Doh!

One of the few things that makes me cringe on a regular basis is seeing what I've posted over the years on Facebook. About 3 years ago, I made a concerted effort to watch what I post on any social media, because once it's out there, there's usually no turning back. I seemed to have forgotten that notion on Friday when a post that wasn't necessarily terrible, ended up being a bit embarrassing. 
I've lived in my house for nearly 7 years. About a year after Dave and I moved in, a couple moved in a few houses up the street from us. Their house number ends in 1, ours in 7. Shortly after they moved in we started to get packages from the popcorn factory delivered to our address but to a name we didn't recognize around every holiday (Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving, 4th of July, etc). The very first package we received I took the time to hunt down the address for the name on the package and learned it was our neighbor up the street. I didn't think anything of it at the time and happily gave them their package. The next holiday, I did the same thing again. And again, and again for the next 6 years. If that isn't enough of a nuisance, when we do take the package to the neighbor, they always answer the door and seem perturbed and inconvenienced by us dropping off the package.
Over the years, we've learned it was the grandmother of one of them who keeps sending the packages, so the last few times that we dropped the package off, we asked them to let grandma know that she's sending it to the wrong address. Each time we've asked, they've just brushed us off, saying things like, oh she's old, she'll never remember, etc. 

Which leads us to Friday, Dave came home and found another package on the doorstep. Dave is very patient and it takes a lot to frustrate him but seeing the package on the doorstep just really bothered him so he tried to call the Popcorn Factory to try and explain that they're sending it to the wrong people and to either note the account or to notify the sender, something, anything! Popcorn Factory refused to talk to Dave since we was neither the intended recipient or the sender. So I decided to post to a Facebook group I recently joined that is full of women who post questions, encouraging stories, rants, whatever to get their opinion. 
The post itself wasn't mean, it explained the situation, including the off putting attitude of our neighbors, and questioned whether or not it was wrong of us to keep the package or throw it out. I know, it sounds terrible, but we were just so fed up! For the next two hours or so, I was getting all different types of feedback from the women in the group from yes you should keep it! to return to sender, or it's not that big of a deal suck it up and keep walking it up to them, when I got a message request from Facebook messenger. I accepted the request and then my heart dropped at the name I saw. It was my neighbor. I never even took a moment to think that she may very well be in the same women's advice group that I was in. Her message was polite, but it definitely showed a bit of hurt or embarrassment:

I felt like such an ass. Regardless of what had transpired, this was no way to address the issue. If someone had posted something on a group site of over 4,000 women complaining about me, I would be hurt and humiliated. Not only does it make any future interactions with the neighbors awkward but  it leaves a bad taste in all our mouths. I promptly deleted the post and replied to our neighbor that I appreciated her taking care of the situation and for understanding our frustration. I had already given the package to another neighbor to drop off prior to all this happening so I also let her know that she should be getting it from the other neighbor shortly. 
I thought that was the last of it until the husband knocked on my door Saturday morning looking for the package since my neighbor forgot to drop it off **face palm**. Well if it didn't look like I was trying to keep the damn package before, it definitely looked like it now! Needless to say, he got his Easter package from Grandma, with a side of humble pie for all of us. Maybe this whole embarrassing situation will be a lesson learned for them as well and I won't see anymore of these packages? 
Moral of the story? Watch what you post on any social media since you never know who it's going to affect. Oh, and find out how to return to sender via UPS and FedEx for future unwanted, wayward packages. 

Hello...It's Me

Well look who decided to return from nowhere...
Last I left this blog, I had four weeks left of student teaching. So much has happened since then, it might be good to just do a "hey this has been my life for the past five months" post. 
So...let's start with the really big news. If you don't follow me on Instagram you might not know that I am expecting a little girl in June. Yay!

On October 13th, during my 6th week of student teaching I found out. It was a Tuesday, and right before I was set to teach my 10th period class (the toughest group of the bunch!) I was overwhelmingly nauseous so I had to have my cooperating teacher take over. Honestly, I just assumed it was nerves because this group was so tough but I was also a few days late. Dave and I had decided to put trying on the back burner while I student taught and just figured we'd let whatever happened happened. I truly didn't think that anything would come of it, considering our struggles. On my way to work that night I decided to stop at Target to pick up a test, figuring it'd be another negative and money wasted. I waited until I got home and then took the test and BOOM there it was a big fat "pregnant". To say that I was shocked is an understatement. 
I spent the next two months just trying to focus on finishing up student teaching and getting acclimated back to work. I'm not going to lie, I would often quiet any excitement or hope that bubbled up during that time since the last two ended up in miscarriages. But then I hit twelve weeks and finished out my first trimester, and then I felt her move at fifteen weeks, then I found out she was a she a day before twenty weeks, and now she's kicking the crap out of me at twenty five weeks and I've never known a joy so great. 

