The Worst Days of My Life

I've shared parts of this in the past- the good, happy side of this story.  If you haven't already, you can read about my miracle here.  But as time creeps closer to the 10 year anniversary of these events, I find myself reflecting more and more on the horrifyingly scary things that I went though, and how I came out the other side.  So here's my story, in all it's gory details.

Childbirth stories are usually happy, beautiful stories that a woman wants to share again and again, and everyone wants to hear.  Sure, there's pain, and screaming, and a room full of people looking up your vagina.  But in the end, there's a little bundle of joy to cuddle, and everyone is ecstatic, and proud, and crying tears of joy.  Some of us aren't that lucky though.  Some of us have a tale that sounds more like a horror movie. 

In September of 2004, about a month after two adorable boys joined our family through adoption, it dawned on me that my period was late.  Not really surprising considering the amount of stress I was under, from suddenly becoming a mommy to these two very needy little boys, plus dealing with social workers and court.  At my husband's annoying insistence I took a home pregnancy test.  You could have knocked me over with a feather when I looked at the pee soaked stick, and saw that it was a big fat positive.  I didn't cry tears of joy.  I wasn't elated.  I was truly and honestly stunned into complete silence.  I thought for sure the test must be wrong.  This had to be God's way of playing a cruel joke on me, because even though I spent years wishing for a baby, a baby was exactly what I didn't need at that point!  In fact, a baby could destroy the family I was just beginning to build, and tear my two little boys away from me, sending them to another foster home where they would wait once again for someone else to call mommy and daddy.

I was able to get an appointment with an OBGYN within a couple of days.  She confirmed I was in fact pregnant, and was able to see the teeny tiny heartbeat on an ultrasound.  I stared at the screen in disbelief, but then reality set in, and BAM! I suddenly felt the deepest joy I had ever experienced.  However, what she also discovered would explain the years of not being able to conceive, and would be the cause of major heartbreak and fear in the coming months.  You see, I had what was called a septate uterus.  This is a deformity within the uterus that makes it difficult to conceive, and often impossible (I would find out two years later that I should not have been able to conceive at all.)  It also makes the uterus resistant to stretching, which can cause miscarriage or premature birth.  My doctor explained that I had a much higher than normal chance of miscarrying, or if I did manage to somehow stay pregnant, I had an even higher chance of going into preterm labor.  After eight years of disappointment, I was so happy to finally be pregnant that I honestly wasn't concerned in the least.  And really, what could the big deal be if the baby was born a little bit early?  I knew lots of people who had their babies a couple of weeks early, and they were all fine!  

Because our adoption was not finalized yet, we decided to keep my pregnancy a secret from the social workers for as long as possible.  I felt that the longer my boys stayed with me, and the more bonded we became, the harder it would be for them to be removed from our family.  It turned out to be the right choice.  When I was about 5 months along, I finally told our social worker, and I was so relieved when she said that removing the boys would be detrimental to them, and they could stay with us! 

My pregnancy went along perfectly.  I had no morning sickness at all, and other than a little fatigue, and having to pee all the time, I felt great!  I did everything exactly right- I took my pre-natal vitamins daily; I gave up caffeine and junk food; I ate a very healthy diet; I didn't take any medications.  I treated my body better than I had since I was 12 years old.  I secretly laughed at my 22 year old sister (I was 32) who was four months further along in her pregnancy, because she was miserable.  

However, on January 2, 2005, everything would change.  It had been a normal Sunday, and I was busy doing housework, in between playing with the kids.  In the evening I cooked dinner, bathed the boys, read their bedtime stories, and got them all tucked into bed.  I finished up the last bit of laundry, and settled into my comfy recliner to watch t.v.  I sat there relaxing, feeling Baby Zack wiggle around in my belly (we found out about 3 weeks earlier we were having a boy, and had already picked out his name.)  It was about 10pm, the hubs was asleep on the couch, and I was enjoying the peace and quiet.  

All of a sudden, my solace was interrupted by a warm gush in my nether region, and I had a split-second flash of "Did I just fucking pee myself!?"  Baby Zack liked to use my bladder as a trampoline, so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.  But just as quickly, that thought was replaced with panic and an instinctive "SOMETHING IS NOT RIGHT!"  Within seconds, I was out of my comfy chair and in the bathroom.  By the time I got there, I was soaked in blood, and it started pooling on the floor around my feet.  So I pulled my jammies off, and sat down on the toilet.  I'm not sure why.  I don't even remember sitting down, I was just all of a sudden there.  Maybe it was an unconscious attempt to keep from making a mess on the floor, although that ship had sailed.  The next thought that entered my mind was that Zack was going to fall out of me, and into the toilet, and he would drown, and how would I explain that?  I don't remember making any sounds- I wasn't crying or calling for help.  In fact, it was eerily silent in the bathroom.  I just remember seeing blood everywhere, and thinking that my baby was dying, and there was nothing I could do about it.  I also remember feeling very alone.  All of a sudden I was snapped back to reality as my husband stood in the bathroom doorway.  I couldn't figure out how to tell him what was happening, and then I finally started sobbing.  I quickly wiped away as much blood as I could, and slipped on a pair of dark sweatpants.  As my husband led me out of the bathroom, I turned to look behind me, and saw what appeared to be the scene of a very violent crime.  I felt as if I were walking through molasses, but within moments we were out the door, with two sleeping kids in the car, driving to the hospital. The hospital was 10 minutes away. We got there in about 3 minutes, but it felt like an hour.

At the hospital, the nurse asked me how far along I was.  I told her I was in my 22nd week.  She didn't say a word in response.  She didn't really need to- the look on her face told me that it was likely too early for my baby to survive if he were born that night.  She quietly hooked me up to a monitor, and quickly found Zack's heartbeat.  It was strong, and the sound of it filled the room, and brought me a sense of calmness.  The monitor also showed that I was having contractions, although I couldn't feel them.  I spent the next four days in the hospital, with my feet elevated above my head.  I wasn't allowed to get out of my bed for anything.  Not even to pee, and let me tell you, trying to use a bedpan while almost 6 months pregnant is not easy!  Thankfully the bleeding and contractions stopped, and I was allowed to go home.  Somehow, Baby Zack managed to stay safely within my body.

Things seemed to go back to normal., although I was restricted to very little activity, which I tried really hard to listen to.  I had two little boys who needed lots of attention though, so I couldn't just lay around.  But I felt great, so I wasn't worried.

On January 16th, 2005, my world came crashing down around me again, only this time it would take years to recover from.  It was another seemingly normal Sunday, exactly two weeks after the bathroom crime scene incident.  I woke up that morning feeling a bit off.  I couldn't really explain it- nothing hurt, I wasn't sick, and I wasn't bleeding.  (If all the blood I described earlier wasn't enough tmi for you, here comes a little more.)  I kept going into the bathroom what seemed like almost every hour, because I felt like I needed to poop, but I couldn't.  I also found myself wanting to lay down several times throughout the day, which was really uncharacteristic for me.  As the day went on, this feeling of needing to go to the bathroom seemed to occur more frequently.   And then it happened.  I went to the bathroom, and a glob of mucous came out of me.  I quickly found my copy of What to Expect When You're Expecting because I had no idea what in the hell was happening!  I couldn't believe what I was reading though.  It said something about a mucous plug and labor beginning.  But how could that be?  I was only 24 weeks pregnant!  I called my doctor's office, but since it was Sunday, I had to wait for the answering service to get in touch with whichever doctor was on-call, and then wait for a call back.  It seemed like an eternity.  I explained what was happening to the doctor, and she told me go to the hospital just as a precaution.  So, I called my mom (who was at a different hospital with my 22 year old sister, who had just had her baby the day before) to ask her if she could meet us at the hospital that we were going to, and sit with the boys.  I apologized profusely for tearing her away from my sister and the new baby, mostly because I have a hard time asking for help, but also because I hate feeling like an imposition.

