A Year of Run

What an interesting year 2016 was.  So many changes in my life.  So many tough things, some of which got better, others which got worse.

But a very important thing happened in 2016.  Something I never expected.  Something that kind of sneaked up on me.  Something that's changed me for the rest of my life.

In 2016, I became a runner.

In a nutshell, I'd been unhealthy for years.  All kinds of medical struggles.  They weren't dangerous, just life-inhibiting.  In 2014 some things changed in my life which improved my physical and mental health.  More changes happened in 2015, which enabled me to begin walking.  Really walking.  For miles and miles and miles.  With zero intention of running.  Zero desire to run.

Until my third 5k.  I'd done my first one entirely walking, except those last 20 yards; gotta push across the finish line, right?  My second one, I added just a little running here and there.  Basically just enough to beat my time from my first one.  By the time I got to my third one, I knew I'd have to run a significant amount to improve my time.  This was all in the summer and fall of 2015.

I think I ran about a third of that last one - run until you can't breathe, walk until your heart stops pounding to the point you think it will explode, repeat.  It was incredibly difficult.  I couldn't walk the few blocks home, because I'd injured myself by pushing so hard.  And I remember thinking in that moment, "I want to run!"

It took several months of resting a little, going back to it too soon, injuring myself again before I really took healing myself seriously.

At the end of 2015, a year of HEALing, it was time to choose a new word.  I don't do New Year's resolutions.  I choose one word.  One word to guide my year.  Sometimes it's a lot of work to choose my word.  I have so many ideas run through my head.  Several of them would fit.  God and I have to talk it over for a while before I settle on one.

Last year wasn't like that.  I immediately knew what I wanted.  I wanted RUN.  I wanted to run!  But I fought it.  It seemed like such a narrow focus.  How could it possibly govern my year?  How could it affect my spiritual life?  How could I use it to govern my relationships?  How shallow a word was that to choose?!

But when I took it to God, He said it was perfect!  I still didn't know how it would play out, but I trusted it would.

It did.

I ran.

I am a runner.

Let me say that again - I AM A RUNNER!

I don't run fast or far, but I run.  And I love it!  I never, ever thought about running before.  In fact, I mocked my friends who ran.  Why would I torture myself like that?  But then I did it.

Running makes me feel powerful.  Running makes me feel cleansed.  Running makes me feel free.  Running makes me feel alive!  Running is and does so many things.

In years past, when I've reviewed my year through the eyes of that One Word, I've looked at the ways it had an impact on all those individual areas of my life.  When I chose RUN as my word, I expected to look back and see how I let it inspire me to RUN to Jesus or RUN to or from this or that.  But it didn't.  And I've learned something.

I've learned that God doesn't compartmentalize.  I do.  I'm the one who sees my physical health, emotional health, financial health, relational health, mental health, spiritual health, etc. separately.  God sees me.

I've learned that any progress in a positive direction is spiritual progress.  Because everything is spiritual.  I am a spiritual being, so my entire life experience is spiritual.

Progress in a positive direction makes me more whole.  Running makes me more whole.  God knew that.  And He knew that it was good.

How to Be a Good Friend

Yeah, I have no idea.

There are people who think I'm an awesome friend.  There are people who think I'm a horrible friend.  And there are people who've thought both at different times in our relationship.

I've thought both about myself, too.

Being a good friend is such a subjective thing.  Everyone has a different idea about what makes a good friend.  About what makes a close friend or a best friend.  Even about the difference between a friend and an acquaintance.

I've probably put way more thought into this than most, because I feel it's something I struggle with.  And it's something I think I should want to change.  I tried to want to change.  I even tried to change.  But I think I'm done.

I'm at a point in my life right now where I'm just gonna be me.

I'm not going to be what others want me to be just to avoid guilt or to feel like I'm measuring up to some mysterious golden friendship crown.

Because, to be honest, I just don't have the energy.  If you need a lot of output from your friends, if you need attention (really, any attention) to believe I care and we're friends, you shouldn't choose me as a friend.

I can do great short term.  Maybe we meet when we both have a mutual need.  Or one of us has a need when the other of us has a surplus, and we connect.  We're good for each other and good with each other.

I can drop everything to help you with your crisis.  For a while.

But then, for whatever reason, I just don't have anything else to give.  Maybe it's because my life has so many recurring and ongoing crises.  Maybe it's because of my chronic fatigue or my bipolar disorder.  Maybe it's because I'm just a crappy friend.

And then I will disappear.

Not on purpose.  Not because I'm trying to be mean.  Not because I'm consciously deciding I don't want to be your friend.  But because I have to take care of myself.  And taking care of myself often means neglecting everything and everyone but my family.  Sometimes everyone other than myself.

I will retreat.  For who knows how long.  You might reach out.  You might not.  When I'm gone like this, I probably won't reach back.  I might not even acknowledge you've tried to contact me.

I see you reaching.  I sense your need.  But I can't fill it.  And you can't fill mine.  Because I need to be alone and lick my wounds or find my way.  Or whatever.

I know I've wounded people with this behavior.  I see it.  But I'm doing triage, and I just can't see your need to be with me as a life or death thing.  Or if I do, I pray someone else will treat it, because my hands are tied behind my back.

Sometimes my behavior causes others to pull back, hoping I'll notice they've left and their absence will cause me to reach out.  But that doesn't work.  Because if I notice, which is a big if, it's entirely possible I will just be grateful to not have to fix it.  To not have to figure out the steps to the dance we were engaged in, where I was stepping on your toes.  I'll just be glad the dance is over and head to the punch.

I just truly don't know how to do the dance and am no longer interested in learning.

This is the kind of friend I can be now.  I can be happy when good things happen in your life.  I can be glad to see you when we run into each other.  I can occasionally muster the energy, physically and emotionally, to do something together.  I will think kindly of you when something reminds me of you.  And no matter how much time has passed, I will still consider you my friend.

It doesn't take much for me to consider someone my friend.  Do I know you?  Have we had positive interactions?  Yeah, that's about it.  That's all it takes.

If we're not friends, and you want me to feel that way too, you'll probably have to tell me.  Even then, I'm not sure I wouldn't still introduce you as my friend should the need arise for me to introduce you.

And if you choose to move on, if you decide (for whatever reason) that you're better off without me, I'll most likely wish you well and let you go.  I won't argue.  I won't ask you to stay.  It's just not in my nature.  I'll support your growth in whatever way you seek it.

I know a lot of this will sound harsh to many people.  That's okay.  We're all just finding our way.  And this is just one little trip on the journey of my psyche.  It's a crazy, winding path that's sometimes light and sometimes dark, but always mine.

I Needed to Boot Vanilla

Sometimes your computer chokes.  It might run super slowly for a while first.  You get the sense something's wrong.  Eventually, you can't put up with it any longer.  You have to call your computer friend.

Maybe you're the computer friend.  Maybe it's a spouse.  Maybe you don't have a computer friend and have to take it somewhere to be fixed (in which case, I feel very sorry for you; everyone should have a computer friend).

The first thing your computer friend will say is, "Did you shut it down and restart it?"  Trust me.  That's what he'll say.  (I'm going to say he, because my husband is my computer friend.)  Know why he'll say that first?  Because it truly does fix it a ridiculous amount of the time.  Those magic computer boxes just need to shuffle some things around and put them back in their places - they do that when you restart.

But sometimes it doesn't work.  And sometimes you can't get it started again properly.  Maybe you need to boot vanilla.

To boot vanilla means to start your computer up as basic as possible, without all the bells and whistles.  To only load the essential programs.  The minimum needed to gain access to the system.  Not enough to run any of the normal programs you use.  This requires a special vanilla boot disk or a vanilla install file.

From there, your computer friend can do some troubleshooting.  He can search for things he knows might be possible problems.  After asking about your recent activity, he might be guided to look for a particular virus.  And if he still doesn't find anything, he will try adding programs back in one by one.  (Yes, I know there are many possible ways to handle this process.  Let's just pretend this is the one every computer friend does.)

As he adds each program back in, he'll watch for errors.  This way, he can hopefully find the source of your frustration.

I needed to boot vanilla.

My life kind of choked.  Things were running choppy.  I was functioning sluggishly.  Some days I couldn't get past the boot up screen.

