Anxiety, Failure, Infertilty, PCOS and Grace

I have been thinking about this topic for awhile. What to say? What not to say? How to get my experience across without diminishing the experience of others? At a recent doctor's check up, my OBGYN thanked me for being honest with her about my mental state. She sees so many women who are ashamed or unaware of the source of their issues. I spent a long time being one of those women, so perhaps it is time to discuss what changed and why I am not scared to share anymore.

I have been anxious my whole life. My whole life. Things scared me in a way that didn't scare other kids. I thought about the worse case scenario all the time, and I truly believed that everyone felt that way.  A combination of a cautious nature, vast imagination and classic abandonment issues made it hard for me to recognize what was and what was not normal. However, I thrived as a little kid. Outside of an obvious undiagnosed case of ADHD- and no one was looking for that in 1984- I was happy. I was weird, but not anymore than any other child of the 80's.

After we moved to Oregon, and I was isolated from my large and loving family. After my mother divorced my Step-Father, an excellent move on her part. After my Father exploded back into my life and the hormones of puberty were suddenly present. That is when I think my anxiety really took hold. My world was changed so quickly, my support systems so depleted, my grandparents and sisters so far away that I for the first time I felt truly scared. Now it was just my Mom and I, and she was scared. She was tired and scared and doing all she could to put a roof over our head and keep us fed. We had no money. If it wasn't for the generosity of our church and neighbors, we wouldn't have had food. My Step-Father did all he could to make life hard for my mother. It was rough time, and I want to be clear that she did all she could. A single Mom in an economically depressed town in the early 90's had few choices. She put me in a community that kept tabs on me, she put me in school where I had friends. She worked hard to rebuild my sense of safety and security. She did all she could to alleviate an anxiety she didn't even know existed. There was no way I ever would have told her.

Through high school it got harder to hide my growing fear. Anxiety works away at you. It keeps you up at night. It makes you abandon social situations and drop out of things you enjoyed. You feel like at any moment, the whole world will crash around you. I felt that way all the time, but it amplified my Senior year. Encroaching life decisions overwhelmed me, leaving home and being on my own was terrifying. When my Dad wrote a bad check to pay my tuition at Pacific, my world spun even more. My carefully planned future was gone in an instant. Suddenly I was stuck, going to a school I didn't want to and unable to imagine a future that would work. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone what had happened, so I let them all think that I had stayed for my boyfriend. That was a terrible year. I actually dropped out of life. I didn't want to participate. Everything was scary and everyone else seemed to know what they were doing. I stopped trusting myself, or my decisions. I felt like I had failed before my life began.

Somehow I got to Western, I am not even sure how. Somehow I met Jill. Somehow I started going through the motions of life. I became less scared. I made new friends, who encouraged me to go to counseling. There for the first time I was told that I wasn't failure. I was sick. I learned coping mechanisms. When life got extra stressful, I took a drug to help.  I found my way through. It wasn't easy. There is a lot I would change, but I learned how to function. How to be happy. How to be ok.

It all worked, until 2003/2004. That year I gained sixty pounds in three months. Sixty pounds in three months. I couldn't figure out why. My eating hadn't changed that much. My insurance paid 30% of any doctors visit, so I had to be careful about when to go. I worked out, and I gained weight. Justin and I changed our diet, and I gained weight. I swear to you I slept, and I gained weight. At the same time, my anxiety worsened. All my tips and tricks stopped working. It felt as if my whole body was spinning out of control. In desperation, I went to the doctor my insurance had approved. He spent ten minutes with me. He asked about my exercise regime and diet. At the end he told me he could do nothing to help someone who was clearly lying to him. No one gains sixty pounds for no reason. Until I was willing to really work at losing weight, I would have to be content. The only one who could change me was me.