We loaded the kids into the car, and made the drive to the hospital.  As we got closer, I started having the most intense pain I had ever experienced in my life- I was having contractions, and they seemed to be about three minutes apart!  We arrived at the hospital, and I was taken immediately in to be examined.  My husband was in the lobby with the kids, waiting for my mom.  Just as I was trying to climb onto the examination bed, a contraction hit, and buckled my legs underneath me.  The nurse helped me onto the bed, and kept telling me to "breathe through it."  How the fuck could I breathe!?  It hurt too much!!  She asked how far along I was, and I told her I was 24 weeks 4 days.  She asked if I was sure, and I said yes.  I then had another very painful contraction.  The nurse examined me as soon as the contraction passed, and instantly her demeanor changed, and all hell broke loose!  The nurse shouted over her shoulder "WE'VE GOT A BULGING SACK!"  I had no clue what the hell that meant, but I could tell by the urgency in her voice, and the fact that she YELLED my business to the whole ward (so much for HIPAA) that it was not good news.  All of a sudden, there were lots of people in the exam room, and my bed was rolling out the door.  A voice coming from the blur around me was asking where my husband was.  Somehow I managed to remember that he had been waiting in the lobby for my mom.  Another voice told me that I was 8cm dilated, and I was having my baby right now!  I screamed, "IT'S TOO EARLY! I DON'T WANT MY BABY TO DIE!!  PLEASE DON'T LET MY BABY DIE!!"  It was only January, and I wasn't due until May.  I'm sure I scared the shit out of all of the other moms-to-be, and now have a lovely story about the time they went to the hospital to give birth, and there was a crazy woman screaming about her baby dying.  Some nurse tried awkwardly to console me as I sobbed uncontrollably.  I couldn't believe that after so many years of not being able to conceive, and going through our adoption, and then finally getting pregnant, I was going to lose my baby like this.  I felt terrified, and although I was surrounded by people, I felt so very alone.

They wheeled me into the delivery room, and suddenly my husband was there.  He was so calm in the midst of the activity around me, but I could see the fear in his eyes.  I was poked more than a dozen times before they could find a vein for an IV.  My body was going into shock and shutting down, so my veins were constricting.  Someone popped my amniotic sac like a water balloon, and then we were ready to deliver.  Unfortunately, it was quickly discovered that Zack was breach- one of his feet was in the birth canal.  I have no memory of the doctor coming into the room, but I later found out that while my husband was waiting to be brought into the delivery room, he saw her at the opposite end of the long hall.  He said a nurse caught up to her, said something, and the doctor dropped her bags, and ran as fast as she could into the delivery room that I was in.  I only became aware of the doctor's presence when she said she could try to deliver Zack in the breach position, but it would likely kill him.  I needed to have a c-section.

The delivery team moved me to an operating room, and started prepping me for surgery.  As they were getting ready, the NICU team was also setting up.  The neonatalogist came over and introduced himself, and explained what would happen.  At least I think he did, I was in and out of awareness by that point.  I did hear him ask if we wanted his team to do everything in their power to save our baby.  I cried and said I didn't know.  To this day, it kills me that I couldn't answer that question.  Just admitting it, and typing it out here gives me anxiety and makes me cry.  I couldn't even fathom that Zack could survive, and I was terrified to even hope that it was possible.  My husband quickly told the doctor to take every measure possible to save our baby.  I am so grateful that he was coherent enough to make that decision without me.

The next thing I knew, I was being sat upright, and something was jammed into my lower back.  They laid me back down, and I was instantly numb from the throat down- except that I could still feel people touching my belly.  Suddenly, I heard someone say they were ready to start, and I screamed, "I CAN FEEL YOU TOUCHING ME!!  I CAN FEEL YOU TOUCHING ME!!"  I was terrified that my c-section was going end up like one of those horrifying t.v. shows where the person could feel the pain of being sliced open during surgery.  The doctor assured me everything was okay, and that it was just a sensation of pressure, and that I wouldn't actually feel anything.  I wasn't sure I believed her, so I mentally checked out at that point.  I closed my eyes, and silently begged and pleaded with any god that would listen, to just let me die there with my baby.  I couldn't go on in this world without him.  I tried to make myself stop breathing.  Somewhere in the chaos of what was happening, I believed that if I could just stop breathing long enough, my heart would stop beating, and it would all be over.  Of course, I was hooked up to monitors, and I had an oxygen mask on, so as it turned out, dying wasn't actually an option.  Then I heard my husband talking to me, pleading with me to open my eyes.  The surgery seemed to take forever, but I was told that it was really only about 15 minutes from the first incision, to the last staple closing my belly.  The NICU team rushed Zack away before I could even get a glimpse of him.  It would be a couple of hours before I would get to see him.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw that night.

 

Zackary was born weighing 844 grams.  That's a mere 29 ounces, or 1lb 13oz.  He was bigger than he should have been.  Since I had almost lost him two weeks previously, his little body went into survival mode, and he started growing at a faster rate- that may have been what saved his life.  He had to be resuscitated when he was born, and he was given less than a 10% chance of surviving that night.  >His skin was paper thin, and would tear with the slightest touch.  To this day, he has a scar on the side of his rib cage, where his skin ripped when he was being removed from my uterus.  His skin was transparent, and he had no layer of baby fat to separate it from the muscles and blood vessels beneath, which gave him a strange red-purple color, instead of the healthy pink glow of a newborn.  His body was nothing more than a bundle of exposed nerves.  The slightest touch was painful for him, so we could only touch the top of his head and the bottom of his feet.  The bones in his skull weren't even in place yet, and they overlapped each other, giving him a slightly alien appearance.  His eyes were fused shut, and he had no cartilage in his ears.

 He lost several ounces the first few days of his life, dropping precariously close to one pound, but that was okay, because he was still alive.  He was fighting!

Four days after Zack's birth, I was discharged from the hospital.  Walking out, and leaving a piece of my heart behind was excruciating.  There were no happy family members escorting us out, no balloon or flower bouquets.  No smiling nurses waving goodbye and wishing us good luck.  Instead we walked out in silence, and we were watched with pitying eyes.  I sobbed the entire way home.  There was no "Welcome Baby" sign in our yard.

The first few weeks of Zack's life were the most painful and scary days I have ever experienced.  I sat helpless next to him day after day, and although he came out of my body, I wasn't allowed to touch him without permission.  I had to wait ten agonizing days before I could hold him, and that required two nurses and a respiratory tech, because of all the wires, and the ventilator tube down his throat.  I learned hospital jargon and medical terminology that no parent should have to learn.  I watched as his heart rate and oxygen levels dropped dangerously low.  I saw him turn blue and almost lose his battle several times, and then be brought back by the deft hands of his nurse.  But each day, this tiny little baby would prove just how strong and resilient he really was.

Zack spent 91 days in the NICU, and came home a healthy 3 month old, who weighed 5.5lbs and still hadn't reached his due date.  He defied the odds that were stacked against him, and surpassed all expectations.  It was a long road, and it took him several years to "catch up" both developmentally and in size, but he avoided almost all of the potential life-long complications often related to prematurity.  At almost 10 years old now, we still struggle with some sensory issues related to food, and he is still a little underweight.

I spent many years feeling guilty for everything my tiny baby had to endure, after all, it was my body that failed him- my deformed uterus that couldn't stretch enough to let him stay safe.  If I had only gone to the doctor to find out why I hadn't been able to get pregnant for so long, a simple ultrasound would have shown us, and my deformity could have been corrected.  And then maybe I would have carried him to term.  And then maybe he wouldn't have almost died.  And then maybe...

