It occurred to me that there are a couple of things I either want to come clean about or cop to or maybe just say out loud, I don't really know.
I don't believe in god any more.
I don't believe there is any inherent purpose or meaning to life.
I believe positive thinking is important and beneficial to one's health. I believe overall health is a sum total of mental, physical and emotional health. But I no longer believe that positive thinking has the power to draw things into your life that you want or to heal disease. (Yes, I completely believed those things. Had I not mentioned that? I had my reasons and they were based on my own personal experiences.) Fuck, I have wasted so much money on self help books. Which like, isn't the concept of self-help BOOKS, plural, ridiculous?? Shouldn't there just be one or MAYBE like a handful? I own so many, I could open a small book shop, composed of one, almost completely full, bookshelf.
Thursday, May 19, 2016
when am I?
I got to reconnect with a good, old friend yesterday - one of the dear pets I had forgotten to tell about my pregnancy and little L's dramatic entrance to life. She seemed to appreciate the trauma of our NICU experience more and more as our conversation carried on. That evening, she wrote me a beautiful email about how astonished both she and her little 5 year old daughter were about just how tiny L was when he was born.
Our conversation showed me how far I've come since L was first born, in that I was able to talk about his birth without getting too emotional. She asked me at one point how old I was and, admittedly, I didn't know. On this past birthday, I "celebrated" in the NICU with my baby, other parents whose children were in our room and L's nurses and doctors. I somehow found the time and energy to bake everyone cookies (this is German tradition. you basically bribe people with sweets so they have to tell you happy birthday if they want some.) and S and I went to a Christmas market in the evening, where I had one mulled wine and a sausage. It wasn't the worst birthday I've ever had (that's a tie between my second and ninth grade birthdays, when not one person came to my party and my only friend went to my ex-best friend's party instead of hanging out with me, respectively), mainly because I don't really give a shit about birthdays any more. It's safe to say it wasn't the best birthday either. Still, I was shocked to realize my last birthday was of so little consequence to me that I'd completely forgotten how old I was. SPOILER: I am 33.
I held it together talking about his NICU stay but that email? Man, I sobbed like a baby. I may have come a long way, but I know I am not over it. Not that crying is necessarily proof that you're not over something, but it's usually a good indicator. I was talking to a former classmate, who also had a baby in the NICU, about something similar. She was talking about how she and her husband still haven't recovered from their baby's birth and she's been home from the hospital for a year. I said I think recovery, if you are graced by its presence, is a miracle. I think most of the time it never comes. Yes, you can move on. Yes, you can carve out new grooves. But I don't know if things ever go back to the way they were. And really, they shouldn't. Honestly. What would be the point? If I survive some kind of trauma, I at least want to learn something from it. If I am not open to letting scary, painful things shape me, life will be a lot more uncomfortable and pointless than it already is.
Our conversation showed me how far I've come since L was first born, in that I was able to talk about his birth without getting too emotional. She asked me at one point how old I was and, admittedly, I didn't know. On this past birthday, I "celebrated" in the NICU with my baby, other parents whose children were in our room and L's nurses and doctors. I somehow found the time and energy to bake everyone cookies (this is German tradition. you basically bribe people with sweets so they have to tell you happy birthday if they want some.) and S and I went to a Christmas market in the evening, where I had one mulled wine and a sausage. It wasn't the worst birthday I've ever had (that's a tie between my second and ninth grade birthdays, when not one person came to my party and my only friend went to my ex-best friend's party instead of hanging out with me, respectively), mainly because I don't really give a shit about birthdays any more. It's safe to say it wasn't the best birthday either. Still, I was shocked to realize my last birthday was of so little consequence to me that I'd completely forgotten how old I was. SPOILER: I am 33.