I have several life "computer guys."  This time I took myself to my psychiatrist and therapist for repair.  (I just happened to have appointments scheduled with them on back to back days.)  We did lots of troubleshooting.  We figured out some workarounds.

But eventually I decided I just needed to boot vanilla.  I needed to get rid of everything in my life that wasn't absolutely essential.  I've actually been stripping things out for a while now.  Activities.  Obligations.  Friends.  And, more recently, social media.  I kind of feel like I've put myself into quarantine.

I think I've gone bare bones as far as I can.  Well, as far as I can and still be somewhat healthy.  I'm hesitant to add things back in, because I don't want to freeze up again.

But I will add things back in.  Very.  Very.  Slowly.  I will go for a short time to a few activities.  I will spend some time outside my home.  And I will very carefully tiptoe back into social media.  Very carefully!  Probably in a ways but then back out again.  Social media is a slippery place with lots of potential viruses, many of which I know I'm susceptible to.

I'll be running a different machine when I'm done.  After all, we have to make upgrades over time or become incompatible with new programs.  I've made a lot of changes lately; it's not surprising there were conflicts.

I think my main error has been trying to do a system restore.  Trying to go back to the way I used to be.  But I've altered too many things for that system to do the job.  I need to let the new me become.  Whatever I am going to become.

The Master Healer

Today started out rough.  I woke feeling anxious.  No particular thoughts causing me distress, just a discomfort in my body.  I had a Harry Potter audiobook on; I use the Harry Potter audiobooks like white noise while I sleep.  They relax me.  But soon my agitation grew, so I switched over to some soothing music.  But that felt like sandpaper on my nerves, so I switched over to my meditation soundtrack.  No.  Just no.

My anxiety grew.  Intensified to the point that I wanted to crawl out of my skin.  I always feel my anxiety most strongly in my shoulders.  I shake my arms to try to dispel the feeling of tension, the feeling like I'm being held down by my shoulders.  Shaking my arms doesn't really help, but it's my natural reaction.  Well, I guess it helps a little.  Sometimes it gets me through the worst of it.  Not today.

My anxiety climbed.  Maybe I just needed silence.  So I turned it all off.  And that was better.  My body's stress didn't go down, but it leveled out.  I just breathed in the stillness for a bit.  Deep breaths.  Willing my body to relax.

I prayed for help.

I felt prompted I should listen to a church talk.  Luckily, I have several on my mp3 player that I sometimes listen to when I walk.  I searched through my list, not really looking for a particular talk, just the right soothing voice.  Then I saw the one.  Jesus Christ - The Master Healer.  If there was anything I needed right then, it was healing.

It was given by Elder Russell M. Nelson, a leader in our church, who does (in fact) have a very soothing voice and manner of address.  As I listened to his words, I sought release.  I sought a connection with God that would take away my current suffering.

And then a panic attack hit.  Hard.

Suddenly I was gasping.  Crying.  Sobbing.  It felt like my throat was closing up.  The distress in my body grew.  My headache exploded.  I cried and cried, clenching at my throat and pressing my hand against my forehead.  I had been propped up in my bed, but had to get rid of the pillows and lie flat to try to relieve my throat.

Talk yourself through it.  You can do this.  Talk yourself down.  I tried to remember all I've learned to get through a moment like that.  Nothing.  And then a vague recollection of how brief it was likely to be.  A knowledge that even though it felt like I would die, I wouldn't really.

I began to pay attention to my breathing.  Even though I could feel my throat constricting, the muscles tightening, my breathing was still fine.  No restriction.  No limitation.

But still - panic!  Ridiculous, overwhelming panic.  And the talk continued.  The soothing voice strengthening me even then.

I let myself cry.  I let my breaths heave.  I let my body work through whatever it needed to work through.

As the talk ended, the panic began to subside.  But the anxiety was still there.  How would I get rid of that?  I need to go to church.  I have a calling to perform.

Slow down.  I felt prompted strongly to slow down today.  I have a tendency to rush around in the morning getting ready and to be highly energetic in my calling.  Today, I need to slow down.  I need to not do anything which will feed the adrenaline.  I need to relieve my body.

Stretch.  I felt prompted to stretch.  I stretched my legs.  I did the stretches for my plantar fasciitis.  It helped.  I could feel my body releasing a little.

Wash your face.  Okay, that might sound like a strange prompting.  But I have a very minimal morning hygiene routine.  Generally just a quick splash of water on my face.  Today I was supposed to wash my face.  Gently.  Circular motions.  Massaging my face slowly.  Warm water.  More release.

Lotion.  Put on some lotion.  I put some baby lotion in my hands, rubbed them together a bit, and gently applied it to my face.  A similar massaging action.  Lovingly.  Slowly.  And my body calmed.

There is still a remnant of anxiety in my body, just under the surface.  I still need to go slow today.  I still need to be gentle with myself.  Mindful of myself.  But I will get through it unscathed.  I will be the better for it.

I believe I was touched by the Master Healer this morning.  I was guided through healing techniques I had learned but couldn't recall in that moment.  And I'm grateful.  And I testify.  Truth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKx63a1vBlg

A Year of Healing

My version of New Year's resolutions is One Word.  I choose one word to direct my coming year.  It's a from-the-gut choice.  I toss and turn it over in my head and heart for days or weeks, working with God to choose what I need for that year.  I've been doing it for a few years now, and it never ceases to amaze me how my year looks in retrospect wrapped in that word.

My word for 2015 was HEAL.  I went into the year not knowing how that would play out.  In most cases, I just tucked that word away in my heart and went about my life.  But once in a while something would happen and I'd notice it.  I'd notice it was an element of healing.  I was healing.

I just went back and re-read my post from the beginning of the year, when I chose this word.  I read through the list.  And I noticed things, areas of healing that had happened, that I hadn't noticed before.  I'm so grateful for that.

But, truly, the biggest change has been my body.

I've got health issues.  Nothing major, just enough to keep me from being and doing what I want.  Enough to force me to see other ways of being.  Others ways to be of value.

I started the year off very unhappy with my body.  With its size and shape.  With its open rebellion against me.  With its struggle to control me, to make me submit to its whims.  Honestly, I was frustrated that I even had to have a body, because I felt it limited me in so many ways.

But things changed.

I don't remember exactly how or when it happened.  It might have started last year.  In fact, I think it did.  Last November I decided I wanted to add some color to my hair.  Not regular color.  Purple.  And early in December, I did.  I got about six inches of the bottom of my hair bleached and dyed bright purple.  Much brighter than I'd anticipated.  And more inches than I'd planned.  (Due to my own miscommunication with my fabulous hairdresser.)  All of a sudden my hair was troll doll purple.  My Little Pony purple.  No longer subtle at all!

I'd spent years hiding in plain sight.  Trying to be subtly present in the room.  Mostly because I was very unhappy with the weight I'd gained and the way I looked.  I felt miserable and it showed.

I loved having bright hair!  It gave me such a lift.  But I wasn't prepared for how others would react to it.  Suddenly, when I walked into a room, there was no question people would be looking at me.  It often made me uncomfortable.  But I have always tried to stand behind my decisions, even if they don't seem to make any sense to anyone else.  I've tried to live by the principle that I shouldn't make any decision, take any action, that I wouldn't be okay if it were exposed to the world.  Stand behind my choices - that's me!

So I decided to embrace it.  I decided to embrace me.  I shared photos of my hair on Facebook.  It was fun seeing how it faded and sharing that, too.  But I hated pictures of my face, so it was tricky to share my hair unless I had someone else take pictures from behind.  I have lots of picture of the back and sides of my hair, with my head leaning so that my hair fell mostly in front of my face.  Because I didn't like my fat face.

Again, I don't know the exact day it happened, but I decided to stop hiding from pictures.  I decided to allow pictures of myself, even some I didn't like, to be seen.  I decided the picture was just a moment.  Even if I didn't like how I looked in that moment, I liked who I was.  And I wanted to remember that moment and have evidence of my presence.

And in the midst of this, there were other changes happening.  I was healing in other ways.  Invisible, inside ways.

In February I heard the words that changed me forever.  In February I found the key that turned off the self-harm switch inside me.  I February I gave up self-harm for good.  Something I knew I was supposed to heal, needed to heal, but didn't want to heal.  I trusted.  I was healed.

