April Fool's Day, April Blues Day: Healing Journey Supplies

Tools

Damn, this week has been rough. 

I have said a hundred times (or nearly) on this blog that healing is a marathon, not a sprint.  But having run a half marathon, I think this is an understatement.  Healing is a lifelong freaking ultramarathon (term for any race longer than 26.2 miles) and some days it’s so hard to get out of bed in the morning.  So today is about surviving.

In light of this, I’m packing a suitcase of tools and tips to deal with the !@#$!#$!@#$!@#$.  Here’s what I have in my bag, so I can check out of life and check into Hotel Escape.  What?  I can’t check out of life?  Work, family, job?  Responsibilities?  While I feel like !@#$? 

Dammit.  So here’s what I have in my bag so I can cope with !@#$ as I stick it out and do my best to survive:

1)  Distraction Hammer.  Sometimes, distraction is not denial.  Sometimes, getting busy with task oriented projects, cleaning out the closet, cleaning out the file drawer at work, picking apart a shelf—can take the mind off and is a break from the !@#$.  And voila! A clean shelf or closet is the result.

2)  Letting Go/Breathing Mask:  However, sometimes, you need to wallow.  It’s okay to cry.  It’s okay to let those feelings come in.  It’s okay to give space to the doubts, because to suppress them with “I shouldn’t feel this way” or “Why aren’t I over this !@#$ yet,” only turns those doubts from whispers into shouts.  So when you feel the thunderstorm coming on, take deep breaths.  Breath in 1-2-3-4, and breath out 4-3-2-1.  Repeat.  While breathing, tell yourself—I know these feelings.  I accept them.  They won’t last forever.  It will pass.  I can do it.  Repeat 10 times. 

3)  Work shoes:  I know it, this one seems crazy and a little lofty, but freaking exercise.  Pull on those shoes, throw yourself outside, and run around the block.  Or if you don’t feel like going outside, stay indoors, just start bouncing.  Run up and down the stairs a few times.  Do some jumping jacks.  Do 30.  Repeat.  Get the blood pumping and the sweat going.  Talk to yourself as you run:  I love and accept myself.  I love and accept myself.  (Even if you don’t believe it, the words are nice, and maybe with repetition, it will stick).  When you are sweating and gasping for air, you’re too occupied with survival to let the anxiety take over.  In fact, for a while after you stop sweating, your brain’s endorphins kick in and will give you some relief.  (p.s. high impact exercise is not a requirement, yoga or stretching and just moving a little bit, 10 minutes of walking a day, can help, too—in fact just that little bit of walking can reduce risk for disabilities when we are seniors!).

4) Mechanical pencil:  Take out your writing tool and write your !@#$ down.  Sometimes, the feelings are stuck inside and just need an outlet.  Or if writing is not your jam, use a different medium.  I know an amazing woman who makes art out of beach combing finds.  I think she transforms her pain into art and sells it on etsy.  I know another amazing woman who  makes a living as an independent author, transforming her traumatic experiences into published writing.  I’m not saying our pain needs to be sold on etsy or turned into a career (although kudos to those women and many more artists who do!!), but an outlet for it to get outside of your head, heart, and body helps relieve the internal pressure.

5)  Friend/Family Walkie-Talkie:  sharing a piece of our hearts with an understanding friend or family member can be super comforting.  Sometimes we think that our pain overwhelms our people, but choosing to keep it to ourselves, so as not to ‘burden’ others, can be self-defeating and isolating.  Reach out to someone you trust and a simple, “I’m having a rough day today” or “I need a hug, how are you?” can add a loving connection to your day.  Or if you don’t feel like spilling your internal !@#$, go through your contacts and think of a friend you haven’t seen in a long time.  Send them a text just to say “hi!”  You don’t have to go deep, just a friendly connection, a reminder that you are NOT alone in the universe is kind to yourself (and to them).

And to take this step further—a therapist walkie-talkie can do wonders.  Healing from trauma is not easy and if not for my therapist, I would probably still be in my abusive marriage that I left 8 years ago.  (Eight years!  !!!  !!!)

6)  Safety glasses/earmuffs:  I find another coping tool in reading.  Escaping into another world is awesome and a reprieve from my world and my !@#$.  It doesn’t have to be reading, it could be any hobby, picture collages, listening to music, beach combing, playing games.  I’ve also been into podcasts lately, especially _The Moth_, because those are real stories told by real people who experienced them, from all over the world. 

