December Girl

Part 1: When she was bad

I can't say for certain what the catalyst was, but it may have been the photo. I took a photo of myself, posing with the alligator statue I was commissioned to paint. I was so excited to begin this project, painting a Gator on the Geaux was something I had wanted to do since I was a teen, and here was the opportunity. So, I took a photo of myself with the gator I had recently finished sanding and priming. I hated the photo. I could see the cellulite on my arms and legs in harsh relief, my very rounded face, and the apron I wore in an attempt to camouflage my belly and hips. I edited the photo, thinking I could make it look better. After all, the lighting in my living room is awful at night, that was the issue. The edits I added didn't help much. I still didn't like the photo, so much that I didn't want to share it on social media, and I love my social media.

I took the photo on August 26th, 2017. On September 1st, less than a week later, I started to walk.

I had been struggling for a long time. My anxiety was out of control, along with my hormones and my weight. I was unwell, but I didn't truly know it. Or maybe I just didn't understand it. For months, I had been having negative, intrusive thoughts. I would be alone in my van, driving home, and a thought would slam into my head:

I am so deeply unhappy.

I tried to just shrug the thought away, toss it to the back of my brain, and tell myself that it was silly to be unhappy- obviously, that was untrue. What did I have to be unhappy about? I have this great husband who I love AND like, and he loves and likes me back. We have this great daughter who is smart and funny and cute as a bug. We have a house to live in, beds to sleep in, food to eat, and people to love. Somehow though, knowing that didn't change how I felt. I ignored my negative thoughts as best I could, but the feelings I could not ignore. The anxiety sneaked into me. Which isn't to say I haven't always struggled with it, because I've been an anxious person for as long as I have memories, long before I had that word to describe what I felt. I was always described as "shy" as a young child by parents, teachers and myself, too. Now I realize I was never shy, I was anxious. A lot. It made me afraid to speak up, afraid of attention directed at me, afraid to stand up for myself. The anxiety never went away, but I grew up and got better at coping with it and just working through it. 

Until, that is, I had a miscarriage.

That story is on this blog too, so there's no need for me to go into it, but something changed in me after the miscarriage, and it wasn't just emotionally or mentally: there were physical changes also. Sometime after the lost pregnancy, after I had started healing emotionally, my periods began getting worse. If you're squeamish about periods, you should just skip ahead now. Basically, my periods became a lot heavier, cramps became more painful, and I just felt completely drained and rundown the week of my cycle. Other changes happened, too: the week before my period, my anxiety reached fever pitch. I had dark intrusive thoughts constantly. I worried endlessly about...basically everything. One time I had this thought that I may have done my taxes wrong (this was months after I had filed them) and had panic attack. I can't even describe properly how I felt when these attacks would happen, because they were so irrational but also totally real to me while I was experiencing them. I felt caged and trapped, like I was being hunted, but there was no physical threat ever, just...thoughts. Eventually I realized that I only felt like myself a week or two out of the month, and the rest of the time I felt anxious, frustrated, terrified, and sad.

My family started noticing that something with me was off, but I was pretty good at masking what was happening internally. Other things were wrong with me, too. I had horrible insomnia at night and slept well into the daytime when I finally managed to fall asleep. I won't even go into my awful eating habits other than to say I was drinking so much Dr Pepper that sometimes my kidneys would ache because I was so dehydrated. I gained so much weight that I had to wear Danny's shirts, because mine didn't fit anymore. I couldn't keep up with housework or artwork, and had to stop taking on commission work because I became so stressed about every project that I felt physically sick until it was finished and the client let me know they were happy with it. If I sent a client an image and didn't hear back right away my brain told me they hated the work and I was worthless. Eventually, my behavior caught up with my feelings and the anxieties started spilling out.