This year I came to a healthier relationship with my dad.  I found my footing.  Mostly through taking care of my mom together, he and I have found a new respect for each other.  A new gratitude for each other.  Healing

I've come to a much healthier place with my mom as well.  As she's changing, as her world is changing, I'm finding my footing there as well.  It's been a tough slog.  It's going to get tougher still.  But I understand and accept it better now.  And that helps.  I feel less burdened and more compassionate.  And I feel love toward her.  The kind of love that's been missing for a while.  A healing love.  I'm grateful for that.

But the most noticeable healing I've experienced has been physical.  At the beginning of the year, I was a slug.  I could move and get things done, but everything exhausted me.  Everything was a huge burden.  I'd do what needed to be done and head straight back to bed.  I was so tired and miserable and uncomfortable in my own body.

Again, I don't remember exactly when it happened.  But I know it started before my physical.  As I was approaching my physical, I was evaluating things and had decided I wanted to get off one of the medications I was on.  And, dang it, I wanted to talk to my doctor about losing weight.  My body wanted to move.

Now that I think about it, I think that was how it started.  My body ached.  I lay in my bed aching, and I knew it was because my body wanted to move.  And my brain wanted my body to move.  But I was so exhausted.  Completely depleted.  I had nothing more to push my body with.  Gravity was pulling so hard.

But I wanted to move.

So at my physical, I talked to my doctor.  We made a couple of medication changes.  And I made a plan.  Eat better.  Move.  That was the gist of it.  And that's what I did.  I changed how and what I ate.  And I started walking.

Since then I've walked three 5ks; I ran a little in the last one.  I've injured myself (plantar fasciitis and shin splints), because I pushed too hard too fast.  (Hopefully, I've learned something and will do better now.)  I added bodyweight exercises.  I did some yoga.  I've done some Just Dance.  A little of this, a little of that.  I shared it all on Facebook, to keep myself accountable.  Exercise is now something that's a part of my life.  Part of who I am.  Part of who I want to be.  I want to be a runner!

And, let me just tell you, those are words I never thought I'd say.  I had no intention of running.  I started out walking.  I walked and walked.  Miles and miles.  (Which in and of itself was amazing to me and everyone around me.)  It was in my last 5k, the one where I pushed my body too far and it rebelled.  The one where I ran some.

Hurting.  Crying.  My body ached.  But not because of the injury.  My body ached to run.  I ached to run.  Weird.

I'm still working toward that.  It's a two steps forward, one step back thing.  My body doesn't recover like it used to.  I can't just decide I'm going to go push it for hours and hours and not pay for it like I could in high school.  These days, the cost of pushing is a bit higher.  But not too high.  Not so high that it's not worth it.  And if I pace myself instead of diving off the cliff, which is my inclination, I can do it.  Baby steps.  I'm working on that.

Since May I've lost 33 pounds.  I've gone down a pant size.  I've lost inches here and there.  My face has thinned.  And all of that's great.  But it's not what's most important.

I feel like I've found me.  Like my body and I are working together again.  I've proven I can do this.  I'm not at complete peace about my body all the time, but I'm doing so much better.  I'm so much happier.  I feel more whole.

Like each year in the past, I will carry this word forward with me.  It will remain in my heart.  It will continue to drive me in ways I won't notice until I look back.

And I'm so excited to share my word for 2016!  But that'll be tomorrow.

What I Learned From My First 5k

Let me start by saying I walked the 5k.  Let me follow that up by saying I was doing almost nothing physical before that.

Some of you will remember my last post, the one where I owned my weight (216 lbs.) and said I was ready to do something to change it.

I went to the doctor on May 18th and talked to him about my weight.  I wrote about it on May 20th.  And May 23rd I walked a 5k.  My first ever.

Was it wise to go from almost no activity to a 5k?  Maybe not.  I was hurting a lot afterward.  But I honestly think it was the best way for me.

Why did I do it?  Let me explain.

First, I was motivated by my weight (ugh!).  Second, I had a bit of a rush from knowing some of the meds I was on were likely making me gain weight and I was getting off almost all of them.  (Seriously, being able to blame the meds was a nice lift.)  Third, the last two years we've walked in the Chiari Walk Across America (because my daughter has a Chiari I malformation), and I had walked over two miles both times, and a 5k is 3.1 miles.  So I was pretty sure I could do it, even if I had to take it very slow.  But the biggest reason is because I wanted to so bad!

This 5k was in honor of the daughter of a couple I went to high school with.  She died in an accident when she was just 15 months old.  Her name is Elle and this was the Live wElle 5k.  I'd known about it for three or four years.  I'd wanted to participate in it ever since I heard about it, but I knew I couldn't.  I knew I wasn't ready.  This time I was.  And the title seemed to indicate it was the right one to start with.  I am trying to live well!

It was amazing!

But it was also hard.  And I learned a lot.

Before the race, with three of my kids.

That's me on the right, with the dark blue jacket and gloves.  It was very cold.  I was also wearing my yoga pants (because you have to wear comfortable pants, right?).  I wore my hair down for warmth, and curled it because I knew I'd see people I know there and didn't want to be hideous.  I brought a clip to pull it up as I warmed up.  I figured I'd just tie my jacket around my waist as it got warmer.

Me at the end of the race.

That's me on the left at the end of the race.  That was the only time I jogged, and it was because we were near the finish line.  You have to run across the finish line, right?  Oh, by the way, it's tough to run (or jog) when your feet and legs are numb.  Just sayin'.

Let me tell you what's wrong with this picture.  No matter how cold it is when the race starts - NO JACKET!  Seriously.  I found out I hated walking with something around my waist.  A few blocks is one thing.  Three miles is quite another.  And my clip kept slipping.  Seriously, pull that dang hair up in a ponytail.  No one cares what you look like.  No one.  And don't wear boot cut yoga pants.  Or a t-shirt of material you don't like, even if it's the race shirt.  Or heavy tennis shoes.  (Okay, those were the only tennis shoes I owned, so I really didn't have many other options.)

I was really excited.  I was totally stoked!  I knew I was going to rock this thing.  And then, two blocks after I started, this thought went through my mind, "What the hell have I done?"

Two blocks in.  And I've still got over three miles to go.  There's no way on this earth I'm going to be able to finish.  But, dang it, I spent money on this.  And I want to do this for my friends.  And, seriously, how humiliating would it be to have to be rescued?  So I kept going.

That first mile I thought I was going to die!  Probably not literally, but I thought I might pass out and have to be tended to.  Even though I was being careful and going at my own pace.

But guess what.  I didn't die.  After about a mile, my legs went numb.  And things got easier after that.  When you can't feel your legs and feet, they don't hurt.  Plus, passing that one mile sign is awesome!  Not nearly as awesome as the halfway sign, but still awesome.

Once I hit the halfway point I stepped up my pace.  I was feeling pretty good now.  And, gosh darn it, I was pretty sure I could pass some of those people right in front of me.  I went into the race planning to just walk my speed.  What was comfortable.  Not compete with anyone.  But since I'd paced myself well in the beginning, I had a bit more to give in the second half.  And I could see others slowing down.  And it's just possible my competitive side kicked in.

I picked up my pace and passed many people.  That was cool!

I ended up finishing in 53 minutes and 38.1 seconds.  I was thrilled to have done it under an hour.  Yay me!

And two weeks later I did another one.  This time I finished in 48 minutes and 43 seconds.  I took almost 5 minutes off my time!  Yay me again!

And this is what I wore for that race.

Much better clothing choices.

New, lighter shoes.  A lot less clothing.  Boy, was that a more enjoyable race!

But the most important thing I learned from that first 5k?  I learned I could do it!

We did it!

Self-Harm and the Words That Made Me Want to Stop

***This post contains material that could potentially be triggering for anyone with a history of self-harm.  Please do not continue if you aren't safe right now.***

I purposely and knowingly hurt myself for the first time on December 14, 2006.  I used a broken plastic spoon to scratch three deep lines into my forearm.  Later that night I burned myself with a candle.  And it felt good.

There is no way for someone like me to explain this to someone like you if you haven't been there.

My brain says it shouldn't feel good.  My brain says it's not something that's okay to do.  And my brain knows it will bother the people around me.

But it does feel good.  And it doesn't feel like a big deal.  And in that moment of darkness, I don't care how others feel about it.