7)  Safety Instructions:  One thing to know about trauma, is that while you may have good days and bad days, and the good days are great, the bad days are likely caused by some sort of trigger related to the trauma.  Reading your instructions and examining the triggers that cause your trauma can be helpful (which is why a therapy walkie-talkie is a good tool).  I know that saying goodbye to my children when they do their visitation--is a huge trigger.  I can recognize being separated from them tugs at the separation trauma I had from when I was infant all those years ago, a pre-verbal trauma being separated from my birth mother.  I still struggle with it.  That said, knowing why I’m feeling the anxiety that I feel takes away the “crazy.”  I’m not crazy for freaking out and feeling like !@#$@.  It’s part of my story.  That’s why I need this damn toolkit.

8) Lunchbox/Thermos:  The last items in my toolkit include my lunchbox and my thermos.  Sometimes the contents can be super healthy, especially when combining with those work shoes.  A healthy body helps with a healthy spirit.  On the other hand, sometimes taking a break and eating all your favorite foods and drinking all the wine can be helpful, too.  And that goes with the setting—sometimes, you may just want to veg out and eat alone, watching your favorite tv show, or sometimes you might want to be with your people and drink and laugh and/or cry and be together.  Both choices have a place in the suitcase, because both can be helpful when dealing with the !@#$.

Bonus item—Safety pillow:  Sleep.  A good night’s sleep is good for your body, your heart and your mind.  Says the person who suffers from insomnia.  I love to sleep.  One day, I will sleep through the night again. 

Do you have anything else to add?  Thank you for reading.  I was feeling super junky when I first started writing, so just by unpacking my suitcase for you has helped me get through today.

Love and hugs, from a struggling, trying to do the best to survive, Jane Thrive

p.s. for your amusement--when searching the web for a toolkit pic to use in this post, I tried to google:  toolbag gif

This search result does not bring up pictures of toolkits.  hee hee.  Enjoy! 

Happy Spring Break: A letter to my mom

Dear Mom,

We took the girls to the north shore this past week, so we could spread the last of your ashes in the country that you thought was so beautiful when you visited us years and years ago.  We each held kind thoughts about you in our hearts and then sent you out into the sea.

I thought you’d like to know that we also took the girls horseback riding along the beach, a pretty magical experience, and one that even our surly tweenager said was “pretty awesome” afterwards.  They lined us up as we went on our 45 minute ride—A in the front on Bentley, DD2 behind him on Beetle,  DD1 next on Cody, and me following on good old Nick.  Along the way through the trees, DD1’s Cody tried to pass DD2 on Beetle, so DD1 learned how to hold back the reigns and wait for DD1 and Beetle to pass her by again.  (Our leader said she didn’t want Cody to “get away with acting like that”) and I think DD1 liked the extra responsibility—she had to remind Cody to behave a few times.

When our ride was over, I taught them how to feed apples to Cody and Beetle--holding the apple pieces on their flat palms, so the horses could easily pluck them off their hands.  (Almost all horses I have met love apples.)  They don’t like to eat hands at all—of which DD2 wasn’t so sure, until she did it a few times with Beetle nudging her some more.  (I thought you’d like that, too.)  Now, DD2 says she wants to ride horses all the time!

As we marched along the sea, I tried to remember if you had ever taken me horseback riding.  I remembered that you sent me to girl scout horse camp, and after I had arrived excitedly to meet the horse I was to care for all week, I remember being a bit disappointed that I had to “share” my horse with another girl.  Then that girl went home after the second day, and in my 10 year old glory was delighted to have my horse “all to myself”—which turned into meaning having to pick up hooves and dig the crud out and brushing and brushing and rebrushing my horse until I thought my arms would fall off, lol.  That’s what I get for being selfish!  I do know for sure that you taught me your love of all animals. 

I asked DD2 what she thought about when she put your ashes in the sea.  And she shared with me that you always had macaroni and cheese in your room for her, the one where we make it in the microwave in cups.  And she remembered picking flowers for you, so you could press them into books and then put them on cards.  I have one of the cards at work.

DD1 didn’t share her thoughts when I asked her, so I let her have her privacy around that.  At one point, she had stomped off the path where we were walking, and A followed up with her, to please be kind since this was a difficult time for mom.  And she told him, “well, it’s a difficult time for me, too!”  She was there with you that last week that you were alive, so I think your passing hits her harder than her free-spirited, in-the-moment younger sister.  She also felt better after having a snack and eating dinner—so sometimes, tweenage surliness can be comforted by filling up an empty tummy.

Mostly, we were lazy bones over the last few days of Spring Break—sleeping in, watching parts of movies like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (the Gene Wilder one) or the Penguins of Madagascar, while cooking and eating lazy breakfasts in our rental condo.  Or puzzling a 300 piece puzzle together on the little lanai table.  We ventured out of the house just before lunchtime each day to see what was around in the world.  We ate at a gelato shop that is owned by “Team America’s” Gelato Captain, who competed in the annual Gelato world championship and won the “Ice Sculpure” division a couple of years ago.  We wandered along a beach with a giant tidepool, where DD2 excitedly found a hermit crab and spotted other tiny fishes and crabs.

