Hurt Feelings

Yes, I am depressed, and that is skewing my perspective on things.  Then today, the sun came out. Literally, not figuratively. My depression eased, and I could see things a little more clearly. 

My husband is a good man. A kind man. Funny and insightful. He doesn't lose his temper. He reads bedtime stories with voices. He goes to the store super late on Saturday so we'll have milk Sunday morning. He changed diapers and he unclogs toilets and he takes out the garbage. He does his own laundry and makes his side of the bed. He is responsible and reliable. When I am sick or overwhelmed, he steps up and does more.

I am grateful for him. I know things would not be easier for me if he weren't in the picture. I can't even sleep when he's not home.

There have been plenty of good times in our marriage. But the thing with my depression is that the best times in our marriage have been when I am in the best mental health. When I am fulfilled in other ways, when I have goals and projects and good friends and I'm doing my best with scriptures study, temple attendance, and prayer. When I'm good, the marriage is good. 

But if I have emotional needs...

When I was pregnant, I felt fat and unattractive. I expressed this to my husband while we lay side by side in our bed. I cried. He literally turned his back on me. Rolled over so he didn't have to deal. I learned to cry in the shower instead.

He is a partner in parenting, in household operations. But not emotionally. If I struggle, if I am hurt--physically or emotionally--I am on my own. He might step in and take care of additional things around the house, but he doesn't take care of me.

Andrew's birth is a funny story that I love to tell. Kevin unconscious on the couch while I pushed. His aversion to blood and pain led to many humorous (afterward) misadventures. But it becomes less funny when he goes quiet when we disagree, when he rage cleans the kitchen with his headphones on, when he makes passive-aggressive comments and won't own up to it, when the silences stretch so taut that a person could break herself on them. 

I know Kevin is feeling stressed by work and by his calling, and now, additionally, he is frustrated because I've rejected his recent advances, after the birthday thing. But I am tired of him taking out his emotional constipation on me. And when I say something, he withdraws. We never talk about our problems; we just wait them out.

Today was better, because the sun was out and I was feeling better and he was less stressed, we had pleasant conversation and even laughed together. He did a celebratory dance when I got my acceptance letter to the nursing program. It was almost normal. 

But again, it was because I was feeling better. I can share the good things with him. I can even express in words anger or sorrow if it doesn't relate to him and if I don't become emotional. 

But if things become messy, if I become weak or mad or sick, he shies away. And I am left alone with my emotional wounds hemorrhaging. I have learned not to expose them. To keep them bottled, close to the chest, protected and cradled. To cry in the shower or my pillow or the car. 

Kevin supports me, and I don't just mean financially. He supported my idea to go back to school, picking up my slack on household chores while I was in class. He agreed to move to Colorado for my sake. I am going to a painting retreat this week while he has the kids alone. I can trust him to take care of things and to have my back. 

I just wish that I could trust him as unreservedly with my heart.

Exit Ramps

I once had a crisis of faith, where I could see the end of my activity in the church looming ahead, just off the highway and the exit drawing closer. For the first time since my parents left the church when I was fourteen, I could actually envision making the same choice, ending up like them. That shook me to the core.

What grounded me was tithing settlement. Tithing is a principle of which I have a perfect testimony. I could never not pay it. Back when I was employed outside the home, paying tithing was the very first thing I would do with each paycheck. I knew I couldn't leave the church, because I needed to pay my tithing.

That experience taught me to always go back to the things I do know, before I give up due to what I don't know. I have not faltered in my testimony since. 

After the events of last summer, and then again recently, I began to see another exit ramp looming ahead; or perhaps I began to look for it. I am not yet forty years old, and despite all feelings to the contrary, my life is not ending. It's not even winding down. I have forty more years ahead of me.

And I don't want to spend them like this.

But as I lay awake at night and think through all my choices, past and future, I feel overwhelmed by despair. I made covenants, and I have children, and there is no exit ramp that I can take from my current challenges, that I can live with. And then, I think abut not living with it, just not living, and I terrify myself into remorse. 

Something's got to give, But not that.

The Thief of Joy

My sisters and I have periodic dinners out, and oftentimes we end up griping about our respective husbands. It's harmless stuff, that we just need to vent about, reassure each other, and recharge ourselves. Like how all moms do about their kids.

