I had my first therapy session this week.
I knew I was going to cry, but I was surprised at how quickly I was able to gain my composure. I was able to say some things out loud that I've been keeping in my head and that felt better than I expected.
I've already been given some tools to help change my thinking patterns and been presented with the idea that perhaps some of this is persistent because of OCD. I admitted to some OCD behavior and came to realize I had more than I thought I did (nail biting, skin picking, counting, and now potentially obsessive/repetitive thoughts). It makes a lot of sense.
As a mother I'm still feeling incredible inadequacy on a daily basis. Some days are really good and I get glimmers of confidence. Some days are really bad and I throw things and scream. (Yep. If you know me you're probably having trouble picturing this, but it's true. I've also punched a few walls. Yay overwhelm!) In my mind I'm constantly questioning myself and my competency. I'm still convinced on most days that Norma would be better than me.
Who is Norma?
Norma is the fake woman in my brain that my family would be better off with, and the reason I often think about driving away forever or into a busy intersection. She's basically perfect and 'normal,' hence 'Norma.'
Her heart expanded and her life had a hole filled when my baby was born. She couldn't imagine life without her. She knows what to do when baby won't stop crying and she has all the patience in the world. Her presence is soothing and loving. She is naturally nurturing and confident. She recovered brilliantly from childbirth and she loves babies. She has never regretted having a baby. She's basically a manifestation of everything I think I lack.
I try really hard not to think about Norma.
As a wife I feel useless and like I should probably be replaced. Having a child is exhausting and being anxious and depressed is exhausting and by the time I've gotten kiddo to sleep, dried my tears, and calmed my racing thoughts... there's nothing left. There's nothing left for him and there's nothing left of me. I'm an empty shell that falls asleep on the couch at 8pm. I don't understand what he could possibly be getting from me and our relationship at this point.
I love him. So so much. He is so incredibly supportive of me despite everything... If he cheated on me I would totally get it.
Norma would have the energy for sex.
As a human being I'm holding on. I'm taking steps in every right direction I can see because I don't want to feel this way. I've quit most social media, I've started reading about women who have been where I am, I've started meditating, I've started therapy. I'm attempting to simplify and I think it's starting to help.
I want to get to a point where I can say, "Fuck you Norma. I got this." Where I can visualize myself, as imperfect as I am, and know that I'm the best thing for my family.
I just need to stop telling myself I'm awful.
I've always been torn between being extremely guarded and being extremely honest. As I've aged, the honesty keeps slipping further and further into the most guarded places of my heart and mind.
I think that's my new definition of growth.
As a Mother's Day gift to myself, I'm going to allow myself to grow a little more.
Please, let me start out by formally announcing that I absolutely love and adore my daughter. It's likely that it may seem otherwise after reading this. I assure you, that is not the case, I love her as intensely as I have ever loved anything.
I was pregnant.
I didn't have a glamorous pregnancy. I didn't have a particularly complicated pregnancy either. I think it was a pretty standard, run of the mill pregnancy.
Then, I gave birth.
I didn't have a glamorous delivery. I didn't have a particularly complicated delivery either. I think it was a pretty standard, run of the mill delivery.
Now I have a baby.
Somehow, the hospital let me leave with this thing. I mean, I had to prove I could make it gain weight and that I could change diapers, (both mine and the baby's), but they totally let me take her home. I'm still shocked by this.
6 weeks later.
This is just baby blues.
The baby blues should be gone.
The baby blues aren't gone?
I'm not depressed, this is just new.
This is hard.
She's just being difficult today.
I'm just tired.
I can't sleep.
I don't think that anyone would call me an overly emotional person, but I am someone who knows how they feel despite the fact that I rarely express it. I was expressing it all over the place. I didn't realize to what extent, and I didn't realize how abnormal for me it was.
My husband's friend was the first to question my mental state. My friend, his wife, had been through this, and he recognized similarities in me. He mentioned this to my husband, who mentioned it to me.
I spent an entire evening processing, crying, researching, crying, writing, crying, crying, crying.
It didn't click at first, until it did. One visit from those caring friends and one doctor's appointment later.
I opted to get some medicine to help me while I determine what other help I might need. It worked quite well at first. I cried less, and my mind didn't race as much. The little voice inside my head became less negative and more forgiving. I felt a positive clarity, one that I didn't even have before all of this.
I'm glad someone pointed out to me that I wasn't okay. I'm glad I know myself well enough to recognize that they were right. I'm glad I'm not scared to admit that I need help.
I have Postpartum Depression.
I say have, because I still have it. It hasn't gone anywhere.
The medicine I'm on isn't working was well as it was. I'll be addressing that with my doctor shortly.
Right now, I feel as though I am present, but nothing else. Majority of the time my head feels like a quiet, absent place. I feel like if I were to walk on a marble floor with stilettos on, I would make no noise. Feeling like a noiseless version of myself isn't the worst thing, but my mind likes to make me feel like shit for it, and then I go dark.