I slunk out of his office and sat in my car and cried. A medical professional had just confirmed what I had secretly known all along. I was fraud and a failure. Now I was a fat fraud and failure. I would never do anything or go anywhere. I was incapable of having a future. Of being happy. I was a big fat mess, and it was all my fault. I had let my family down, my boyfriend down, myself down. I was worthless. I truly believed that. It is so hard to type, because it is so ugly. Alone in my car, 25 years old, while the rain poured down on a gloomy Oregon day I embraced the idea of my worthlessness. For the next few months, I did all I could to demonstrate this to those around. I sabotaged my relationship with Justin, I allowed my self to be belittled at work. I actively agreed with my father when he told me I would go nowhere if he wasn't there to save me. I was a mess.

This is when Justin loved me beyond what I deserved. This is when he worked two jobs, and came home to lift me up. He just stayed. He just loved. Slowly he helped me function. I started grad school, got a job, we got engaged and then married. I was happy, and I never discussed my weight. When I went to new doctors, I never told them about the sudden weight gain. I didn't tell them that my anxiety amplified when I had my period. I never mentioned the incredibly painful cysts I had. I powered through. I smiled. I had a husband, my dream job, friends. The rest didn't matter.

Then we started to try to have a family, and it didn't work. I was told to lose weight. I couldn't. We endured test after test, month after month of heartbreak, years started to pass. Finally, my Mom recommended I see a doctor she had heard good things about. I was in her office for 20 minutes and I found myself sobbing out the whole sordid story to her. She ordered tests, she prescribed drugs. She explained that I had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. That my anxiety, weight gain and infertility where all normal for people who have this disease. She helped me understand that my mental and physical health was connected. She made me feel sane. She believed me. I responded to the treatment. I lost forty pounds. I felt healthy. I could talk about infertility. I ate better. I felt happier than I had in long time.

I wasn't a failure. My body functioned differently. I functioned differently. Different, but not failing. Once I knew how my body worked. Weight was manageable. I also understood that the 130 pound me was probably not an option, but a healthy happy me was.  In the midst of this I became pregnant with Harry, and for the first time in a long time I felt on track. After his birth, the anxiety came back with vengeance. I was terrified for him, but some drugs and counseling helped. Things felt good.

Teddy's death broke me. Losing him destroyed ten years of work. I was back to that parking lot. I was worthless. Only now I was worthless and scared. Scared in a way I didn't know was possible. When I left the house, the world closed in on me. A simple conversation with the gas station attendant made me shake and sweat. Running into someone I knew was a nightmare. Being around friends and family was like walking on glass. I forgot how to be around people. All of last summer was a long stretch of me stumbling to act like I was normal. There were major drugs and major counseling. It took all I had to go back to work. To smile and make small talk. In the morning I would sit in my classroom and work my through constant panic attacks. I thought my principal wanted to fire me. I was sure my coworkers hated me. I knew my students were counting down until they were no longer in my class. I shattered. I was hollow.

God did a lot this fall. He held me together. He moved me forward. He literally walked beside me and got me through the day. His love kept me going. His grace pushed me forward. His word got me out of bed in the morning. Then I found I was pregnant. Then there was a new baby on the way. I didn't want to feel anything. I didn't want to be happy or sad or anything. I wanted to be numb. The problem was I wasn't. I am not. Walking into the doctor's leads to panic attacks. An ultrasound is indescribable. It is all too much. Too much fear, too much pain, too much happiness, too much love. Just too much. This is what mental illness is. It is what anxiety combined with PTSD is. The world is too much. Life is too much. I can go from the highest high to lowest low. I am a mess.

Thankfully God loves my mess. He never gives up on me. When it is too much, He is there. When I am despondent, He is there. When I can't, He does. He provided me with doctors who helped me find a drug that helps, a counselor who is pretty amazing, a community of support that is overwhelmingly filled with love. When you suffer from a mental illness, it can be harder to see God's ability to love you. It can be harder to find the faith required to accept the Grace so lovingly offered to you. Through my whole anxiety filled life, He has been there. Paving the way, putting in safety nets, providing me with support and love. Through it, He has taught me about love. He has taught me the glory of His timing. He has taught me to let go of me. He has carried me this whole way. Most of all He has given me the grace to accept who I am. To share where I am at. I am a mess, my imperfections are many and I am struggling each and everyday. However, in that struggle I find my Savior and He brings me peace.