Honestly, these dinners often leave me grateful for my husband. He never leaves me alone with the kids for weeks at a time. He never lies, never spends money without consulting me, never loses his temper. He can cook dinner and put the kids to bed. He pulls his weight around the house and as a parent. He is righteous and conscientious. 

But I do not feel like he is attentive or affectionate.

My birthday and Mother's Day left me in a bad place. Left our marriage in a bad place. It was already on the waning side, coming down from a really good peak, but that took it from meh to bad. So, it was my turn yesterday to vent the most and need the most comfort and strength. Heather reassured me that we all know what it's like to go through a bad patch. Everyone gets it. And they do, I know. 

But some people have really loving marriages.

Kevin and I once had people over for a game night, and one of the men casually reached out and played with his wife's hair while he was talking. That was all. And I felt a ridiculous surge of envy, loneliness, and anger. Emilie posted several years ago on her husband's birthday about how he was the best man she'd ever known, etc. I actually reached out to her to ask if she meant it, as surely not everyone does. "Yes!" she'd replied. "I had no idea that marriage would be this fulfilling!" 

They say comparison is the thief of joy, and that envy is its death.

I am envious. 

First World Problems

I feel ashamed of my depression when I see the news. My heart breaks for the many families who suffer in the wars of evil men. Dear God, the babies. 

Dashboard Confessional - Again I Go Unnoticed

Riv Reunion

Last fall, thinking about my high school reunion, I reached out to friends from college and asked if they wanted to get together this summer. I received a lot of support for the idea. We voted on a date, people replying that they would be there, 100%. Then it fell to me to plan it, because I had started the ball rolling. 

Side note: it's not ever really a good idea to put introverts in charge of event planning.

I sent a message detailing some ideas. Got no response. I reserved a park pavilion in Provo, near where we used to hike, so we could do a cookout and bring families. The invitation has been ignored. I also planned to rent an Airbnb for that weekend and hang out there with friends. Maybe make a reservation for dinner somewhere. 

But after receiving no further encouragement, I am reticent to make further commitment. I should be buying airline tickets, but I haven't even looked. I am afraid that the others' 100% commitment was merely a reflection of momentary enthusiasm.

These are some of the people that I love most in the entire world. I might go years without talking sometimes, because I am a terrible introvert, but I would drop anything to help them. I still send texts on birthdays, and I have organized girls' nights via Zoom. These are the people who began this blogging in the first place, nearly 20 years ago. The ones who loved me and stretched me and taught me and made me into who I am. 

And I fear, deep in my soul, that I have loved them too freely, above what they feel in return; that I have let my hope run away with me and mistaken their conciliation for enthusiasm, their civility for affection; that I have let myself love unrequitedly. Again.

Dog person

I used to think I was a cat person, but I was wrong. Turns out, I'm a dog person.

Back To December

My Birthday

My sisters took me out the day before my birthday, so as to not step on the toes of my husband and kids. They took me to dinner at a brewery with fantastic food, and it just so happened to be trivia night. The theme: 90's music. We came in second place. We went back to Heather's house for cheesecake she had made for me, watched some foxes play, and then headed to Nora's for a regency-era chick flick. 

The next day, Kevin greeted me with "Happy birthday." And then proceeded to do nothing else. Katie asked him after school if he could take her to the store to buy me a present. He said, "maybe Saturday." A couple weeks earlier, he had asked me what I wanted for my birthday dinner, but come dinner time there was nothing. I fed the children cereal and ordered myself a pizza. Days before, Katie had asked to help him make my cake. But there was no cake. No present. Absolutely nothing.

I have never felt so invisible and forgotten.

I got apology flowers the next day, but no other acknowledgment. On Saturday, he did take the kids to buy me presents: combination birthday and Mother's Day, he said. 

He asked me what I wanted for breakfast for Mother's Day. I said, whatever it is, I want bacon and orange juice with it. He did cook bacon and scramble some eggs. No juice, though. And that is the last acknowledgment I received for Mother's Day. Though he was home, and didn't have meetings before church, I still had to get all three kids dressed and ready. I didn't get to shower. I asked him to sit with the family during first hour, as he was neither presiding nor conducting. He said he wanted to, but... I ended up leaving early with the kids who wouldn't stay in their seats. I got no nap, because Kevin asked me to put in the oven the casserole he made to take to his mom's dinner that night. Then, he wouldn't even drive when I asked him to, because driving was making him sleepy. Then, he took Michelle home and I had to do all the bedtimes by myself.