I held it together talking about his NICU stay but that email? Man, I sobbed like a baby. I may have come a long way, but I know I am not over it. Not that crying is necessarily proof that you're not over something, but it's usually a good indicator. I was talking to a former classmate, who also had a baby in the NICU, about something similar. She was talking about how she and her husband still haven't recovered from their baby's birth and she's been home from the hospital for a year. I said I think recovery, if you are graced by its presence, is a miracle. I think most of the time it never comes. Yes, you can move on. Yes, you can carve out new grooves. But I don't know if things ever go back to the way they were. And really, they shouldn't. Honestly. What would be the point? If I survive some kind of trauma, I at least want to learn something from it. If I am not open to letting scary, painful things shape me, life will be a lot more uncomfortable and pointless than it already is.
Sunday, May 1, 2016
Letter to my mother #3
Dear Momma,
Next Sunday will be my first mother's day as a mom and, while I am proud of all I've been through to call myself one, I am so terribly sad and lonesome for you.
Before little L came into our lives, I had been struggling with what I've been told is mild depression. It has felt graver than mild at times, but I've never reached a point where I couldn't make it out of bed to dress myself and go through the motions of my myriad responsibilities. If there's one good thing I have from the all-pervasive sense of guilt I inherited from you (not blaming you), it's an unflagging sense of duty. It has not always served me well, but has proven to be a boon to my professional life, so thank you! While I have always been prone to being sulky, my sadness worsened in my late twenties and, though I've experienced moments of joy, I've never been able to recover the sense of inner stability I enjoyed for a brief period right before things went off kilter. If I had to pinpoint the most salient aspects of my depression, they would be: an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and the inability to get out of my own head.
Little L has greatly helped the latter. I cannot afford to spend all day, every day, trapped in the rabbit hole. He grants me the permission I need to fixate on something besides my faults. In that way (and in many others) he has helped to heal some old wounds in me. Having him has given me clarity on certain things I didn't understand when I was a little girl: why you worried all the time; why you were always so tired; why you were resentful and angry. Having him has made me immeasurably more grateful and in awe of the sacrifices you made to make sure J and I had everything we needed and then some. Having L has also transformed certain curiosities from my past into unsolvable mysteries: how and why you stayed with Dad; how you did everything alone without going stark raving mad; how Dad could be so dismissive of lives he helped create; how he could take a knee on the banal and grueling minutia of parenthood, yet still always show up in the winner's circle.
I wish now more than ever that you could have given yourself a life closer to what you deserved, because you deserved so much more than you received.
You forged my heart in the fire of your undying love for me. It belongs to you forever.
I love you,
Sarah
Next Sunday will be my first mother's day as a mom and, while I am proud of all I've been through to call myself one, I am so terribly sad and lonesome for you.
Before little L came into our lives, I had been struggling with what I've been told is mild depression. It has felt graver than mild at times, but I've never reached a point where I couldn't make it out of bed to dress myself and go through the motions of my myriad responsibilities. If there's one good thing I have from the all-pervasive sense of guilt I inherited from you (not blaming you), it's an unflagging sense of duty. It has not always served me well, but has proven to be a boon to my professional life, so thank you! While I have always been prone to being sulky, my sadness worsened in my late twenties and, though I've experienced moments of joy, I've never been able to recover the sense of inner stability I enjoyed for a brief period right before things went off kilter. If I had to pinpoint the most salient aspects of my depression, they would be: an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and the inability to get out of my own head.
Little L has greatly helped the latter. I cannot afford to spend all day, every day, trapped in the rabbit hole. He grants me the permission I need to fixate on something besides my faults. In that way (and in many others) he has helped to heal some old wounds in me. Having him has given me clarity on certain things I didn't understand when I was a little girl: why you worried all the time; why you were always so tired; why you were resentful and angry. Having him has made me immeasurably more grateful and in awe of the sacrifices you made to make sure J and I had everything we needed and then some. Having L has also transformed certain curiosities from my past into unsolvable mysteries: how and why you stayed with Dad; how you did everything alone without going stark raving mad; how Dad could be so dismissive of lives he helped create; how he could take a knee on the banal and grueling minutia of parenthood, yet still always show up in the winner's circle.
I wish now more than ever that you could have given yourself a life closer to what you deserved, because you deserved so much more than you received.
You forged my heart in the fire of your undying love for me. It belongs to you forever.
I love you,
Sarah
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