When I think about this now, it just breaks my heart, because my daughter noticed. My behavior became a new normal for her. I would get upset about something, have some outburst, apologize for whatever I'd said (yelled) or done, and Ruby would say to me, "It's okay mom. I know, you're just frustrated. It's okay, I love you." It broke me. My baby girl, only 5, saw me coming apart at the seams long before I realized I was unraveling. I actually wrote out a note in my phone chronicling all the crazy feelings and stresses and physical things that were wrong with me, hoping if I just wrote down how I felt I'd feel better, but I didn't. My mom noticed I was off, my brother did too. Danny knew something wasn't right. He was having to cope with my moods right along with me, but he didn't realize the extent of my unhappiness because he can't see inside my head. Until, that is, a night when I finally broke down and everything spilled out of me in a flood of tears and snot and rambling. We were lying in bed and I just curled into him sobbing and miserable and confused but also relieved to get all these feelings I'd been trying to mask out of me. It was cathartic and it was needed, but it didn't change anything.

Then I took the photo.

Then I made some changes.

Part 2: How she got better

I can't tell you when I actually made the decision to change things up, because I'm not sure I did. One night I decided to set a bedtime my phone. The next day my alarm went off at 7:30, and I got up. I went for a walk. It was only about two miles that first day, but it was something. I didn't get a Dr Pepper. I went to the grocery store and bought chicken breast and vegetables and I came home and prepared healthy meals. That night I went to bed when my alarm sounded, and I got up the next day at 7:30 again. I walked again. The first couple of weeks, my legs were sore everyday. I stuck it out, and eventually began walking 5 miles every morning. I used an app to track my steps and my meals. Then, I started walking in the evenings. Most days I walked between 8-10 miles everyday, eating healthy meals and holding myself accountable. Then I started getting up at 6, and I'd walk until about 9, bring home breakfast for Danny and Roo, and then do housework. Suddenly, keeping up with the dishes and laundry was easy. I just did a little everyday and it didn't overwhelm me anymore. Then, the weight began to drop off, fast. Within the first two weeks I dropped 5 lbs. By October, I was down 10. My clothes started fitting again, and I stopped avoiding my reflection.

For months, when I looked in the mirror I saw a stranger that looked sort of like me, but miserable and haggard. Now, I started to see me in there, which was nice. About a month into my new routine, I was driving home and a thought slammed into my head:

I am so happy.

Now, 2017 is drawing to a close. The person I was in January is very different from this December girl. I don't know what exactly was wrong with me. A combination of things, probably. I can't say for sure that I was depressed, but I can say for sure that I was broken. Now, I'm mending. The physical changes are obvious, and I'm happy to feel at home in my own skin again. Much more though, I'm glad to feel at home inside my brain- my heart feels so much lighter. And hey, so does my ass.

The One We Lost

*Trigger warning: The following post describes pregnancy loss/miscarriage

*Regarding language: I believe that life begins at conception. Throughout this post, I use the word "baby" to describe what I've lost, because both my head and my heart agree that an unborn human life, regardless of race, sex, circumstance, disability or development, is just that: a baby.

The words "The one we lost" are scribbled in sharpie on a positive pregnancy test that I can't make myself throw out. I've always been a bit of a pack rat, as well as sentimental. I can't let myself dispose of the test that confirmed the pregnancy my body rejected, my heart won't let me. 

I don't really know what to say about having a miscarriage. I don't even know what I feel concerning it most of the time. I do know that I need to write down the jumbled mess in my head and my heart, and I hope that in doing so I'll gain some insight and maybe even help someone who is (or has, or will) go through this too. I personally haven't felt comfortable talking about it with more than a couple of people. I don't know of many women who've experienced this in the first place, and I haven't wanted to overstep boundaries or dredge up miseries. I've been sort of flailing over the past weeks. Trying to wrestle these pent-up emotions into submission but not accomplishing anything, just exhausting myself. So, maybe the thing to do is put it all down on (virtual) paper, and maybe by the end I'll have learned something. 

I'm not much of a planner, but Danny and I decided to start trying for a second baby around December of 2014. "Passively trying" is probably more accurate, as we weren't really in any hurry. We had hoped to conceive around February, because then our children's birthdays would be about 6 months apart (Ruby's birthday being in April). It turned out we were lucky, and did conceive in February. It was late in the month when I took the test that confirmed I was having another baby. I was excited, but it was a milder excitement than for my first pregnancy. I guess because I'd done this before and mostly knew what to expect, both good and bad. I told my mom, close cousins and friends right away, but decided to wait for my first appointment and ultrasound to make it "Facebook  Official". 