And lastly, I’m so happy to tell you that I finally crushed through the resistance of the girls’ father when it came to summer vacation planning.  I was zen and took deep breaths and now it’s all paying off.  We will be going to DC and New York City to see a play on Broadway—Hamilton, the girls’ favorite!  They can sing along to every single song by heart (I tell them to please not repeat the bad words outside of its artistic context, lol).  I remember you took me to Broadway when I was little, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.  It was to see “Starlight Express” and the cast was decked out in roller skates and the stage built with what looked like roller coaster tracks for the performers.  I’m so glad that with your help, I’ll be able to give them an experience like that, too.

It took us over a year since you’ve left this earth to finally put all of your ashes to rest, although I have a pendant with a tiny miniscule amount that I still wear nearly every day.  DD1 says I should probably let that go, too, and I agreed, that you’ll always be a memory in my heart, whether I have a remnant of your passing or not.

I wish you could be here to see them growing up stronger and to see them holding their own in the world.  I worry about them all the time, I worry if I’ll be enough, if somehow their volatile dad will wrest them away from my heart, if they will be happy, if they will love and be loved in the best possible ways, if the world will try and kick them down.  And if it does, if they will have the strength to resist and get back up and still retain their hearts and faith in the good.  I worry so much and yet at the same time, I see strength in their steps and grace in their walk.  Confidence and faith that I hope you passed along to me, so I can pass along to them.  I hope.

I’m sorry I was a big pain in the ass when I was younger.  And I’m sorry that I didn’t appreciate the time we had together as much as I should have.  I’m grateful to share your stories with the girls—that you traveled all over the world, that when the world told you no, you stood up and found a way to turn that no into a yes.  You are part of our nightly prayer where we say thanks to everyone in our family, to grandma g who is in heaven now.  Thank you for being a part of my heart.

p.s. last night, DD1 did share with me her "thought" as she put your ashes into the ocean--it was when we were in the hospital for DD2's birth.  You were trying to entertain DD1 by blowing up a hospital glove into a balloon.  It popped with a loud BANG, and everyone had a conniption because we thought you were going to wake up DD2.  But of course DD2 slept soundly.  DD1 said you were just trying to entertain her and I was laughing as she shared that memory.  I told her you always marched to your own drum and DD1 said, 'yeah, like she was just doing her best entertaining a 3 year old!" and I agreed.  

And...I do remember that moment, how upset the ex was, and how i was upset, too, because he was upset.  But when i step back, it really didn't matter, mom, it wasn't worth getting riled up about.  You were just being you, trying to share some love and laughter with DD1.  I'm glad she remembers that.  And I'm glad I remember it, too.

Happy Two Days after Girl's day (3/3)!

Girls Day Origami

So today’s post will be a dedication to my two favorite girls—big sister and little sister, love letters for our day in the life.

Dear Little Sister, a.k.a. Tough Girl,

Let me tell you about why we are calling you “Tough Girl.”  Yesterday, you got whacked in the head not once, but TWICE, at tennis practice.  The first time, because you ran close by another little girl and boom came the racket on the top of your head.  You recovered pretty quickly.  The second time, you were too close to someone who was practicing her serve, and BOOM, you got hit in the eye.  You were sobbing and crying and covering your eye.

When I came rushing over with an ice pack, you cried and cried some more and I wrapped you in my giant sweater and just held you.  And you asked me if your eye was going to fall out.  And I just kept hugging you and said absolutely not, your eyeball was going to stay right inside your head.  And we just kept cuddling and then finally you asked if we could go home already and I was like absolutely.  You also told me you didn’t want to go to school and I quietly told you we’d see.  But for now we were just going to keep an ice pack on and it would help make your eye feel better.

You sat at the dinner table with an ice pack over your eye and then you asked me for an eye patch.  I made one for you out of an old Delta sleep mask that they hand out on the plane.  About halfway through dinner, your spirits improved, and you started asking me about slime and how we make it.  Then you took off your eye patch and you slowly opened your eye and I told you that you looked pretty tough.  So then you wanted to look at your eyeball and then to take a selfie and you made a “tough girl” face.  And then you decided you were going to show me this dance that you had made up with your BFF at school, called the “horse-what-are-those-straps-that-humans-use-to-guide-a-horse-mommy?”  And I answered, “reins”?  And you said, Yes!  This is our “Horse-Rein” dance.   And you wiggled and shimmied all around the living room and I couldn’t stop laughing, because you said, “and this is my horse rein’ face too” and you made an epic silly face.

Moments later, apa came home from work, and you ran over to show him your “horse rein” dance.  And you gleefully told him how you were a TOUGH GIRL and had gotten whacked twice, but mommy says I’m a TOUGH GIRL and you made strong arm muscles to show him.

