The me I don't want to be

Where once I felt shattered, I don't anymore. Where once I felt broken, I'm not.
And yet, I don't feel whole either.

How is that possible? How does that even make sense?
How is it that I can feel so much healing has taken place, so much recovery, and still feel the way I do?

For a week or two I sailed on golden seas. Everything was possible, anything could be done. I felt great, and it felt so good to feel good.

And then, I stepped into a deep hole. I climbed out, and kept walking forward, but every few steps, I drop back down a deep, deep hole. And just by admitting it, I feel guilty and fall down again. Because I who have been given so much, so much love, so many friends, so much healing, I should not feel this way. I should not be as low as I have ever been.

But I do. And it hurts.

I know part of what I'm struggling with are the food allergies I have and the way that is affecting my life. Each time I eat, I get sick. Painfully sick. Or, I can't breathe, which as you can imagine, isn't any fun either.

That is only part of the picture though, and I know that I can't blame everything on that. Through a lot of work and effort on my part, and some kind and helpful friends, I have learned to dig deeper and find the root of my lows. There is always an emotion triggering a relapse, and usually if I can identify and name the emotion and the cause of it, I can work through it and pull myself back together.

That was so much easier to write than it is to actually do, especially when there is more than one emotion and more than one source involved.

Still, I have to boil it down. .I have to unravel it. If I don't, it chokes me. And I'm tired of choking.

The past week or so has been exceptionally difficult. Yes, dealing with the food allergies has definitely been part of it. After several severe reactions lately, and getting sick after every time I eat, Ryan made me an appointment to go in and see an allergist.  Turns out I am allergic to more than I thought I was and everything that didn't show up on the skin prick test is still making me painfully sick every time I eat.

I'm angry. I'm tired of being sick. I just want to feel good. What is so wrong with that?

I just want butter and sour cream on my potatoes. I want to eat a bite or two of sinfully delicious ice cream. I want to enjoy a mouthful of chewy sourdough bread. I want to take the buttermilk in the fridge and make some fluffy pancakes or tender, flaky biscuits shaped into hearts for my kids. I want to make some tangy Orange Chicken for Amanda and then sit and enjoy eating it with her. I want to dip strawberries in Val's homemade chocolate ganache and in every bite, find more love.

I want to make gingerbread cookies with my kids, and sour cream cookies for the neighbors. I want to make omelets and crepes and have friends over for breakfast. I want to help Mercy make Monkey Bread like we do every year for Thanksgiving, and sit and share the first loaf with her and Ryan when it comes out of the oven.  I want the Reeses Peanut Butter cookies Mom Mel made growing up. I want to be able to bake a birthday cake for my kids without dying.

I'm angry. And I'm grieving. And I'm empty and hollow.  And I feel like I've lost a part of me.

Food isn't just about eating. Not for me. It's the joy of making something good and sharing it with someone I love. It's the memories for my kids as I make a dinner they love and then draw pictures on their plate with sour cream. It's the time I spend in the kitchen unravelling my thoughts as I do something so comforting and assuring as melting butter, whipping cream, folding egg whites, or measuring flour.

Like it or not, my memories are often tied to food. The rye sandwich my brother and I shared in Disneyland, and the hamburger he bought me after they got back from the theatre. It was my first time on a plane, first trip to the ocean, times I'll always remember, food I'll never forget.  The french fries and frosty shakes I shared with Ryan after the dance. The barbecue sauce on the ribs - our first date. The spaghetti that was for dinner the night we first kissed. The steak at Carver's, the lobster dipped in butter while we were in Boston, trying to make things work in our failing marriage.  The loaded potato skins, baked potato soup, caramel apple crisp and heavenly cheesecake we'd share as we repaired our relationship.

Candy sticks from Harmon's with Dad, and sometimes ice cream cones while we shopped for Sunday morning cereal. The dinner he complained about after I made it especially for him. The chicken fried steak I refused to eat after he bought it for me (because I thought it looked like worms). The pineapple shake I hated that he bought in anger because he couldn't hear me as I requested another flavor.

Basil and swedish meatballs are joined at the hip with memories of Danielle. Without her, I wouldn't know what a tomato concasse is, or how to properly blanch broccoli. Paring knives, pomegranates, and orange rolls immediately make me think of Mom Mel, not to mention Pot Pie, warm white bread, and slumgolium. Brenda is tied to peaches, and Debbie - twice baked potatoes and cabbage salad. Jason is forever tied to Banana Bread, and yellow Zingers to Barb, Jared, and Hossie. I know in a pinch, Eliza will always love a well made Homemade Hostess Cupcake. And because I make them, Mercy is proud.