I spent years being hyper aware of every little sniffle or cough, because a simple cold had the potential to land him back in the hospital.  I held my breath for years, being terrified that something bad would happen and I would end up losing him.  I sat feeling helpless and heartbroken when his physical delays were glaringly obvious next to his peers on the playground, and I knew it was all my fault.

Because of all that I went through with Zack, and how incredibly lonely I felt (being abandoned by almost everyone I knew during all of this is a whole other blog post) I became a mentor in the NICU.  Helping other families during their prematurity journey has been one of the greatest and most healing experiences for me.  I still carry some guilt, and I probably always will, but I no longer have the debilitating panic that I used to.  And in the end, I see just how far Zack has come, and I am reminded that this little boy wasn't supposed to survive the night he was born.  He was stronger than anyone thought, and if a baby that small and sick can be that strong, then I can too!

Hot Child in the City

I was surprised recently when I received a FB message from a family member I hadn't talked to in years. It was my most favorite aunt!  I was a little girl when she was in her late teens, and she would take me everywhere with her whenever I visited my grandparents during my summer vacations.  She was more like a really cool big sister than she was an aunt.  She was beautiful, fun, and had lots of friends, and I completely and utterly idolized her.  We went to Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm together every summer.  She would also take me to the roller rink with her on Saturday nights (don't judge- it was the late 70's!)  There were always lots of guys who wanted to skate with her, and she always found a boy close to my age for me to skate with.  (The last song of the night always seemed to be Reunited by Peaches and Herb.)  I was totally horrified at the thought of skating with a boy, but she wouldn't let me say no.

My aunt seemed to always have fun.  Always.  And so I had fun as an extension of that.  The Nick Gilder song, Hot Child in the City, always reminded me of her, even though I was too young to fully understand just how fitting the song really was.  As I got older, things changed though.  She didn't have time for me anymore, and I was heartbroken.  What I didn't understand until much later, was that my beloved aunt had become a drug addict.  My family protected me from that information for a long time, until they no longer could- until I was old enough to understand the things being said about her in hushed voices.  My beloved aunt drifted away from the family for quite a long time.  She did things, and made choices that everyone judged her harshly for, and she broke my grandmother's heart.  What I knew then, and what I understand even more now, is that it was the drugs that pushed her to those choices.  Sure, she chose to start experimenting with drugs, but her addiction wasn't completely her fault.  She tried to get clean many times, but it never seemed to stick.

The last time I saw my aunt was in 2001, at my grandfather's funeral.  She was angry at everyone.  She had been angry with my grandfather for several years, because after my grandmother's death in 1997, he would no longer bail her out of her troubles.  The last place she wanted to be was around any of the family, and the judgmental glances directed at her.

My aunt and I have exchanged several messages now, and she is definitely not the same angry person she was 13 years ago.  Her mistakes have taken a toll on her, both physically and emotionally, and I could tell she was worried that family members may have poisoned me against her.  I assured her that I didn't care how much time had passed, or what she had done since we last spent any real time together, and she seemed content with that.  I can also tell she has deep regrets for how her life has turned out.  I hope that I can give her a small amount of peace by accepting who she is today, and not pointing out the mistakes that I know she is already so painfully aware of.

Online Friendship

I have a serious love/hate relationship with social media.  All relationships can be hard, and online relationships are no exception.  But online friendship brings a set of unique circumstances with it.  One of the biggest hurdles, of course, is geography.  I often find myself connecting with people who live nowhere near my corner of the world, yet I feel so drawn to them.  Is it even possible to become real friends with people you will likely never meet in person?  (What is a real friend anyways?  Do we even know anymore?)  I have come to care very deeply for several people whom I've met online.  I've been lucky to meet a few of them over the years, but sadly will likely never have that chance with most.  Some of these people mean so much to me- I am excited when they have happy news, I have cried tears for them when they have been faced with devastation and heartbreak, and I feel crushed when I know that what they need more than anything is for someone to be present with them, and I can do absolutely nothing about it.

One of the many pitfalls of online communication is the potential for one-sided relationships.  Not everyone wants the same thing when they join social media, and not everyone is what they seem.  You can't look people in the eyes to see if they are being honest.  I've experienced this several times throughout the years.  We probably all have.  I'm often still taken by surprise when it comes to light that someone I really liked isn't who I thought they were.  Maybe it's because I don't know how to be anything but myself, and I expect everyone else to be the same.  I think on some level I trust too easily, and take people at face value.  But I'm also jaded and distrustful of people online.

So how do we protect our hearts from being trampled in this realm of online friendships?  (Again, what is a friend?  Do we throw that word around too easily these days?)  Do we just go through the motions, and not actually connect with people?  Or do we try, hope for the best, and then pick up the pieces later if it turns out that the relationship we had hoped for was never meant to be?  This is the line I walk... connecting but only very partially; wanting to let people know I am there for them, but not wanting to pry or intrude, in case they aren't as invested as I am; trying so hard, but acting aloof and unaffected when I realize that I've completely misread a situation, or someone else's intent.  Some days it's enough to make me just stop trying.  Some days it feels like walking alone in a crowd of thousands who can't see me at all.

Freaky Fabric Store Lady

I started a new venture recently- making dog collars.  It started out because I hated all of the collars at PetSmart, so I decided to make some for my dogs, and I enjoyed it so much, I started making them for other people's dogs.  Everybody that I have given a collar to really seemed to like them, and suggested that I start selling them.  So, I thought, why not?   I have a website, and a Facebook page, but I haven't sold any collars yet.  But that's okay, I'm sure it will happen.  Eventually.

Anyways, I was at the fabric store today, looking for some more fabrics to add to my collection.   I took my selections to the counter to be cut, and I was helped by a grandmotherly looking woman who appeared to be in her late 60's.  She asked what I was making, and I told her.  She looked slightly confused, and then asked if I was sure the collars were for dogs, or were they for people "who are into that sort of thing".... 

I'm pretty sure this was how I looked her:

Thank you freaky fabric store lady for creeping me out!

Being a Daydream Believer Creates a Perfect Storm of Wrong

I haven't blogged in quite awhile.  Well, I've tried, but nothing I attempted to write seemed to come out correctly.  After my last post, I started feeling very vulnerable.  I exposed more of myself than I had intended.  Then later I asked someone for a big favor (for someone else, as I would never ask for something for myself,) and although she said yes, and made someone's day, I feel like I over stepped boundaries.  I admit they are self-imposed boundaries, and if the person didn't want to do the favor I asked for, I'm sure she would have said no, but I still feel bad.  In hindsight, I feel like it wasn't my place to ask, as I had said I didn't ever want anything from this person.  I feel like I lied, albeit unintentionally.

I also feel like I've misread some relationships.  Well, not so much misread, as imagined them to be more than they were, and more than they could ever have the potential to be.  That's completely my fault.  I read too much into most things, and I imagine what I would like reality to be.  It's an old habit from my childhood- daydreaming about being anyone and anywhere else.  Combine that with a longing for someone to connect with- to have someone who takes an interest in me once in awhile, and you get an anxiety filled perfect storm of wrong.

I'm trying to push these feeling away, or at the very least, ignore them, but it's not easy.  What I really want to do is to hide away again and disconnect from the world.  But I've come to care deeply about a few people, and even if they never care for me as much as I care about them, I don't want to lose what little relationship we have.  Although it hurts my heart, I'll take passing acquaintance over nothing any day. 

A Heartfelt Thank You to Kristen Johnston

Dearest Kristen,

I want to thank you for helping me change myself for the better, and for bringing some amazing people into my life.