At least that's the way it's been.  In the past.  It's been a little over eight years since I first did it.  And while I understood it wasn't a healthy coping mechanism and I should probably stop, I have never wanted to stop.  Not once.

I tried to want to.  I wanted to want to.  But I just didn't.  I didn't want to give it up.  And, honestly, I just wasn't fully converted to the idea that it was important for me to give it up.

Last October (2014) I burned myself.  I mean, I really burned myself.  And it ended my relationship with my therapist.  Which led to me seeing a new therapist.

As my new therapist and I got to know each other I told him about how many therapists I'd seen over the years.  There have been many in my life.  I go for a while without seeing anyone and then, when I know the issue I'm dealing with is too big for me alone, I pray and ask God which therapist is the right one to help me through this moment.

This is the point when my new therapist asked me what I was seeing him for.  What was he supposed to help me with, whether I wanted to do it or not?

And, boy, wasn't that final qualifier just the clincher for me?  Didn't that phrase tell me I was with exactly the person I needed to see?

I looked him in the eye and told him he and I were to heal the self-harm problem I have.  That I didn't want to give it up.  But that I would work on it with him because I believed God wanted me to.

And I didn't see how I was ever going to want to give it up.

I have been seeing him about every two weeks since early November.  We've taken various approaches.  We've found things that I believe will help me and a few that didn't really fit.

And then, on February 17, he said something in passing that was a game changer for me.  I don't remember the exact words.  He was talking about helping me get more tools in my toolbox so I don't pass the trauma on.

And that was the moment.  I heard in my head and wrote on my paper, "When I self-harm, I pass the trauma on."

I am causing trauma to my children.

And that was the slap I needed.  I am in therapy to heal for them.  I am working so hard to make their world better.  To find the answers they will need in the future by doing the work myself.  And to end a long line of dysfunction.  My goal was to make the trauma stop with me.  I had hoped that I would be its last victim.

But when I hurt myself, it hurts them.  And that's just absolutely not okay with me.

So I'm done.

I can't promise I won't engage in any other unhealthy behaviors as I continue to work my way through my incredibly tangled past.  But I will never, ever purposely hurt myself again.

And that's a promise!

An Alternative to Self-Harm, an Anxiety Attack, and Just Yuck

So, I'm seeing a new therapist.  He and I are finding our way.  I felt like we were floundering for a bit (turns out, so did he), but I feel like we have a plan now.

I have gone to therapy for many years, off and on.  I've seen several therapists.  And sometimes I feel like I'm in therapy to keep a grasp on reality when my life is crazy.  That my therapist is my anchor.  Because sometimes the waves are so far over my head and I can't even find a piece of driftwood to cling to.  Therapy has been the lifeboat for me many times.

Other times therapy is my mental gym and my therapist is my personal trainer.  His job is to help me strengthen my weaknesses.  To prepare for competition or just to feel my best.  This time is one of those.

This therapist (Jason) is my coach.  His job (and my job) is to help me fight.  His job is to help me win.  In my fight against self-harm.

Which is kind of an uphill battle because I'm still not sure I want to give it up.

I know that doesn't make sense to most of you, and I'm happy about that because it means this isn't a part of your life.  But some of you will get it.  Self-harm is a drug.  It's soothing.  It's numbing.  It feels good.  It stops the pain.

Anyway, all of that was just an introduction to where I am now and what I experienced today.

In therapy we discussed what happens when I get triggered.  There are many things in my past that have been traumatic.  When something happens that reminds me of one of these, I can be taken back.  I go into fight, flight, or freeze.  (Which is something I'd surprisingly never connected with self-harm before - good job, Jason.)  I can be a child again.  Or a teen.  Or even a toddler, depending on which trauma is triggered.

So, in my last session I had a particular trigger in mind, because I almost self-harmed a couple weeks ago and have been craving it a lot since.  I figured that was a good place to start.  Jason asked me how old I feel with this trigger.  Five.  I am five years old.  Didn't have to think about it.  I am a helpless, powerless, scared little girl.

As we talked more, we discussed the place in our brains that thinks logical thoughts and the place in our brains that thinks save-your-butt thoughts.  The animal brain that's ready to fight the saber-tooth tiger.  When a person has PTSD, and is triggered, the thinking part doesn't get to play.  It gets completely bypassed.  The run-so-you-don't-die part takes over.  It's visceral.

And through all these years of therapy I've learned so many techniques to deal with those moments.  I know behavior after behavior that is healthier and longer lasting as a fix.  To get me through those moments.  But those are not habits for me yet and they are in the thinking part of my brain.  The ones I've used for years, the unhealthy ones, the ones that are habits are in the get-me-through-this-alive part. 

Those unhealthy behaviors are the ones in the path of the trauma brain process.  Trigger - freak out - make the pain stop.  It's very automatic.  Again, visceral.

So my therapist introduced a novel approach.  Skip the thinking.  We're not going to think our way through this.  We're going visceral.  Since your brain isn't going to take the thinking path, we won't either.  We're going very basic.

We're going to use my senses to shock my body out of that moment I feel trapped in and back into the real moment I'm in.  My new mantra is "new moment-new experience."  This moment isn't that moment.  And more importantly, I am not that little girl.  I am a forty-five year old woman.  I have forty more years of experience than she does.  I am strong.  I can make my own choices.  No one else has control over me.  I don't have to do what I don't want to do.  I am powerful!

So how do we slap my brain in the face and tell it to wake up and see that it's a new moment when it's on the path to destruction?  We're going to use my senses.  Like smelling salts, we're going to smack my brain and tell it to wake up.  To break that spell (from Sleeping Beauty) that's got me mesmerized and is calling me to the spinning wheel to prick my finger.  And I think it's a good plan.

My assignment for this week and next was to find five things that are very unpleasant to me (that attack my senses) but that aren't harmful and don't relate to or bring up any trauma.  And for extra credit, I could try them for real.

I figured out several things I could use, one or more for each of the five senses.  I have a couple of them in place and am working on the others.

I tried one of them earlier this week.  I was triggered by something that has frequently led to self-harm in my past.  And then I grabbed the lavender oil.  I HATE the smell of lavender oil.  It makes my muscles cringe.  I used it like smelling salts.  And it was enough to remind me of my mantra.  New moment-new experience.  Then I took a few deep breaths.  I smelled it again.  Ick!  And I reminded myself that I am not that person anymore.  I can face this.  A few more deep breaths and I was better.  The problem wasn't gone, but it wasn't beating me in the head and punching me in the stomach anymore.  It was just there and I'd get through it and it will pass and soon it won't matter anymore anyway.  That was a good moment.

Sometimes when I'm in therapy, and we come up with a new plan of attack, I'm so sure I understand how to use it.  And then I leave and get into the real world and realize there were a couple points of clarification I didn't get.  But I often don't realize that until I use my new behavior wrong.  And that can turn out bad.  Like today.

I've been on edge for a while now.  Three or four days.  No, I guess it's been longer than that because I was feeling it before I went to therapy Monday.  So at least a week.  It's a difficult thing to describe.  It's like all the nerves in the periphery of my body (especially my arms and shoulders) are on hyper-alert.  It's hard - even painful - to have people close to me.  Like closer than about three feet away makes me cringe internally (although I try not to show it if I'm in public; I don't want to be rude).  If someone touches me, my body starts to whimper.  It hurts in a psychological way.  But the feeling of wanting to climb out of my skin is very much a physical thing.  When I am alone again I find myself shaking my arms trying to make the feelings stop.

Today I was hit by this when I was alone, but stronger.  Out of the blue and without a trigger.  I've heard restless-leg syndrome described and it kind of felt like that, but through my whole body.  I felt like I just needed to shake my whole body, like a dog after a wash, hoping whatever was hanging on that was hurting (and kind of electrified) would fling off.  And I could settle.

So I thought I would try one of these new behaviors.  I got my piece of newspaper out (which I absolutely HATE the feeling of) and rubbed it between my finger and thumb.  I opened it up and started to glance through it, while paying attention to the way it felt in my hands.  My anxiety climbed higher and higher until I felt like a balloon that was over-filled and ready to pop any minute.  I couldn't touch it another second.  I threw it away from myself.

