Ode To The Thomas Train I Stepped On Last Night

pexels-photo-85599Of all the things we anthropomorphize, you might be most iconic.
Of all the toys I step on nightly, your injuries, most chronic.

Lacquered in a shade of blue, matched perfectly to the sky,
You seem to jump out, underfoot, for grown-ups passing by.

Why can’t it be a cuddly toy, or blankie in my path?
Instead, I trip on only you. Have I incurred your wrath?

I begin to think it’s all a plot, schemed up on skeevy Sodor.
I’ve always felt Sir Topham Hatt gives off malicious odor.

First, they slandered Lego; quite destroyed their reputation.
Those bricks can’t catch a break from all the painful condemnation.

But Legos are not the enemy, you must trust me when I say,
These attacks upon your soles create confusion and delay.

While you coral those colored bricks, to keep from nightly tripping,
They steam their way into your path to begin their fretful nipping.

Because, if parents, far and wide, were incapable of walking,
Those wily locomotives could expand their steamy flocking.

They’d leave Sodor upon Bulstrode, his hull the shade of rubies.
Bulstrode is a grumpy barge, for all you Thomas newbies.

Braving sea and storms, they’d come ashore, and build tracks from here to there.
No foot would find it safe to walk, any time or anywhere.

And so my little wooden friend, your face as grey as smoke,
While you delight my little boy, I know what your grin cloaks.

Your evil is not welcome here, and I beseech your name!
RETURN, and take that Percy with you,
Back to Sodor, from whence you came.

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… is this thing still on?

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I’ve started this post or attempted to, seven eight times.

I just haven’t been able to find the right words to begin again. Which is why this space, so crucial to my self-care, has gone silent. I’ve decided to stop trying to find the right words, and instead to write this with the wrong words, if that’s what they are. Any words would be preferable to none at all. Words are what I do. Writing, speaking, storytelling; these things unlock something inside me. They open the pathways that flow from my brain to my heart to my… I don’t know, spleen. The point is, I need to write. Even if what I’m writing is garbage. This is particularly important as I have recently gone through a difficult time in my life. Writing helps me process. It may be the only way that I process. Maybe I should just text with my therapist…

So here we are, after many months of silence. I’m back, baby. …Probably.

I was going to catch you up via a neat, little chronological timeline of posts, but every time I think about doing that, I want to throw my computer out a window and just sit in my garden instead… so something tells me that’s not the way this is going to go. I’m going to catch you up, because sharing my narrative has always been something I’m passionate about doing, in hopes that it will help others to feel less alone. I just might not be sharing it in a pretty, chronological fashion. Cool? Cool.

I guess I’ll start with the elephant in the room.

2017 has been an asshole.

I started 2017 locked in an obsessive episode, and though I thought I was doing better, by mid-March, I was worse than ever. Worse than I have ever been, in fact. I wasn’t exactly suicidal. I struggle with health OCD (aka hypochondria) and have some pretty serious fears about death, so I’m the opposite of a harm risk. However, I was spent. I was not functioning. The best way I know to describe it is like this- on Monday, I was nervous about things that probably weren’t going to happen. On Tuesday, I was calling my mom every couple of hours to tell her how nervous I was about things that probably weren’t going to happen, like how I might have cancer or a heart attack in my sleep. On Wednesday, I was calling my mom and my husband every couple of hours from work to tell them how I was nervous about things that probably weren’t going to happen, like how I might have cancer, a heart attack in my sleep, and also the fact that I felt like there might be some numbness in my feet and hands and legs and so I was checking them every 15 minutes or so to see if they felt numb. I cried to my husband that I hadn’t gotten any work done yet, and it was lunch time, because all I could do was check to see if my extremities were numb and then Google diseases online. On Thursday, I was researching in-patient facilities. On Friday, I checked into one.

I just couldn’t find the strength or tools to fight what felt like an OCD steamroller, moving slowly over my life. It flattened me, and I was terrified.

I should say that I have never before been hospitalized for mental health issues. This was new and scary, and despite my work in the mental health community, despite my beliefs about stigma-smashing, this felt shameful. I felt like I had failed somehow. And I guess, truthfully, I did fail. The thing that I have come to realize is that failure isn’t a disqualification. It doesn’t mean you can’t get back up and try again. It isn’t a stamp you wear on your forehead or a label that defines you for life. It’s a moment, it passes, and you take from it what you can.

