Transitions

Seriously, who the crap am I?

Transitions are tough.  Even when the new state of being is positive.  Even when the other side is wonderful.  The change can be difficult.

I remember reading that transitions are especially dangerous mental health territory.  Well, I already have mental health issues.  And now I'm in the middle of several transitions.  What a surprise I'm having a tough time.

My youngest child just graduated.  I was so focused on all the pain-in-the-butt things that were going away that I didn't look much further ahead.  And now I find myself on unsolid ground.  Not sure of my footing.  Staring at a bunch of building materials with no idea what I want to create.

My oldest will be twenty-six in a few months.  For over twenty-six years (I'm including my pregnancy), my whole life has been focused on my kids.  Their safety.  Their happiness.  How to help them be good people.  That's a long time in one job.

My youngest will be eighteen in a little over a month.  And as my kids have become adults over the last few years, my role has changed somewhat.  They're in charge of, and in control of, more of their lives.  They're responsible for their choices, whether they act responsibly or not.  In a little over a month, I will not be legally responsible for anyone but myself.

And I'm having some trouble processing that.

The transition has happened slowly, in theory.  One child at a time.  A couple years in between each one.  So why does this moment feel so shocking?

Because she's the last one.

I've been a stay-at-home mom for most of their lives.  Significantly longer than I was single and childless.  When I no longer have minor children at home, but still choose not to work, what am I?

And what do I want to be?

See, here's the thing.  I have all the choices in the world.  My husband has no desire for me to work, for both physical health and mental health reasons.  Although he would support me if I chose to work.  Because he supports me in pretty much anything I want to do.

And that's the key phrase.  What I want to do.  And I have no idea.  What do I want to do?

My health is better than it's been in years, but it's still a day to day thing.  There are still days I can't get out of bed.  Still lots of fatigue and pain.

But there are other days.  Days when I feel pretty good.  Days when I feel powerful.  Days when I believe I can conquer the world.

I'd love to be able to plan out my life.  I'd love to live by schedule.  I'd love to know how I want to spend my days.  To write it all down and live by it.  But with the freedom to set it aside if a friend needs me.  And I'm just not sure how to balance that.

I yearn for structure.  I've always been a planner.  But when my health fell apart eleven years ago, I had to stop committing to things.  I had to stop planning.  Because it just felt so bad when I let others down, when I had to cancel at the last minute.  When I couldn't do that one thing I'd so looked forward to and worked to make happen.

I'm scared to plan again.  I'm not sure why.  And I guess I've planned all along, just on a different level.  I'm not sure why this feels so different.

Yes, I am.  I don't want to waste.  I don't want to use my time badly.  I don't want to just pass through day after day.  I don't want to look in my rearview mirror and see emptiness.  Days of nothing.

Before now, even if I did nothing else all day, I still parented.  I still did something productive, just by keeping people alive and on task in their lives.  When that's not my job anymore, what value do I have?  Especially if my days are spent just doing whatever I want.

I know I'll find my footing.  I always do.  And it will be great.  And I will be happy.  But right now I feel like I'm dancing on quicksand.  In an earthquake.  With a tornado approaching.

And I have to decide whether to hunker down or face the storm.

What's Got Me Scared

I hate to use the word scared.  I hate admitting something frightens me.  It means a level of vulnerability that I try to deny I have.  I can admit when things make me nervous.  I can admit when I'm anxious.  But scared.  Scared is bigger.  Scared makes me feel like a little girl again.  A little girl in a big, mean world.

But I am scared.  I'm going to tell you why and it probably won't make sense to most of you.  But there will be a few who will totally get it.

I'm having intense pelvic pain again.  Last time it lasted almost two months.  So far this time, it's been a couple of weeks.  And it's been off and on in between those two major episodes.

Here's what I'm not afraid of.  I'm not afraid it's cancer.  It could be, but for some reason that's not really a fear I have.  I'm not afraid I'm going to die or anything.

I went to my doctor with this problem in October.  That's when I'd already been hurting for a month.  He did an exam, a pap smear, and ordered an ultrasound.  When nothing showed he suggested that I see a gynecologist.

I know it's possible that it's something non-female-problem related.  It could be intestinal.  Let me tell you why I don't think it is.  It feels like I have a rock in place of my uterus.