The anger lasted for days. The hurt has lasted longer.

And the really messed up part is that I feel guilty bringing it up, either to him or even on here. I felt guilty for wanting to express my anger and hurt, because it might hurt his feelings. But the other option is to let it fester, as so many wounds have done before it. 

I just want to be loved, and too often I have wondered if I am.

Rejections

 Last spring, I applied to the community college nursing program. I had perfect grades, perfect test scores, perfect application. And I got rejected.

The entire process was determined by a point system. Up to 3 points for each qualification. I had 24 out of 30 points, because I had not taken microbiology (which could be taken up to the first semester in the nursing program) and I had no relevant work experience. I got my CNA license but I did not work in the field, a combination of not having the time with kids at home and also not wanting to.

I got passed up in favor of those with work experience.

I felt at a loss. My plan had been the nursing program in the fall. I had worked hard and done everything I could to fulfill the prompting. It was a serious blow to my confidence.

I have since taken, and aced, microbiology. I also applied to UNC. While I got accepted to the latter, I cannot apply to their nursing program until next spring, after I take chemistry prerequisites that don't exist at the local community college. I also applied again this spring to the community college nursing program. I now have 27 points, but I do not have the last three for work experience. 

The applications were due May 10th. I have not heard back, which means I have likely been rejected again.

And I do not know what to do. I feel crushed and overwhelmed and lost. I don't know what my future looks like. And that is messing with my head.

 

Sound of Silence

Hello, lurkers, my old friends.
I've come to talk with you again.
While in my mind you've been peeping,
You read my thoughts while I am sleeping.
And the writing that was meant to entertain
Is now restrained
Amid the sound of silence.

I write this blog to feel less alone, to get out into words the fears and dreams that have been secretly my own. But I have found that I get many hits, sometimes daily, and I don't know the identity of my readership. For the most part, I don't mind. I imagine my friends reading, people who know me and understand. Some friends, I would go so far as to wish were reading this, like a message in a bottle washing up on its intended shores. But then there are others. Namely, my mother, who does not always appreciate personal boundaries. Since discovering the traffic on my blog, I have grown silent amid feelings of trust violated. If you are not she, read on. If we are friends, please let me know who you are. I probably miss you.

Little Women (2019) - I Want to Be Loved Scene (7/10) | Movieclips

Same Panic, Different Disco

Life has been a little overwhelming of late. The entirety of November got taken hostage by various illnesses, and after the flu came finals, Christmas preparation, and the insanity that is the holidays.

We're fine. We're all fine here now. How are you?

What I found was that I was able to keep myself pulled together through all the challenges and chaos. I even managed a better-than-perfect score in my class this fall. But once it ended, I suddenly felt swamped by anxiety. It was like agoraphobia but with my time. I suddenly had no structure and all the things I had postponed either since summer or just since the final stretch of the semester suddenly loomed and demanded my attention. 

I froze.

I couldn't even return the overdue library books on my coffee table, because the task felt too overwhelming. I am not one prone to anxiety (depression is more my cuppa) but this crippled me.

It took some mighty praying to get my feet back under me and a plethora of lists to begin grasping all I needed to do. The load actually seemed more manageable when I saw it written out, despite the absurd length. At least it wasn't stuck in my head, running randomly and causing traffic jams with other information. I got it out.

I have tried to organize my time based on importance and urgency. Some choices might seem peculiar at a glance, but I prioritized my tasks based on what would give me the most mental relief. Up first, I took control of my environment. I reorganized the basement after Michelle moved out and vacuumed the hell out of that carpet. Cat hair, gone. Allergies, still present. Feeling unwelcome in my own home, gone.

Each day, I start by reading scriptures alone in my office (well, ok, I start by getting my kids out the door and THEN I retreat upstairs) and making my daily to-do list. Sure, there are the cyclical things that will never go away, like laundry and laundry and laundry. But I have gotten out of the way many one-time things, even finishing all my Christmas shopping to my satisfaction. My list hasn't really gotten shorter, but the anxiety has completely dissipated. 