Out of this particular failure, I have learned some of the most significant mental health lessons of my life. I am more equipped than I have ever been to maintain good mental health. I am more in tune with my brain. I know where it gets tripped up, and I know the things that help to get it back on track.

That’s what I’m hoping the next several posts will be about in this space. I want to talk about where I struggled and what has helped me get out of that place. I want to share what works for me. I want to process it all, in hopes of understanding it better myself.

So, expect to see me back here on a (hopefully) regular basis.

Lastly, I want to send out a massive, heartfelt beam of gratitude to those of you who reached out while I was struggling. Many of you noticed the silence and sent me personal emails and Facebook messages, and I just cannot tell you enough how much that blew my mind and bolstered my spirit. Community is a lifeline when we are in trouble, and I’m so thankful to have this one. ❤

I’ve got several posts on which I am working. I’m not sure which one will be finished next (I write what I’m moved to write, when I’m moved to write it), but be on the lookout for posts about – my stay in in-patient, program lessons, value-driven behavior, and more!

See you soon!

All my love,

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Through the Door and Down the Hall

I’m not really sure when the thoughts began, or the headache either, for that matter. All I know is that by January 3rd, 2017 I had an appointment with my primary care doctor, because I was convinced that the headache, which had been lingering for a few days, was symptomatic of a brain tumor. I just knew it, and I had already been revolving the idea in my brain for days.

Zero to sixty, I know. The best way I can describe my experience with health related Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is like opening a door which leads to a hallway and feeling as if the only way to go is forward. When I stand at the threshold of an obsessive episode, it never seems possible to simply step back and close the door.

After examining me, my excellent doctor did her best to reassure me that I was not in danger. She is infinitely patient with me, and this is not the first time she has had cause to show it. I left her office with a prescription for a medicine commonly used to treat migraines. A condition which I have never had with any sort of regularity in the past.

That. Right there.

Do you see what I did? ” A condition which I have never had with any sort of regularity in the past.” That, my friends, is OCD talking. It seeks to disprove anything a doctor tells me, and it told me exactly those words when I left my doctor’s office on January 3rd, clutching my prescription like it was some sort of holy text.

OCD whispered to me- You’ve never had a migraine like this before. This is different. This is something else. You know it. You can feel it in your gut. Trust your instincts.

I listened. I walked through the door and down the hall. And I spiraled.

By Thursday, January 5th, just two days later, I was lying in an MRI tube receiving a brain scan from a very kind technician who asked me to tell him a band I liked (I said The Head and The Heart) and played it loudly in the room, in an attempt to drown out the panic-inducing sound of the MRI machine whirring around my head.

How, you might ask, was I able to get an MRI when my doctor clearly did not think it necessary?

OCD. That’s how.

OCD, in some ways, is like a super power. It affords me razor sharp focus. When OCD decides that something needs to be done, I will exhaust an alarming amount of physical and mental energy to make it possible. I made phone calls. I researched. I put pressure on people. I hounded doctors and insurance, nurses and imagining centers. I was relentless. This super power, however, comes at a cost. When the OCD focus is on, everything else is off. My children, my husband, my hobbies, my friends, my family, my passions, my home, my dog, my job, my writing, my life. OCD brushes it all to the side, in pursuit of the object I am obsessing over.

The only silver lining to this entire situation was that, by the time I was pursing an MRI, I knew it was OCD. In between seeing my doctor and getting the scan, I saw my therapist. I have not yet perhaps conveyed how, during this entire episode, I was distraught. I didn’t worry that I had a brain tumor. I knew I had a brain tumor, and I reacted accordingly. Panicking,  I was crying more often than I was not, and even though I was legitimately terrified for my life, I also recognized the likelihood that this entire situation was being driven by my mental illness. My therapist agreed, and we worked hard to stop the episode in its tracks, but we both recognized a raging inferno when we saw one, and our little buckets of water were simply not cutting it.

So, I made her a promise. I would get the MRI, because I didn’t know how to say no to the OCD which commanded it, but afterwards I would check myself in to my local behavioral hospital for evaluation. I did this knowing that there was a chance I would be admitted, because I knew that I was in far too deep and alarmingly over my head. I have never been so controlled by OCD as I was that first week of 2017.