So by the time it was bath time, you were singing and splashing around like there was no care in the world, and when you did your nightly call with your dad, you also proudly told him how TOUGH you were.  And that even though you got hit, you STILL LOVE tennis.  (awwww).

Later, we tucked in goodnight and said a prayer for everyone in our family, and also that we hoped your eye would get better, you asked me to kiss you all over your face, but not my eye mommy, and I prayed that you would have only good dreams.  And in the morning, you were right as rain, and you bounced out of bed ready to go to school.  You kissed me goodbye and my heart is so full because of how much I love you. 

P.s. and just a note: you won your very first tennis match, singles and doubles last week end, and we are so proud of you!

-----

Dear Big Sister,

You are getting older now, in intermediate school, and you keep a lot of your feelings to yourself and I'm doing my best to respect your space.  At the same time, you are sure to tell me if I annoy you or if you’re frustrated with how annoying I am, lol, so I’ve learned to roll with the punches.  When you’re in a good mood, I just cherish those moments, because you are physically a half an inch shorter than me and will likely grow taller, and I’m realizing how fast the time is flying by now that you’re a tween.

Yesterday, well after little sister’s tennis brouhaha, I picked you up after YOUR tennis—where on the way home you proceeded to tell your dad on the phone that you wanted to scold little sister for standing too close to the other players.  (I interpreted that to mean that you care about her and didn’t want her to get hurt, awww.)  You and I also had a quick talk about the weird Momo video that’s making the rounds via youtube, and you let me know that dad already addressed it being a fake filter or something, but when I shared that little sister’s vice principal had shared it with all of the  students, your ears were listening.  All I said was that if you did see something weird, and that something weird tells you to do something that hurts you or others, to talk to me or the closest parent available immediately.  And you agreed (without rolling your eyes) and asked why that person hasn’t gotten in trouble and I answered, because they haven’t found them yet, but hopefully they would soon.  The most important part was to tell someone if you see it.  There might have been a shadow of eye rolling because I repeated myself, but that’s okay, I understand.

When we walked into the house, we discovered that apa had eaten all of the broccoli, and you said you’d give him a pass even though that's your favorite (I was the one that was more lit up about you not having your broccoli, lol, and btw I love that you love broccoli), and then you quickly downed three bowls of my home-made chili mac and cheese.  (Not counting the one bowl that you ate before practice).  I love making your favorite dishes and seeing you eat heartily—with tennis practice and your hectic school schedule and you being on the verge of getting a cold, we need to keep you healthy and full of good food!

You were psyched when you found a home made pound cake in the fridge and you asked if you could have that piece too.  We sat at the table with you, I made little sister turn off her ipad since she’d already eaten, you asked apa about his day at work.  And we all shared how our days were and for fifteen minutes, I just enjoyed being next to you (I didn’t say this out loud, because it would be EMBARASSING to you).  I shared some girls day treats that I had picked up on Sunday—little favors from an afternoon tea in boxes with “Love” and you thought they were so cute; as well as chi chi dango (rectangular rice cake) and there was a blue one, your favorite color.

It turns out one of my friends knows your math teacher, so you were asking who she was and when you saw a picture of aunty, you remarked on how pretty she was.  And when I said that Aunty wanted to come over and have a mani/pedi party with us, you thought that would be fun.  Then it became time to do homework and the only minor tussle we got into before bed was that I was hassling you to brush your teeth already, because I didn’t want you to stay up too late.

You mentioned that one of your aunties asked if you had any crushes, and I tried not to act too interested when I answered, oh really?  And you said no and halfheartedly wondered why she'd asked, and I said, well, probably because we know A (Aunty’s daughter) does.  And you laughed, because we both know it’s true.  And I said well, if you do have any questions or a crush…and you rolled your eyes and was like I won’t be telling you!  And I answered, well, I’m here for you anyway, and you tucked into bed and you had some snuggle time with our sweet dog as we said our evening prayer. 

I said goodnight to you and I kissed your forehead, like I do every night, because even though you don’t really hug me much anymore, I’m doing my best to show you affection on the regular.  Because I love you with all my heart.

This morning, you weren’t even that grumpy for getting up early and asked me nicely to help get your breakfast.  And you and Q were the only two awake in the carpool and you were playing a trivia game, and the two of you were singing along to the tunes I had on Pandora, which made my heart all smooshy.  (The other two kids were fast asleep). 

The last words I said to you when I dropped you and the carpool kids off were I love you and have a good day at school—I may have imagined it, but I think you nodded and might have smiled.  (But it’s okay if you didn’t, because being a tween is hard).

Love, Love, and all my love,

mom

Trigger Warning

Lightning

Triggers, by nature, are symbols of pain that prick at the surface and reverberate deep down into our very core of pain.  I think of it as a needle so long that it can pierce from head to toe.  Sometimes I’m paralyzed, other times pumped full of adrenaline—literally in split-second limbo of do I fight or flight or just melt down. 