I encountered you on Twitter quite by accident.  I think you popped up as a "people you might like to follow" recommendation, and I thought Sure, I've always liked her!  I wonder what she's been doing all these years?  (I admit, I hadn't heard of The Exes until a few months ago.)  I've always enjoyed you as an actress, but I've never been one to follow the lives of celebrities- not even the ones I like the most.  I'll watch movies and tv shows because of specific actors, but that's about the extent of it.  I've never really even had the desire to meet any of my favorites.  So, I had no idea you had been an addict, or that you almost died.  I had no idea you had written a book, and were now a champion for change, working tirelessly to transform attitudes toward addiction and recovery. 

When I checked out your timeline, you were talking about teen addiction.  As the mother of four children, living in an upper-middle class community, where prescription drugs abound, and find their way to the high school in the blink of an eye, it's a topic I take seriously.  Addiction, in general, is very near to my heart as the daughter of an alcoholic, and the half-sister of two recovering addicts.  I commented on whatever it was you tweeted, and I was shocked when you responded to me almost instantly.  You asked if I had read your book (which I had never heard of) and I said I would check it out.  It was not what I expected.  I never could have guessed what I would gain from reading Guts.

I never anticipated I would be touched so deeply by your story, or that in some ways it would describe me.  I never expected the story of an actress-slash-addict finding her way to sobriety would resonate with me, and change me at my core.  After reading Guts, and getting to know you and some of your friends through our interactions, I wanted to change myself.  I wanted to come out from under the blanket of pain and sadness that had been suffocating me for so long.  I had no idea how that would happen though.  I'll admit, I started talking with you every chance I could, because I became captivated by your honesty- even when that honesty was directed at me, and you were calling me out for my negativity.  I hated you for it sometimes.  (Is this is a good time to confess that Rainbow Fart was a passive aggressive middle finger to you on one of my bad days?)  But after I sat with your words for awhile, I knew you were right about whatever you had said to me.  When I recently told you that you make me want to be a better person, I meant it with every fiber of my being.  And not because you're Kristen Johnston The Actress, because I really don't think of you that way, but rather because you're this really cool chick, who makes me laugh, and who also makes me think- someone I would choose as a friend in real life.  I feel like I really should be too old to need someone to look up to, but apparently I'm not.

The whole point of all of this, and what I will never be able to thank you enough for, is the wonderful people that have come into my life because of you.  How or why this happened, I'll never understand.  But I am grateful beyond measure that our paths crossed when they did.  Without you, I would never have started opening up my heart to let people in, and I would never have gotten to know these amazing girls you've introduced me to.  Before meeting you, I honestly didn't think that I needed to open my heart.  I had convinced myself years ago that I was perfectly fine being alone.  Thank you for showing me how very wrong I was.  You and these beautiful girls have made me laugh, and moved me to tears on several occasions.  Every single day I am touched by the strength and love that radiates from within these girls, and how they hold each other up when one of them needs it.  I have been profoundly changed by all of you, and although these words will never ever be enough, from the very bottom of my soul, I thank you.

With much love and admiration,
Lisa

I Hate Mommies

Okay, not really.  Wait, no... I actually do hate some of them.

I learned in middle and high school that girls can be catty, back-stabbing bitches.  That lesson was re-enforced in college (and being a dancer, I learned that gay boys could be just as bad,) and then again when I joined the "real" world and got a grown-up job.  I've always hated working in an office full of nothing but women.  Dear god, at least give me a male manager!  I know, I know, that's not very women's lib of me, so sue me!  I've had numerous bad experiences with female coworkers and managers who were overly dramatic, and took any difference of opinion as a personal attack.  Don't get me wrong, I have encountered some truly amazing women in my almost 42 years, whom I will always be grateful for, but so many are assholes, who take pride in being terrible to other women, and they seem to be getting worse!

Now, even though I have known for a long time that women could be awful to each other, absolutely nothing prepared me for what would happen when I became a mother.  I was living in a fool's paradise believing that I was joining a loving, supportive community of women who were all on the same journey of raising small humans.  What I learned quickly is that when you have kids, every single thing you do, from the moment of conception, is put under a microscope, and then quickly ripped to shreds.

There is this lovely subset of moms known as sanctimommies.  These are the moms that act as if they are better than everyone else, and they are quick to point out how you are doing everything wrong.  They behave as though motherhood is a contest, and they battle daily in the mommy wars to prove they are the best.  And yes, these are all things that I have witnessed myself... some of them were even directed at me!

• You're having a home birth? That's dangerous, and your baby could die!
• You're delivering in a hospital and having an epidural? Doctors don't care about your well being.  They'll try to force you into a c-section for the higher insurance payout.  And the drugs are dangerous for your baby! 
• You're unable to breastfeed? That's highly unlikely.  You must not have tried hard enough, and now your bond with your baby will be affected.  
• I have no respect for a mother who chooses formula!
• I only use cloth diapers, because disposables are made with dangerous chemicals.  I would never jeopardize my baby like that!  
• You don't vaccinate?  You are putting your child at risk!  As well as all of the other children!
• You do vaccinate?  Vaccines cause autism!!!
• Circumcision is mutilation.  It's your son's penis, not yours, and you have no right to choose for him!
• If you don't use this car seat then you clearly don't value your child's safety enough. 
• I have the toughest job in the world- I'm a sahm!  I work 24/7 as a chauffeur, cook, nurse, maid, and educator, raising the next generation, and I do it all for free!
• I have a full-time job, and I still have to do all the same things that a lazy sahm does.  
• I feel so sorry for the kids whose moms don't volunteer in their classroom. 

And on, and on, and on.....

To these holier-than-thou moms, there is truly nothing more thrilling than pointing out how they are far superior to you, and because of it, their kids are a cut above yours.  Even better, they are sure to let you know that your kids will suffer because of your sub-par choices.  I will never in a million years understand that mentality.

My first encounter with a sanctimommy was while I was at the park with my kids.  I hadn't been a mom for long- less than a year- but I already had a 5 year old, a 3 year old, and what appeared to be a tiny newborn.  I was flying by the seat of my pants trying to figure things out, and I was so desperate for someone with experience to throw me a lifeline, that I was elated when another mom showed up at the park.  As she made her way over to where I was sitting, I'm pretty sure I already planned out how we would hit it off instantly, and become best friends.  Zack, my apparent newborn, was actually about 4 1/2 months old at the time.  He had spent three months in the NICU, and had only been home for about 6 weeks. He was still tiny (less than 8 lbs) and looked like a newborn.  Because of his prematurity, he was on a special preemie formula, which I was feeding to him while my older boys played.  My conversation with Sanctimommy started out amiable, but then it quickly turned to something entirely different.  She started questioning why I wasn't breastfeeding my newborn- didn't I know breast was best? Didn't I know he would be healthier and have a higher IQ?  Didn't I know I would bond better with him by breastfeeding?  I tried explaining the circumstances to her, but she wasn't interested in hearing any of it.  She was too pleased with herself for pointing out what she perceived to be errors in my parenting choices.

By the time Sanctimommy left, I was fighting back tears.  She knew nothing about me.  She knew nothing of the struggles I had already faced with my baby, and she certainly knew nothing of the things I was still struggling with.  None of that matters to a sanctimommy though.  The only thing that does matter to a sanctimommy, is being sanctimonious.  The good news is that as my kids get older, I encounter fewer and fewer of these types of moms.  Or maybe I just don't pay any attention to them anymore, because I'm more confident in my parenting than I was 9 years ago.