I even returned the library books.

One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest

The last time I got the flu, I was in college, living with Nora. Up until that point, I had assumed the flu was, essentially, a bad cold. Catching it was a rude awakening. Nora and I lay on the couch, moaning and taking turns getting the medicine. 

I have not missed a flu shot since. Not until this year, and it was really only a matter of having not gotten it yet. I was too late.

This time seemed worse, or maybe that's just the effects of memory and fifteen years.

I have been miserably sick for the last ten days. The coughing began a week ago Wednesday, and the body aches the day after. I had to max out on pain pills just to function, and by "function" I mean sleep without pain. I crawled out of bed only to get the meds. I soaked in a hot bath as often as possible, and I slept around the clock. The fever and pain eased up on Sunday. I went to the ER Monday night/Tuesday morning, when my throat closed in what I've learned is a laryngeal spasm. An albuterol inhaler and resuming ibuprofen for the inflammation has eased my ability to breathe, but I have continued weak, fatigued, and coughing since. 

Let me tell you, school has not been fun this week.

While my family has all contracted it as well, they've all recovered already. It's been a blessing that the flu touched my children so little. A day or two of fever and pain, and they were back to normal. 

Though Kevin got sick, he reacted better to medicine than I did, and he has taken care of everything. He has the week off work, by pure random happenstance, and it has been such a blessing. While I lay and moaned, shaking or sweating, and coughing up a lung, he made all the meals, went shopping, put kids to bed and got them out the door the next morning. He did laundry and cleaned. As miserable as I have felt, I cannot imagine having to do this without him. He was my hero this week.

Today, I finally feel like my mind is less foggy, and, though my chest feels tight and fragile, I am coughing less and might be able to function normally in the next couple of days. 

Next year, flu shots in October. 

I Don't Want to Be Like Dad

My dad was a very kind man, but he was also rebellious and irresponsible. Couldn't or wouldn't keep a job, blew through money, and never, never listened to doctors. Taking responsibility for anything, but especially for his health was way out of character for him. He used to say that he didn't want to live longer if it meant following all those damn health rules. He wanted to go out with a Pepsi (later Coke) in one hand and a Snickers bar in the other. 

The problem is that his chosen lifestyle did not result in his early death, being not quite James Dean enough. Instead, he spent twenty years in his recliner, unable to have a life, while his health grew worse and his body grew bigger. He opted for a wheelchair over physical therapy and soon required the care provided by a nursing facility, despite being twenty years younger than most residents. 

His rebellious insistence that he not follow the rules took away his autonomy and independence. He was miserable for twenty years. I want to put a stop to this pattern before my teeth fall out and my knees collapse and I can't buy clothes at common retailers. I do not want to go out with Coke in my hand. I want to live a long, active life and die surrounded by great-grandbabies. 

Barbie (2023) - The Revelation Monologue

Fat

I have always been about body positivity. I used to make my roommates compliment themselves three times for every disparaging comment they made about their appearance. We were fresh-faced and fancy free, and the idea that any of us then was fat or ugly gets ever more ridiculous with time. We were young and healthy and happy. Our childish bodies were beginning to turn womanly. Our lips were still naturally pink, our skin was taut, and none of us was losing hair. Most of us didn't have any gray yet (I started going gray at 18). We were immortal.

I try to continue that body positivity with my children. They, who are built so differently, need to accept their natural shape and not covet another. "Fat" is not the f word. I use it openly to describe myself these recent years, because, while I have come to hate the amorphousness of my own body, I know that fat shaming is a cultural phenomenon of this time and place. My body used to be coveted. Children are pure and honest. Them saying I'm fat is not judgment; it is observation. It does not hurt my feelings. It does not shame me. 

I am far more confident in every way imaginable than I was at 18, including about my body. Yes, I was 70 pounds lighter than, but I covered my stomach with my arms as though to hide myself from others' eyes. Now, I feel no such fear. For one thing, I have great boobs.

But I do want to be skinny again. 