For two weeks, everything was fine. I was tired and irritable but otherwise completely normal. Then it wasn't. Late on a Sunday night, Danny and Roo were asleep but I was up and puttering around as usual. I went to the bathroom and what I saw made my entire body go cold. Blood.

Truth be told, I am a worst-case-scenario worrier. It's a tendency I'm well aware of and strive to curb. My instant reaction was to panic, but logic kicked in and told me to calm the eff down. Hands shaking, I sat down at the computer and started searching. 

Signs of miscarriage

Miscarriage in early pregnancy

Early pregnancy miscarriage symptoms 

They all basically told me the same thing: mild cramping, spotting, loss of pregnancy symptoms. However, these signs could also mean nothing whatsoever. Some women just have spotting. Cramping can be a symptom of the egg implanting. I was pretty much in limbo. Could be something, could be nothing. Wait and see. I texted my mom and cousin, hoping one or both were awake, but they weren't. I spent the next couple of hours crying and panicking and pacing and praying. At some point, Danny briefly woke and I told him what I'd seen and what it could mean. By then I'd somewhat composed myself, and (thankfully) Danny was really only half awake and aware of what I was telling him, so his reaction was more rational than mine. 

The next morning I made an appointment to have an ultrasound for that coming Thursday. My doctors' office assured me that the symptoms I was having crop up literally every day and are usually nothing. It made me feel a teeny bit better. The blood didn't stop, though. I spent the week in a sort of daze. Trying to be/feel/act normal. I told a couple of people about what was happening, but I didn't want to scare anyone if it turned out to be nothing. Maybe I was just being stupid. Maybe I was just being dramatic. There was more blood each day. By the time Thursday arrived, I was ready for bad news. 

I have the amazing advantage of having my brother-in-law, Chris, do my ultrasounds. Having someone I love and trust there to give me the news, good or bad, is an amazing comfort. What I learned that day wasn't what I expected. He couldn't give me any definitive answers. I was measuring five weeks instead of seven, which could be lack of development or just a later implantation than we thought. The blood could be bad, but it could still also be nothing. Limbo. Again. I was going to have to return the next week for a second ultrasound to find out for sure what was going on.

The second week was a little better. Or maybe it was worse. I still didn't know anything for sure, but that was also hopeful. Maybe there had been two babies and one didn't make it but the other was fine. Probably not, but maybe. There was still a lot of blood. I knew there was way too much of it for things to be completely okay, but I tried not to dwell. Two friends announced their own pregnancies that week, both as far along as I was supposed to be. It bummed me out. I wasn't angry or resentful, but it felt awful to be so saddened by someone else's great news. Danny was a steadfast comfort, despite being as helpless in the situation as I was. He listened. He held me when I needed it, and let me rest when I needed that. He's consistently and quietly supportive, and I'm grateful to have a partner that senses what I need and is willing to give what he can. 

When Thursday came around again, I found myself all nerves. My stomach was roiling and I just wanted to get the appointment over with, no matter the outcome. I put on my game face (winged eyeliner, red lipstick) and tried to remain as normal as possible. When I got to the office, the receptionist told me [the other ultrasound tech] would be there shortly, and I flipped. My heart started beating rabbit-fast, my face got hot, I felt light-headed. I thought I was going to start crying or maybe even faint in the middle of the office. I don't think I was having a full-blown panic attack, but it was as close to one as I've ever been. I could handle bad news from Chris. I could hear it from him and walk out of there strong and composed, for at least a minute or two. I didn't think I could take the news from someone else. Thankfully, a few scant seconds later, I could hear Chris's voice through the door. The relief I felt was incredible. Heart rate back to normal, eyes swimming, but no tears falling. It was time. 

I knew what he would tell me. 