The last month of student teaching was rough but also rewarding. There were some students who fought me tooth and nail the entire time who finally started warming up to me and there were others that I had a great repertoire with who shut down on me. That's teenagers for you....
There's a lot that happened that last month, and I think it deserves a more detailed post later, but I will share my favorite moment. My supervising teacher insisted on showing up during 10th period, no matter how hard my cooperating teacher and I tried to convince him otherwise. The day before he was set to arrive, my cooperating teacher had a scheduled day off so it was me and a substitute teacher, and I gave my 10th period class a heads up that he'd be there the next day. Now to give you an idea of my 10th period kids, there were 21 of them, all academic (lower level), who loved to talk, distract each other, and try to push the boundaries as far as they possibly could. 
The next day, they all filed in quietly and sat down ready to go, something I've NEVER seen them do. One girl, who I had the most discipline issues with, came up to me with panic in her eyes and begged me to move her to a corner of the class where my supervisor wasn't in her direct line of sight because she didn't think she could stay off her phone long enough (seriously, these kids are literally addicted to their phones, you try to find a middle ground with them). The fact that this girl, who HATED me from the start cared enough to think about where she was sitting, whether or not he could see her, and being concerned about it meant so much. Besides two students, the class was so well behaved and so good, it was nothing short of a miracle. It still makes me smile to think about how they came through for me. 
Part of the reason I disappeared here was because the end of student teaching was so exhausting between wrapping up those responsibilities, working my regular job (even if it was part time), and growing my little one. Seriously, this kid knocked me out consistently at 6:30 every night, so I decided to take a break from writing. Then once student teaching was over, I realized I didn't have a whole heck of a lot to write about (still don't) so I just didn't write. Now the little voice in my head that wants to write is starting to squeak again so I figured okay let's just write when it feels right and leave it at that. 
That's my past few months in a nutshell, how about you? 

4 Years

Today marks 4 years that I made the best decision in my entire life. There's something about being married that just made me feel like I finally belonged somewhere. That connection isn't something I've ever experienced with anyone else. 

In the past four years I've learned a lot about marriage like...
-The best way to end a fight is to laugh at yourself. 

-The best sleep I'll ever have is laying in the nook of Dave's shoulder. 
-He's literally my best friend --smelly farts, wayward nose hairs and all

-Falling asleep and waking up next to him will never get old
-He's still the most handsome man I've ever met. 

Happy anniversary Dave! I love you!!

I'm Not Going To Lie--I'm Terrified

I've wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember, except for a brief stint in 9th grade when I thought I wanted to be a journalist. When I was little I'd put a pointy fake nail on my index finger and waggle my finger at pretend students who didn't do their homework. As I grew a bit older, I started to organize papers during play time and stamp them with "good job!" or give the pages big red "A"s. I even kept a Christopher Columbus project pack from 2nd grade just in case I could use it in my classroom. 2nd grade and I'm still hanging on to it. 

I didn't go to college right out of high school. To say that it was a regret of mine would be a lie. I would not have the good job I have now, and I may not have gone down the path in life that lead me to be Dave's wife and Nibbler and Squishee's momma. I wouldn't trade the best years of a college life for that. It took me 6 years to complete my undergrad degree and along the way I had to drop my education minor and pick up a literature minor in its place. It didn't matter what curve ball life threw at me, I took it in stride, with a little stress and anxiety, haha. 

Once I earned my degree, I immediately enrolled back into the grad program for my certification in teaching. I never thought twice about working hard for my dreams. I also never thought twice about actually achieving the dream. But here I am a week away from student teaching and it's really happening.  I'm terrified guys. Absolutely, stomach churning, fear creeping, doubt gut punching terrified. There are so many "what ifs" floating around in my head and I don't have an answer for any of them. What if I bomb at teaching? What if I say something that ends up failing me? What if I hate this?  This isn't going to stop me. Fear and self doubt are the biggest dream killers. A friend of mine, who is also a coworker said it best when she said most dreams fail because of the person giving up, not because of life.  I repeat, this will not stop me. But my feelings about this won't be stopped too. So for now, until I'm in the throes of teaching, I am forced to sit and wallow in them. I hope I prove them wrong, and shut them up once and for all. 

