Fighting

If you follow my other blog, you know I have been pretty exhausted today. In fact, I was so worn out earlier that I had a veritable meltdown. Complete with crying and feeling hopeless and sorry for myself. I definitely have had finer moments. But as I have said before, this Challenge is very difficult. And in ways I would have never thought. So days like these are expected.

What I come out of this day with is this thought; sometimes our exhaustion forces us into a dependence that we would never have found if were able bodied. In other words, once we lose the will to fight the real work can begin. I literally got down to the rawest emotional state I have been in for a very long time today. I fought tears many times today on my mat (a few times unsuccessfully). And the regular work of my everyday life seemed a far heavier weight to bear than normal. But now as I sit here, with the stress of the day behind me, I feel much more clarity. I am still exhausted, to be sure. I think the difference now is that I have given myself the space I needed to lose the will to fight.

I’ve been fighting a lot lately. Fighting fatigue, fighting with my eating, fighting my body, fighting my ego. It’s a lot of energy to expel. Today, I’d fought my last fight. I remember at one point standing on my mat after the first set of Half Moon and wanting to run out of the room. I wasn’t overheated, I wasn’t breathless, I was just.. angry. Angry and sick of fighting. And exhausted. Really exhausted.

One of the most interesting things about Bikram Yoga is that it’s always been my solace. Even on those days that I feel so tired, the mat is my refuge. People wonder why I don’t take days off. I understand the logic of giving the body a break. I know the benefits of rest and allowing the body time to restore. I calculated 14 and a half hours I have put in on the mat already this week. That’s more than half of a whole day. In one week. That’s a lot of time. But the truth is that it’s not the yoga that I want a break from, it’s my mind. My racing, raging brain that wants to fight and fix and plan. My mind that doesn’t trust the process.

So very soon I am going to take myself to bed. I will sleep, get up, and go back to my mat. And I may still be tired. I may still feel exhausted and weary. But at least the fighter in me can take some time off. I think she’s due a nice long vacation.

Down came the rain..

This is a story I have never really told. It’s something I rarely tell anyone about. But it’s something that I have been thinking about. It’s part of my journey right now. And somehow I feel that by writing about it, and sharing it, I honor the memory of this terribly painful time of my life.

I think having children is a wonderful thing. I believe every child is a blessing. Pregnancy, birth, and babies are passions of mine. I love it, really. My first son, Simon, was a tough kid. He was born 2 weeks late, refused to breastfeed for weeks, and screamed for six months straight. He was tough. But I managed. I had mild depression with Simon. I found one of my best friends during that time, someone I still love and depend on deeply. But the cloud passed rather quickly the first time. And I rarely recall the real hardships of having him. My second son, Eli, was completely different.

Eli was born a bit late. His labor was horribly long and painful. I remember laying in my bed, right after he was born and just crying. He was finally here.. I was exhausted, and stayed that way for a long time. Eli was not a happy baby. He had a high-pitched scream that astounded anyone that heard it. It was one of the first noises he made and it made the hair on my neck stand on end. My husband commented about it the first time he heard it and could not believe such a small animal was making such a terrifying noise. Eli nursed straight away. He was seemingly starving all the time, endlessly fussy, and always unhappy.

The first few weeks of his life are a blur for me. I remember the midwives coming back to see me the next day after he was born. I remember him fattening up, and growing out of his baby clothes at an astounding rate. He was in perfect health. Gleaming and gorgeous. But he was so… unhappy. I remember trying so hard just to get him to stop. Just for a moment, I longed for him to stop screaming. Eli never simply cried, never the gentle “wahhh” of a newborn. Eli screamed with all of Hell’s fury. And to this day, if he makes that sound I feel every muscle in my body tighten.

Mothering, as it turns out, is far more than diapers, feedings, and naptime. I knew this, having had a former child. Who, as it was; proved to be a total angel for me during those early months. Simon would watch his brother scream, watch me panic, and sit so incredibly quiet and happy you would swear he was either deaf or a wax figure. It must have been a blessing straight from God. Simon was my Godsend. He went to sleep at naptime, ate his lunch, helped pick up toys, and brought me endless bottles of water when I was parked on the sofa nursing his brother. He was only 2.