Very quickly I went from wanting to crawl out of my skin to feeling like I was going to explode and wanting to crawl out of existence.  I found myself with my head in my hands, rocking back and forth.  Pretty strongly and swiftly.  Trying to dispel this energy which was attacking me.  I was deep crying.  I added Lamaze breathing.  Kept rocking.  And I turned on the stopwatch on my phone.  I had the sense that this moment was a panic/anxiety attack and have heard that they pass much more quickly than we expect in the moment.  More quickly that it feels like.  Estimating the amount of time from when it hit hard before I turned on my stopwatch, and including that time, I think it lasted about five minutes.  Five horrific minutes.  But I got through them.  And it helps to know how long it lasted.

At that point I still felt like crawling out of my skin but no longer felt out of control, held hostage by my body.

So it was yucky.  Lots of yucky.  But I learned a lot.  I learned that moments pass.  Even the horrible ones.  I learned that there are other tools in my mind and body that I can use that my body will sometimes lead me to if I will listen.  And I learned not to use my new shocking tools for a panic/anxiety attack (I'm not sure if there's a difference between those two and don't know which it was).

Rough day.  Still crawling out of my skin.  Still want that three-foot bubble.  But no longer screaming internally.  I'll take it.

Are You Ready to Feel Better?

In July of 2005 I got a very bad headache.  A debilitating headache.  It didn't go away for a couple of weeks so I sought medical treatment.  Long story short, I still have it.  Lots of tests and doctors and treatments later.  No answers.  But that's not what this post is about.

I got the headache.  We tried a bunch of stuff, including Lortab.  It was great and made me feel awesome, but it didn't take the headache away.  And it made it difficult for me to function as a mother and an employee.  So I quit taking it and just didn't take anything for several months.  The headache intensity fluctuated.  If it got too bad, I just took a nap.  The pain meds weren't worth the trade off of being completely non-functional and the rebound headaches I'd get.

But in October of 2006 my headache got bad and stayed bad for quite a while.  I went to the doctor and desperately asked if there was something else we could try.  Wasn't there something that could help that wouldn't make me feel like a zombie?

He said it was time to go to the pain clinic.  Again, that's another story for another day.  But there's one element that needs to be told for this post to have meaning.

In addition to the regular medical stuff we would try with the doctors, they wanted me to meet with their psychologist.  I don't remember his name, and he has since retired.  Let's just call him Dr. Old Guy.

So I met with Dr. Old Guy.  He said we would work on bio-feedback and relaxation.  He gave me a cd and told me he wanted me to spend thirty minutes twice a day listening to it and practicing guided relaxation.  I may possibly have laughed in his face at the idea of two thirty minute relaxation sessions a day.  He said the fact that it seemed impossible to me was just a sign that we were on the right track.  Whatever.

So I did it and came back to meet with him again.  And as we walked into his office for our second appointment he asked me a question that has stuck with me ever since.  Haunted me?  Maybe.  He asked, "Are you ready to feel better?"

It kind of stopped me in my tracks.

Now it could very well have been one of those things that really doesn't mean anything.  It could have just been his way of saying, "Let's get started."

But I pondered it.  I analyzed it.  I agonized over it.

Was there something I was gaining from having this headache that made me resistant to healing and was that why I wasn't getting better?

At the time it seemed ridiculous.  What good was there in a headache?  It had caused so much stress in my life.  It had disrupted so many of my plans.  It would eventually be the reason I had to quit my job.  How on earth could anyone think I was choosing this?  Was I choosing it?

The reason any of this matters all these years later is because of my word for the year.  I chose HEAL as my word for 2015.  And I still hear this question in my head.  "Are you ready to feel better?"

And I still don't know the answer.

A Year of Creating

2014.  It's almost over.  Where did it go?  And so fast.  It's done and gone so fast.

And what do I have to show for it?

I love to look back on the year and see what's changed.  What did I get done that I wanted to and what plans fell in the gutter?  I especially love this look back since I've started choosing ONE WORD to guide my year (explained here).

Last year my word was CREATE.  I had so many great plans, while still leaving things open to the natural flow of my life and whatever the world would bring my way.  Some of my plans came to fruition.  Others, not so much.

I wanted to draw more.  I did, but not as much as I had planned.
I wanted to create the yard I'd been dreaming of.  I made progress, but not as much as I had planned (thank you hysterectomy).
I wanted to make my room a haven.  I did really well at this (although maintenance is tricky).

I had a list of words as part of my plan.  Some with obvious meaning, others more ethereal.  I created a vision canvas to help guide me.  I hung it on my closet door and referred to it often, to just kind of check in with myself.

I wanted to create:
     - peace
     - stability
     - strength
     - refuge
     - dragonflies*
     - healing
     - haven
     - space
     - calm
     - wellness
     - sanctuary
     - satisfaction
     - fortitude
     - oasis
     - happiness
     - gargoyles*
     - garden
     - structure
     - dragons*
     - wholeness
     - atonement
     - shelter
     - freedom
     - health
     - joy
     - self
     - focus
     - safety
     - divinity
     - dreams
     - escape
     - order

*I didn't want to create dragonflies, gargoyles, or dragons; I wanted to incorporate them into my life.  I love them in a magical way.  They sing to my heart.  I did learn to draw a basic dragonfly that I'm happy with.  I'm still searching for just the right gargoyle(s).  But as for the dragon, I'm not there yet.  I wanted to learn to draw one.  I have some ideas, and a tutorial for a basic one, but no finished product.  I still have today and tomorrow.  Maybe I'll get it done before the year is over.

As for the others on my list, I have had a certain measure of success on all of them.  And that's why the ONE WORD idea works for me.  I don't have to be perfect (perfectionism is a struggle I have).  I keep it very open, loosely defined.  It's a guide, not a restriction.  Even with all the struggles and health issues I had this last year, I'm calling it a win!

I'll keep my vision canvas for CREATE up for a while.  I love the ideas it contains and it makes me happy.  And I'm eager to create one for my new word for 2015.  It's just the perfect word for my life right now.  That will be my next post.

My Hysterectomy

I will be using proper names for female body parts and bodily functions in this post.  There will also be pictures of my belly after surgery.  It's going to be long because I want to get the whole story out in one post.  If any of these bother you, please skip this post.

**********

So, twelve days ago I had my surgery (to read why, go here).  A total hysterectomy and oophorectomy.  He removed my uterus, cervix, ovaries, and fallopian tubes.  He cut the parts away laparoscopically using a DaVinci robot and delivered them vaginally.  He then sewed up the top of my vagina to keep everything inside from falling out.  I think that's the gist of it.

This is a picture from the internet of the DaVinci robot:

DaVinci Robot - cool looking, huh?

And this is what it looks like in action:

DaVinci robot in actual surgery, but not my surgery

The surgeon is that guy over on the left with his head in a box who looks like a ref watching instant replays in a football game (I'm pretty sure that's not what he's really doing).  That piece is separate from the robot.  Some of the internet pictures have it up close to the robot, some have it across the room.  No idea how close it was during my surgery, obviously.  The surgeon uses controls to maneuver the robot and do the laparoscopic part of the surgery (kind of like the crane game).  The advantage to using the robot instead of traditional laparoscopic surgery (according to my surgeon) is that with the robot he has full 360 degree rotation and with traditional he only has 180 degree rotation.  My feeling was this -- if he's the one doing the surgery I'd like him to use the method he is most comfortable with and has the most faith in.  I trust that he knows better than I do.

And this is how it all went down.

I went in the Friday before my surgery for a blood and urine test.  They look for anything that could be a reason not to do surgery or a situation to monitor.  They do a pregnancy test -- because, duh, taking my uterus.  At this time a nurse also reviewed my health and medication history.  I signed several forms, including one that said I understood that after my surgery I wouldn't be able to give birth anymore.  Apparently, some women haven't understood this in the past.  Oops.

I got a call later that night telling me there was a questionable result on my urine test.  It was possible that I had an infection, but not definite.  The nurse asked if I had any of the symptoms of a urinary tract infection, as she named them.  I didn't.  She said they were incubating a sample and would let me know if there was a problem, but it was probably just a contaminated sample.  Like maybe I touched something I shouldn't have in the collection process.  Anyway, I never got a call back on that so I guess it turned out okay.