Things I Should Have Learned by Now

In less than 3 weeks I will be 30. Try as I might to slow down time, it's fast approaching. Part of me doesn't mind the idea of being 30 but there is another part of me that is dreading it. There are things that I had hoped to achieve before 30. I also thought I would be a little wiser by the time 30 hit. There are certain things that I should have learned by now that I just haven't. True, I do have another 3 weeks to learn it but if I haven't by now I probably won't. 

My biggest mistake in life was stressing when my plans didn't go the way I had expected them to. I thought that my 20s would be spent setting up the life I wanted to live and then in my 30s I could enjoy the fruits of my labor. This meant that I would be done school, started in my career in teaching, married, living in my dream house with 2 kids. 

I started freaking out when I was 27 and realized I wouldn't be teaching until I was in my early thirties, if I was lucky. I really started freaking out when I hit 29 and had been trying for my first baby with no luck. Panic set in when I realized that I would probably not own my dream house until I was in my 50s because of impending student loans (still panicking on this one). 

The lesson I should have learned from all this? Appreciate what I have accomplished. It may not be my dream house, but I do own a home, I may not be teaching, but I at least have my bachelors degree, I may not have a baby but I do have a husband who has shown me time and time again how much he loves me. I should have learned by now to stop freaking out when things don't go as planned. Things never go  as planned but when I look back on life and think about what has happened so far, it all worked out in the end.  

You'd think by the time I hit 30 I would have also learned patience by now, but I haven't. With everything that's happened so far, I'm still as stubborn as when I first started,  not understanding why things aren't going the way I hope they would. Taking a step back and letting what will be, will be. Just let go. Give up control of everything and just enjoy the ride.

I haven't yet, but I still have 3 weeks. Greater miracles have happened, right?

An Update

Last time I mentioned my struggles with conceiving was when I shared the story of how Dave and I lost Bean in June. In the past two months, we have gotten the results back on Bean's genetic testing, plus my blood work (15 vials!) and Dave's. 

The genetic testing determined that had she lived, Bean would have been a girl. Sometimes it's comforting to know what she would have been, other times it's heartbreaking to know that I could have had a daughter. That word is so different to me now, daughter. The way it pierces my mind now, the context of the word has such a heavier connotation. The thing is, she would have never survived because it was determined that Bean had triploidy, which means she had an extra set of all the chromosomes we normally have. You and I have 46 sets of chromosomes, she had 69. As sad as I am for having lost her, I'm also thankful that I lost her as soon as I did. Although rare, I could have entered my second trimester before I miscarried or even given birth to her only to lose her a short time later. I'm already a mess, if I had gotten through the whole pregnancy only to lose her at birth, I'm not sure I would have survived that. 

Dave's genetic blood work showed he had no abnormal genes that would cause issues in pregnancy. My blood work showed no issues either, although we did determine I am a carrier for cystic fibrosis, so Dave will need further testing to see if he is a carrier too. If he is then we are faced with a 25% chance that we could have a baby that suffers from it. So the good news is that there is nothing major going on with us that would prevent us from having a healthy child in the future. 

It sounds ungrateful to say but part of me is not consoled by the fact that there is nothing wrong with Dave and I. Had there been, there may have been a chance we could have fixed it. What this means is that we've just had really bad luck and  what happened to us could happen an infinite number more times before we have a baby. That, coupled with the fact that we aren't conceiving easily, makes it tough for me to have hope. Like I said, I know I should be more grateful that it isn't something serious, or unfixable, but unless you're in my shoes, its tough to explain. 

So the game plan now is to start trying again. The doctor and I have already agreed that Dave and I will try to concieve naturally for the rest of this year and if we don't have any luck I'll go back on Clomid in January. This works out well for me since I will be student teaching this fall (a sign that maybe God had something different planned for me?) and Clomid makes me very rage-y, which isn't a great mix when I'm trying to teach high schoolers. 

Now I just wait and hope for the best. My biggest struggle right now (besides all this) is trying not to allow myself to be consumed by trying to conceive and not letting all this get me down. I'm not going to lie, it is not an easy struggle to try and overcome and many days it's a battle I lose. But each new day is a different day with a new outlook, so I take each day, bad and all, one day at a time. 

Bully

Bullying isn't some new concept, I'm pretty sure we've all seen or experienced bullying at some point in our lives. When I was in middle school I was the target of some bullying. I always dreamed that one day I'd blossom into this supermodel-esque woman and show those bullies up or, more practically, I'd confront them one day and they'd get their comeuppance. I did run into my bully about three years ago but it didn't turn out how I'd hoped it would. 