As a woman, I went years and years without being aware of my uterus or being able to feel it inside me unless I was cramping during my period.  I mean, how often are you aware of your pancreas or your liver?  Can you feel them?  Would you know if they hurt?  So I understand when my husband says, "How do you know it's your uterus?"  And, seriously, sometimes intestinal cramping and uterine cramping feel a lot alike.

But after going through labor, my awareness of my uterus increased quite a bit.  I remember when it tightened and felt like a boulder inside me.  And this feels kind of like that.  On a much smaller scale, of course.

And then there are the twinges in my ovaries.  Again, how can I know that's what's twinging?  Well, let me tell you.  If you've ever been to the doctor and said you think your ovaries are hurting this is what he/she will do.  He (because my doctor is a he) will have you lie down and will palpate (which means push around on) your abdomen.  And when he pushes in a certain spot and you practically jump off the table and he says, "Yep.  It's your ovary." then you remember that.  From then on, when it hurts, you know what's hurting.

And, yes, at my exam he palpated my abdomen and confirmed that it was my uterus and ovaries that were hurting.  (And let me just tell you, they hurt a lot worse for a while after someone pushes on them repeatedly.)

So I'm not completely ruling out something else, but I'm pretty sure it's my internal girl parts that are causing me so much pain.

My primary care physician thinks it's probably endometriosis.

Well, you know what happens when a doctor tells you they think you have such and such.  You start researching such and such until you see the specialist.

Endometriosis isn't something incredibly dangerous.  It won't kill me.  The worst side effects are pain and infertility.  And since I'm done using my fertility I don't mind if that goes away.  And I already have the pain.

So why am I scared?

I am scared because I read up on how they treat and diagnose it.  Often they use hormones to reduce the symptoms.  Well, I am incredibly sensitive to hormonal changes of any kind.  I've had PMS since my first menstrual cycle at fourteen.  I've been on birth control pills a few times in my life and had horrible results.  They either make me homicidal or suicidal or a bit of both.  Having just come through a nasty mental prison, I'm not anxious to go back there.  One of the treatments if they do find endometriosis and it's severe is a complete hysterectomy. 

Again, I'm done with those parts so I wouldn't mind giving them up.  Except for the whole hormone thing.  It's called surgical menopause because the surgery instantly does what is supposed to take a woman's body years to complete.  If small hormonal changes like my natural cycle and birth control pills can send me out of whack, just think about what surgical menopause could do.  And it's not like we can change our minds afterward and say, "This isn't working.  Let's put it all back."

So there are those issues.  But still those aren't my biggest fears.

My biggest fears are these:  sedation and no answers. 

The only way to confirm endometriosis is through surgery.  Laparoscopic these days, but still full sedation.  The surgery doesn't scare me.  Being put under terrifies me.  Not for the typical, "What if I don't wake up?" reason.  Sedation terrifies me because I will have no control over what is done to my body.  I have a history of sexual assault.  Things were done to my body without my permission.  At least once it happened when I was asleep.  This is when I became a light sleeper.  Being aware of and in control of what happens to my body is very important to me.  It's not that I don't trust the medical personnel.  They have no reason to hurt me.  But giving up that control just doesn't feel safe to me at all.  It terrifies me.

And I fear that after all of the tests and possible surgery, they won't find evidence of anything wrong with me.  It will be another time that we've spent lots of money and caused lots of worry for nothing.  Another time that the people around me wonder if I'm faking it.  If I'm just a big baby.  Another time when I doubt myself and wonder if everything really is all in my head.  Another time I hurt so badly but can't say why.  Another time of feeling embarrassed because I'm such an idiot who can't handle a few of the twinges that are normal in life.

But I can't just not get it checked.  Because it could be something else.  It could be something serious.  I can't take that chance.

I see the gynecologist on Monday.  Your prayers and happy thoughts are welcome.  Again.

Surrounded by Rattlesnakes

When I was fourteen, our family spent a week on a houseboat on Lake Powell, a beautiful man-made reservoir in the desert of southern Utah.  My mom, not to be deterred from her traditional schedule, got up each morning and went walking/hiking through the rocks and sand and sagebrush.  She had to go early because it got very hot very quickly.

As she was walking one day, she heard a sound that stopped her in her tracks.  She heard the distinctive warning of a rattlesnake.  She knew the sound.  She knew what it meant.  She immediately froze to assess her situation.

One step in front of her was a rattlesnake, sunning itself on the warm rocks.  She pivoted to find a better direction to go and found another snake.  And another.  She was surrounded.  She has no idea how she got into that spot without being bitten.  But she knew she had to get out of it.