What I didn’t know then was that I was waist deep in Postpartum Depression. I had no idea that my delirious frustration, rage, and anxiety was a chemical problem. I denied it. I only let a few people into my life during that dark time. I isolated myself at home, and I was desperately lonely. I prayed for the day I wouldn’t feel so resentful for having a child as difficult as Eli. I was lost, and felt that I would have this screaming infant forever. I never thought it would end. I coped with my depression in many many unhealthy ways. I ate poorly, watched too much TV and retreated into myself.

What nobody tells you about Postpartum Depression is how it always feels like it’s your fault. I always felt that somehow I was doing something wrong. I couldn’t get him to stop crying. I couldn’t make him happy. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t shower. I felt it was my fault. I was a terrible mother, and he would be forever scarred by my blinding incompetence.

That was over 2 years ago. Eli is now a happy, adjusted, and rarely makes “that noise.” What I have never told people is how alone I was. I never tell this story. I never talk about the hours of screaming. I never mention how I would lay him in the bassinet and walk outside and cry. That’s simply not something you talk about.

People wonder, why I don’t want more kids. They look at the two that I have, so healthy and perfect. I did have two very healthy pregnancies, and two relatively easy births. What nobody knows is about those six or seven months. And yes, it lasted that long. Those long, unforgiving months of hell. But I never find it appropriate to mention that in polite conversation. Somehow I doubt anyone wants to really know that.

There were many things that pulled me out of my depression. Yoga was the main thing. I firmly believe it saved my life. It gave me a reason to wake up, and try. I will never forget the profound difference I felt after that first class. I was a human again. And I will never ever forget to be thankful for that. My friends and family were always there for me. There were plenty of people I never reached out to that I should have.

For me, Postpartum Depression was a veil of darkness. It was a constant rainstorm. Even to this day, I feel scarred by it. Writing this feels raw and painful. I recall the endless days, nights, sitting and waiting. I would watch the clock for the second I knew Dave would be home. I would beg my sister to come see me, anything.. Anyone to be there, to help me not feel so alone. I was lost. I think many women are. They have no compass to help them.

What I hope is that by sharing the truth of my story, I can bring understanding. I am just one mother. But this is who I am. It is part of me, part of what makes me who I am. And now, my story is out there. And in that, I feel a little bit more free. And a whole lot less alone.

Vulnerability

There’s something about standing in a room of about 50 people with less clothing than I generally wear and stretching, moving, and sweating that makes me feel – well, vulnerable. But honestly it’s not the physical vulnerability that has been getting to me lately. I can handle the skin, and the sweat, I can even handle the smell and awkwardness of the room. I can look past all of that. My clothes sticking to me, my hair messed up, every inch of me sweating.. I can look past all of that. But something has been happening to me lately in that room.. A deeper vulnerability. Twice in the past few days my eyes have welled with tears during class. Both times it has happened at exactly the same time in class. And both times I have been overcome with this feeling that I cannot hide. I lay on my mat, in Savasana, feeling the tears run down my face.. Of course, my one saving grace is that I am so sweaty, I am certain hardly anyone notices. But I do, and I feel vulnerable, naked, exposed. I manage pretty well in class all the way up to this point. I can get through the majority of the class feeling “with it..” I can ignore my urges to respond to every distraction. I can ignore almost everything. But there I am, after Ustrasana, feeling raw and emotional. Most yogis say that when you encounter this in your practice, it is a sign that you are opening up to more depth, letting go, and becoming more aware. I have read people say that this IS the yoga. Ustrasana, Camel Pose, is the deepest backbend in the Bikram Beginning series. It opens the entire front side of the body. Many believe that this is where we store emotion, we remain hunched over, protecting ourselves. So when we open our chest and the front of our bodies, we open up all of those hidden emotions, sensations, and it all comes out. I have had every imaginable response to this posture. But I do believe this is the first time I have had tears. I can’t even connect them to anything right now. Maybe this week more will come out and I will be able to identify more of what’s going on. It’s a little uncomfortable in the meantime, though, all this vulnerability.