In middle school, I sprouted up like a beanstalk. The problem was that I was ridiculously skinny too (oh to have that metabolism again!), which meant finding jeans posed a major issue. I could either find jeans that fit my scrawny waist but were too short or I could wear long jeans that didn't fit my waist. I (or I should say my mom) opted for the waist fitting jeans. One day while wearing my new jeans, I started to hear kids say "is there a flood warning for today" or things along those lines. I didn't understand what they meant at first but I did notice everyone was laughing except me. 

Once I realized they were talking about me, they ramped up their teases. They'd walk past me and call me "Flood" or roll up their pants when they walked into the classroom and say they were prepping for the flash flood. One time one of the boys who sat in front of me turned around with a ruler and measured how much space was between where my jeans ended and my shoe began. While reading "White Fang" by Jack London, London was describing a setting where the full moon "flooded" the open land with light. The worst offender of the bunch pretended that he didn't hear the phrase and asked the teacher to repeat it, which had the whole class erupting in laughter. It was terrible. It could have been worse, but to be made fun of so badly and have no one to support you was a really horrible experience to have. 

Fast forward nearly 15 years later, I ran into the worst offender who was doing electrical work in my office. We recognized each other and stopped to chat. Somehow it came up how badly he made fun of me in middle school and I realized this was my moment! He would apologize and I'd be vindicated. Except all he said was "heh heh, yeah you really were a big nerd back then" and any hopes of me doling out justice for being bullied went out the window. I don't think he'll ever realize just how mean he was or how tough it was going to school for me during that time, and quite frankly it sucks, but what can you do about it? So I just responded with, "heh heh, yeah and you were an asshole back then, hopefully not anymore!" and left it at that. 

I might not have been the apology I was hoping to get but it was good enough for me. Were you bullied in school? Did you ever run into your bully afterwards? 

Replacement List

Back when I had to actively manage my depression, my therapist suggested I create a replacement list. The idea behind a replacement list is that when you start to feel sad you replace those sad thoughts with things that make you happy. I recently stumbled across my replacement list when I was cleaning out my sewing room/library. There's so many fun memories from this list, I thought it'd be fun to share today:

1. Buddy

Buddy was my cat before Nibbler and Squishee. He was a beast in both love and size. 

2. Dave

I  don't really need to elaborate on this one. 

3. Bora-bora (and the ocean huts)

I don't think I need to elaborate on this one either, who doesn't want to visit this place? Replacing bad thoughts with the idea that I may someday vacation there put a smile on my face. 

4. Farmville

It was 2009/2010, I get a pass on this one. 

5. Sewing

I don't think its a surprise to anyone that I love to sew. Seeing a finished project always made me feel so accomplished. 

6. Best Facebook posting ever

I have no idea what this means or what I meant when I wrote it. It's one of life's great mysteries...I really want to know what exactly this meant and I have no freaking clue what it could possibly mean. 

7. Guitar

I was taking guitar lessons at this point, which was always a lifelong dream of mine. I didn't keep up with the lessons much longer after this, which kinda makes me sad. Someday I will learn how to legitimately play the guitar. 

8. Being at the end of a huge book

There aren't many things in life that are more satisfying than finished a really big book, at least for me. 

9. Cow licking his behind

At first glance, I know you're thinking this sounds insane. The story behind this one is that one day I was driving home and I was feeling really down about myself. I live in the country so I was driving past farmland. I prayed to God as I was driving down the road to give me a sign to show me I wasn't alone and that I'd make it through this. At that moment I passed a cow who was trying to lick the side of it's backside. It was the most ridiculously hilarious sight I have seen. The way it's neck was craned, it's eyes bulged, it's massive tongue tried unsuccessfully flopping around, it was just too much for me not to laugh at. I don't know if it was God or coincidence, but I have never seen a cow look so silly since then, so I'd like to think maybe it was a sign from Him. 

10. "Squirrel-munks"

While vacationing in California, my friend and I stopped at a spot along the highway that was right next to the ocean. There you could see seals all along the beach. Up at the lookout point there were these tiny little "squirrel-munks", because they looked exactly like squirrel's but were tiny like chipmunks. They were so friendly and were climbing all over us, I wanted to bring one home so bad. 