My surgery was on Monday, June 30.  I was to be at the hospital at 11:00am to begin the whole process.  Shortly after we arrived (my husband and I) they took us back to pre-op.  The nurse came in and went over the flow of the process with us.  Pre-op, holding, operating room, post-op, room.  They had a board with the estimated time of things and I was instructed to let them know if the time passed and things hadn't happened as she explained them.  I think that was an important thing for me.  I tend to be extra patient and would probably just wait.  The surgery did start later than expected, but she had come in and told us it would and gave us a revised time, which was accurate.

She then reviewed the pain scale.  It looked something like this:

Pain Scale

She asked me where on this pain scale I would normally take something for the pain.  I said probably around a 6 or 7.  She said that wouldn't work in the hospital.  They want to know when my pain is about a 4 or 5.  I'm pretty sure I looked quite incredulous.  I said I would do my best to pay close attention and tell them at that point, but I sometimes don't notice it at that level (due to my chronic pain, I've had to learn to ignore most pain).  They took more blood and urine to test.  She hooked up my IV.  She hung an antibiotic on the IV post and said they would start that when they started my surgery.  And we waited.  How long did we wait?  I'm not sure.  We got there at eleven.  My surgery was scheduled to start at twelve thirty.  It was pushed back to one forty-five because the one before me went a little long.  I don't know how long the nurse's stuff took.  They took me back to holding at about twenty after one (if I'm remembering correctly, which no one should really count on).  My husband gave me a kiss and we went our separate ways.

In holding it was just a nurse working at a computer and me.  The room looked like it could hold several beds, I'm guessing six or so, but there weren't any others in there for most of the time.  This is where my surgeon and anesthesiologist met with me prior to surgery.  It's also where I presented this picture to my surgeon, who left it with my chart so the anesthesiologist and nurses could see it:

The creature

I explained to my doctor that I was pretty sure this was the creature that was chewing and clawing it's way from my body.  I wanted to make sure he recognized it when he found it.  He, the anesthesiologist, and the nurse each got a chuckle out of it.

Both doctors explained (in their separate visits) what they were going to be doing.  They asked if I had any questions.  They were both very kind.  They both seemed sincere in their concern for me.  My heart felt calm in their presence.  I felt safe in their hands, which was very important to me.

I spent about fifteen minutes in holding, give or take a few minutes (there were clocks visible everywhere so I could keep track).  Then they wheeled me to the operating room.

I don't remember a ton about the operating room.  I remember thinking it had a lot of equipment in it.  It also seemed like there were a lot of people in there.  They put my bed up next to a narrower bed and had me skootch (totally a real word) over to the smaller one.  There were no rails on this one like there had been on the other one.  I had a slight feeling that I could fall off.  But not for long because then they put a strap over my hips and secured me to the table.  The anesthesiologist told me he was giving me something in my IV to relax me (although I was amazingly calm, much more so than I expected to be).  Then someone, I'm guessing it was the anesthesiologist, told me they were going to give me oxygen and put a mask on me.

The next thing I was aware of was a man trying to wake me up in post-op.  I was very nauseous and worried that I would throw up, which was a concern I had prior to surgery.  I told whoever the man was waking me up that I felt like I was going to throw up and could he give me something.  He told me he'd already given me three things for nausea (if I remember correctly) but would give me something else.  He also handed me a cool blue bag with a round plastic neck in case I did throw up.  I kept this bag with me throughout that first day.

Through my still sedated haze I could see that there was a clock on the wall.  I fought through the medication to clear my vision enough to read it.  My daughter is on a mission and only gets to communicate home through email once a week.  I knew she would be doing so some time between 4:00pm and 5:00pm.  My other daughter was supposed to email her info on how the surgery went as soon as my husband got word and called her.  I wanted to make sure we hit that window.  I knew the surgery was supposed to take a couple hours so we might be cutting it close.

When my vision cleared enough to see the clock I saw that is was about four fifteen.  I asked the man if my husband had been given an update and explained to him why it mattered how quickly it was done.  He said my husband had been told and he would go find him to see if my missionary daughter had been told.  He came back shortly to report that communication had gone back and forth with my missionary daughter and she had the info.  Then I relaxed a bit.

I was moved to my room shortly after that.  We passed my husband in the hall, who joined us.  I think he waited in the hallway while they got me situated in my room.

He stayed with me until about eight that night, when I sent him home to sleep.  I wanted him to be rested when he took me home the next day.  My three younger kids (15, 17, 19) and a friend who's like our kid visited.  My parents visited (after receiving permission).  They can sometimes be stressful for me, but I understood that they needed to see that I was doing okay.  Their visit was short and nice.  And I was doing fabulously!  Every nurse commented that they just don't usually have people who are that happy on their floor.  I guess I threw off the anesthesia quicker than most.  And because all the anxiety I'd had before surgery was gone, I was very happy.  I had pain, but that I can handle.

I pretty much asked for the meds on schedule.  They gave me morphine to begin with.  I think that was every two hours.  Then they added something else; I want to say Tramadol, but I'm not sure.  Whatever that second one was, it was longer between doses.  Six hours maybe.  I was on a clear liquids diet, which was fine because I was still nauseous.  I got strawberry jello and a couple things of grape juice.  And water.  The nurse warned me to sip, no matter how hungry/thirsty I was.  Good advice!  I didn't want anything coming back up.

After my husband left I played hand solitaire and tried to find something to watch on TV.  I don't generally watch commercial TV, so it was tough.  I found a channel with old shows and watched some Murder She Wrote and later watched O, Brother, Where Art Thou?  I also went for four laps around the nurses station.  The nurse walked next to me, but I was stable enough on my feet to do fine just holding the IV stand.  The nurse was thrilled with my efforts; she said usually she can't convince people to even get out of bed and try walking.

I barely slept, which I knew would happen.  I listened to an audio book of Harry Potter on my mp3 player (I always listen to Harry Potter when I sleep because I am such a light sleeper; it's my white noise).  The nurses did their best to keep the interruptions to a minimum and keep the lights off to help me sleep.  It just wasn't happening.  When the phlebotomist came in at 3:00am to draw my blood I was awake.  (I guess my hematocrit had been low prior to surgery and they wanted to check that).

I had a little trouble with my catheter.  I still felt like I needed to go to the bathroom, which is a sign that it's not in right or is kinked or something.  And there wasn't as much output as would be expected from what I was drinking.  The nurse worked with it a couple of times.  It worked okay for a bit and then struggled again.  The other nurse had told me that since I was doing so well she would take the catheter out at six if I wanted her to.  Otherwise, they'd wait until I woke up.  I said six would be great.  It ended up that the nurse was in my room around five for something else, medication or IV or something.  I asked when she could take the catheter out.  She thought for a second and then said she could do it right then if I wanted.  I definitely wanted!  So she took it out and told me I had seven hours to pee on my own.  If I couldn't by then they would do a scan and see if they could figure out what was wrong.

On the information board in the room they write what the goals are for the patient.  The main goal was pain management.  Then she added "urinate by noon."  I can honestly say I don't think I've ever had peeing as a goal.  I had no problem meeting that goal.  I was able to pee all by myself within an hour or so of her removing the catheter. 

She switched me to a soft solids diet some time during the night.  After the catheter was removed I was finally able to get a few hours of sleep.  When I woke up I ordered breakfast.  I was so excited to be on a soft solids diet because it meant I could have milk!  Milk is what I usually use to soothe my nausea at home, so I was glad to have it.  I had pancakes, hashbrowns, two cartons of milk, and some tapioca pudding.  I wasn't a fan of the tapioca, but I ate everything because it had been so long since I'd had real food (fasting for surgery, of course).  I showered and put on a clean gown and underthings.  I went for another walk, without an escort.  Five laps this time.  I also asked for something other than morphine, since it was making me itch.  They added Percocet in its place (every four hours).  And the nurse applied an estrogen patch to my abdomen, to wear for seven days before switching to pills.

My husband and oldest daughter (23) came over around nine.  My 19-year old daughter is a nanny and brought the kids she cares for to visit. 

My doctor had told me I would get to go home after one night in the hospital.  Since I've taken care of many family members and a few friends while they were in the hospital I knew it wouldn't be until after the doctor made his rounds, which are usually done in the morning.  We hadn't heard anything by about noon so we asked our nurse to check on it.  He said he'd seen my doctor on the floor so he didn't know why he hadn't come to see me.  My nurse came back shortly and said the doctor had started his rounds but was interrupted by an emergency.  He would return when that was taken care of.