Sometimes they pull up memories that are re-lived.  In detail, word-for-word, thought-for-thought, shame-hurt-helpless fear-helpless rage.  Sometimes they recall sensory memories, touch, sight, sound, smell.  Sometimes they flit in and out so fast they’re barely registered, like a familiar odor that passes by on the breeze and then is gone.  Other times, a tidal wave, drowning out everything in sight.

I’m used to navigating them.  I’m used to the familiar roadmarks, signs, warnings, and upside down cones that mark danger.  But just because we are aware of them, doesn’t always make them easier to live through. 

I can’t line them up in order of how to tackle them, especially the non-verbal sensory memories.  But I can try and make sense of them when they’re washing in with the tide.

It’s no use closing my eyes and wishing and hoping they will just go away.  Like my youngest daughter who gets bad dreams sometimes, and just wants me to lie down with her.  My sweet little sis, waking up in her bed, scared.  That was me as a child, too, tiptoeing out of my bed and just hoping my mom wouldn’t wake up and let me sleep at the foot of the bed.  Because only her room was the safe spot from the nameless fear I had back then.  So I can relate when DD2 has her bad dreams, too.

And that’s me, as an adult, suffering from insomnia, because of the trauma of the divorce.  How I long to be able to sleep through the night like I did years ago.

My ex is being “extra” these days.  He is holding onto his power and control and keeping our extended summer time hostage, because he can.  I reached out to the play therapist and co-parenting counselor for advice.  And finally, the attorney.  The attorney wants to write a letter.  Because that’s what attorneys do, but I know that will only cause him to dig deeper.  The co-parenting counselor we've seen over the years isn’t versed in domestic violence and does not have any conducive advice. She equates us both in her mind; which is akin to saying its “both sides’” faults when looking at a white supremacist inflicting violence by driving a car into protesters marching against racism.  It’s not ‘both sides’ when one is running over people in a crowd. (p.s. it’s taken me a week end to unpack that trigger).  And even if she was trained in DV, i'm not sure what she could do.

The play therapist has more understanding—but unfortunately, her help is--soon the kids will be 18 and you won’t have to be hostage to this type of thinking anymore.  At least she recognizes the power dynamic, even though she can’t do anything about it.

My coping mechanisms then—are:

1) writing about it and also /eyerolling about it instead of crumbling about it,

2) finding compassion for myself...and for him, wishing him free from suffering (compassion meditation, I'm trying something new),

3) therapy, lots of therapy, and 

4) doing my best to zen out and work around him.  I have to remember--I'll figure it out, I always do.  I’ll figure this one out eventually, too.

But the triggers, I’m back to the triggers of what it is to deal with him.  The world gives him a pass because he has a job and can be charming and educated.  That’s the world I live in.  I can create my world, but I still live in his—where he exerts control when he can, because he can, where my shortcomings are a laundry list that in his eyes victimize him.  The world where he never takes responsibility for the violence inflicted in my home.  The world where it’s okay for him to do all that he did and walk away with his power and control.

Those are the triggers I live with.  And I have to figure out how to transform them into lifting me up instead of holding me down.

I guess sometimes it’s okay to cry.  I’ll get to strength and love and light at some point.

Will I always be living with trauma?

(trauma)

First of all, Happy Birthday to my DD2!  She had a birthday this past week and when I put together pictures from when she was a baby until now, firmly settled into elementary school, I honestly can’t believe how fast time has flown.  I am so grateful that she is a bouncing, lively, loving, kind, hilarious, energetic kid full of love and laughter for the world.  (And also, how long I was doing the single mom thing and divorced parent and re-married world since she was one.  It’s mind boggling!!)

Despite learning that my ex is seemingly in a happier place with his new girlfriend—it is long distance, which I’m sure has its challenges—he has been quite “extra” lately.  Nitpicking every other email, demanding certain time sharing requirements, then when I ask for the same type of time sharing, responding that it’s a huge accommodation and he’ll have to think about it.  He spends a lot of time documenting all of my shortcomings.  And stressing out the girls about having to wait an hour for DD2’s birthday pizza and then refusing to take it and going to a different pizza place (meanwhile poor DD2 is hungry, it’s 8pm when they call me about it all), or telling the girls that they live in a ‘shack’ and so the girls come home telling me they live in a shack and DD2 is especially concerned about daddy not having enough money.  (You know, because they just flew first class to take a vacation over the break.)

In the midst of this, DD2 was sick and had to miss school.  I always wish that if DD2 is sick, it will be on mom time, so as to be less stress, no back and forth, she can just rest in peace.  However because a dad day fell within her sickness time, she had to embark on the back and forth, the texts/emails that come in demanding to know every single detail of temperature and the level down to the decimal.  (Of course when I inquired of her temperature he never responded.  /eyeroll).