11. Seal "log" 

Another one from Cali, I climbed down to a beach in San Simeon. Prior to that, a tour guide had mentioned that seals like to bask in the sun on the beach and you had to be careful not to stumble upon them on the beach or one of you might get hurt. I always assumed all seals were brown and that I'd be able to spot it before there was an issue. Anyway, back to me climbing down to this one beach. I was walking along and saw a white log up ahead. I assumed it was driftwood because that's whiter than normal wood. That is until I was right in front of it and realized it was a seal. He realized as soon as I did that we were both there. He hopped up and squawked at me and started scuttling/hopping towards the water while I ran for the cliffs hoping I could climb faster than he could come after me. When he finally hit the water, he turned around for one last defiant squawk as if hurling an insult at me and then disappeared into the water.  It was one of those once in a lifetime, I'll never experience that again moments.

And there you have it friends, my replacement list circa 2010! What would be on your replacement list? 

How It All Began

Many of you know I run a (very) small side sewing "business", Quilts by Nicole. Ashley suggested I write a post about how it all began, and I thought it was a pretty good idea too. 

It all really began with my grandmother. I've always been a really creative person, especially as a kid. A friend of hers passed away and his wife, who was a sewer, had passed away a few months before he did. They didn't have any next of kin and so my grandmother was charged with clearing out his possessions. She gave me all of the woman's sewing kits (she had quite a few) and I started to play around with hand sewing things together. 

My grandma Maxine passed away almost two years ago and one of my biggest regrets was that she wasn't able to see how much I've grown as a sewer and that I couldn't thank her for helping me realize this gift. 

The spring break of my 10th grade year, I didn't have anywhere to go so I decided to take all my spare fabric and patch it together to make a quilt just to see how it would look. It took the entire spring break of me doing nothing but hand sewing each piece together but the end result was this: 

It's not pretty by any stretch of the word, but I did this with no help or tutorials or real prior knowledge. I still know where each patch came from. The leopard print was for pillows I made my sister, the Taz fabric was for pillows I made for my mom, the country pattern was for a hamper I attached fabric to for my mom, the checkered blue print was for an angel set I created for my mom, and the colored blocks and brown fur was for a werewolf I had made for my step-dad at the time. I was so proud of this quilt for so long I kept it in the back of my car for years which is why some of it is discolored. 

I've definitely come a long way since I created that quilt so long ago and I still have a lot to learn, but it's nice to be reminded of where it all began. 

I am not a Failure

When Dave and I married three years ago we agreed to wait until I was finished my bachelors degree before we started trying to conceive. I assumed it would be easy and I would have all the time in the world. Fourteen months ago, the time came for us to begin trying. Clearly, the "plan" hasn't worked yet. 

One of the biggest things I've struggled with over the past fourteen months (besides the obvious) is that I have felt like a massive failure. The woman's body is designed to create human life, whether you choose to use it or not. I've made the decision to do just that and I haven't so far. That makes me feel like a failure as a woman. I don't think it's helped that everything I've set my mind to, in life, I've been able to accomplish, most of it with ease. I'm not saying this to brag, I'm saying this to better explain why this setback feels like such a massive defeat for me. 

I had to swallow my pride and finally made an appointment later this month to see my doctor to try and help Dave and I conceive. From what I can tell, I don't ovulate consistently and I'm hoping the doctor can help me figure out how to deal with that. It wasn't that I didn't want to (in the sense that I don't want help to have a baby), it was the realization that I didn't want to have to admit that I needed help to do something that so many others can accomplish easily without the aide of others (besides obviously one partner). I am so afraid that I will have this stigma hanging over my head that I was not able to have a baby (if I even get that lucky) without help. Do others think less of women for that? Probably not but I still struggle with that notion in my head. 

Ashley has been a massive help throughout my struggles, understanding through her own struggles, offering advice, talking me off ledges. She  shared a really helpful article with me about actress Jaime King and her own struggles with infertility. King resonated with me because she said exactly what I was feeling, shame because women are supposed to bear children but she couldn't. She shared her story so that others would know they are not alone. 

I share my story for that same reason. I don't have a happy ending...yet. Hopefully I will. Either way, I am not a failure. Some days I will feel differently but deep down I will know, I am not a failure. And if you're struggling too, neither are you. 

Thoughts

Fair warning, this post is a big pile of word vomit...it's just on my mind and I feel like I have to get it out there. 

It's been right around four months since I learned I miscarried. Losing a baby you never met gets easier but it also doesn't. I can't explain it but I'm not a big pile of tears and mess sitting in the corner somewhere wasting my life away but at the same time, I walk around everyday with a small piece of me that feels lost and sad. There are times where I still think about where I would be at if I were still pregnant. What I would know by now, like the gender, maybe the name, what our nursery would look like. I won't lie to you, it makes me sad. I see other pregnant women and it hurts. I see babies and I feel a yearning in my stomach for the baby I lost.