I kept my word to my therapist, and immediately after leaving the imaging center, before even receiving the results of my MRI (all normal, in case you were wondering), I drove directly to my local behavioral health hospital.

I am fortunate, in that my local hospital has an excellent Behavioral Health facility, with a nationally recognized Anxiety and OCD Program. They have an intake evaluation process which determines an approximate diagnosis and plan of action. I was referred by the intake eval for a Partial Hospitalization Program, but elected to participate in the Intensive Outpatient Program instead. The IOP only met from M-Th weekly and since my eval was on a Thursday evening, I did not begin the program until the following week.

To be continued…

I’ll be back next week to pick up where we left off, with the beginning of the IOP.

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Forward

The last few days have rocked the Maternal Mental Health community. The dissolution of Postpartum Progress came as a shock, even to many of us who were calling for change. I’m not going to get into the story behind what happened. If you do not already know, it is all there, mostly in public forums of Facebook, for you to piece together.

That said, I want to make sure my position on the matter is clear.

I stand with people of color. I stand behind them when they say they have been harmed. I stand behind them when they tell me what they need, and I add the volume of my voice to their own. I am learning every day about the ways in which my own whiteness,  privilege and utilization of systems of oppression, even when done so unintentionally, harms people of color. I am learning because I am listening and researching and being curious. We are not perfect. I am certainly not perfect, but if I screw up the roof when I’m building a house, I fix the roof… not burn the whole thing down.

It was not my house, though.

So, now we are here and the best thing we can do is look forward. Many of us used PPI as our primary resource, both in our own battles with PPMDs and in the support we offered to people who crossed our paths. As I understand it, the blog and resources online will remain. The online peer support forum Facebook groups are being retained, but will be re-named/re-branded. Really, the community under the PPI name is what has been dissolved.

What I want you to know, more than anything, is this-

WE are not going anywhere.

WE, the advocates, the survivors, the volunteers, the fighters, WE are still here. WE are more than our formal affiliations. WE are more than a name, a brand, an umbrella. WE were here before PPI and WE are going no where.

I am still here for you, Mamas. I am still a resource, a source of support, an advocate, a safe place. I am still loving on you and cheering for you. Do not flee back into the darkness simply because an organization is bowing out. The light is still here, and we are all still in it.

I have been working hard the last few days to determine where to align my work and volunteerism so that it can best support you and the Mamas who haven’t found us yet. Several of us, who met through PPI, have been putting our heads together on this. We are working while we grieve. We are working hard.

On a personal level, I am ramping up my live storytelling. Many of you first connected with me through that space, and so, as I sit here thinking about how I can be of service to a community who now feels abandoned, I hear that call once again. I will tell you when/where as shows are scheduled. My plan is to get back on stage as soon and as frequently as possible in order to continue the stigma smashing, encouragement giving and community creating work that I love. A work which I do best by standing in front of a room full of strangers, baring my soul and giving them space to say, “Me Too.”

WE are going to be just fine.

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The Gift of Protest

This Saturday, January 21st, I will join hundreds of thousands of women marching all over the country in protest of our soon-to-be president, Donald Trump.

Like everyone else, I have my own reasons for marching.

It is interesting that the march should fall on the date that it does, because January 21st has very special meaning to me. January 21 was Clara’s due date. Of course, babies can be born many days before or after their due date, but since Clara was not born, I have come to think of January 21st as her birthday.

This year, on January 21st, my daughter would be one year old.

My daughter who died.

My wonderful daughter who died because she was diagnosed with a lethal fetal anomaly.

My loved and wanted daughter who died because her diagnosis gave us only two options:

Birth her and watch her die

-or-

Undergo a medical procedure known as abortion in order to end the pregnancy (and pain).

We chose the medical procedure.

Trump’s campaign, administration and mere presence in the public spotlight is a threat to women.

Just the other day a man who holds political office, claimed he was “inspired by Trump” and sexually assaulted a woman, grabbing her by the vagina and telling her no one would believe her. Fortunately for the victim, the assault was caught on surveillance video.

Trump, and everything he stands for, is a threat to the rights and well-being of women.

BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE.

Trump, and everything he stands for, is a threat to many more than just women. He and his cronies are a threat to people of color, to immigrants, to the LGBTQ community, to our economy, our national security, our healthcare, our rights… you get the idea.

I’m marching on Saturday because Donald Trump is

NOT

MY

PRESIDENT

I do not acknowledge him. I do not hold an ounce of respect for the office while he is in it.