When my head space goes dark, it's brutal. I wanted to type out an example of the thoughts that run through my head, but I'm in a decent, noiseless spot right now and I don't particularly want to spill the negative stuff all over it.
What's important here is that I'm smart enough to know that the things I'm telling myself are false. I know, logically, there isn't a reason for me to feel what I'm feeling. There isn't a reason for me to be so critical when I have evidence that I am doing well.
I fully intend on working with my doctor and adjusting my medication until it works for me. I'm also coming to the realization that I probably needed therapy before all of this and that if I want to pass this hump in my life, I'm going to need to talk through some things.
I said it before, but I truly mean it:
Learning to take care of my daughter is teaching me how to take care of myself.
I believe I was exiting the Sonic drive thru, or entering it, or approaching it, or imagining it, or sitting idly pre or post order... OKAY, so I obviously don't know exactly which part of the purchase I was in, but I was somewhere between leaving home in a car and arriving back home in... the same car. #corndogs #listeria #shutup
None of this matters.
I was in some kind of Sonic process, (can we please take a minute to appreciate how cool 'Sonic process' sounds?), when I told my husband that I feel savage. This is my one word recap of the first trimester of pregnancy. Anyway, I believe the conversation went a little something like this:
What I mean by this is that I'm a monster, and I feel utterly and completely out of control.
"But Lauren! Pregnancy is a #blessing and just, omg it's going to be so fine, and no, none of the terrible things you read will happen to you... except some of them! Only some of them! Look at the bright side, at the end of this you get a baby THAT YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO TAKE CARE OF, BUT I'M AN EXPEEEERRRRTTT ASK ME ALL THE QUESTIONS!!@!!@!!$!!" (Obviously this person's voice becomes deeper and deeper until the end of the sentence, at which point we all discover that it is none other than Satan).
Yea, other moms, you are Satan now. Congrats. No exceptions, all of you: Satan.
Onward, there are bullet points needed after all.
Overall, I give the first trimester a 2/10. Hands down, this is one of the most unresearched and questionable decisions I have ever made. I don't regret it, I know the end result is this whole family thing that I want. It seems to be getting better, but I will require heavy convincing and/or bribery to go through the last 3 months again. Fuck that shit.
As true as the heartburn coursing through my chest, I am currently pregnant.
Yep. Just over 2 months into my sentence. (You can try to get me to speak in terms of weeks, but I'm not a fucking lunatic. I'm a grown ass woman (1568 weeks old!) and I'm converting to the greatest unit of measure, like I always have).
I understand, after reading every article I could find on the topic, that determining when to tell people you're pregnant is a very delicate thing. Everyone has different advice, and that advice, try as it might, will never be right for everyone. I'm guessing that is a common theme with everything to come... hooray opinions!
For me (us), the right thing is to put this out into the world.
Since everyone seems to love posts where I do bullet points. Here are the main things you should know or might be curious about. Save me a conversation, you know I don't really care for those if I don't know you well.
If I'm right about you, (and I am, because I am you), you're probably wondering, 'How the fuck did I get this letter from myself?' You didn't. This letter is just a symbol of my relationship with my past self and a reflection on how I've lived my life. BUT! If through some magical event this gets this into hands of the internet dwelling insomniac I was at 19, I'll write it anyway. Plus, Facebook told me to, (yea, social media is still a thing and yes, you're still hyper-addicted to it. It's a problem).
Anywho, Lauren, I'm almost 30. Not the 'almost 30' that a 27 year old says, but the, 'my birthday is literally in less than 20 days' type of 'almost 30.' You know, the scary kind that makes you question if you're who you want to be and all those other fun, existential things. Oh wait, you don't know, because you're 19. Fuck.
Being almost 30 is not by any means, a logical reason as to why you should listen to me.
I know that you're expecting a long rant about all the terrible choices you made up until now, and a how-to guide on avoiding them all. You won't be getting any of that.
You saw The Butterfly Effect more recently than I did. I don't want this letter to be the demise of my alternate future self. Though, technically, I suppose writing this letter at all is a risk because its existence, should it end up in your hands, could very well be the thing that throws off all of the other things...
No, you haven't stopped overthinking anything. That's still going strong.
Here's my advice: Don't do anything differently.
I could keep going, because I'm not convinced you should change anything. Every single bit of everything you do brought me to where I am.
Where I am is pretty fucking solid.
First and foremost, it is important for you to know that I hate shopping.