Dealing with this crap is just the pits.  I was explaining it to someone who works in the field of child victims and witnesses of violent crime:  it just never ends.  I haven’t ‘escaped’ an abusive marriage.  I am joined to the hip with this person and constantly negotiating and unpacking the emotional baggage that he foists on them his implied version of all the things that I do wrong and my shortcomings (he’s crafty and doesn’t come out and say mom is awful, just mom should do this or that) and his worries about money and his emotional needs, and still being neutral and supporting them in their relationship with their dad, helping them know their feelings are their feelings and not their dad’s…it’s constant triggering, constant, constant, constant.

Will I always be living with trauma? 

Completely separate from these musings, I was reading a random, Y/A Garth Nix novel, and in it, one of the characters lost a ton of blood.  The character is unable to stand or walk.  And I suddenly remembered the night after DD2 was born, I tried to get up and remember walking slowly to the bathroom in our hospital room.  I was lightheaded—and then I remember feeling so relaxed and going toward this soft, white light and I couldn’t wait to open the door, I knew there were people waiting for me.  But something told me to turn around, and so I told the light, hang on, I’ll be right back.

The next thing I knew, I was in the hospital bed blinking into the faces of seven or eight people—the on call resident, nurses, and who knows who else.  I’d fainted due to hemorrhaging and blood loss, and while they caught it in time and had it temporarily under control, the next morning they had to excavate my womb for bits of placenta and after birth so I would stop bleeding (which was excruciatingly painful--they couldn’t give any pain meds and basically the nurse stuck her arm up my wahoo and dug out with her gloved hands the remains!  Sounds fun, right!  I would scream because it was the only way to live through the pain).  Anyway, they were mulling over whether or not I should get a blood transfusion, as whatever that number you’re supposed to be at, I was right on the in between.  (this is why birth is no joke, even though we make plenty of jokes about it, and why modern medicine, for all its bad rep for costs, etc, saves lives all the damn time, because if this had happened in the good old little house on the prairies days, you know this mama would have croaked).

Two days later, I was released to go home, along with a warning on how fatigued I would be due to the blood loss, and it would take 4-6 weeks to get my red blood count back up and energy level would be low until then.

And I remembered, with clarity, how awful and jerky the ex husband was to me after we got home.  The big dramatic sighs it was to ‘take care’ of me, by going up and down the stairs to bring me water or food.  Or when we ventured out into the world to pick up my medicine from the pharmacy (including lots of iron!), he parked at the parking spot far away from the door in order to protect the car from potential scratches (because, you know, someone might park like a jerk and hit our car with their car door), making the walk inside that much farther and more difficult for me.  The dramatic sighing if I said I was tired.  All while I was taking care of a newborn who was waking up every 2-3 hours to nurse, and also big sister who was 3.  Losing his temper and yelling at DD1 or stomping around for whatever he decided he was pissed off about (usually my mom, who was staying with us for a few weeks after DD2 was born).  My mom tried to talk to me about his awful behavior, but I wouldn’t hear it at the time.  I was too busy trying to keep the family “together” and relegated my mom’s observations as just over-worried and not understanding the pressure the ex was under in becoming a father times 2 (remembering “the dark time” of when DD1 was born). 

I realize this is a long drawn out description of something from years and years ago, but this is why I wonder if I will always live with trauma.  I was reading a completely random book, and got triggered into this crazy memory.  Honestly, describing it in writing is longer than it took for all of these thoughts to flit through my brain…

I’m going to therapy later today, because healing is a marathon.  Maybe I will always live with trauma, but hopefully I don’t have to be ruled by it.  Today is a good day—I’m not paralyzed with frustration like I was last week.  I don’t have to wear this familiar pain like a blanket.  It’s time to cast it off, damn it.  I can’t help that it keeps coming around, because I have to keep dealing with him on a regular basis.

When I’m enveloped by the triggers, especially the EXTRA emails/texts from him, at times I can be flooded with stress, uncertainty, fear.  Yet, I’ve always navigated through the difficulties in the past. I have to remember that I’ll navigate through them again.  That those momentary paralyzing moments will pass.  It’s hard to remember when you’re in them, though.

So I’ll go back to that mantra—I may live with trauma, but I don’t have to be ruled by it.  Here’s to hope and healing and living a better life.

Adulting in Grief and Coparenting in spite of it

Wave

Grief is an ocean wave that I sometimes get submerged in.  The tides come and go, pulling me forward and backward, especially in this first year since you’ve been gone.  I can swim towards it or against it, but in the end, all it means is that I love you and miss you, mom.