Here's the thing- being a mom is hard!  We doubt ourselves every single day.  A lot of times we don't know if we're doing things right, and we may not know until our children leave the nest.  The last thing that any of us needs, is a member of the club making us feel worse.  Instead of tearing each other down, we should be building each other up, and cheering each other on.  Ultimately there are not many wrong ways of raising a child.  We can all do it differently, and we can all be right.  It's crucial that we, as women, get better at accepting each others differences.  After all, isn't that what we're supposed to be teaching these little humans we're raising?

Misery Loves Company

We have all had pain in our lives.  There isn't a single person on this planet who is immune from experiencing some sort of anguish.  We often search out others who have had similar experiences, because it makes us feel better to know we are not alone in our suffering.  It feels good to have a sense of connection, and to have someone to commiserate with- to be able to say "YES! I know exactly what that feels like!  I too am walking that path!!!"  

Sometimes that path is not identical though.  Often times, what may seem to be the same journey, actually takes us to very different destinations.  And sometimes these different destinations can become contentious between people.  I see this daily in the prematurity community.  Two moms compare notes on their babies who were born at the same gestation and weight, but one baby does remarkably well, and one baby will struggle with life-long challenges.  The mom with the sicker baby lashes out because she is hurting, and because it's not fair that her baby is worse off than the other.  Should the mom with the healthier baby feel guilty?  Should she be made to feel that her journey and feelings are any less valid?  Absolutely not!  So often, I see exchanges in which one person shares an experience, and another person proclaims that the first shouldn't complain, because "it could have been worse."  Well duh!  Of course, everything can always be worse!  Just because it could be worse, or someone else is worse off, does not negate anyone's struggle.

And what happens when one of us gets better... or has an easier time with something that was hard as hell for another?  All too often I see a person who has shared their story of pain, or illness, or whatever it happens to be, along with their triumph over their struggle, and the result is bitterness from some of those still in the trenches fighting the battle.  It's as if nobody is allowed to be happy around them, because it's taken as a personal affront.  Most people want to recover from whatever it is that ails them. (I say most, because there are some people who wear their pain like a diamond encrusted tiara, as if their pain is what is most important, and it's what we should see first.  As if their struggle is what defines them.)  So, if most of us want to heal, why is it so hard for some to allow others to bask in their happiness?  They would want people to be happy for them, right?  Is it jealousy?  Is it self-pity?  Loss and sorrow?  Perhaps it's a nice tidy package of all of those things.

It's so important to remember that we all have pain of some kind- we have that in common.  What varies is our backstories.  We all have different ways of coping, and different ways of recovering, based on where we are in our lives, and how we got there.  It should never be okay to judge or diminish someone else's journey.  We should be able to support one another as human beings, and be kind and comforting, even if our journeys differ.  We should be able to allow others their happiness, as we would want ours allowed.  Life isn't about who had it worse... it's about being kind and loving toward each other.

Miracles Happen

I'm not a religious person, but I believe that miracles happen.  I've seen one with my own eyes, and felt it with my own heart.  I have held a miracle in my arms.

In 2004, after eight years of unsuccessfully trying to have a baby, and a year of going through an adoption home study, my husband and I welcomed our two oldest children into our family.  They were 5 and 2 1/2 at the time.  It was such a stressful time- learning to parent and bond with these two emotionally needy little boys, as well as dealing with court and social workers.  A month later, I was in my doctor's office finding out that I was pregnant.

When I tell people my story, I hear similar stories all the time- a couple they knew (often it's a relative) couldn't have a baby, so they adopted, and a year later they ended up pregnant. I'm told it's because they finally relaxed... that it happened because they weren't thinking about it anymore.  They weren't stressed out anymore.  I was far from relaxed when I got pregnant.  I went from zero kids to suddenly having a 5 and a 2 1/2 year old.  I was whatever is the polar opposite of relaxed.  But, I always nod and smile, and then I continue the story of my miracle.

You see, during those previous eight years, I never went to the doctor to find out why I wasn't getting pregnant.  I was too afraid and insecure to find out what I knew deep in my heart- that I was somehow physically broken or incomplete, and I would never carry a child.  On the day that I found out I was pregnant, my doctor did an ultrasound, and discovered why I had never conceived before then.  She informed me that I had a septate uterus.  This is a deformity that causes the uterus to be divided in half by a thick fibrous wall of tissue.  The larger the septum, the less likely someone is to conceive, and the less ability the uterus has to stretch.  She told me that there was a higher than average chance I would miscarry.  The best case scenario was that I would deliver my baby prematurely.  I had no idea what that would mean, and I was so elated to finally be pregnant that I really didn't care.

My pregnancy was perfect.  I never had morning sickness, and I felt great the entire time.    That is, until I was 22 weeks along (a pregnancy is typically 40 weeks, so I was just barely past the halfway point.)  I started hemorrhaging and had to be rushed to the hospital.  When I got there, I was having contractions.  Thankfully, the doctors were able to stop the contractions, and the bleeding stopped.  The baby looked strong and was doing well.  After four days, I was released and sent home.  Two weeks later, I was rushed back to the hospital with contractions, only this time was very different.  By the time I got there, I was 8 cm dilated, and there was nothing that could be done to stop my baby from being born.  (In an effort to keep this post from turning into book, I'll spare you the details of the sheer terror I experienced, and how I prayed to any god that would listen that I be allowed to die on the operating table.)

Zackary was born when I was 24 weeks 4 days pregnant.  He weighed in at 1lb 13oz, and was 12 inches long.  We were told to expect the worst- his chances of surviving that first night were about 10%.  He was so tiny.  His skin was paper thin, and would tear with the slightest touch, and it was transparent, making him look a strange shade of red/purple.  His body was nothing more than exposed nerves.  The slightest touch was painful for him, so we could only touch the top of his head and the bottom of his feet.  The bones in his skull weren't even in place yet, and they overlapped each other, giving him a slightly alien appearance.  His eyes were fused shut, and he had no cartilage in his ears.  We had lots of ups and downs during Zack's 91 day NICU stay, but he came home almost 3 weeks before his due date, as a very healthy 5.5lb three month old.

When Zack was almost two years old, we decided that we wanted to try to have another baby.  Emotionally, I needed to be able to carry a baby to term, but I was also terrified of putting another baby at risk.  I carried a lot of guilt for everything Zack endured in the NICU.  I went to see a fertility specialist about my uterus, and I underwent surgery to remove the septum.  A week later, I saw the specialist for a follow-up exam.  She informed me that we would need to schedule another surgery, because she wasn't able to remove all of the septum the first time.  In her almost 20 years in practice, she had never seen a deformity as extensive as mine.  Her exact words to me were, "If I didn't know you already had a baby, I would have told you it would be impossible for you to ever conceive without removing the septum first.  When I got in there, there was nowhere for an embryo to implant."

My miracle is 9 1/2 years old now.  I shouldn't have been able to get pregnant at all, but somehow I did.  He wasn't supposed to survive that harrowing first night of his life, but somehow he did.  He was supposed to have life-long delays and health issues, but somehow he doesn't.  I don't know how, or why, I was given this miracle, but I was...

On Zack's second day of life,
he reached out and held onto the tip of my finger,
as if to tell me he was strong and he would fight,
and he would never let go.

Coming Up for Air

I mentioned in my last blog post that I don't really have any close friends.  That has been true for quite some time.  Since writing that post, I have been doing a lot of self-reflection to figure out why this is so, and more importantly, how to fix it.  There are several reasons to explain how I've gotten to this point in my life.  It's partly because of my feelings of inadequacy- I've always felt like an outsider, and that I never really fit in anywhere.  And part of it has to do with my need to connect with people whom I can try to fix (in an effort to avoid my own issues, I'm sure.)  But more recently (if 9 1/2 years can be considered recent) it has to do with family tragedies leading to depression, anxiety, and a little bit of PTSD.  Oh, and let's also throw-in trying to figure out how to connect to the mother and siblings I hadn't seen since 1980.