A few things I've learned along the way after losing my little "Fry" (which is what Dave and I called her for the brief time we had her, and side note for the sake of not having to do him/her this whole post, let's just say her since technically all babies are female until the sack drops to determine gender):

1. Just because I didn't announce my pregnancy doesn't mean that I'm going to hide my miscarriage. I'm glad I didn't tell the world that Fry existed before we lost her because then I was able to tell people I lost her on my own terms. There were no awkward "oh hey how's the baby doing in there" and whatnot.

I had an argument with an in law a bit back and he tried to throw in my face that since my miscarriage was posted on Facebook (not by me by the way) that it was appropriate to discuss it in a public and very embarrassing setting. Long story short, he was trying to make fun of me hanging out with little ones as a sign of being pregnant again, less than 4 weeks after I had lost Fry. When I called him out on it, he claimed he was justified since I clearly was asking for it by making it public. For starters, he's an a-hole, but more over, I don't mind people knowing I lost my baby and I feel like I need to share that. It's okay to talk about it, and it's okay that the world knows, I just expect people to be respectful of my feelings.

I bring this up because a co-worker (who works in a different department) asked me when I was going to try and have children. He said he knew that I was going to try after I completed my bachelors degree and wanted to know why there were no babies yet. I told him that I was pregnant and had lost my baby in July. He got very quiet and looked like he was going to cry. He said I'm sorry I don't know what to say, I'm so embarrassed. And that's the thing, he should't have been. I wasn't and it was kind of him to care enough to ask about my life.  Some of you may disagree with me, but I feel like I would do a disservice to Fry if I didn't tell people about her. We don't hide memories of loved ones we've lost or pets, so why should we for babies we've never met?

2. You think after getting over the miscarriage and waiting for your period to arrive that getting pregnant again would be easy...you already did it once, right? Well no, it's not easy. 

3. I don't know if it's just me, but no one tells you about the weight you gain after a miscarriage. Four pounds. Now that may not seem like a lot to you but that four pounds just put me in the "my pants are too tight, all I want to wear are leggings" category.

4. After I lost Fry, I felt like everyone around me was either pregnant or had a baby. That wasn't the case but in fairness, I had to shop for four different baby showers in the past three months. Do you want to know how many I've had to in the past 28 years prior? Maybe four. Thank you Murphy's Law?

5. I'm dreading February 6th. Is it a day I'll ever be okay with again? How am I going to be on that day? Something tells me I'm going to have to curl up that day with a good book and a lot of cupcakes.

6. Does anyone else really talk about the aftermath of a miscarriage? I feel like I read a lot about the moment it happens but nothing else after. Luckily, I've got Ashley to talk to about this and commiserate with, but where's all the blog posts about the aftermath? If you have one, please share it in the comments section below, Sharing stories may be therapeutic for everyone.

Three

Three years ago today, I found my place in the world. 

Three years ago today, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.

Three years ago today, I learned that home is wherever he is. 

Three years ago today, I did something that for the rest of my life will leave me wondering how I got so lucky. 

Happy 3rd Anniversary Dave, I love you more than all the words in all the books in all the world. 

What Dreams May Come

"To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come."

When I first heard of Robin Williams’ passing, I literally cried out “No!” and held back tears as I read it was due to suicide. It’s hard for someone who hasn’t experienced depression first hand to understand why someone, who seemingly has the world right at their fingertips, could let it all go and bring about their death by their own hands.

I suffered from crippling depression once. It’s something I’ve wanted to share on here for quite some time but could never find the proper way to write about it. It’s not the kind of topic that you can just post about one day, “Hey! I was depressed once and nearly suicidal, let’s talk about it!” I share my story now in the hopes that it might help people understand, and maybe, hopefully, help someone out who is going through it themselves.

I’m generally a very happy, optimistic person. I've been through some pretty tough times, but always seemed to make my way through it and end up smiling at the end of it. About four years ago, I should have been on top of the world, I had just bought my first home with Dave, we were talking seriously about getting engaged, I was half way through school at the light at the end of the tunnel towards my degree was finally starting to shine. But then I woke up one day and just didn’t want to move. I didn't want to get out of bed, or get off the couch. I didn’t see the point of it. That is literally how it all began. I went to bed feeling fine one night and woke up the next day miserable, lonely, and wanting to die.