I was prepared for yesterday’s anniversary of my mom’s passing to hit me with a two-by-four plank of emotions.  It’s been a roller coaster all year.  I wore black.  I’ve been in and out of grief.  Even my my usually reticent and distant brother has called me numerous times lately and actually said I love you.  (This is kind of a happy miracle, and one that my mom would love to know is happening—she’d laugh about it as much as I have appreciated it and laughed, too.  My brother has always been the anti “I love you” sayer).

At any rate, I was not prepared to deal with the petulance and hissy-fit throwing of my ex-husband and father of my daughters.  The world centers around his needs and wants, so why would I be surprised?

Let us set the stage of the latest, petty, b.s. that we sometimes live in:

The children came home without DD2’s tennis racquet that DD1’s coach gave her, out of the goodness of his heart (expensive, quality racquet, since coach’s kids are really good players, so this was an awesome hand-me-down for DD2).   Coach had previously asked if DD2 could use it and later gave it to her over four months ago—on a night when DD2 was practicing with dad.  It has never occurred to dad that the racquet is for DD2 and not for him, so he has kept it with him and did not share with me that DD2 received said gift.  Coach tipped me off, because he saw us at practice and asked DD2 why she didn’t have it (he knows the two-houses situation, thankfully, and is quite understanding).  I thanked Coach, then politely overlooked dad’s actions, since DD2 was only taking lessons once a week at district park.  However, now she’s joined a bona fide beginner’s team, and it’s time to begin practice in earnest as they will be playing in bona fide beginner matches with teams all over our county.

Of course, I’ve politely emailed him over the last three weeks, anticipating DD2’s need for her racquet.  Of course he didn’t respond.  (Although miraculously, he did respond by text that he got my emails and he’d get back to me, but he never did.) And DD1 even offered to bring the said racquet home with her—which normally I wouldn’t let her chime in, but she is an avid tennis player and understands that the racquet is DD2’s, just like DD1’s racquet is hers and it goes back and forth between houses, too.  So great, we have a plan.  But did it come home?  No.

So now DD2 needs her racquet before she goes back to dad’s house.  So I email/text dad about it.  He says he can’t drop it off because he won’t be near our house over the next five days, and then tells me that I shouldn’t email him over the week end when he has the kids, because he won’t get it, that I need to text him a day before to remind him.  Because of course he needs a secretary to remind him to parent.  Then he turns it around that DD1 has items from his house that need to be returned—of course none of items have time constraints and DD1 is old enough and aware enough to take care of.

I offer to meet him for the (!@#$ing) racquet (which is happening later) and proceed to tell him that DD1 is working on returning items to his house.  He agreed, and let’s hope he shows up (on time).  Extra drama that I don’t need.  And honestly, I usually avoid this kind of stuff—I’ll just buy two of everything, because then no one has to worry about this kind of !@#$.  But the racquet is professional and high end, and it’s DD2’s, so sometimes, I have to do this !@#$.

So that’s the background scene to the next hissy-fit he threw:

We have a lovely  night of girl scouts planned, which we have every certain weeknights the kids are with me and not with him (because god forbid he actually has to take them somewhere on ‘his’ weeknight).  We call early, and the kids leave a voicemail, per usual, since we’ve done this for the last year, the last two years, the last five years, the last FREAKING EIGHT YEARS.  Then somewhere during girl scouts, he leaves a text and an email that the girls didn’t call and he had no notice and that I shouldn’t “impede” the girls communicating with him.  (Because you know, we haven’t done this ever before, so this must be what I’m doing.)

Anyway, I get the text post DD2 going to bed, luckily DD1 is up.  I’m tempted to ignore it completely, but I remember I have to see him to get DD2’s tennis racquet and quickly remember that taking the high road is what I should do instead of saying the !#@$ with this b.s.  (Sometimes, I really do want to say !@#$ it)  DD1 has a nice call and all seems fine.  After she goes to bed, I respond to his email that he may recall we call early on certain weeknights due to girl scouts as was the case this evening, and that while I was glad DD1 could call, DD2 was already asleep as the girls go to bed soon after their week night activities.  (You know, because we have to get up early and go to school/work—this I didn’t mention, but duh.)  And that I appreciated his taking early calls in the past.  Sincerely.

Sincerely !@#$ off.  But I remember that he is a sad, selfish, miserable person whose world must revolve around him.  That I am the cause for all that is wrong with his world, and even though he has “moved on,” his behavior towards me has remained the same.

Before I went to bed, I was thinking about all the fun the girl scouts had—making their poster board for World Thinking Day, learning how to write their names in a different language, learning how to fold origami.  Their laughter and voices discussing different words and enjoying a snack and holding hands and singing at the end of our meeting.