This isn't going to be a "boo-hoo, woe is me" type of post, though.  It could easily be that, but really, what's the point?  I experienced things that were soul crushing.  I lost the people that I thought were friends, and I have been drowning in sadness for years.  I've struggled to get my head back above water for quite some time now, with very little success.  That's not the point of this post though.  The purpose of this is to be hopeful and positive.

I feel like I have been slowly suffocating for almost 10 years.  I'm ready to breathe again.  It's exhausting to always be alone in a crowd, wishing that someone would try to reach out to me, and at the same time, praying like hell that I'm blending into the background enough, so that no one notices me.  I'm ready to open my heart, and tear down the walls that I've built around myself.  I'm tired of being lonely.

But how do I begin?  Making real, true friends isn't as easy as it was when I was 5, and I could walk up to another kid and say, "Hi, wanna play?"  I know I just have to take things one day at a time, and relearn how to be comfortable around people.  I also know that I can't force a relationship.  If someone is meant to be a part of my life, they will be.  I worry though, that most people can't handle the type of friend that I am.  I am honest and loyal, and I love with every fiber of my being.  I am not the friend that vanishes when things get tough.  I am both the rock, and the candle in the darkness.  Being those things fulfills my lifelong need to matter to someone... to feel important.  My biggest fear is that I will come on too strong, and seem too needy.  Or that I will just continue to keep the world at arm's length, because then I don't have to worry about people not liking me.

For today, in this moment, I have broken through the surface of the water.  I am filling my lungs with the fresh air, and fighting to stay afloat.

You Can Have My Chocolate Pudding

I always seem to attract them- people that need fixing.  Maybe it's because I'm kind of broken too, so we're drawn to each other. Maybe it's because I keep my crazy (mostly) hidden away, so I seem like a safe harbor.  Maybe I purposely seek out people I can try to fix, to take my focus away from my own issues.  I don't know what it is exactly.  What I do know is that it can be a lonely existence.  These broken souls that I collect are so wrapped up in themselves, that none of them bother to really get to know me.  And when I am no longer of any use to them, they tend to drop me like a diseased hooker.

I don't actually have any close friends.  I'm not even really very close to anyone in my family (with the exception of my hubby and kids.)  I seem to have a hard time staying connected to people in general.  I'm sure it stems from my abandonment issues as a child.  I wish I wasn't this way.  I truly wish I could make friends as easily as everyone else seems to.  I see others with their circle of friends, getting together, having fun, and it makes me sad that I don't have that.  I've tried in the past- I really have. But as soon as I start to get to know someone, I pull away. I refuse to let them through the brick wall I've built around myself.  Or, better yet, I find out that the person is highly toxic, and slightly insane.  And once they know I've found out their truth, they turn on me and try to bring me down too. 

The worst part of it is that I know I am a fiercely loyal friend.  I am there for whomever needs me.  But I never feel that in return from anyone.  Instead, I feel like a hanger-on... an annoying third wheel... the younger sister that your mom forces you to take to the mall with you.  I somehow have become that kid from school that was really nice to everyone, but seemed like they were trying too hard to be friends with you.  The one that would give you her chocolate pudding, even though you didn't ask for it.

The Anonymous People

Last night I watched The Anonymous People.  If you don't know about it, it's a documentary (available for streaming on Netflix) about people in long term recovery from addiction.  If you love someone who struggles with addiction, I highly recommend that you watch this film.  It is about the need for an open, honest dialogue about addiction and recovery, and how the attitudes toward addiction and recovery need to change.

Addiction to drugs and alcohol is an illness.  Some would like to discount it, and say that it's a choice- people choose to become addicts.  They can stop if they really want to.  I've never known anyone who chose to become an addict.  I've known people who screwed up and made bad choices, but they never set out with the desire to destroy their lives.  I've known people that struggled with sobriety for years because they weren't ready to get help.  Or they got help, and then repeatedly fell back into the abyss that enveloped and smothered them.  Addiction is an illness, plain and simple.  Even after treatment, an addict has to work on their sobriety every day.  There is no cure.  Some are able to overcome it, and sadly some are not.

One of the recovering addicts in this film was the actress, Kristen Johnston (3rd Rock from the Sun and The Exes.)  She has become a very vocal champion for change by refusing to be silent about her own recovery.  She will not hide the fact that she almost died because of her drug and alcohol abuse (read her book, Guts if you haven't already.)  She is mostly known for being smart, outspoken, a bit of an over-actor, and incredibly funny  (and let's not forget her proper use of foul language!)  Even her book will make you laugh out loud in the midst of her horrifying life and death ordeal.  That being said, there was a moment in The Anonymous People that took my breath away.  There is a brief moment where all of that brashness and humor drops away, and we catch a glimpse of raw vulnerability from her.  I have always enjoyed Kristen's work for her ability to make me laugh, but seeing this small glimpse of a different side of her made me love her even more.

The main point of the documentary is that attitudes toward addiction and recovery need to change.  No longer should those in recovery hide themselves away, or be shamed into silence.  They need to speak out and be counted.  Addiction is a crisis in this country, and only when attitudes change will real progress be made in the treatment of this disease that destroys so many lives.

A Story of Faith (working title)

It was a day just like any other that summer.  It was July, and the hot Arizona sun baked everything it touched.  Susie woke early that morning, so she could get to the park and save a spot in the shade of one of the large Sumacs.  She was meeting her friends, as she did most days of the week, and it would be the best place to keep cool.  She slid into the skintight bell bottoms that she loved.  They were faded, and the denim was worn just right.  She put on her pale yellow eyelet halter top, and the brown suede vest with all the fringe that she bought at the thrift store.  She couldn’t believe someone would give away such an amazing vest, but their loss was her gain.  She brushed her long, dark brown hair.  In her opinion, her hair was her best feature- it was very straight, and very shiny.  And it reached down to her waist.  People often said she reminded them of Cher.  Susie liked that.  It made her feel special when anyone pointed out her resemblance to the star she loved.  And why shouldn’t she feel special?

Being compared to someone as breathtakingly beautiful as Cher was the only time Susie felt like she mattered.  Her home was not a happy one.  Her parents had divorced years before.  She still remembered their fights.  She remembers hiding under her bed with her three younger sisters, while their parents screamed obscenities at each other in their drunken rages.  She remembers the sound of glass splintering into thousands of tiny shards, as she consoled the scared little girls under her bed.  Of course, she was a little girl herself, but there was no one to console her, so she pretended that the fighting didn’t bother her.  Susie was glad when her parents finally split up, but she was constantly shuttled back and forth between Arizona and California, and she was sick of it all.  She was sick of her mom’s inability to be the warm, loving mother that Susie yearned to have.  Susie was sure her mother hated her.  Their interactions were always tense, and nothing Susie did was ever good enough.  She wanted nothing to do with her stepfather.  He seemed like an okay guy, but he wasn’t her father.  Nobody would ever take her father’s place, and in Susie’s opinion, to accept her stepfather was to betray her father.
   
Susie managed to get out of the house that morning before anyone noticed, which was good, since she had swiped her mom’s last $3.00.  It was early, and the day was already hot.  The thermometer would easily reach into the hundreds by noon.  But Susie looked cute, and she had a little bit of cash in her pocket now! 
   