Very cautiously, she made her way back and out.  And straight back to the houseboat to share her story.  And the next day she changed her walking practice: telling others which way she was going, carrying a stick, walking a little more slowly and alertly.

I thought of this story as I was pondering the things that keep me frozen.  I have something I need to do or a decision to make.  I don't know how to handle it or if I am even capable of handling it.  But I feel like I have to do it before I can get on to other things because it's so important.  But I don't know what to do, so I freeze.  I do nothing.  Sometimes for a long time.

I freeze as surely as my mom did when she was surrounded by rattlesnakes.  My fear of making a decision can be just as powerful as her fear was in that moment.  She had a very real fear for her life; programmed by nature for her safety.  What am I afraid of?  Where did that programming come from?  Does it protect me?

Wouldn't it be great if I could answer all those questions right now?  Well, I can't.  I'm still working on it.  But I think that by asking the questions, I can make progress.

One thing I've found that helps when I am stuck like that is to make a different decision or tackle a different problem, one I feel capable of confronting.  That allows for movement.  It keeps me from being frozen.  And the tiny high I get from having done something -- anything -- can be enough to keep me moving sometimes.

But first I have to realize I am stuck.  And I have to force myself to trust that the thing I don't know how to do isn't a rattlesnake and I'm not surrounded.  I have to look for another path out instead of staring at the scary thing hoping it doesn't kill me.

I workin' on it.

An Interesting Blessing

I have been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember.  To the point of shunning chivalry and sometimes hurting myself because I was too stubborn to let anyone lighten my load, figuratively or literally.

Over the years I've learned to accept help a little more and even sometimes request it.  I've learned that I'm not enough to take on the world all by myself.  This used to scare me.  Now that I've grown a bit and found some people I can trust, it is a bit of a relief.  Because now I understand that I'm not meant to take the world on alone.

But one area I didn't seem to learn this was in my marriage.  Oh, I did become interdependent with my husband.  Especially financially when my health no longer allowed me to work outside the home.  But there was still this I-could-get-by-without-you-I-don't-really-need-you thing left over from all those years of my independence and our struggles.

For so many years I have been his strength, his buffer.  We both knew that if our marriage ended, as it looked like it would more than once, I would struggle financially but be okay otherwise; he would be a basket case and be lost without me.

But recently that's changed.  We tend to pull together in crisis (thank heavens).  So his job loss, while incredibly stressful in other ways, has been good for our relationship.  We've become closer.

That's not the part that surprised me.  The thing that surprised me is what happened during my last PTSD episode (which still isn't completely over, by the way, but is improving).

This last PTSD episode has included so much fear (it always does).  It's tough for me to leave the house.  It's hard to be around people.  I'm claustrophobic.  I don't want anyone to touch me or talk to me too much.  I try not to visibly cringe when others come near me, but I definitely cringe inside.  The nerves in my skin feel like they are all hyper-stimulated at once.  My skin hurts.  And the thought of someone touching me scares me like when someone comes up to slap your back when you have a bad sunburn.

None of that is new.  I get that way every time my PTSD is triggered.

The interesting part is this.  My husband has become my buffer.  He gets between me and what scares me.  Quite often.  He'll take the conversation for me.  He'll sit between me and others.  He'll field phone calls and visits at the door when I just can't face them.  I feel safer when he's with me.  He's become my protector in a very real way.

For many of you, this may sound like a condition you've always had with your spouse.  Why am I making a big deal of it?  Because it's not something I've ever had with my husband.  It's not something I've ever allowed.  It's not something he's ever seen me need.  Being protective isn't his natural response when I'm in trouble.  He's seen me fight my own demons too many times to think I need him.

But this time I've needed him.  And he's come through for me.  As horrible as this episode has been, and continues to be, it's been worth it.  Because it's allowed a new type of intimacy between me and my husband.  I am so grateful for that.

Trying to Find the Words

** If you are an abuse survivor, this post could contain possible triggers.  Please make sure you are safe before reading it.  Also, this is a very heavy and adult post.  Listen to your heart and do not continue if you know this won't be okay for you. **


Words are important to me.  I sometimes take a little longer to speak because I am trying to find just the right word.  Not one that's close, but one that conveys a multitude of meanings all at once, one that conveys truth and feeling and exactitude.  Just the right word.