Cooking is love to me. If I bake, you know I love you. If I make something you like, It's almost a hug.

It's not just what I can give to others, or what I remember others for, it's for me too. It's something with constants in a constantly changing world. It's something I can count on when I can't even count on myself.  It's something I know I do well when I feel like I fail at most everything else.

Why can't I just keep this one good part of me?

But, that's not all. I know it's not. Food and all it represents both in eating and being taken away from me is not all I'm struggling with. It's not the real reason I'm falling into holes with each step I take. It's an extension of the root of what I feel.

It's rejection. Rejection by those I love most. Rejection of what I have to offer. Rejection because I'm not good enough. Rejection because I mess up.

Loss. Of friendship. Of trust. Of hope.

And fear. Fear that I won't be accepted. Fear that I'll be rejected again. Fear I can't even verbalize.

Somehow my heart or brain is saying that since I'm not shattered, I should be whole. Since I'm not drowning, I should be good. I should be able. I should be likeable, at least to myself. But what I see is someone who although not shattered still holds the same hurtful heart within her chest. The one that never sees her mistakes until it's too late because she's messed up again. Hurt someone again. Or ruined something again.

How can I fix it all? How can I get past the me I see? How can I believe that it will ever feel right? That I'll ever get it right? That I'll ever be good enough?

I guess you could say, I'm rejecting me. And everyone I see.
Because I see in them a reflection of myself.

The me I don't want to be.

Bricks

It's no secret, I get depressed. Have for years. Had a hell of a time over the past couple years fighting it and dealing with it. You probably get sick of reading about it on this blog. Guess what. I get sick of living it.

I was diagnosed as "clinically depressed" 9 years ago. And for 7 years, I fought that diagnosis and fought the reality of what I was facing. I fought and fought and worked and worked and took the herbal remedies and the natural solutions and the vitamins and the oils and the homeopathics and the advice and helpful suggestions wherever I could. I changed my diet, I ate this instead of that. I cut out sugar. I ate protein at every meal. I balanced my electrolytes, my iron, my vitamin C. I got vitamin b shots. I took vitamin b drops. I pounded omega 3's, 6's, and 9's. I had lavender baths. I worked on the contributing factors where I could recognize them. I read books and took walks and worked out. I exercised daily, and put more miles on my stroller walking around the small town I lived in one summer than I did on my van.  I took supplements of this and supplements of that, vitamins and minerals and calcium and got lots of sunshine and breaks from the kids and took time for me. I sought help and solutions in every way shape or form I could find them, except for the drugs that the doctors offered.  I did mental reconditioning and surrounded myself with positive reinforcing statements and affirmations posted all over my house and even inside my cupboard doors.  I prayed and I prayed and I prayed and I read and I did everything I knew how to do. For seven years.

And then, I snapped.

There were definitely a lot of contributing factors. As much as I did to try to reverse the situation and make sure that with each baby I wasn't going to have to deal with postpartum depression... in the end, real life kicks in. The icing on the cake, of course, was the new baby and all that came with him.  And while it helps to define the factors involved, the end result is what I have to deal with on a daily and consistent basis. This new me. This me post-baby-number-seven. This me post-mental breakdown.

I was forever changed.

I needed help. I knew it. I could feel myself at the edge of a cliff and knowing that if I didnt' get help soon there would be no more Rachel. There would be no more me. At the time, I was inexplicably terrified of driving, or I would have gotten in the van, drove off, and never come back. I don't kno were I would be. I have no idea. And I don't ever want to find out.

I couldn't handle the baby. I couldn't handle the kids. I couldn't deal with the stress. I was shutting down more and more and more. Like quicksand, it was surroundg me, pulling me farther in, and every effort to not surrender to it sunk me farther and farther.

My last ditch effort to have Ryan finally understand where I was at, was a miracle that at that point I could even express it to him adequately.  I knew that if I didn't get help, I would die. I knew I was cracking, splintering, and that if I didn't get help I would be in a million pieces on the floor and there would be no way to fix what was wrong. I had been bad off before, but this was nothing like I'd ever experienced.

I remember just bawling and bawling and saying over and over "I need help." It was three in the morning, I think, before he realized the extent of what I was saying. And to his credit, he got me help. He drove me to the doctor's office the next day. He filled my prescription, and held me as I went through the rollercoaster from hell that comes with getting on, and off, those drugs.

He has been amazing, and I rely on his strength and fortitude. It is no wonder I miss him so much when he is gone working.

Now, it's two years later, and I still hate the drugs.  I worked hard, and with the help of my husband, my family, and my friends, and especially with the help of beautiful priesthood blessings, I was able to get off the drugs and stay off of them. It has been 11 months since I last took my prescriptions, and I'm proud of it. But I still can't throw the rest of them out. They are expired, and I don't ever want to take them again, and yet I can't throw them away. I panic.