He came around one.  As he washed his hands I asked, "Did you get him?" (meaning the creature).  After only a slight pause he said, "Yeah, I ran him out of there."  He said he'd been getting a report from the nurse and been told I was hopping all over the place.  A wonderful report.  He asked how I was doing (fabulous!) and gave me instructions.  He asked if I had any questions.  I had typed my questions into a text message to myself in my phone so I wouldn't forget.

I asked how much it mattered if the pain meds made me itch (Percocet does a little).  He said as long as I could breathe okay, he wasn't worried about it.  And he said I could take Meclizine (which I had at home) with the Percocet for the itching if I wanted to.

I asked about yoga.  I have been wanting to start, but was waiting until after my surgery because I'd been hurting so much.  He said he didn't want me doing anything straining.  Yoga is out for a while.

Then I told him I have a high tolerance for pain and since I have chronic pain I just usually ignore it.  I asked him how much I needed to respect this pain.  He said my toughest struggle would probably be wanting to do more than I should because I felt so good.  We agreed that I would take the pain meds on schedule for 72 hours rather than according to my pain.  I agreed to not do dishes or laundry for two weeks.  I agreed to not lift anything over 15 pounds or spend too much time on my feet.

The nurse asked the doctor if he could take my IV out then, if he was done with it.  The doctor said yes.  But I'd been watching the clock and I know how things go as someone leaves the hospital.  It was almost time for my next dose of IV pain meds.  I asked if we could wait fifteen minutes and give me that last dose before removing it.  The doctor said that would be a good idea.

He left.  I got packed up.  The nurse gave me my last dose and removed the IV.  I got dressed.  The nurse came back with discharge papers.  He said someone had to accompany me out but I didn't have to ride in the wheelchair if I didn't want to.  That made me very happy.  I hate being pushed in a wheelchair, especially when I feel fine.  I signed all the papers and got the ones he was sending home with me.  The nurse shook my hand and thanked me for making his day fun.

Soon a lady came with a wheelchair.  I told her the nurse had said I didn't have to ride in one.  She said I could just put my stuff in it then, which is what I did.  As we walked to the elevator she asked what I'd had done.  I said, kind of embarrassed because of how well I was doing, that I'd had a hysterectomy the day before.  She said, "Wow.  You're doing great!"

The valet brought us our car and we were on our way.

I had amazing nurses the whole time.  In fact, everyone I interacted with was awesome, right from the first phone call.  Seriously, I couldn't have asked for kinder people.

I was sent home with a prescription for Percocet, prescription Ibuprofen, estrogen pills, and a stool softener (which was actually over the counter).  I took them on schedule for three days.  I took my last Percocet Friday morning, four days after my surgery.  I took the Ibuprofen (one at night and one in the morning) through Sunday. 

Monday afternoon I got a call from the surgeon's office checking on me.  How are you doing?  Great!  Any trouble urinating?  Nope.  Doing great.  Any trouble with bowel movements?  Nope.  You're able to go okay and without straining?  Yep.  We don't want any straining because you could pull your stitches.  Nope, no problem.  And how's your pain management?  Great.  What are you taking for the pain?  Nothing.  Really?!  You're not taking anything?  Nope.  And you're great?  Yep.  Well, okay.  I see you're already scheduled for your follow up and you say you're great so I guess we're done.

I've really been so much better than I expected to be.  My friends and family have been amazed at how well I am.  One friend said I seem so much better, they must have gotten something that was making me sick.

And I do feel so much better than I did before surgery.  Did it cure the problem?  It's hard to know for sure because there is still some pain in the same area that was hurting before because that's where they cut parts of my body out.  But I think so.

And this is what it looks like after:

July 2, two days after surgery

They make four incisions for the robot, including one in my belly button.  The incisions have surgical glue on them.  I think the doctor said the glue was over stitches, but I could be wrong.  It might have been in place of stitches entirely.  I never saw any stitches.  That white thing on the lower right is the estrogen patch.  To do the laparoscopic surgery they inflate your abdomen so they can see everything and maneuver.  I have no idea how long it takes for all of that air to leave, but my belly definitely still felt swollen for several days.

July 3, three days after surgery

That bruise on my belly button got bigger and darker for a few days.  The surgical glue started pulling up around the edges by this time.

July 9, nine days after surgery

The bruises are mostly gone by this point.  I took the estrogen patch off that morning, but the skin there was a little sensitive so I decided not to worry about the glue left behind from the patch until the skin there healed a bit.  The surgical glue is gone from everywhere except my navel.  It didn't rub enough to loosen it and that area was a bit tender so I left it alone.  You probably can't tell, but the incision on the left isn't healing quite as quickly as the two on the right.  It's possible that I might have encouraged that glue off a little sooner than it was ready.  Don't do that!  If you do, it's possible that the wound will weep a little and glue itself to your clothes and then when you move quickly you will tear off the scab and start bleeding and it will hurt.  Don't ask me how I know this is a possibility.

July 11, eleven days after surgery

Bruises almost completely gone.  Surgical glue gone.  Skin under patch healed enough to scrub clean.

Oh!  I forgot to mention vaginal bleeding.  I expected to bleed more.  I wore a pad for a few days (no tampons allowed because of the danger of infection).  The day of surgery I had some bleeding.  Not much though, like a light to moderate day of period bleeding.  The second day it was less.  By the third day I wasn't really bleeding anymore, just had some pink when wiping.  By the fourth day I was done.  It's kind of crazy that there wasn't more blood.  I bled a lot after having babies; I kind of thought it would be like that as things healed.  I guess it makes sense that things would heal much faster when they do it surgically and sew things up and cauterize them.

I am still on the same restrictions I was given when I left the hospital.  I see my surgeon Monday for my two week follow up.  At this visit he will check my abdomen to make sure that's all healing well.  We will also discuss which restrictions I still need to live by and which can be lifted.  I see him again around six weeks post-op.  At this visit he will do a vaginal exam to make sure everything is healing properly there, that I haven't pulled any stitches, and that nothing is falling out.  He expects that all restrictions will be lifted at this appointment except for one.  No vaginal penetration until eight weeks post-op.

I'm really feeling great.  I'm so glad to have it over with.  Everyone who took care of me was fabulous.  I even received a thank you card from the nurses who took care of me thanking me for letting them care for me and wishing me swift healing.

I can't imagine anything in the whole process going any better.  And I'm so grateful!

How My Prolapsed Uterus is Like a Pregnancy

I counted the other day and it turns out I will be having my hysterectomy and oophorectomy (removal of the ovaries) about nine months after I first started really hurting and knew I needed to go to the doctor.  This got me thinking about the other ways this whole thing has been like a pregnancy.

The biggest similarity is the nesting.  Okay, I'm not getting my house ready for a new baby, but I have been deep cleaning and getting my house ready for my down time and possibly visitors.  I don't generally receive visitors in my bedroom, but that will be a possibility for a few days after surgery.  So I wanted it to be presentable.  All those things I've wanted to do for a long time to make it the way I wanted it to be are finally getting done now.  I've been deep cleaning and purging so I can recuperate in peace without being anxious about things that need to be done.  Other than maintenance (which includes getting my family to actually clean up after themselves), my house is ready!

Discomfort.  Ugh.  Being pregnant brings about all kinds of weird and unexpected changes to your body.  And you spend so much time worrying if this is normal or something to worry about.  Should I call the doctor?  Do I need to go to the hospital?  Twinges.  Pain.  Swelling.   Cramping.  The one thing that's been nearly constant these last nine months is a cramping uterus - very like contractions only less come-and-go and more constant, like a Charlie horse.  It feels like I have a giant rock in my lower abdomen, very much like when I was about two months pregnant.  Uncomfortable to me, but not noticeable to anyone else.

And, because of my uterus being displaced, a more frequent need to pee.

An ultrasound as part of the diagnostic process.

Way too many pelvic exams.

Way more doctors visits than I'd like.

Deciding when and how to tell people.

Lots of people asking when my date is (surgery date as opposed to due date).

And when it's time I will go to the hospital and have a delivery of sorts and spend a night in the hospital while they monitor my bleeding and recovery.

I won't be bringing home a bundle of joy (but I also won't be gaining another lifelong responsibility).  There will be no naming of anything under any circumstances.

