Not writing and writing and healing

I haven't written in a while.

This space, while helpful in the beginning of my healing process, turned into another thing that held back my recovery. Not my physical recovery, mind you, but the emotional and psychological one.

Each time I came to this place, I thought I was healing ... until I started writing. I came back here after months of not touching my blog and saw posts that had been started but never finished. Certainly never published.

It's not that I was stuck. Honestly, I had too much going on to be stuck for too long before being pulled out of my thoughts and thrust back into the Mommy Abyss - the tie my shoes, help me wipe, I spilled milk all over the carpet glory that is mothering children.

What was happening was me saying, "This is how I cope." What was really happening was me saying, "This hurts too much. Moving on hurts more than staying here, so I'm just going to stay here counting the days, counting the weeks, waiting for my next round of lab work."

So I stopped.

My position on positives, if you want to call it that

I've been trying to focus on the positive lately.

I'm positive the van will get stuck at least once more trying to get out of the snowy driveway this week.

I'm positive the tax bill due by the beginning of next month should have given me a coronary, especially considering the credit card bill was nearly the same amount.

I'm positive my kids think 3:30 a.m. is the most perfect time to hit/kick/slap their way to the coveted spot in my bed.

I'm positive we blew the grocery budget this week, and I'm positively not going to worry about it since we had money left over last week.

I'm positive wine is usually the answer when I get in a writing slump, because I tend to suck down several glasses and write like a beast - usually pounding out 2,000 or more words in a shortish amount of time as I pour the words from my soul desperately into a Word document that someday will resemble a paperback.

And I'm positive the book I'm penning is almost done. This one I'm almost as sure of as getting stuck in the driveway.

I'm also positive that while I'm trying to "be positive," it's hard, because there's a huge difference between being positive of something and being emotionally/psychologically positive. Most people are aware of that difference. So while I try really hard to be emotionally positive, it's not something I usually wake up thinking will happen today. There are still a lot of days I look out the window and it's not the sun I see, but the dirty snowbank and slushy roads. Instead of being proud of my daughters' inquisitiveness and ability to make a mess while learning, playing, and growing, I can't see beyond the clutter.

I am more than my miscarriages

Life changing news. I wrote about it because that's one of the best (maybe the only) ways I can get a grip on my emotions.

When I was younger, all this emotion and writing and pouring myself into an outlet was secret. There were notebooks and random stashes of folded up paper that lived in my back jeans' pockets that I would pull out and fill with angry, bitter poetry. A lot of anger. A lot of bitter.

This is where I come now. I try to make sure my thoughts are fairly well put together before I hit "publish." This is a space where I feel I can get out all my feelings - whether they're about stupid shit my kids are doing, the random places I find sippy cups, my love of cloth diapers, or my incessant need to finish writing the novel that should have been done months ago as soon as possible (because ASAP just makes more sense than an actual deadline when I have two small children) - but I also like to consider it a safe place for others to join some of these conversations.

Usually everyone just comments on the link I post on my Facebook page. That's fine.

Tonight, while I reflect on our loss - a child who won't get to spend Christmas with us next year - I also reflect on our gains throughout the year.

The waves and stages of grief

We may never know what happened and I'm trying to make peace with that.

"This was an abnormal pregnancy."

"It's nothing you did. This isn't something you could have prevented."

"I saw what might be a couple small tumors."

"It's possible there was a molar pregnancy."

"I'll be doing a suction D&C to reduce the possibility of scarring on your uterus."

"We might not get any answers."

Coping my way through

Out of habit, I'm a strong person. Like, strong enough that I'm able to hold my shit together during some of the most difficult times.

Except with death. I tend to go all in when it comes to death - cleaning, working, once (singular, one time) it was drinking ... and rarely since then have I mixed my white wines with my reds when consuming entire bottles on my own.

On Tuesday, I scrubbed the kitchen floor and did laundry and tried any way I could to not let my mind be idle because, as I said to one friend, and idle mind is the Devil's playground. I knew if I sat still long enough, the what ifs and what did I do wrongs would sneak in. The last thing the girls need from me right now is for depression to take hold. I can't let depression win in this because I've already lost enough, I'm already coping with enough. I don't need to forget how to get up in the morning or put on jeans or smile. I've still been able to smile through the pain because I was given the opportunity to carry this baby for however long I was supposed to. I can feel blessed knowing I served that purpose.