I got to thinking how my mom never let my ex-husband put her down or treat her badly, and how much she disliked the way he treated me and DD1 and DD2 with his impatience, anger, and outbursts.  She would, actually, be happy that I wasn’t letting him get away with treating us that way anymore.  So even though I was frustrated with having to deal with him on the anniversary of her passing, she would have thought I handled it okay.  She probably would have said !@#$ with the texts/emails (in a less profane way, she never swore).  And also to !@$# with the damn tennis racquet, too, lol, but she would be glad that I was safe in our house, sleeping next to my hubby who loves me and the girls.

She would be happy that despite the challenges, we are healthy and happy, doing the best that we can do with our lives.  She would be happy that the girls had a different way of living than when she was last visiting us when DD2 and DD1 were small.  And she would smile knowing that before they went to sleep, the girls said thank you for everyone in our family, including Grandma who is in heaven now.  Of that, I know for sure.

  

Two Moments in the Life of a Little Girl Growing up in the World Right Now

(World Clouds)

I don’t know wtf is going on with media messaging in the world where my third grade daughter is worried that she’s fat.

I’ve tried responses that concentrate on what our bodies can do (can I run? Can I swim? Can i climb the monkey bars? Can i play tennis with my friends? And karate too? Yay! I’m healthy!) and how our doctor says she is perfectly healthy every year at her physical. That honestly our DOCTOR is the person who can tell us if there’s an issue about weight, and no one else. She’ll agree for a few days but then it’s like she doesn’t hear it at all, she comes home saying my belly is fat or my belly is big. That this girl or that girl at school says her belly is fat (as in talking about herself, not my daughter’s; it’s the self loathing talk that’s bumming me out—and i know these girls they are little growing toothpicks).

I’ve tried to normalize that bellies are just bellies and bending over makes our bellies look different, to no avail. I’ve monitored the way I speak about my body around her to make sure I’m not passing along negative body imaging to her. I say I exercise so I can be healthy and live a long life (not that I’m trying to lose weight or trying to be skinny, and that’s fine if those are personal goals out there in the world, just not trying to put those world’s expectations on her). Urggggg.

So in the moment, I resorted to: I can’t stop you from saying negative things about yourself DD2, even though I know the words aren’t true. I need you to say some different words for yourself though. So from now on, any time you say something negative, like my belly is fat, I want you to say something positive, too. Like, I can read chapter books. I can swim all afternoon. She half heartedly repeated these words. And was like

awwww, do I have to?

And I was like: if I catch you saying negative things about yourself without saying something positive, no playing games on the IPAD.

Her (eyes as big at saucers): For how long?

Me: FOREVER.

Her: OKAY MOMMY.

...

FFS

I recalled going through this a little bit with DD1, but not to the constant repeat loop that seems to be with DD2.  And, she still bounces around and plays with her friends, like today she swam for two hours straight in the pool, just venting about the negative body talk that she’s taken on. Is it parroting? Does she really think this? Probably a bit of both.  And IPAD threatening was not my best moment, but I fail all the time so just add it to the tally of shit I do wrong.  Tomorrow is another damn day.

------

Day 2: So after a somewhat good night's sleep, I felt a little better about this being a marathon type of conversation/issue and not a here's a few steps to solve the challenge type of situation.  So okay, life, I'll take this challenge, dang it.  One of the silver linings out of the conversations of late is this:  she actually talks to me about it.  she feels safe enough with me to tell me her worries and fears, so I need to be less judgmental about her worries and fears and more supportive of how to be a positive force in her life.  I'll keep up with positive talk and will lesson the IPAD threats, and understand that if we still struggle with messaging as a 20, 30, 40  year olds (my goal is that by 50 i just wont gaf, i'm pretty close to IDGAF, but i've been conditioned by the same media messaging), then of course this is going to seep into an 8 year old's realm, whether i like it or not.  p.s. she brought it up again this morning when i was braiding her hair.  she was hesitant to say the word 'fat,' i think in part because she didn't want me to harsh on feminist theory at 6am?  LOL.  so i said, honey, i realize you have your thoughts and feelings about this, and the world is going to say one thing, and we have to say other things back.  so what would you like to say back?  i can swim?  she said yes.  i can read all the books?  she said yes.  and i said, anything else?  and she said: i can run.  ❤

And…my heart melted.

Lastly, an extra:

Gillette embraced the Be the Best a Man can Be to mean more than brawny, uninformed masculinity, and I actually teared up.  Of course there’s backlash from the trolls and threats to boycott, which means it struck a nerve.  You can see it here.

I know, I know, I teared up at a SHAVING commercial.  But I teared up because this mainstream, commercial (usually money-grubbing and not giving a f!@$) world has embraced the idea of a BETTER way to be.  I imagined how different my experiences would have been if I had grown up in this one, and maybe that’s why I teared up.  A hope that the world can be better.

Because world, I **need** you to be a better place for my two little girls who are growing up fast.