" or making "normal" kids feel bad about themselves. It becomes a whole subculture, with the egos of the parents and the funding of the schools combining into an unholy brew. When I became initiated into this club, as a 26 year old mother, I showed up at the first support group meeting hoping to meet people who could help me guide my son through this process. What I found was that I was by FAR the youngest parent of the group, in fact probably half the parents could have been MY parents. Why are there so many older parents with gifted children? Is older DNA superior? What I found was that among the parents of gifted children in our area, I was a statistically outlier. For Andrew to have been born to teenage, high school educated parents and then end up in the top echelon of children was almost unheard of. Why? As I learned, these were nearly all extremely well educated, highly motivated parents who would not accept any less than the best from their offspring. By sheer force of will and constant work, they were molding their children into being "the best of the best". I have to admit I was more than a little disillusioned and slightly horrified to hear 8-year-olds being discussed in terms of their IQ and future earning potential.

It wasn't just the parents, though. The teachers, gifted facilitators, principals, and school districts all benefited directly and indirectly by these children's high achievement. Not to vilify the parents, nor the administrators, it's human nature to want our children to do well in life; I KNOW that these parents all love their children fiercely, but many get caught up in the achievement hoopla. In the end, I felt nothing in common with the other parents, and my desire to let Andrew be a kid for as long as possible, rather than enrolling him in infinite extracurricular activities has meant that I'm an outsider. I fear for him all the time, knowing that kids in school are often unkind to "nerds" and "brains" and that he and other children like him are subjected to bullying and ridicule. What does the school do about this? Not much; I knew a parent who had the experience of speaking to a school administrator and comparing the plight of gifted children with that of special needs children, in that they are both deviations from the norm, and both conditions should be supported by school officials. The school administrator became visibly angry at this comparison, saying that it's not acceptable to compare highly gifted children (who are often socially awkward) with special needs children, reasoning that "at least gifted children do well in school".  So often, "normal" children are given leeway when they humiliate a "brain" because the school (and parents) must be understanding of the fact that "normal" children might lash out because they feel bad about themselves by comparison. Hogwash! If I could push a button and make my child lose 30 points in IQ so that he would be happy all his life; I'd do it in a heartbeat. Giftedness should NOT be a cross to bear. Our society's collective ridicule of smarts is not acceptable to me as the parent of what turns out to be more than one gifted child.

Yes, that's right. When Bentley came along; he didn't talk like Andrew did, but he did start arranging things in straight lines at the age of nine months. So much so that I consulted with the pediatrician about him possibly being autistic. Since he didn't show any of the other signs, and could actually talk quite well for his age, this was ruled out. When he gained enough fluency to make an answer, I asked him, "Bentley, why don't you ever talk?". His answer? "Because I don't choose to". When Bentley was three he "outlawed" all use of the slang, "ya" instead of yes, and stopped using contractions in his own speech. When anyone slipped up and said, "ya", he'd say, "don't say ya, it is NOT a word, say yes". Again, I sent Bentley to school hoping he'd find his way. What happened was that he didn't thrive in a classroom environment, he simply shut down. I remember going to see his classroom in First Grade, they had put up all the kids' art projects around the room. With other parents milling around, trying to find the masterpiece our child painted, I spotted a painting that was a single red square, right in the center of the page. Nothing else. I knew immediately that it belonged to Bentley! He was, like Andrew, "different". So different in fact, that eventually his teachers were at their wits' end trying to teach a child who had been testing off the charts for reading, but who wouldn't turn in a single piece of homework. I knew I had to take action, I wasn't going to go let him flounder another moment. I had him enrolled in a virtual academy within the week of making my decision, and he's doing great. The school system simply wasn't prepared to teach a child who fell so far outside the norms as Bentley; he didn't fit their mold, as so many children who fall through the cracks. At nine, Bentley is a scientist at heart. He is almost painfully cerebral and would be content to spend all day at his "observations". He will stand in the middle of a flower bed with bees flying around him for hours, until they get used to his presence. Then, he rubs pollen on his hand and allows bees to land on his hand. Eventually, he convinces bees to allow him to touch them, yes, he holds bees IN HIS HAND. He almost never gets stung, when he does, he blames himself for scaring them. He also has become single-mindedly determined to become immune to bee stings, and with a determination that frightens me a bit, has decided to get stung just enough to develop the immunity that many beekeepers have. He loves anatomy, and his prized possession is a copy of Grey's Anatomy, which he consults daily. This led to the unexpected introduction of my small children to the birds and the bees, as Bentley informed his rapt brothers about the secrets of the human reproductive system, which I discovered when my six-year-old started going around saying "vagina". Not a terrible way to learn about sex, right?!

I hope that this tragedy at Andrew's school will make people, both children and adults, think about the way they view "the nerds". There's no way of knowing whether the pervasive bullying that occurs at this school or any school contributed to the tragedy of this child's suicide. But I think that for children like him, and like MY children, excellence and higher intelligence can often turn into a negative force. It's so difficult as a parent to see your child experience all the hardships that often come with a high IQ; to help them navigate through their school years unscathed. I feel for all parents experiencing this and feeling helpless. For my own children, I hope and pray that they will find their way; and that my advocacy on their behalf is actually making a difference. It's been a fight these past several years to make sure both Bentley and Andrew are getting the resources that they need. It would be far easier on them if they were "average" children, and I'm constantly aware of that. My third child, Callan; has more unique challenges. At 6 years old, he CAN read, but has absolutely no interest in it. Every page I give him to complete is filled with drawings. His artistic talent is unusual for a child his age, and I'm keenly aware that his brain works differently than most. When he started Kindergarten, his huge personality as well as his size (he was at least a head taller than the other children) made him stand out. I decided at the end of the year to home school both Bentley and Callan, and will allow Dorian to make his own choice when the time comes. I'm tired of fighting the school system who is set up (rightly so) for children that fall in a wide swath in the middle. And not so great at helping children who are different. With my individual attention to them; I can do better. And I will!