I tried to reason with myself at first. List all the things I should be grateful for, my home, Dave, my cat Buddy, my family. But listing all those things made me loathe myself even more. I had so much to be grateful for and I wasn’t, in my mind I didn’t deserve any of it because of how I felt and the fact that none of it made me happy when it should have.

I went to the doctor about a month after I couldn’t shake the terrible feelings and the first medication I was put on made me worse. In addition to being sad, I suffered anxiety attacks. Everything set me off, the people I worked with laughing the wrong way  (I swore they were laughing at me), the aisles in Walmart closing in on me,  the cars on the road were out to run me off the road, everything sent me into a panic. So my doctor switched up the medication again, and I got worse. Now the thoughts of me wanting to kill myself became plans. It went from “you are worthless, just kill yourself already” into “you should go to that window, open it and jump out. no one cares, no one will notice”. I took time off work, switched my meds again, went to outpatient therapy for two months and started to get better.

It took time, patience, and a lot of love from family and friends before I got to the point where I knew I’d be okay. I think the hardest part now, thinking back, is the pain this period in my life caused the people I love to worry. Dave had to see it day in and day out. He had to deal with the massive breakdowns, the desperate calls where I would plead with him to come home to keep me safe from myself, the angry outbursts for no reason other than I wanted him to hate me like I hated myself. The pain I saw on my aunt’s face when she found out about it after the fact and the hurt it caused when she couldn’t be there for me when it happened. The worry in my mom’s voice when she would call. That pain sometimes is too much to place on others, so we internalize it. Without some kind of release, it becomes this big massive ball of hate that keeps growing and growing until one day it’s just too much to handle on your own.

I consider myself lucky. Even when I was at my worst, there was still a piece of me that wanted to live, wanted to survive this. It was that little hope that I held on to that made me get the help I needed, made me reach out to family when I knew it would hurt them to see me this way, because I knew this wasn’t the way I wanted to go. It’s ironic now, one of my favorite Robin Williams movie is What Dreams May Come. I believe in the heaven that this movie illustrates, that we all have our own little haven created for us, and I also believe in the hell that is shown there too. In the movie, Robin’s wife kills herself and he travels to hell to bring her back to heaven with him. I worried that if I did commit suicide that I would end up there, in that hell, but where I really wanted to be was my own little heaven. I knew that in order to get there, I would have to wait for my time to come naturally, not by my own hands.

Sometimes it’s hard to talk about a situation where you paint yourself in a less than stellar light, especially now when we only promote the good aspects of our lives on social media. I hope that by sharing this, it may help you or someone you know. 

I leave you with this, from Lisa Jakub's blog post about Robin's death:

None of us really know what fights Robin was battling, but I know his struggles were not uncommon. It’s estimated that 16 million people in the US have struggled with depression – and I include myself in that statistic. It’s real and it’s not shameful and there is help available.

You can bring it to the light, you can tell the truth, you can go to a meeting, you can reach out to a friend.

None of us are alone.

And if you have someone in your life that you are grateful for — someone to whom you want to write another heartfelt, slanted, misspelled thank you note – do it. Tell them they made you feel loved and supported. That they made you feel like you belonged somewhere and that you were not a freak.

Tell them all of that.

Tell them today.

The number for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Every Little Thing is Gonna be Alright

Before I start this post, I'd like to throw in a warning that I'm still feeling a little woozy from going under yesterday (I'm writing this Tuesday afternoon). I wrote a few emails this morning and thought they were well written until I went back and reread them. So if that happens here, I get a pass. 

This picture has nothing to do with this  post...I just felt I needed something picture-wise

Monday wasn't as terrible as I expected it to be. It helped that I got so much love and support from everyone. The love stretched across oceans as far as South Africa and Jamaica. If there is one thing I could not say about yesterday it was that I was lonely. My phone went off nonstop and Dave showed me every message, text, email, Facebook post that came across before I went into the surgery. I truly found my strength yesterday from the love and encouragement from all of you. I will never be able to express how much it means to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 

A few things from Monday I want to point out but don't feel like putting in paragraph form:

- Monday I had my D&E, which isn't to be confused with a D&C like I have been. D&C's are for when you can't stop bleeding (sorry if that's TMI), D&E is called dilate and evacuate....that's pretty self explanatory.

-I was a little nervous heading in to the hospital but Paoli is such a great place, I had nothing to worry about. The entire staff was incredibly kind and supportive to me and even laughed at my terrible, nervous jokes.