I will resist.

I march because if Donald Trump and his cronies had their way, I would have been forced into a healthcare situation that not only held dangers for me, but which could easily be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.

I march because I will not go quietly back to “when America was great”.

I march because I, the daughter of lesbians, will fight for the right to love.

I march because I have educated myself on our country’s history, I am listening to people of color and I will resist, with my dying breath, the politics and employment of white supremacy that continues to degrade, defile and dispatch the lives of black people.

I march for her.

For Clara.

Happy Day, my darling girl.

Mommy loves you so, so much.

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What We Keep In The Corners

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Tonight my oldest son and my husband went to the Bull’s game, so I did what any person with an ill-formed sense of judgment would do, and took my four-year-old to Chuck E Cheese’s.

In all seriousness, we had a lovely time. I watched Silas kick a much older child’s ass at a snowmobile racing game. The older boy spent the first half of the race taunting my sweet-hearted 4-year-old… and the second half of the game chewing through his bottom lip as my angel formed the older child’s taunts into a laser beam of drive and ambition with which he would calmly destroy all that the older child had ever held dear.

When he emerged, victorious, he simply looked at his nemesis the older child, pure innocence beaming from his little aura, and said “Fanks! That was fun!

Oh yes, he is my child. *evil grin*

ANYWAYS. Before we went to Chuck E Cheese, I took my little date out for dinner to Noodles and Company (his fave). Over pasta, we discussed the various ways that apples can be sliced and the way we like them best (thin slices, but not too thin). We discussed the many merits of Chapstick. We talked about Super Why and Eye of the Tiger. It was during a short discourse on Survivor that he, rather loudly and distinctly, interrupted me by saying, “Mom, it’s sad that my baby sister died.”

You could have heard a noodle drop.

I recovered myself from the land of montage music and replied that yes, it was sad and that it’s okay to feel sad about it. I wasn’t sure what else to say. It isn’t the first time that he has randomly brought up Clara, and it’s evident to me that he’s still working it all out. What struck me, though, was his okayness with the topic. Of course, he is simply too young to know that it is taboo. Too young to consider that talking about it might upset me, but I don’t see this as problematic. Instead, I am in awe of the way he lives his life completely out in the open. There are no dark corners where he hides things deemed too painful to discuss.

I love this about him. I am certainly not known for my lack of candor, but even I have a tendency to hold things close when I think they’re too messy for the world to see. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with this and people should never disclose more than makes them comfortable, but I’ve always found comfort in communicating pretty much all. Once you learn to live with the vulnerability which is inevitable with this way of being, it’s pretty damn freeing.

What’s more, I’m proud AF of the fact that we have handled Clara’s loss in a way that Silas feels comfortable bringing it up over buttered noodles in a very public forum. That tells me that despite our unimaginable grief, we have kept our experience with losing Clara from being pushed into the corners. It is not a taboo subject in our home. This not only feels like the healthiest way to handle it with our children, but it feels like the best way to honor her.

We will talk about her. She is part of our family. And, just like I told Silas tonight, it’s totally normal to feel sad about her not being here.

I feel sad about it every day.

But, I also feel happy every single day about having him, and Daddy, and Caiden in my life.

Life is dark and light. It is gains and losses, gratitude and regret.

And while tact and timing are social lessons that he will need to learn, I hope that he can continue to live a life with no dark and dusty corners.

…I also hope he continues to sweetly destroy anyone who tries to knock him down.

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Mompostors: Why Real Moms Feel Like Frauds

 

Back in October, I had the great privilege to speak to a group of Mothers at Postpartum Progress’ Warrior Mom Conference. I gave a presentation on the intersection of Motherhood and the Impostor Phenomenon which was really well recieved. The entire thing was transformative for me, and I’m still unpacking the experience.

One request that I received many times after the presentation was for me to release a recorded version of it. Unfortunately the conference itself was not recorded, so I’ve done a new recording for you and am sharing it here!

I’m a storyteller by nature, so giving this talk to my computer screen was a little harder than expected, but my hope is that you find in it reassurance that YOU are a worthy, valuable, wonderful Mother. Because, you know, you are.

If you are interested in having me give this talk at your event, please contact me! I’d be delighted!

If you’d rather read this than watch/listen, check out my recent article over at Seleni!