But sometimes I don't have the word.  If I could communicate telepathically, I could make you understand.  But there just isn't a word for it and nothing else really does the job.

This is what happened when I tried to explain to someone what triggered a PTSD event for me this week.  I didn't have the words.

A little history, somewhat vague, to help set the stage.

There are dark things in my past.  There was abuse and assault.  Over many years I was hunted.  And too often I was caught.  I wasn't killed physically, but pieces of me were destroyed.  I was changed.

I was changed in a way I believe many others who were abused are also changed.  But I can't speak for them.  I speak only for what is true in my life.

I was prey.  In many situations.  And, yes, there were times I feared for my life.  Other times I just feared for the inner me, the part that was being attacked.  What happened to my body didn't matter.  What happened to my core did.

Because I was prey, I was on constant alert (an alert that is never silent, even now).  I learned to read the emotions of everyone in the room.  To sense even the tiniest shift if something changed.  Long before anyone else knew.  Because I had to in order to protect myself.  It was necessary to stay alive.

But it goes beyond just reading emotions.  And this is where I lose words.

Some people have a . . . something to them.  A color/flavor/spirit.  Each of those is somewhat close, but none of them are accurate.  I would say aura, but it isn't visible.  A presence?  A feeling?  An emotional radiation?  None of these are right either.

As a child I often swam in a lake.  I would be swimming along, in the warmth, and hit a cold spot.  Out of the blue all the warmth was gone.  It's kind of like that.

And this last week a person crossed my path whose . . . whatever it is . . . triggered my PTSD.  This person's color/flavor/whatever is darkness.  This person carries evil with him.  Willingly.  The cold spot that he wears is that of a predator.  Even with all the abusive situations I've been in over the years and all the people I've known and all the horror I've experienced and witnessed, I've never felt like I was in the presence of evil.  Until him.  And he knows it and uses it to control.

He is not a close part of my life, but there is potential that our paths will continue to cross.  I am trying to strengthen myself and gather support so he can't wound me again.

I hate that it only took the mention of him to make me feel weak and powerless.  And scared.

He triggered one of my most difficult memories.  One that I haven't fully processed and healed in therapy.  One of a very early sexual assault.  One that causes me severe physical symptoms.  So since he crossed my path, I have been having very painful uterine cramps.  Nonstop.  Whether I am thinking about it or not.  Sometimes so bad that I have trouble standing up.  My anxiety is high.  I am snapping more at my family.  My nerves feel like they are on fire and I cringe if anyone tries to touch me.  Even when I am completely safe, there is fear.  Like the rabbit whose ears prick up when he senses danger.  I will not relax until the danger is gone.

I was not ready to go back to therapy.  My therapist and I have some things to work out.  I wanted to do more processing on my own on that stuff before I went back.  But I may have to put all that aside and go back to therapy anyway.  I may not have a choice.  I'm having trouble functioning.  I'm having trouble getting every day things done.  I need help.

Triggered

All it takes is a PTSD trigger to make everything else in life that was bugging me seem like nothing.

Rally the support troops.  Deep breaths.  You can do this.

My Daughter's Brain Surgery

It's a strange thing to be sitting in a waiting room, kind of bored, knowing my daughter is just down the hall with someone cutting open her skull and possibly removing parts of her brain. 

This man that we met once.  Talked to for fifteen minutes.  Holds my daughter's life quite literally in his hands.

The last three weeks, since her diagnosis, have seemed like a year.  It's taken forever.  Mostly because all we had was a diagnosis, no information specific to her case.  Then, last Thursday we finally met with the neurosurgeon.  We learned what her situation was.  We learned his plans.  We scheduled the surgery for the soonest possible date.  The last four days have flown by and dragged.  You wouldn't think they could do both, but they did.

And now we are here.

Pre-op was a bit tense.  Knowing it was just around the corner.  Sam was quite anxious, which added to my anxiety.  Then pre-op was done and we waited.  It was about an hour and a half of waiting after pre-op was done.  We got bored again. 

Then someone walked in, told her it was time to go, and the fear returned.

And they took my baby away.  Nineteen or not, she's still my baby.

I'm actually ridiculously calm.  Except for this underlying anxiety that I feel every time my children leave my presence.  Just kind of magnified.

I believe the surgeon is skilled and knows what he's doing.  I believe things will go well.  But there's still that part of me that holds a constant prayer in my heart that she will come back to me.