But hopefully, when all is said and done, I will experience the same joy and freedom and relief that comes after pregnancy when I feel like I finally have my body back the way it should be.  Fingers crossed!

Today There is Sunshine!

Actually, right this very minute there is sunshine.  It's 12:30am and completely dark outside, but there is sunshine in my heart.  There are colors in my soul.  I look around and see so much that makes me happy.

Yesterday, on Halloween of all days, my depression finally broke.  I made my bed for the first time in over a month.  And I was happy.

Oh, it's been a long spell.  While it hasn't been my most gut-wrenching or life threatening depression, it sure was an ugly one.  Month after month of darkness.  It had me pinned by the throat; I felt like it would never let go.

Nothing I tried helped.  Nothing anyone tried helped.  My friends and family worried.  I even worried a bit, as much as a person can when depressed.

Nothing brought me happiness.  Everything was heavy.  Everything was a chore.  I barely existed.

And just like that it went away.  It was like I woke up from a bad dream.  A bad, black-and-white dream.  And there are colors again.  Kind of like landing in OZ.

There is so much going on.  I have lots more to write.  But that will have to wait.

I just want to focus on this moment and this feeling.  I am happy.  And it's magical!

Going to War

There is a memory.  A memory that holds more power over me than anything else ever has.  A memory that has been there for as long as I can remember.  And beyond.  A memory that taunts me.  A memory that hides.  A memory that I sense but don't see.

It is strong.  It is elusive.  It is haunting.

And I am going to battle against it.

Most of the time, it lies hidden.  Tightly protected in its cage.  Just out of my reach.

But right now it is exposed.  And right now I am strong.  And right now I have an army behind me.

I am frightened.  But I am going to war.

A Little Lighter

My world is a little lighter today.

I finally got to a place that I was able to practice some self-care.  It was like trying to walk while dragging heavy weights with each leg, but I did it.  And I feel a little better.

I scheduled some appointments with my therapist.  I spoke with him on the phone.  We are okay.  The relief I felt after scheduling and speaking with him for just a couple of minutes was amazing.  It matters that I have him in my corner.

I've been able to avoid most of my unhealthy coping mechanisms throughout the PTSD event and the depression.  I'm proud of myself for that.

I'm finding peace within myself.  A little at a time.

The storm isn't over, but the winds have died down for now.  I'll take it.

Writing

Writing because I need to.
Writing because my heart feels like it's going to explode.
Writing because I'm lost.
Writing because it's healing.
Writing because it's often how God and I communicate.
Writing because my world is dark.
Writing because I feel like I'm missing something obvious.
Writing because I'm sad.
Writing because I hurt.
Writing because . . . I just don't know what else to do.

Taking a Break From Therapy

It's time.  I've felt like it was time for a while now.  The initial issue that brought me back to therapy this time is not an issue now.  But I worried that I would have a crisis and not have any way to get in to see my therapist.  I worried that one crisis would be enough to make my life spiral out of my control.  Again.

So week after week, appointment after appointment, I kept scheduling.  My therapist is scheduled a month or two out and I didn't dare let a gap happen. 

It's not like I don't have plenty of issues to work on.  It's not like we haven't gotten good work done.  But the things I have to work on aren't emergencies.  Right now, they aren't even urgent.  I'm feeling strong.  I've got a good support system in place.  I'm getting better at communicating when I'm not okay. 

And over the last few months, when I've had a crisis, it's usually been between sessions and I dealt with it before I got back in anyway.  We ended up reviewing it in therapy, but not really facing it -- because I'd already done that before I got there.

Honestly, I've been feeling like I was using therapy as a crutch.  A crutch is good when you're really wounded, but when it keeps you from making progress in healing, from standing on both feet when you're capable, it's no longer a good thing.

So it was fear of being alone during a crisis, a feeling that I needed backup, someone to protect me, that kept me scheduling.

But my therapist isn't my big brother.  He isn't my dad.  He isn't even my friend.  He is the person I pay to help me see thinking errors and choose more wisely.  It's easy to get confused about that relationship -- especially when I go frequently without interruption. 

It's easy for therapy to just become a part of my schedule.  Just what I do Mondays at 9:00am.  And to get swept up in continuing it because scheduling becomes part of the process.

Even though I've been feeling like it was time for a break for a while, I didn't act on it.  Partly due to that fear, but also because I didn't feel like I had a good reason.  I couldn't explain why. 

Well, that's dumb.  I don't have to explain why.  It's my life and my money and my time; I get to choose how I spend it.  And I don't have to have a good reason.

It took a few episodes of not seeing eye to eye with my therapist, being offended and/or angered by what he said, and another bad session to hit me in the head and wake me up.

When I need therapy again, really need it, I will probably go back to him.  He is a good man who knows my story.  He's good at what he does.  And I think we will work better together after a break.

But it's time.  It's time to get some distance from my therapist so I can get the relationship clear in my head again (and he can, too).  It's time to figure out what I want to do instead of being swept along by the process.  It's time to get back to protecting myself, because that's MY job.

Balance is a Myth

My daughter's Chiari 1 Malformation repair surgery went well (decompression and duraplasty).  The doctor didn't have to remove any of her brain.  Thank you to all who offered prayers and support in our behalf.

It took longer than expected because she has an extra thick skull.  (The doctor said it was about three times as thick as most, and if he'd had to remove any more he'd have had to get a new saw because he burned through the one he was using.)  He removed a piece of her skull.  He removed the back half of her first vertebrae and shaved off part of the second.  He opened up the dura (the covering of the brain) to make more room and patched it with a piece of her scalp.  She goes back next week to have the staples removed and make sure everything's healing well.

She's still quite medicated, so it's tough to tell if any of her symptoms are better.

Three long days in the hospital with her were exhausting.  I was sleep deprived when we got there and it only got worse.  I tried to take care of myself while taking care of her.  I ate some.  Slept some.  Neither enough.  Because she was my top priority.  She needed me there in order to feel safe.  She was scared.

Since we've come home it's been better.  She's slept more.  I've slept more.  I'm keeping her on a strict medication schedule to stay ahead of the pain -- absolutely no waiting until it hurts.  As soon as she can take more meds, I give them to her.  It won't be this way for long.  I will start to stretch it out when I think she's ready.  But right now she needs to be able to relax a little and sleep so she can heal.

I am sleeping on a mattress on the floor of her bedroom at night.  There was an oxygenation issue in the hospital that's got her a bit paranoid.  Having me there to make sure she's breathing lets her relax.  It's a small price to pay.

While I was at the hospital with her those three days, my oldest daughter played mom at home.  She got people up and off to school.  She kept track of people.  She ran things.  All while finishing up classes and studying for finals.  She was a life saver for me and now has a better understanding of how hard it is to be a mom -- I understand there were some tears.  (Don't ask where my husband was.  We had a fight that started while my daughter was in surgery and continued throughout the day, both of us sleep deprived and stressed.  He was not in a good place those three days.)

Since we've been home, my daughter's ex-boyfriend-but-still-best-friend has spent most of the daytime sitting with her in her room, running errands for her and/or me, and giving me a chance to rest.  This would have been incredibly difficult without him.

And I have had to give up a lot of things.  I've let a lot of things slide.

All of that brings us to my point.  Balance is a myth.  Life isn't about making everything we want fit into a tiny space of time and energy.  Life is about deciding what's most important and choosing that.  Life is about letting go of things that don't matter to focus on things that do.

I wanted to be at my oldest daughter's concert, but I was needed at my other daughter's bedside.  I wanted to go to a discussion on literature of world religions, but needed to take care of myself.

There was a time in my life when I would have demanded it of myself to keep doing all I was already doing and find a way to squeeze this in there, too.  Luckily, I'm wiser than that now.  I know that's not healthy and not something to strive for or admire.

My priorities right now are my daughter, my health, and the other people in my life.  The house will wait.  There will be other fun opportunities.  And anything that really needs to get done can be farmed out.

Life is about seasons.  We do one thing for a while, at the proper season.  As the seasons change, we need to be willing to change with them.  We need to find the beauty in each season and not feel like a failure because we leave the other season behind.  We need to be willing to let a season go when it's time to move on.

This is my season to take care of my daughter and help her heal.  And it's the perfect season for me at just this moment.