I don't get a sweet buyer's high from copping a sick deal. I don't enjoy sifting through a rack only to find that the one shirt that looks like the shape of my torso (oblong rectangle) is completely sold out in my size. I don't like searching for my size and finding that JUST KIDDING, this brand does things differently and now I'm a totally different size. I don't respect how 99% of women's pants are sized (what the fuck does 'long' mean?! We picked the stupid imperial system for some reason, why can't we use it to sell pants?! Last I checked I measured shit in inches, not in simple adjectives. 'Hey. How long is that broom? 'Oh, this broom? This broom is regular. Just a regular broom, regular length.') I don't want to take my clothes off in a tiny room and pretend that my pasty white skin looks good in fluorescent lighting.
I don't like shopping. I don't like shopping. I hate shopping.
Enter Stitch Fix. (THAT is a referral link, because I'm smart).
Stich Fix is this thing of when you pay some magical internet stylist $20 to send you some crap that matches your style. 'But Lauren, how do? How do they know my style Lauren, how?!' Relax, let me 'splain the whole process.
Overall, I give Stitch Fix a 9/10. I ended up with a really well fitting pair of black skinny jeans and some shirts I definitely wouldn't have picked out for myself, but that I'm comfortable wearing. The chick who styled me absolutely read my comments and catered the crap to fit my needs. For me, this service is well worth the money, especially considering the alternative: wasting my time going shopping and coming back empty handed, feeling crappy about myself, my style, and all the shapes that I'm not.
Not like nipples, you're thinking of inverted.
Introversion. Maybe you've heard of it? Perhaps you haven't. (That's okay, why would you want to know anything about like... 50% of people anyway?) I'm not going to explain it to you, because there are 700 articles about it on every website lately and that's what Google is for anyway.
Regardless, I've been introverted since I can remember. Here I will provide some examples from my childhood experiences to give you proof, because no one who reads this has any reason to believe me.
Hopefully, if you know me, this doesn't come as a surprise. I'm predominately quiet, I observe more than I participate, and I quite literally NEVER want to talk to you at the soda machine, in the elevator, or at any time in my existence without a specified purpose. Small talk matters not.
I think I've given introversion a fair run, and I think it's time to give it a review. Let's do this thing.
It may come as a surprise that I am quite the fearful person (unless we've ever talked at any length about cicadas, seriously, fuck those bugs). I am not proud of this facet of my person-diamond. (For the record, I'm not particularly proud about having this unjustified, deep-seated fear of cicadas either).
Fear is a strange emotion for me personally in that it seems to elicit those much crappier, long-lasting emotions like: anxiety, shame, and guilt. This power trio is particularly fun to deal with because they are really good at keeping you busy from realizing that you're just scared of something.
Important note: it is NOT juvenile to say that you are scared of something. (Pfft, over here acting like walking to the kitchen in the middle of the night isn't spooky as shit and you're not running back to your bed quick as hell. Get outta here, liar).
Back to business...
I have a major fear of failure.
There. I said it. I have a fear of failure and it has inhibited me in the following ways:
I am scared of failing, and this is something I need to change.
So, I did it. I read a book... Okay I lied, I read HALF of a book.
FUCK, fine! I read 86 pages of a book. Stickler, I read ~85.1 pages. I wasn't ready for the next section, I'm still not ready for the next section.
I don't want to finish this book.
This book was supposed to teach me 'the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing,' but I'm finding that it's just telling me a really strange story about a girl who terrorizes her family with unhealthy organization habits that has somehow avoided an OCD diagnosis despite some very obvious warning signs.
Here are my notes thus far:
The thought of someone gasping in disbelief upon seeing someone's sock drawer made me want to light this book on fire. Surely there are some great tips somewhere in this book on simplicity and creating/maintaining a tidy lifestyle, but if I have to subject myself to written criticism of a goddamn sock drawer to get to that information, well, I guess I'll just continue living in my own filth for awhile longer.
Overall, I'd give this book a 3/10. On the joy sparking spectrum, that is very low, so I'll be taking this book's advice, groping it, telling it thanks for nothing, and throwing it the fuck away.
Every weekday, I come home from work and at 6:00 pm a reminder goes off on my phone to clean the cat box. Every. Single. Day. Every weekday, I come home from work and at 6:00 pm, and when a reminder goes off on my phone to clean the cat box, I immediately dismiss it. Every weekday, I come home from work and at 6:00 pm, when I dismiss the reminder to clean the cat box, I feel terrible about myself.
This is who I currently am.
I am the girl (woman?) who comes home and dismisses the reminders for the things she should do, so that she can do the things that distract her from the things she should be doing. I have let my personal laziness levels get so high that I have to physically take action to not do the thing I should be doing.
I am actively lazy.
Now, I know full well that there isn't anyone to blame for this action-based lack of action but myself. BUT, this isn't about blame. (Seriously, this can't be about blame, Blame is this fun backpack I like to carry around and fill with things that do/don't belong to me. That's another post for another day).
This is about stepping back and doing something different. Here are our options. Let's go!
Here is to a new year, a new less lazy version of myself, and doing the fucking things.