I'd known, really, from that first night. I'd allowed myself some hope, but I really did know I wasn't pregnant anymore. Lying back, looking at that screen I allowed two tears, one from each eye, to escape before I pulled myself together. I was going to fall apart, but I could hold off a little bit longer. I'd already managed it for two weeks. As I prepared to leave the office, Chris gave me a rare but welcomed hug. One nurse told me it would all be for the best. I know some people are bothered by that sentiment, but I'm not. It was kindly meant, and I'll take kindness in any form it comes in. Another girl smiled at me and said she knew I'd be back in a few months. I don't really know if I appeared as unruffled and composed as I tried to. I managed to walk out of there with (what I hoped was) a mild expression and dry cheeks. Once I was outside, though, all composure was lost. Despite there being several people in the parking lot, I couldn't hold the torrent of emotion back a second longer. The sobs that racked my body were uncontrollable. I was somehow able to walk blindly to my car and get in before collapsing into all the feelings I'd been suppressing for weeks. I don't know how long I cried, but it felt like a lengthy stretch of time. I couldn't control it: I just had to let go and let it all out. I didn't even feel better when I finally stopped, instead tired and helpless and confused. Truthfully, that's how I felt the entire time, and it's still how I feel now (a week and a half out from the confirmation of miscarriage). I feel like I forgot something important and missed out on something amazing because of it. I have a constant anxiety and mild simmering anger. The part that's most frustrating is that it's directionless. I'm not mad at anyone or anything, I'm just mad. I'm not stressed out about anything, I'm just stressed. I'm sad, but I almost feel guilty for being sad. I lost something, but I didn't have it long. Plenty of women lose babies much further along than I was. Babies that have names and belongings. Those women deserve to feel sad, but do I? Really? 

I feel stupid for feeling so shitty. I feel stupid for feeling stupid. I wonder if I really feel any of this or if I'm just being over-dramatic. I'm kind of a mess. Most of the time I'm totally fine, then out of nowhere I'm crying and there are so many tears I'm amazed my eyes can make so many and so fast. I often don't even know why I'm crying or what I'm feeling. I don't know how long this will last, or if I'm grieving. Am I? I think I am. Maybe. Maybe it's just the leftover hormones. Mostly, I have no answers. I'm trying to be okay with that. I try to remind myself that it's okay to be confused. To feel sad. Scared. Angry. Numb. Anxious. Ambivalent. Relieved. Stupid. Guilty. I'm pretty sure it's all normal. 

I don't know when I'll feel okay enough to put this out into the world. I know I will eventually, because I wish I could have read about someone else's experience when I was dealing with it. Maybe this will help someone. Maybe it will only help me. I think that might be enough. 

I debated with myself whether or not to share these photos, mostly because I was afraid of seeming like a self-obsessed weirdo. It's not really my business what other people think of me though, so here they are. I took this shortly before my second ultrasound. I wanted to feel calm and strong and confident, but I didn't. I settled for looking like it instead. The woman in this photo looks so unruffled and unafraid, but that's a lie. It's sort of strange, looking at this and knowing that at that moment I was sick with nerves. You'd never know it by my face. 

This was taken after. After I'd cried and cried and then managed to get ahold of myself enough to drive, I pulled down the visor mirror knowing I would need to wipe my face and was startled when I saw myself. I looked kind of crazy, and desperately sad, but everything on my face was real. I took this photo, wanting to remember that flood of emotion (and to invest in waterproof eyeliner) even though it hurt at the time. When I look at this one now, I see sadness but also strength. I AM that woman, and I'm okay. It still sucks sometimes, but I deal and keep going. 

To everyone who previously knew of all this and offered me a kind word, a prayer, or listening ear, thank you. From the depths of my heart, thank you. 

*** Update: since writing this, my emotional state has improved dramatically. The week after I initially wrote the above post, I went back and revised it a little each day, and then left it. I had a couple small anxiety attacks, probably due to suppressing my emotions those couple of weeks (you'd think after watching Frozen 8,673 times I'd know better than "conceal, don't feel" but apparently I wasn't paying attention), but now I'm pretty much back to my normal self. We still hope to add to our family, but I certainly won't be stressing about it. It will happen or it won't. Either way, I'll be just fine.