It’s been a rough Monday. I’m not feeling particularly “cheerful” and it’s just been a long hard day. I’m struggling right now with how I am reacting to a certain “situation” with one of my kids. Without going into detail, I feel pushed and angry about it. I never know how I am going to react to it when it happens. My feelings of vulnerability extend to this situation too. Today I broke down in tears over this issue right in front of Simon. He cried too, with me. Maybe that’s what we need. It’s not even a depressed kind of crying. Just a release. Sometimes tears are all you have. Today, I have tears. And that’s OK right?

I am glad this day is over.  I am glad I have had the day I have had because it means tomorrow will be better – or at least different.  It means that I am still alive, and well, and living.  And all of those things are good.

Namaste.

I’ve lost track..

Of the time it’s been since I spoke to her. I used to know how many weeks it had been. But now I have lost track. It was sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas. We went out, had lunch, and were excited about her moving out. She was more radiant and happy than I had seen her in months. I was hopeful and thought that finally finally change was coming. It’s been my WHOLE life, afterall. I’ve been watching her crumble, slowly. Then she comes back to life, then she crumbles again. For the first time in my whole life, I have finally drawn my own line. For the first time I have said to her if you make this choice again, if you go back.. I am out. Initially, it stung, like cutting your finger on a knife when you are slicing an apple. It stung and bled for a few days, a week maybe. Then the sting gave way to a numb ache. Some days it comes back, leaving me cloudy and angry. Other days it just lingers in the back of my mind.

The day I found out she was going back, it was like cutting it all over again. It was about ten days after we had last spoken. The wound was ripped open all over again. The holiday came and went. Christmas felt strange. Like a non holiday.

It’s a grief I cannot name. Not having her around feels strange and normal all at the same time. I miss her, but I don’t. I don’t miss the frustration and constant worry. Yet now I worry more. I feel she is lost for so long. One day I want to give in and call her, the next I am so angry at her I can’t even speak.

Today I feel like the sky. Gray and rumbling. I want it to just rain. To pour. To wash out. I wish things would just fall apart and storm. But they won’t. It just rumbles and rumbles.. And it’s so. cold….

Where do I go from here..

Well if you have been keeping up with me at all, you know a LOT has been going on in my life.  This is NOT a blog about yoga.  Finally, one not about yoga or the challenge or any of that..  No, this blog is about pain, grief, exhaustion, and coping.  This blog is about stepping out and speaking up, surviving, refusing to be a victim, and telling the truth..

I have never fully understood the drive that someone would have to stay with someone that hurts them.  Emotionally, physically, sexually, any of it..  I just don’t get it..  Perhaps I am so blessed to have found a man that loves me so completely that I cannot imagine having to even question it..  But I just can’t imagine spending so much of my life with someone that belittles, abuses, and neglects me.  There is someone very near to me in my life who is doing just that.  It’s painful for me because over and over I have watched her “nearly” break free.  nearly..  I have poured myself out emotionally to help her time and time again..  Given of my time and resources to help, only to see her go back..  Over and over, and over..

They say love is blind..  Well, the love I know sees life with its eyes wide open.  It sees truth and hope and light.  Love doesn’t injure.  It doesn’t inflict pain.  It doesn’t wound..  Love is patient, kind, it keeps no account of wrongs, it is not easily angered..  Love is holy..  I know love because God has shown me love.  To say that someone “loves” you and to continue to allow them (enable?) them to harm you is outside of my scope of understanding.  To be battered, and to accept it is far from anything I can grasp…

I am wrestling with anger, pain, resentment, and grief.  Anger over another “here we go again” with said relationship and said person.  Resentment over all the hope I had built up that this in fact, might just be the “end” of the horrific relationship..  Pain over losing someone I love to such a horrible person.  and Grief.  Perhaps the most pronounced of all of those feelings..  The Grief I can’t explain..  Grief that drives me between tears and anger.  Grief that blinds me and makes me angry at God..   To grieve is to begin to accept a significant loss.  To work through the intense pain of loss.

I have found myself grieving several times this week.   Grieving the Denver shootings.  Alongside of my friends..  Grieving with my sister over so much complicated medical junk with her son..  and now I find myself again grieving this..  It’s an aching grief this time.  Like a cold that you can’t shake..  No matter how many blankets you pile on..

I am tired, and going to bed.  But I wanted to “spill” a little..  Thanks for reading