I wonder if that will ever go away or if I will just always have that small alert in my heart.  No matter how old they get, I wonder if I will always have that sense that they are vulnerable to this big, bad world and I need to protect them.

I can't imagine doing this without faith.  While I believe everything will go well and she will heal and finally feel better, there is a tiny chance that things could go not well.  That she could have permanent damage of some kind, have a successful surgery but feel no relief, or even die.  All of those things are possible.  But I am still much more calm than not because of my faith. 

I know that I am not the only one worried about her and watching out for her.  I know that she was His child first.  I know that no matter what happens, she will be okay.  We will be okay.  There is great comfort in knowing that.

But it doesn't mean I'm ready to give her up yet.

I imagine she'll come out and we'll have a rough go for a few days with a consistently upward curve of healing.  I imagine that within a few months, the only evidence of today will be the six-inch scar up the back of her neck and skull.  I imagine she'll be up and running, back to usual, before we think she should.

But right now a doctor has her head splayed open and is working on her brain.  And we wait.  And it's scary.

My Collapse-in-the-Shower Moment

I've been putting off writing this post.  I'm anxious about it.  I worry I won't capture this important experience properly.  That you won't understand.  And I'm scared to find those feelings again, to be in that moment of intense pain and fear so I can write it.  But I must.  It needs to be told.

Seven years ago my life was very different.  I was working.  A lot.  My kids were younger (7, 8, 10, 12, 14) and involved in many activities.  My husband and I were in therapy.  I was just going through life, trying to stay afloat.  My husband finally saw that he was abusive and was trying to change.  He was questioning the church and trying to decide if he believed in God.  I was learning how to set boundaries and choose for myself.  I was trying to figure out who I was.  Who I truly was and who I wanted to be.

And then I got a headache.

I'd had headaches before.  Bad headaches.  Headaches that lasted for days.  A headache that made me go blind.  And headaches that weren't severe but just made life hard.  Headaches were nothing new.

So when I got this headache I figured it would be like the others.  I would wait it out, treat it with Excedrin, and eventually it would go away.  But it didn't.  Some days it was so bad I couldn't work.  Some days my vision and dizziness were so bad someone else had to drive me home from work.  Some days it was more subtle and I could go on.  But it was always there.

After a few weeks, my husband started to think I was faking.  He even said so.  No one has a headache that long.  You're just using it as an excuse so I have to do everything.  I'm so sick of this stupid headache excuse.  Yeah, me too.

After I'd had it six weeks, two of my toes went numb.  This made me nervous.  When you get a headache that doesn't go away that long, there is a tiny tickling in your mind that says, "What if it's a brain tumor?"  That tickling got stronger.

I told my husband.  He freaked out and immediately made an appointment for me to see the doctor.

We went to the doctor together.  He did a regular work up.  Then he did a neurological screening.  Looking for signs that it might be a brain tumor.  He didn't find anything that pointed that direction, but he was bothered by how long I'd had it and the numbness in my toes.  He talked to me about migraines and said that's what he thought it was; they can cause numbness, too.  He gave me some meds to try and said if it didn't break in a week I needed to come back.  After this appointment Bill said, "At least I know you're not faking."

It didn't break.  I went back.  He repeated the neurological screening.  He still didn't find anything, but he was concerned.  He suggested we do an MRI. 

By this point I was getting nervous.  My headache should have broken by now.  I'd never had a headache like this.  What if this is for real?  What if it's a tumor?

We couldn't get in for the MRI for a few days.  Waiting for that was so hard.  And that's when it happened.

It was the night before my MRI.  I was taking a shower so I'd be all ready in the morning.  And all the walls I'd been putting up to protect myself and my family from the fear came crashing down.  What if it is a tumor?  What if it isn't something that can be fixed?  What if I die?  What about my children?  What will happen to my children?  Although he was finally aware of being abusive, my husband was still mean a lot of the time.  He was learning to be more kind, but his natural tendency was still to strike out when he was stressed or angry.  What would happen if I wasn't there to protect my children?  If I died, they would be alone with him.  Who would protect them?  And I knew he no longer believed in God or going to church.  How would my children remain close to God?  How would they be taught all they needed to know without the gospel in their lives?  How would they know how precious they were to God and how powerful they were and what they should do if I wasn't there to teach them?  I was living with a man who'd made our lives hell for so many years.  These children were his.  I didn't trust him alone with them.  How could I go away and leave them to him?  This is too much for them.  How can they go on without me?  He would put the older ones in charge, make them assume many of my duties.  They would no longer be able to be children.  This isn't fair to them.  It's too much.  If I'm not here to guide their lives, they could become lost.  My death would push my husband to a very dark place; what if he takes it out on the children?  What if he goes into a depression again?  How will they deal with it without me?  How will they get through it?  Who will take care of my children?  Who will love them?  Who will make sure they know they are God's children?