When you feel alone

I recently read a blog about how lonely motherhood can be, and I was surprised by how deeply it resonated with me. Me, who works and has a vast group of Mamas to support her.  Part of this author's experience with loneliness involved infertility and infant loss. These things set you apart. It makes it harder to just be. You walk around with a constant ache that you don't know how to describe to anyone. It is isolating.

Being pregnant again has brought another type of isolation. First, the secret pregnancy and the unwillingness to tell anyone. It was hard enough for us to believe it was true, harder still to have hope she would be healthy and hardest of all to think about her future. What if it was ripped away? We couldn't tell others, it was too terrifying. Weekly check ups,  massive anxiety attacks, sobbing for the son who isn't here and constant overwhelming fear. FEAR. I spent 8 weeks of my life holding my breath. Small prayers, please let her be ok right now, and now, and now. Please don't take her, please.

Ultrasounds were, and are, the worst. I don't sleep the night before they come. I lie awake and hash it out with God. If they find the worst, if she can't survive, please don't make me see it this time. Or, you made her, you did this, please make her healthy, please keep her safe. Clenching my husband's hand, I hold my breath and wait as the tech checks each small detail. We don't speak, we don't smile, we watch. He flexes his hand, I am crushing it. The tech tries to reassure us and in my head I sing every chapel song I learned at Grace. I sing praise song after praise song.  They always end well. She is always healthy. I am always exhausted. After the last two, I took four hour long naps.

I think that people expect me to express unparalleled joy, or to rush about proclaiming a miracle, and I feel that I am failing them. My classroom neighbor, Michelle, described my feelings the best, "Wow, God where did that come from?" I am learning to swim in this sea of pregnancy after miscarriage. There are moments of unparalleled joy, they really do come, but I also have moment of deep grief. Every moment I celebrate the coming of our baby girl, I remember the little boy we lost.

This is what makes it lonely. I live in the high and low at the same time. Pregnancy has amplified my PTSD, the smallest thing can cause big issues. Getting a new car seat led to me lying awake wondering what I would do with that car seat if she dies. Would I sell it? Never be able to look at again? Would it sit in our garage? Perhaps I should wait to buy the car seat? Maybe I should wait on all of it? But that isn't fair to her. Dear God, she isn't even born and I am messing her life up. All of this is crazy and I should sleep, but I can't sleep because now I can't stop thinking about how crazy I am.

I don't usually sleep through the night.  I take naps. Sometimes I am nauseous from pregnancy and sometimes I worry my self sick. This is me on drugs. I spent the first three months drug free, and I couldn't function. I couldn't keep track. All I could do was worry. This level of anxiety is isolating.  I can't explain it to you. I can't change it. It just my current reality.

Where is God is this lonely anxiety ridden time? He is here, constantly. His word is assuring me, His arms are holding me, and He is teaching me to depend on His love through all things. Having faith doesn't mean that we are never worried or anxious. It doesn't mean we must be perfect. It means that when we feel bone crushingly lonely, we know we are not alone. We know that the He is with us. We know that we will come through this moment, this worry, this anxiety attack, and be ready to face what is next.

This is all new, all terrifying and all miraculous at once. Each moment is different. Each day brings a new challenge. Thankfully, I am not as alone as I sometimes feel.

Hope and Terror

One year ago today, my life changed in a matter of seconds.  Literally seconds. I went from the highest high to depths. The week that followed is a nightmarish blur and the grief still comes, yet here I am one year later sitting in a doctors office waiting to check on a baby, again.

I am terrified. That would describe this pregnancy. Terror. Constant fear and anxiety. I have lost the ability to believe that "it will all be alright." I no longer take a healthy baby for granted. I know that each moment her heart beats is a gift.