Partly why I panic is because of days like today. Days when I should be fine, when there is nothing "wrong", and definitely nothing to be crying about. And yet I do. Even more than crying, I sit, with a weight upon my back, like forty tons of brick pressing down on me. I curl up and tears stream down my face and my head swirls round and round.  I can't move. I can't vocalize. I don't function.

What I've found I have to do is label the bricks. Try to identify them. And visually, forcibly, remove them from my back, off my shoulders, out of my lap, and set them down. Sometimes I can set them aside. Sometimes I don't know where to put them, and I have to give them to Father in Heaven and ask Him to take care of them for me. I have to recognize if I'm carrying the bricks that belong to someone else, taking on their stress or responsibility.

Sometimes the bricks are fragile and whe I go to pick them up, the bricks in that particular pile will break apart and fall back down on me, and I have to pick each piece up carefully and set it aside gently, because those feelings are so real and so raw.

And if someone comes along and asks "how are you?" I smile cheerfully. I answer the phone as though nothing is wrong. Even if they could see the bricks, they would not recognize what I was doing. I just try to shrug and make it look like there is nothing wrong.  I'm quite good at it actually. There probably isn't anyone I came in contact with today that realized just how much I was struggling. 

At least, until Joe called. Somehow he could tell, even before he called.  Maybe he read my last post, maybe he was just prompted.  I don't know. But I hope he also knows how much it means that he did call. That he does care. That he listens to me and doesn't make me feel bad for being weighed down by my load of bricks today. That he doesn't remind me it's all just in my head. That he doesn't make me feel like I'm just wrong for how I feel.

Thank you Joe. And thank you Father, for a brother who loves me so much. And for helping me to know...

I will be okay. One brick, one day, at a time.

Dishes, Laundry, and Dinner

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

SLAM!

That's the sound of love coming from my 11 year old right now.

Get the dishes done, or go to bed. That's all I asked. Dishes that I've been asking you to do since 5:00.  Dishes that you should have had done this morning without me asking.  Dishes that are piling up even worse because you won't get them done. Dishes you only have to do two days a week!

No. Stomping and slamming doors is soooo much better than just getting the job done.

Am I asking too much of my kids?  Are they better off just doing nothing around the house and me not having to deal with slamming doors? Sometimes I wonder. Please tell me I'm not the only Mom who deals with this.


Anyway....

Socks. Socks on my hands, that's the trick to doing laundry.  Has been since I was little.  I know, you can start laughing now at the mental picture you just formed in your head.  Me with mismatched socks on my hands bumbling around in the laundry room,  head cocked to one side as I try pathetically to remember which one is the washer and which is the dryer. Disoriented stutters as I try to sort darks and lights.

Well, thankfully it's not that bad. Really. At least not most days :)

I just can't handle the thought of sticking my hands into the laundry hamper and having the germs clobber me as I load the dirty clothes into the washer. Given the smelly treasure we found in the load of little boys pants we washed yesterday, I probably have good reason for that phobia. So, I put clean socks onto my hands as I reach into the hamper and throw the laundry in.Then I throw the socks in too.

Well, the dryer isn't working right now, so despite the rainy weather, we have laundry hanging from baskets, couches, chairs, and whatever else we can find all over the house while we wait for it to dry.  Fun times!

... Not really. There are times when being here alone without my handyman Ryan to fix everything really stinks. Literally. After all, 7 kids create dirty laundry faster than the clean laundry can airdry. That's all I'll say.


And the last thing on my mind right now, but not the least, are my friends. My anxious heart. And my choice of self-medication. Which leads me to dinner.   What???

Yes, Dinner.  (Come on now, keep up with me!)

But, I'll post separately for that. This is too long already. :)

Changes

Last year, for me, was a year of healing.  This year, feels like it will be a year of change.  Not just for my life, but for many of my friends and family too.  Not that last year wasn't full of changes... it definitely was.

One of the changes, and one that has spurred me being open to more change, is cancer. A few weeks ago when I couldn't sleep so I posted on my blog... that is the biggest thing that was weighing on my heart, but I couldn't face it enough to write about it and process it through.

My friend and sister in law Val has cancer. This isn't new news to most of you reading this. She had a second surgery to remove her thyroid, and faces radiation and treatment.  Everything should turn out fine, it is a very "treatable" cancer, as far as cancer goes. But still -- it just brings everything into perspective to face something like that. And if cancer, if the thought of losing Val, brings everything into perspective to me... I can only imagine what it has been like for her.

I hope this year is a year of healing for Val.