The weight of all of this overwhelmed me.  I crumpled to the floor of the shower in a ball.  Hugging my knees.  Rocking.  Sobbing.  In so much emotional anguish.  In so much pain for my children.

I began to pray.  I wanted to beg to be spared, for my children.  I wanted to plead for my life.  But that wasn't the prayer that came to my heart.  I knew the prayer I needed to offer.  And it was the hardest prayer in my life.  I couldn't do it.  I couldn't say it.  I knew I needed to, but I just couldn't.  The wrestle in my mind and heart was great.  I fought with all I had.  Until I could finally say it.  And mean it.

"Please.  I want to live.  I want to raise my children.  I want to protect them.  I want to love them through the difficulties of life.  Please.  But . . . thy will be done.  If it is not to be, if I am not to live, I know that they are thy children.  I trust that thou wilt love them and protect them.  I know you want the world for them, too.  I know you love them in a way I can't even understand.  As much as I love them and want to stay, I trust thy will."

Meaning it was so important.  In that moment, I fully surrendered my will to God in a way I never had before.  I understood that all would be well even if I weren't to live.  I understood, more than I ever had before, that He watches over and cares.

There was still some fear of what would come.  But there was also an underlying peace.  A knowledge that my children wouldn't be alone.  An understanding that if I couldn't be there, He would bring others into their lives who would meet those needs.  He loves them.  He watches over them.  They are His.

And to this day, that is a knowledge that gets me through.

**********

Update:  My husband went to therapy for a long time.  He's doing much better.  He still slips occasionally, but we both know how to handle it in healthier ways.  There is no tumor.  They still have no answer for my headache, but all tests indicate it isn't life-threatening.  Yes, I still have it.

The Kindness Project -- 6 Months In

As the new year began I decided I wanted one word to focus on.  One idea to center my life around.  I chose kindness.  After a month I decided to broaden my vision a bit to include elements connected to kindness.  I'm six months into it now and guess what -- I'm perfect at it!

I am kind all the time to everyone I meet.  Every word I speak is kind.  Every thought I have is kind.  Every action I take.  Even my gestures.  I just radiate kindness.

Well, no.   But I wish that were true.

I am truthful and direct by nature most of the time.  This means that sometimes stupid things come out of my mouth.  I don't mean them to be hurtful, but apparently they are.  I can tell because I see the look on the person's face.  Or I miss the reaction completely and find out later because a friend of a friend has the courage to tell me.  And there are probably many times when I never find out at all. 

But I am trying.  I work harder to think before I speak.  I let the possible laugh go because the words might hurt.  I worry less about what I want to say and more about how I'd like the people with me to feel.  I want the people I'm with to feel valued.  I'm making a special effort to put away the snide and invite the sincere.

And there are times when I know it would be kind to go over and talk to someone who is alone.  To say hi to the person at the store I haven't seen in a long time.  To reach out.  But I don't.  Because, more often than not, I am scared.  That they won't remember me.  That they never really liked me.  That I imagined a relationship that was never really there.  That they are too cool for me.  That I will say something stupid.  Or a hundred other things.  Basically, that I am inadequate and not worthy of their time.  (Yes, this is a psychological hangup I have from my childhood.  I'm working on it.)  Basically I get so worked up about me that I forget about them.

I haven't worked much on this.  I need to.  I could do better.  I am pretty friendly and kind once I am invited into a conversation; I'm just not good at inviting myself.

There are some people it's very easy to be kind to.  There are days it's easy to be kind.  And then there are other people and other days.

I don't want who I am talking with to determine whether or not I am kind.  I don't want a bad day to squelch my kindness.  I want to be a person who is kind.  Period. 

The thing I'm working on most is my thoughts.  I grew up in a house full of very sarcastic people.  I am fluent in two languages:  English and sarcasm.  I am equally powerful on the defensive or on the attack.  And I hate it.  Like someone who has spent a great deal of time in another country automatically thinks things in that language first, I too often hear those snotty comebacks in my head before I ever think something nice. 