This doesn't mean I don't dream and plan. It doesn't mean I don't get butterflies of excitement. Just now they are tempered with loss. As I much I already love this little girl, as amazing of a miracle she is, as perfect as she will be for our family. She is not her brother. She will not fill the hole left by his loss. She has made her own place in my heart.

This week. The one year anniversary has come to me by surprise. I would reschedule my appointment, but we have today is the day for Spinal Bifida. Today, I sit in a doctors office and I hold two of my children in my heart.

My son has taught me that no matter what the future holds for my daughter, God will see me through it. My daughter has taught that there is unexpected joy after incomprehensible grief. They both show me how little I know about life and motherhood.

There will be other milestones, more tears of sadness and joy. I will take more breaths and pray more prayers. Today however, today I have been in long talks with God. His plan never ceases to amaze me, and His love and grace never cease to uphold me.

Shadow Box

I thought today would be a good day to put together Teddy's shadow box. A place to keep his ultrasounds, footprints, blanket and cards.  Almost a year has passed and the pain isn't what it was. I want him to have a place in our home. I want it to feel like he was and is a part of our family. I waited until Justin and Harrison went to swim lessons, because I wanted to take his things out alone. It has been a long time since I looked at his ultrasounds or his little footprints. It has been a long time since I held his urn. Not because I forgot, but because I remembered how to live. Life pushes you forwarded.

Today, with the sun beaming, I felt like it was time. I fell apart. I cried as hard as I did the first time I saw those tiny footprints. I have sat here and sobbed for the past hour. Grief stays fresh. I am crying for hope lost, dreams vanished. For the little boy who should be starting to sit up and crawl and giggle. For his brother who will never play with him. For his memory, which will die out with his father and I. I am crying for all the other babies lost to horrible things we don't understand, and for all the Mamas whose arms ache to hold babies they never got to meet.

His last good ultrasound was taken almost exactly a year ago. That was before I knew about Ancephaly and how ultrasound machines have levels, or that most OBGYN's don't have the training to notice the disease early. It is before the amniotic fluid washed his brain away. Before the blackness that would meet us on the next ultrasound. This one is full of hope. Even at 13 weeks, it is clear he is a boy. He is there so alive.

I looked at it and tried to imagine myself on that day. That woman who was excitedly calling her husband, who had no concept of true fear or heartache. She did not know that she would soon be forced to make decisions that would rip her apart.  The pain of inducing at 20 weeks and the anger of a body that does not want to give birth. She was happy. She was confident. She had few fears.

I will never be that woman again. I have learned to be happy, but in a different way.  I am confident in the fact that God will not abandon us, and I can go forward assured of His great love. I have many great fears. I know fear in a way that I cannot forget. I have to work hard to leave that fear behind. It takes prayer, faith, healthy practices, acupuncture, counseling and at times meds.

I have cried and I am calmer. Grief doesn't lessen, it just becomes more manageable. I will get this shadow box done, and he will have a spot in our home. I am blessed. I had my son for 20 weeks. I got to have his footprints and his ultrasounds. I have an urn to hold. There are many Mamas who lose babies too early for these things. Babies that they have hoped and prayed and longed for. Some Mamas lose more than one, and  they have yet to get to hold any of their children. I have wiggly miracle who is almost three.

As we approach Mother's Day, please keep these Mamas in your prayers. Mamas whose arms are empty and hearts ache. Mamas who long for their baby and have waited so long their hearts are broken. Mamas who aren't sure they will ever be seen as Mamas by society. They need extra love in the next week. Please reach out to one you know and offer it.

The Grace to Listen

It has been awhile since my last post. In the time since, God has been giving me the privilege to speak and connect with women who are dealing with loss of all kinds. My best friend lost her father. Though she knew he was ill, there is nothing that can prepare for your father not being there. Nothing. Another friend is grieving through secondary infertility. They are facing struggles that are hard to put into words. Infertility is isolating and deeply personal. No couples journey is the same. In the past two weeks, two women I know have suffered miscarriages. Though they will heal in body, smile again and hopefully have more children, there really aren't words to express the loss they have had.