She arrived at the park, found the best spot to see people coming and going, and waited.  After awhile her friends arrived, and they talked and laughed.  Jim, the somewhat ugly guy who always hit on Susie, had his guitar with him, and he was softly strumming California Dreamin’.  Susie didn’t like Jim at all, even though he made it clear how much he liked her.  He was a local boy who wasn’t going anywhere, except to work at his dad’s furniture store.  Susie yearned for adventure.  She knew there was more out there besides the Arizona desert.  Even where her dad lived, in the California central valley, lacked the excitement Susie wanted. 
   
As the day wore on, more people got to the park, and brought their instruments with them.  Susie’s friends were musical, but she wasn’t.  Instead, she would dance and sway to the music.  She used her long hair as an extension of her body.  She always felt very sensual, and assumed others thought the same of her. 
   
On this particular day, she caught the attention of someone new, and he took her breath away the moment he said, “Bonjour...”

Support in an Unlikely Place

I've mentioned that I rejoined Twitter and have been playing around over there a little bit.  Last week, as I sat on the couch, staring at the treadmill a few feet from me, I randomly tweeted that I needed someone to motivate me to get on the treadmill.  A little whe later, someone tweeted me back suggesting that we motivate each other.  Being relatively new to Twitter (this time around,) I have only interacted with this person once or twice.  I was really quite surprised that she suggested helping each other, but I'm thrilled nonetheless!

The next day, I got my derrière on the treadmill and walked two miles!!  I ended up not walking again until today (three days later) but I got back on, with the support of this random person on the internet. 

I have quite a bit of weight to lose- about 50lbs.  I've been struggling with depression and self loathing for quite a long time, but I'm taking the first steps (for the umpteenth time) to reclaim my body.  I've had body image issues since I was about 12 years old. I've struggled with eating disorders from one end of the spectrum to the other.  For the first time ever, I can honestly say I don't feel healthy right now, and it scares me. I don't want to die and leave my children motherless. 

I'm terrified of slipping back into old habits though.  So I'm taking this one day at a time- even moment by moment if I need to.  I will conquer this weight problem. I am determined, but I know I may fall from time to time, and I have to be okay with that!

And the Wall Came Tumbling Down

Yesterday was the six year anniversary of my Dad's death.  I try really hard not to think about him, because it hurts so much.  When I do, the tears start flowing instantly.  For the past six years, I have walled off the part of my heart where my Dad resides, but the last couple of days I have been failing miserably at keeping that wall intact.  I can't stop crying.  As I type this post, I am crying.  

I miss my Dad more than words can say.  I hate that only two of my children are old enough to remember their grandfather.  I hate that he was taken from us so young- we had celebrated his 59th birthday just a month earlier.   Well, we recognized his birthday. There really was no celebrating, because we knew he was slipping away.  He was barely aware of us at that point.  I don't think he even recognized me anymore, and that was more painful than his passing.  

I need to figure out how to get the wall firmly rebuilt. I feel myself slipping into a place I don't want to be.  I know I should probably allow myself to feel whatever I need to right now, but I'm too afraid I won't recover from the pain.  So I'll just block it out instead. 

Everything Happens for a Reason

You know those little sayings that people have?  The ones they say to try to make you feel better about a situation...

"Everything happens for a reason"

"It's all part of God's plan" 

I hate those sayings.  They are really unhelpful when somebody is experiencing a trauma in their life, and sometimes they are downright painful to hear.  I know what you're thinking.   People who use those phrases mean well.  People really do believe these words, and they bring comfort to many.  But riddle me this: do they really believe there is someone up in the heavens, saying "Let's see, I think I'll give Alan lung cancer."  Or "Lynn needs to learn a lesson, so I'll make her give birth to her twins 3 1/2 months early.  Oh, and then after they have fought tooth and nail to survive, I'll take one of her twins away a year later."  Sorry, but I don't buy it.  I can speak from experience that when my own child was born almost 4 months prematurely, I wanted to throat punch people who told me that it happened for a reason.  Things like this don't happen for a pre-meditated reason.  There is no great plan.  Crappy things just happen sometimes. 

I talk with moms on a daily basis who are in the throes of fear and panic, watching their premature babies fight for every breath.  Preemie moms typically deal with an inordinate amount of guilt over their baby's early birth.  They constantly ask themselves if they could have done something different.  They feel that their own bodies failed their children.  They often ask what they did to deserve the punishment of watching their child fight for life.  They really don't need guilt being piled on by well meaning friends and family.  Unfortunately, that's exactly what happens very often.

Like I said, I understand that people are trying to be helpful, but it's up to the person in the trenches, the one going through the trauma, to decide if there is a reason for what they are experiencing.  As humans, we want to make sense of things.  Most of us find ways of learning from our experiences, even the bad ones.  But that doesn't usually happen until after the fact.  I think that when people say "everything happens for a reason" what they really mean is, "Sometime later, after you have gone through this, you will find a way to make this experience mean something."

Here's a perfect example.  I grew up with an absentee birth mother.  Long before my first birthday, I was living with my grandparents, and then by two years old my Dad and stepmother took custody of me.  I can count on one hand the number of times I saw or talked to my birth mother until I was 38 years old.  I grew up with serious abandonment issues.  I still have trust issues.  I still deal daily with self-esteem issues, and feelings of not being enough.  But, I have turned this experience into something that matters.  I chose to become an adoptive parent.  If I had not experienced all of the heart break I did as a child, I'm not sure I would have been moved to adopt.  I wouldn't have two of my amazing four boys.  So, in that sense, yes being abandoned happened for a reason.  But it's only in hindsight that I can see that.  When I was a teenager, going through the worst of it all, it would have fallen on deaf ears to have been told that it was going to be okay because it was all part of a bigger plan... that God was doing this to me on purpose. 

I guess the point of this is to caution you about these phrases that are both true and false at the same time.  Choose carefully when you say them to somebody.  From experience, I can tell you that in the middle of heartbreak and trauma is usually not the time.

No Laughing Matter

I've been playing around on Twitter lately.  I had an account years ago, but I lost interest in all of the drama that seemed to come along with it.  I'm not sure what made me go back.  I guess I was just curious to see if anything had changed.  It doesn't seem that much has changed at all. There are lots of famous (and infamous) people of course, and there are cliques (both good and bad,) and there are people just looking for a laugh.  And there are still a lot of trolls and assholes.  Of course, Twitter has been known to help spread important messages, so it's not all bad.

I'm normally not the type of person who gives a shit about what famous people are up to.  Many of them seem too self-absorbed, and I have better things to do than pay attention to what Gwyneth or Beyoncé are doing.  Don't get me started on the majority of the reality show celebutards.  I will never understand the fascination of those Housewife or Bachelor shows.  Or most of the "let's follow a star around their life" shows.  Maybe if there was a series that revealed a different aspect of their life, rather than just the fluff, I might be inclined to watch.  There are a few actors/performers, though,  that I really admire, so I started following a few of them over the last couple of weeks.  One in particular really caught my attention.   She's a little different from the majority of the Hollywood types- she actually interacts with her fans regularly.  She is very smart and quick-witted, and also brutally honest about herself, and I think a lot of people (myself included) really appreciate her humanness (is that a word?  If not, it is now.)  That type of honesty and openness also comes with a price for her though (in my opinion anyways.)  A lot of people seem to think it means they can say whatever they want, with no concern for her feelings.  Of course, dealing with public commentary is one of the realities of living a public life. It's probably an evil that is (mostly) happily ignored, as a trade-off for doing something they love. Anyways, this particular actress is no shrinking violet, and has no problem telling people to piss off when it's warranted, but Christ on a cracker some people are just plain rude!