There is a language of kindness.  I am not a native speaker.  I know a lot of the words, but I am not fluent yet.  I can understand it better than I speak it.  But I am reminding myself more often to think in kindness.  Not just to push a mean or judgmental thought away, but to sense when it's starting and step on it.

Change takes time and focus.  I will be patient.  And as often as I can, I will be kind.

Fly, Baby Bird

No one could have prepared me for how difficult it would be.  I had no way to know how much my heart would ache.

A little over a week ago, my oldest daughter left for Russia.  She will spend four months there, teaching English to young children.  And I miss her so much.

I am not generally an emotional person.  I have even been accused of being Vulcan because I don't get emotional when people think I should.

Because of this, I thought I'd be okay.  I knew I would worry and I would miss her.  I had no idea I'd be a basket case.

She's been planning this trip for over a year.  She's worked so hard to save the money and get everything done.  She's been so grown up in handling the details. 

But she's still my baby.  I don't care if she's twenty years old; she will always be my baby.

The days leading up to her leaving are still kind of a blur.  I was very busy with other things and other children.  That was a blessing.  Because every time I had a minute to think about it my heart would seize up with fear.  And pain.  And loss.

I thought it would get better after I knew she'd arrived safely.  And part of it did.  But there is so much more that still hurts.

Please don't misunderstand.  I am so thrilled that she gets to have this opportunity.  I know it is good for her.  I know it will help her to become an independent adult who will flourish on her own.  And I want that for her.

But my heart hurts.  And I am scared.

I worry that something will happen and she will need help and I won't be there to fix it.  I worry that she will be sad and scared.  I worry that she will get hurt.  And I worry that she will get a taste for adventure and make things like this a regular part of her future.

She needs to choose her own path.  She is so wise and chooses well.  I have to trust that.  But I will admit, I would be happier if she chose to live down the street for the rest of her life.

There was a time at the airport when we had to go our separate ways.  She entered the cattle lines waiting to go through security (after I finally quit hugging her).  We waited and watched.  She would move out of our vision and then, as the line progressed, back into it.  Around and around.  And each time she would look to find us and wave with a big smile on her face.  And we would wave back, letting her know we were still there.  Still watching out for her.

And I thought back to years ago, when she was on the carousel.  She would move out of our sight for a while.  Then when she came back she would wave and we would wave.  Each time she went around we would reconnect, knowing it would be over soon and we would be back together again.

But this time, when the round and round ended, she didn't come back to us.  She flew away.  To the other side of the world.  And my heart breaks missing her.

I trust her.  And I trust that God is watching over her.  But I want her back.

So, fly, baby bird.  Just remember where the nest is.

Smartly Essay -- Adrenaline

I have a new essay up over at Smartly today.  It's an attempt to describe a panic attack, what it feels like when adrenaline takes hostages.

An Update

Thank you for all the kind expressions of concern and support.  It was very sweet and touched my heart.

I got triggered over the holiday.  Multiple times.  By different people.

I have kind of lost my sense of self recently, my self-definition.  I regressed to letting others define me.  To feeling like I am worth less because others didn't approve.  Because I didn't measure up.

It was a gradual thing, so I didn't really notice it until it had gotten pretty bad.  I was isolating myself.  I was unable to write.  I was no longer talking to people in any meaningful way.  I was not leaving my house unless absolutely required.  For over a month.

I felt like I was disappearing. 

And then the holidays hit.  There were some really good things which I'd hoped to write about.  But then there were a couple of situations that sent me back in time.  I was not self-assured.  I had no power.  My boundaries were difficult to maintain.  I didn't feel like a whole person.  And my anxiety began to climb.

I didn't understand what was happening.  I couldn't pin it down to just one incident.  Or even to just one person.

But I was suddenly full of fear.  Paralyzed with fear.  Always on the verge of tears.  Several sobbing fits with so much emotional pain.  And I didn't understand where it was coming from.  For a couple of weeks.

On the bright side, I made it through the worst of it without injuring myself.  That's progress.  And I found a way to stand up for myself once I figured out one of the problems.

It's not gone.  I'm not through it.  Sudden waves of fear and/or anxiety still happen.  But I am making progress.  Understanding that it is PTSD because I was triggered helps.  Even though I don't know the specific cause, I do have coping strategies -- healthy ones -- to deal with it.

So right now I am trying to pull it together.  To figure it out.  But at least I am finally able to write.  That alone makes me feel like I might be real.