Let go and let God

These days my Facebook page reads less like the diary of an alcoholic writer and more ... domestic.

I mean, I've always been pretty domestic - baking and cooking and momming - but usually it's mixed in with a decent dose of hashtags about wine o'clock and Wine Wednesday and day drinking. There's been none of that recently.

Actually, when I wrote a majority of this post initially last week, I was pretty sure that once this entry was read through entirely, I would get comments like "Oh I totally knew ... because you weren't posting about drinking." To which I'm just going to respond right now - don't post shit like that to anyone ever. For starters, you make people sound like they really do have a drinking problem, which, for me, is the furthest thing from the truth. If I had a drinking problem, I wouldn't be posting about how much I drink or want to drink because when I'm dealing with a life problem (like depression ... because that has been an actual issue in my life) I don't say a thing about it on social media. The only reason anyone other than my husband, close family or really close friends know about me tackling the depression monster is because I finally opened up about it in this space; it's my space and I feel safe here.

But this isn't a post about that, how hard I work at being a mom, how much I despise car line and other Pre-K parents or funny stories about drinking wine and writing a novel.

This is the hardest post I think I'll ever write. This is therapy.

When autoimmune disease runs rampant

Three times now my blood work has come back and I've been told to stay on the same dose.

Three times I've gone in and been told my TSH was "elevated."

I'm exhausted. I'm cranky. I'm yawning halfway through my first cup of coffee and I know it isn't just because the caffeine hasn't kicked in yet, or rather *now* I know.

The problem with autoimmune disease and being blessed with two of them is, for me, sometimes not knowing if it's just a case of poor sleep that leaves me fighting to stay awake at 10 a.m. or if it's too much coffee at night (which I rarely drink at night) that keeps me from actually falling asleep.

Is it lack of sleep because I stayed up too late writing that causes me to go from 0 to RAGE in a matter of seconds over something as inane as my child asking me to turn the water on in the bathroom for her to wash her hands or should I really be that miserable and pissed off because she won't just do it herself? Am I just a shitty parent? Why isn't there a fluffy pillow and a box of tissues here right this second so I can have my miserable cry fest while questioning everything I know to be true about me?

This is the face of hypothyroidism. It's also the face of hyperthyroidism.

Lend me your ears! Show me your placentas!

Birth is sacred. It is an emotional experience unlike any other.

Breastfeeding is sacred. It is a bonding experience that goes beyond snuggling.

Placentas are amazing powerhouses that maintain a tiny little ecosystem mothers carry around inside them for 10 months. Let's forget they exist. Please, whatever you do, do not feel empowered in your birth or like this "thing" matters one bit. Let's just not talk about it.

Actually, on second thought, I want to see pictures of them. I want to hear stories of placenta encapsulation. I want to know if you had a print made with your placenta after your child was born. Lotus birth is going a little too far for me, but if you did it - more power to you.

Where am I going with all this? I guess you could say I'm jumping up on my mother freakin' soapbox - the very same one my mother would probably like me to come down off from during a majority of our conversations. I'm heated.

My hope filled VBAC: She's almost 2

Somewhere in the vicinity of two years ago this week, I stared at my very pregnant belly wondering when the little goober was going to give up the hostage situation in my uterus and wave its white flag. I was three days past my due date, still working full-time and went to bed every night praying God would give my body the ability to birth my child as He intended.

I've told the story of how Josephine had been forced out before she was ready. Devastated doesn't even begin to describe how I felt, and though I tried part of me still can't even put into words the full range of emotions I felt over the course of my healing - both physical and emotional.

And then eight months later I was pregnant again. I was "late" and tested. Negative. Tested again a few days later. Negative. Spent my birthday attempting to have fun hanging out with my family ... could hardly stomach the beer in my hand and though I so very badly wanted a cigarette, the smell nearly made me vomit. On March 8, I had a biopsy done on my thyroid and went home scared to death of the results of that test. To clear my head, I peed on another stick figuring if it was negative this time, I was going to stop worrying. My body was probably just getting back on track after Josie had stopped breastfeeding.