Recently, this actress posted about an issue that is very serious to her- addiction.  I'm pretty sure that the majority of people in the U.S. have been affected by substance abuse in some way.  (I have no data to prove this, other than the fact that almost everyone I know has either had a problem themselves, or has a family member that has.)  There was a lot of positive commentary on what she posted- in fact I'm pretty sure most of it was positive.  And then (cue the assholes) a lot of really inappropriate jokes about drunks and addicts started popping up.  I felt myself getting so angry at the flippant attitudes, that I really wanted to lash out.  Instead, I signed off and found something else to do.

I got angry because I am the daughter of an alcoholic.  My father was the son of an alcoholic.  Alcoholism is woven into every moment of my childhood, and helped shape who I am today.  Don't get me wrong, my father was wonderful, and loving, yet somewhat distant.  He worked hard to make sure we had everything we needed, sometimes working a second job to supplement his military pay.  He was what would be considered a functional alcoholic.  But he was still an alcoholic- a skill he learned from his father.  A skill he used to shroud the pain of his own childhood, and that he sharpened to a fine point during and after the Vietnam War.  No matter how many times he tried to stop drinking (usually after a hairy-assed fight with my mom) he would start again within a couple of days.  We didn't talk about his problem in our home though.  There was never a discussion of Dad going to get help to stop.  He would spend the nights and weekends drunk, and we acted like he wasn't.  I hated it.  It hurt me to see him stagger down the hallway at night... to hear his slurred speech.  I drink very little because of what I witnessed from my father.  I drink very little because I like how it feels when I've had a little too much.  And when I do drink, I always have just a little too much.  When I do drink, I can feel how easy it would be to just not stop. 

I am also the sister of two drug addicts.  We did not grow up together (we have different fathers,) but I have been getting to know them over the last several years (that's a whole different topic.)   My brother has been in and out of prison all of his adult life because of drugs and alcohol, and because of the horrible choices he has made due to his addiction.  He tries to get clean, and does well for awhile.  But then something happens in his life, and he falls back into old habits.  He's back in prison now, where he will be for the next two years.  My sister has struggled with drug addiction for several years, but thankfully she has been clean and sober for the past year.  I hope that she continues to do well.  My siblings' lives have been wrecked.  Some would say that they chose this life- that they are only hurting themselves.  But that is not wholly correct.  Their children's lives have been forever affected by their illness. 

There is nothing funny about addiction.  There is nothing funny about the lives destroyed and lost because of substance abuse. Yet people make jokes as if none of those lives matter... as if the pain isn't real. Do these people who think it's so funny really have nobody in their lives that have struggled with addiction?  Or are they just callous and uncaring?  Would they make those jokes to their own addicted or recovering loved ones?

Not Quite Regrets

I had big dreams.  When I was six, my dream was that Cher was my real mother.  When I was eight, I wanted to be a singer, just like Dolly Parton.  By eleven, I just wanted to be rich and famous.  Once I started high school, I fell in love with drama and dance.  I just knew I would become an actress and a dancer someday.

I got a part in the first play I auditioned for my freshman year.  I played "Rose the Bag Lady" in Sweeney Todd (the non-musical version.)  I had the time of my life, but I never acted in another play, because although I loved it, I couldn't handle the teasing, and being called a drama geek by the popular kids.  I worked backstage for several other plays during those four years of school, but I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as being onstage.  There was just something so magical about being under the lights, and becoming someone else (a skill I practiced in my head often as a young child.)  I always envied the people that stuck with theater- the ones with thicker skin, who apparently already knew that when high school was over, none of that crap would matter.  I really wish they would have let me in on that secret!

I managed to stick with dance through high school, and it was the only place I felt truly happy.  I still didn't quite fit in.  I was still mostly an outsider, but I pretended it didn't bother me much.  I busied myself with dance rehearsals, and having the outward appearance of being self-confident.  When I moved on to (community) college, I was shocked to find out that I could major in dance.  For the next couple of years, I worked hard to hone my craft, dancing up to six hours a day. I connected with an amazing teacher, who gave me so much confidence in myself, that I believed I would someday have a career in dance.  She also connected with me on a personal level, and made me feel like I mattered to her.  She encouraged me to move on and audition for a spot in the Dance Department at Long Beach State.  I was terrified the day of the audition, but I just knew I would be accepted- and I was!! 

I only spent a year at Long Beach though.  All of my insecurities came crashing back around me and were suffocating me.  So I quit.  I wanted so badly to go back, but I was paralyzed with fear and self doubt.   I have always wondered what could have been.  Would I have joined a company?  Danced in videos?  Failed miserably, and ended up right where I am now?  I'll never know.

I've often said that I regret not sticking with acting and dance, but that's not quite true.  If I hadn't given into my fears and insecurities, my life would be very different right now.  I would likely not have my husband or my amazing children, and I would never trade them for the world (at least on most days!)  They are the only things in my life that I know, without a doubt, will never vanish.  They are the only people in this world with whom I have an unbreakable bond.  So to say that I regret the things I missed out on in the past is really not right, because that would mean that I regret where life has taken me.  The path my life has taken has certainly not been easy, but I wouldn't change it, for fear of changing where I have ended up.

Sometimes I Attempt to Write

From time to time I may post things that I've written.  I don't profess to be an amazing writer, nor do I think I would ever have the ability to write a book that anyone would want to read.  But I have always loved putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard in this day and age,) and sometimes I like to share what I've written.

A Story of Faith (working title) 

Prologue

The summer of 1970 might have been the best ever.  Or it might have been the worst, depending on who you ask.  If you were to ask Susie, she would say it was the best time of her life.  She was almost seventeen, and she was ready to experience the world.  She spent her days hanging out at Heritage Park with her friends, listening to music, getting high, and dreaming of the day she could finally walk out of her mom and stepdad’s house forever.  She had quit going to school two years earlier.  Susie didn’t need school and the oppressive rules that came along with all of that.  She was a free spirit, a flower child... a hippie who was sure she knew it all.

If you were to ask me, I would have a very different opinion. I wasn’t even alive yet, but the choices she made that summer would dictate the course of my life.

Broken

Before I get too far into this blog, I suppose I should forewarn you that I am broken.  I've carried a lot of pain and insecurity my whole life, and it's still with me to this day.  But I'm one of those "she looks like she has it mostly together" types of broken people.  That's my control freak/perfectionist nature.  I can't let anyone see what actually lies beneath the surface.  I've never really talked too much about my struggles, so writing them here will be new territory for me.

I read a book recently, and the author talked about her own struggles very honestly, and about why it was so important for her to be honest in the telling of her story.  What she had to say really resonated with me, and I thought, hell, why not try?  Our stories really aren't similar at all- hers being about drug and alcohol abuse, and my own being mostly about abandonment and feeling unwanted.  Nonetheless,  a lot of the emotions and insecurities that she talked about really hit home for me.  She talked about being in her own head, wishing she were somewhere and someone else.  That was exactly my escape as a kid.  It was how I made myself feel worthy and special.

I can't be as honest in my real life as the author was in her memoir, for so many reasons.  This is the best I can do... at least it's something. 

The One Where I Introduce Myself

Hey there!  I'm Lisa.  I've blogged before, but mostly about "mommy" types of things.  My other blog is still floating around in cyberspace, but I haven't posted to it since 2011.  If you click my profile, you'll see it, but it's not really worth a look, unless you are interested in prematurity, or listening to me drone on about my kids, or reading about my reconnection with my absentee mother.  I poured a lot of energy into that blog, though, so deleting it seems kind of like deleting one of my children.  Plus, I was in a very different place in my life when I was writing it, and sometimes I like to go back and re-read it to remind myself. 

I've been thinking about jumping back into blogging for quite some time, but this time will be different.  This time it's just random things for myself.  If you find it interesting, fantastic!  If not, that's okay too.  So, welcome to my digs!