Yes, I want to be healthy, to have knees that don't shriek when I go down the stairs, to be able to run a mile straight, to reach the floor or stand up without saying "oof." But I also miss the superficial pleasure of liking how I looked in the mirror. I want these things back.

The problem is that I've never successfully lost weight. Not by diet and exercise. It takes commitment, and I don't mean the time and effort. I'm good at those. I mean the mental and emotional commitment to hating my body. To constantly remember why each small sacrifice is worth it. I guess I have always been too vain to hate my body that much. 

The only times I have ever lost weight was moving to college, where I walked everywhere and didn't have enough money for food, and then breastfeeding my babies. The fat went straight from my thighs to theirs. I hit my pre-pregnancy weight by my six-week checkups. 

I gain weight when I am depressed or stressed. I eat my feelings. My father's love language was food: he rewarded good behavior and expressed concern, approval, apologies, and love with food of various unhealthy sorts. 

I gained weight when Michelle moved in, but lost it when Matthew was born. I gained weight after the miscarriage. This was followed by six months of preparation to move to Colorado. Not only was it a stressful time, but a busy one, too. Drive-thrus became my new best friend. And the numbers on the scale just kept rising. 

I hit 200 lbs just over two years ago, and, damn, was it a rude awakening. I made changes and kept my weight steady for a year, even with moving my dad to a care facility, Kevin starting in the Bishopric, and me getting my CNA license. I quit Coke for six months.

Then my dad died. 

And my sister's liver failed.

And school began. I sit in a chair almost full time, while still feeling drained and stressed. I was chugging coke to keep going.

Then I got the invitation to my twenty-year high school reunion. You know, I really thought that would motivate me to finally lose weight. But it just made me anxious.

I started therapy thereafter. This was a year ago. I wanted to learn how to handle these emotions without resorting to a spoon. But my therapist was more interested in my nightmares than my waking habits. I went to my doctor for help. She suggested exercise. I tried Noom (which I loved, but dropped the ball on) and Walking to Mordor. I have asked for help from friends and family, but to no avail. School got harder. Then, Michelle moved back in. And the numbers have kept. going. up. 

I hate my reflection. I hate how I look in pictures. I am always frumpy and lumpy and tired. In the last year and a half, I have gained twenty pounds. I think Kevin is not attracted to me. And that just makes me more depressed.

I cannot live like this. 

I am not built to hate myself. I have always loved my body. Katie comes by her vanity honestly. But it seems I have finally gotten to the point where it requires less mental work to try to lose the weight than to love myself the way I am. I never thought I would get here. May this wakeup call be one to last.

Miley Cyrus - Used To Be Young (Official Video)

Open Road Song

The dominating thought after imagining "what ifs" was not a desire to follow a road not taken. I'm not longing to undo the past or redo my choices. There are days that I want to know the endings to all the lives I didn't choose, but I will never know if they would have been better. Besides, what good would it do me to know? I cannot go back. Only forward. 

I was struck by the sheer number of choices I once had available. Almost limitless. Life was an open road, both figuratively and literally. I could have gotten in a car and gone anywhere as long as I had enough gas. I did just pick up and go a few times, taking unplanned adventures with friends, or escaping to the mountains by myself.

I moved to Austin with no job, knowing no one. I could have gone anywhere. I had my pick of the undergraduate offerings of a prestigious university. I could have studied anything, become anything. The future was vast and fluid.

Awaking to my current life, I felt the inexorable advance of the walls closing in around me. Choices no longer possible, roads closed off by decisions of the past. I have only very rarely felt this way as a stay-at-home mother, but I know many other women who feel trapped in the role. For me, family has been my ambition. With Katie starting kindergarten, however, even that path is closing off, narrowing in around me, about to disappear.

In so many ways, it feels like my life is over, winding down. But it's only one chapter. Or maybe one book in a series. I am only 38. I am literally at the midpoint in my life expectancy. I guess that makes this my midlife crisis. It's time to start the next chapter in my life, and coasting on my current path is no longer an option. 

I am at a crossroads for the first time in over a decade. It is freeing and terrifying. Do I revisit old dreams, resurrect the past, right wrongs and regrets, or try to find something new? I am worried I will pick the wrong thing, that I will look back in another twenty years and list all the things I should have done differently now.