I cried at the drop of a hat for a couple weeks.  I'm emotional, I know. I told Ryan that I just wanted to move back to Salt Lake.  I want to be close to his Mom. I want to be close to the people that have stood by me through the years and never wavered their love and friendship. I want to be there to support Joe's family as they go through some difficult and trying times both now, and ahead. I want to be there with everyone while their family is still mostly all together before their teenagers move into adulthood and build their own lives.

I also want Ryan home with us each night.  When we moved here, it felt like home.  It felt like we had moved to a place we could stay for many years.  I felt immediately surrounded by friends. And some of those friends even felt like family, for a little while. But now, it doesn't feel much like home anymore.

Ryan's gone. And I'm at home when I'm with him.

Maybe I've just adapted to his "flexible" way of living life. Maybe I've come to thrive on change just like he does.  Maybe I just don't want to stay in one place and face the changes that have come in different friendships.  Maybe I'm just looking for the golden answer for us financially, when really there isn't one.  Maybe I'm just so worn out and tired.

Maybe.  But really, I just miss him.

I love you Ry.

No plans to move back to Salt Lake, or anywhere else, yet. We'll see what life brings us. Mostly we're just in waiting mode, seeing where the next week takes us in our lives, and then the week after that. Obviously we have a family to feed, and new shoes the kids all need, and obligations to pay, and all of that plays a part.  We can't just up and move without taking some of that into consideration. On the other hand we can't just have him come home and stay home without taking some of that into consideration. And so, I began to stress out about some of the decisions we have to make the other night, had a fitful night tossing and only have sleeping (which is NOT good when you have to be to work at 3am the next day!)  I decided to listen to some scriptures on audiobook so I turned on the Book of Mormon.  3rd Nephi and Moroni are always my favorites to read, and as I lay there listening, I heard the part in chapter 13 and 14 where the Savior is teaching the people.


"For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also."...


"Therefore I say unto you, take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on."...

"Consider the lilies of the field how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin; And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon, in all his glory, was not arrayed like one of these.  Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, even so will he clothe you, if ye are not of little faith."...

"...your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need... but seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you."

And then later...

"Or what man is there of you, who, if his son ask bread, will give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent? If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father who is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?"

Well, I laid there awake long enough to get to chapter 13, and that was after I had already been tossing and turning.  There really was a good reason for that headache I had!

But after that, I finally fell asleep and I've felt so much more calm about everything since.

Thank you Father, for taking care of us, and for loving us.

Friends

Originally posted February 4, 2009

Christmas morning, best friends.

Have you ever imagined life without friends?  I told you this blog was partly to answer the question “how do I do it?”  I can tell you - the only way my family has made it through the past two months is because of help and love and support from friends.  So this post is a tribute to them.  Thought it seems woefully inadequate for what we feel in our hearts -- Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I am humbled by the love and friendship you have all given me in so many ways, and by the grace of God that I have so many friends when I feel so undeserving.

To Alina and Ellen, for rescuing my house, taking such a tremendous load off of Ryan, and helping me laugh. 

To Rich, for giving Ryan a much needed break.

To Nan, for loving me and caring. 

To Joe, for being the best big brother anyone could ever ask for. 

To Vicki, for taking me to the sunshine, and reaching out to me with so much understanding.  

To her kids and family, for letting her and Alina leave for so long!

To Becky, for letting me get some much needed naps!

To Cicile, for the VERY well timed treat of pizza for dinner!

To Valena, for caring and understanding. 

To Sil, for giving me a hug and reminding me sometimes a mother’s love doesn’t always have to come from my mom.

To Vana, for sending hope along with the sweet letter.

To Carmen, for stopping by and asking questions, and for your sweet concern. Thanks.

To Danielle, for calling to see if I was okay, and calling again when I didn’t answer the phone. 

To Val, for not freaking out when I was freaking out.

To Natalie, for being a friend without needing to understand.

To Laura, for babysitting and being so willing to. 

To Mercy, for smiling and being my right hand.

To Taliesin, for rocking Jonnie and taking care of Brae.

To Tyler, for missing me.

To Valena, for letting your girls come help clean the house.

To Grandma Nancy, for the blanket of love and sweet note.

To Jill for taking over the regional presentation - and for helping me talk through my fears. 

To Shauna, for picking up what I had to drop, and not making me feel bad for it.   

To Laura and Heather for picking up the pieces of my team.

To Rebecca, AnnMaree, Tina, Susan, Heather, Laura, Shauna, Bobbi, Valena, and everyone else, who have emailed your love and support.

And to all of your families too!

And last but not least, to Ryan.  Thank you for not leaving me alone, for holding me when I cried, and for helping me take it one day at a time.  You’ve been amazing.