When you someone you love is in pain and crying out for help, it is natural to want to step in and solve it. I am a control freak. I love to solve it. Solving it is my thing. Except none of this is my thing. How do I comfort someone who has lost a father? Me, who has never really had a father. I can't even imagine what it would be like. Yet, the sister of my heart lost an anchor in her world. I have to do something. For me, God stepped in and stopped me from being ridiculous. I had no words to comfort her, but I had the ability to make dinner and clean. It is nothing. It is less than she has done for me, but it is all I knew to do. I am here to listen when she calls, and I don't always listen well. Listening and problem solving is a skill I am working on. I am lucky that she has the grace to be patient with me while I learn it.

It would seem that I am tailor made to comfort someone who is struggling with infertility, but I was just heartbroken that my friend hurt so much. Yes, I have been there. Yes, I "get" it. But I also know that no one can truly grasp the emptiness of this disease.  While we spoke, I was painfully aware of the weakness of my words. It is impossible to say, "it will be OK", because it may not be. I also don't want to overwhelm someone with my experiences, because this conversation wasn't about me. Once again, God told me to listen, and I was some what successful. It is still a skill I am working on.

Miscarriage is still a fresh wound for me. A deep fear and sharp pain always accompany a conversation around it.  Friends who have had early term miscarriages often minimize their experience to me. "Yes, I am sad, but it wasn't what you went through". No, it isn't what I went through, but losing a baby you want is indescribable and incomparable to others losses. Whether it was six weeks or 13, grief and pain are real. Yes, it is common, but that doesn't mean it isn't painful. These moments are when I don't want to say anything. I have no words. I am truly only able to listen. What I am able to say on here, becomes impossible in real life.  Strangely, this is the time I feel the most helpful. The most in touch.

I have spent the past month listening, God has been showing me that we all have suffering. We all have pain, and we all need someone to listen. If even for a moment. Just listen. Make a meal. Clean their house. Bring Coffee. Love through listening. This is tough for me, but I hope to become an expert at it.

Me. Me. Me

Some things have happened in the past few months that put me in a selfish space. Wait. That makes me sound like a passive bystander.  The past month I have chosen to be selfish, cranky, and distant. I have wallowed in my pain, my comparisons, my unfulfilled wants. I embraced it. Reveled in it. Sank deeper into a sanctimonious stew of selfish sin.

I have been mean to my husband and short with my son. Jealousy, bitterness, greed, anger, and resentment have been my good friends. The further I sank, the easier it was to add self loathing and guilt. I'm awful.

You see, I am impatient and frustrated. I thought by now God would have done something to show me what this is all about. I thought I would know the plan, but my version of the plan feels impossible. I feel old, and ill and worthless. I wonder when my husband will wish for a wife whose reproductive system works, or when my son will blame me for his lack of siblings. This is not what I want.

People are beginning to tire of me, of listening to my struggles or my hopes. At least that is my paranoid perspective.I don't want to be the weird lady who we feel bad for, yet how can I be anyone else? I have wrapped myself up in my feelings. Held on to rage, sadness, disappointment, depression and shame. I am so ashamed. Infertility feels shameful, choosing to deliver your child and ending his life feels shameful, being sad still feels shameful.

I wrap myself up and around this because I am embarrassed and afraid. This broken, hurting, lost and tired woman is not who I planned to be. Yes, I see a counselor. Yes, I am seeking medical care, yes I know lots of women lose babies. Yes I know almost a year has passed. Yes, I thought I would be much better by now too. Yes, I thought we would be pregnant again. Yes, I thought another child would come. Yes, I am almost 37. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I get angry. I ask God why this is happening, and when a clear answer doesn't come I get angrier. Everyday I am at the foot of the cross crying out. Everyday God takes me to Joseph rotting in prison, Sarah laughing at His promise, David facing Goliath, Paul in chains, Stephen stoned, and back to Christ on the cross. Everyday I tell God I got it and plan to not be selfish, bitter and angry. Lately, I have failed everyday.

Everyday I am coming back with the same cry and every day He is holding me again. Perseverance develops character and character develops hope. Romans 5:4. The past few days the pain is less. I can make it further. See others besides me. I have no answers. I am frustrated. I am struggling. All I have is obedience, so each day I am back at the Cross crying again.

Maybe faith isn't being perfect, or getting it right? This selfish journey is part of the plan, and I may never know why or how. I am starting to believe that just trying is a big part of this. Admitting I need God in all of it and learning to be content when I don't want to be. God is slowly unwrapping me, helping me make small changes. Today, I was bitter, but I caught myself. Tomorrow I begin again. Thank God for His all encompassing patience, forgiveness, and love.

Faith expressed through love

The only thing that counts is faith expressed through love Galatians 5:6

My son is singing. In his sleepy sweet voice he is crooning "grown ups come back". He has an unbreakable faith that those he loves come back to him. Mom,Dad, Nanny, Grandma and Grandpa, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Hudson, Brett the cat. These people love him, therefore they will come back. I am in awe, and finally get the goal of child like faith.

I never believed people came back. I was distraught to see them leave and sure they wouldn't return. I lived in constant terror of losing my family and being alone. The roots of my anxiety disorder are pretty clear. I still live two minutes from my Mom and see her almost everyday. I still get anxious when we travel apart from each other.

This fear has impacted my faith. If you believe you will be abandoned, you will always be looking for the "good enough" balance. I did this great thing, so they will stay, but I also was bad so they will leave. You need the right balance to ensure security. Don't mess up or bad thing will happen and you will be alone and worthless.

I learned this as the daughter and step-daughter of two emotionally abusive fathers. They both gave and took love based on inconsistent and petty whims. They both used their words to hurt and manipulate. They used anger to control, and they both left. At 16, I determined that I couldn't balance the scale for a God whose love would only turn out to mirror my fathers. I wasn't worth loving.

I was a failure. An ugly failure. An ugly, fat, failure. I couldn't figure out what I needed to do to earn the love I wanted. Then I married a man who knew my worst secrets and loved me in spite of them. I begin to wonder if I knew anything.

I spent the beginning of my marriage waiting for him to leave. Waiting to tip the balance, waiting to be proven unlovable. He told me he wasn't leaving. He worked through the rough patches, held me while I cried, he had faith in us and he expressed it by continuing to love me when I didn't deserve it.

There is no "good enough " balance. All that matters is faith expressed through love. My husbands love impacted my faith. If I believed that God brought me Justin, then I had to believe He could offer me the same love.

I had to come to the Cross with the same faith my son carries everyday. Jesus was always there for me because He loves me. His love makes my faith possible, and that faith grows when I allow the Spirit to teach me to love.

A girl so like me returned to my life a day after I asked God to give me someone to share His love with. She is struggling to fight demons and be good enough. Unlike my son, her faith in those who should love her was shattered a long time ago. She lies, and runs, and manipulates. She cries, and begs for help, and I have a longing to love her. A fierce desire to protect her. She isn't my child, and the help I offer is small, but I love her. I have no scale. I can only offer love.

Of course I feel the same love for my son, but that love was born with him. This love came to me in an assurance of faith. This is Jesus using me to show how big His heart is. This is faith expressed through love. I am not good enough to love like this on my own. Scarred hands softly make my heart bigger and through that my faith grows. Loving this child is a gift.

I am not an exceptionally good or loving person. Anyone can have this love. Anyone can feel this joy. Anyone can be this hopeful. Anyone can revel in this faith. Ask for it. You don't need anything else. Jesus will do the rest. Your faith will grow when you accept His love. It will explode when you share it. No scales. No good enough. Just faith expressed through love.