-Speaking of staff, Mike the RN, I'm sorry. After they gave me the relaxer I wouldn't stop pointing out your height. And mental note: saying "it's okay you're the adorable kind of short" doesn't make anything better. So thank you Mike for being a good sport and staying kind the whole time, if I had been you I would have punched me in my boob when I went under. Which you may have done and I have no clue about.

-I followed Ashley's advice and told them how anxious I get about going under and they gave me a great relaxer which made everything better, except one thing. I got so relaxed I wouldn't shut up. My doctor told Dave I continued to talk even after going under. I have no idea what I said, but if what I do remember is any indication, Mike the RN got the brunt of it (I am so sorry!)

-It's probably best not to "argue" with the doctor when she tells you to eat simple that evening, like chicken noodle soup. Apparently I felt that tomato soup and grill cheese would be better and stated that enough times that my doctor tattled on me to Dave to ensure I would eat what she told me to and not what I damn well pleased. 

-I'm not sure how I feel about all this currently. I'm still so tired and out of it that I can't really place where my head is right now. I do know this: in the past week I have been shown so much love and support, it makes me want to cry happy tears. From my neighbor bringing me a hot meal the first night we found out about the miscarriage, to all the positive thoughts and well wishes, to my mom who has done more for me than this post could manage, to the edible bouquet MJ sent me, and the encouraging texts and emails Angie kept sending, and for everything else that could keep this run on sentence running, it has all been so meaningful to me. I can only hope to show you guys half the love you have all shown me. 

I know in time, everything will be alright.

I Will Never Be the Same

On May 31st, Dave and I found out we were expecting. On July 1st we learned that our baby, who should have been 8 weeks old, never grew past 6 weeks. 

When I discovered I was pregnant, I read up about miscarriages, what caused them, the probability of it happening, if there was anything I could do to avoid it. I'm not a pessimistic person, I just work better if I educate myself as much as I can on topics. Knowing that this was common, that there was nothing I could have done differently, hasn't made this any easier. 

Walking into the doctors office, Dave and I were so excited. I couldn't stop talking about how I hoped to hear the heartbeat and take a video of it to share with family. When we got into the room, the woman gave Dave a goody bag and told him to fill in the cards to get freebies and coupons. He couldn't have filled that paperwork out any faster. When the doctor came in, I made a few crass jokes about the probe and laid down. I couldn't see the screen but Dave was able to, and that was more important to me. He would take it all in so much better. I wanted him to be able to say he saw our baby first. 

The doctor kept clicking and moving the wand around, and I could hear pictures from the ultrasound being printed out from underneath the machine. She was chatting with us the whole time, then asked me the one question I was dreading. The one I knew would mean that this happened to us. "Are you sure of your dates? I'm not seeing an 8 week fetus". I knew my dates. I would bet everything I had on knowing my dates. She showed Dave everything she was looking at and finally found the baby and measured it. She told us she was only measuring at 6 weeks and was going to try and measure again and look for a heartbeat. She never found one. She began to clean up and said that it was most likely a miscarriage, but that she could be wrong. She left the room so I could get dressed and I looked at Dave and lost it. I prepared myself for the possibility of this happening but I couldn't believe it actually did. 

When it came time to leave the room, I tearfully told Dave I couldn't go out there. I knew there would be a room full of pregnant women staring at me, they would know, like I had a huge red "M" on my shirt. I can't tell you how I got out of the office building, I just went on autopilot.  

Two days later, I went in for the second ultrasound to confirm that it was a miscarriage. I had to drink a ton of water before the scan and on the ride up to the office, I spilled water all over my pants, and it looked like I had peed myself. It was a 45 minute ride to the office and I was hoping my pants would dry enough that it didn't look that way, but that didn't happen. When we stepped out of the car, I broke down again crying to Dave, "Isn't it bad enough that we are here for what we are here for? Do I really need to go in there looking like I pissed myself?" I spent the rest of the visit telling every nurse within earshot that I hadn't pissed my pants to the point that it became a joke to Dave and I. I guess it's a good thing I could laugh at myself then, but it was so embarrassing. 

I always assumed miscarriages would be quick. It would start and be done and over with in a few days. It's been five days since I learned that the baby stopped growing and nearly three weeks since it has, and yet it's still in me. I think right now that's the hardest part. Why is my body holding on to it so tightly? Why can't I just let go? 

I have the D&C scheduled for today (Monday), in fact I'm probably at the hospital as you read this. I'm not going to lie, I'm terrified. I hate surgeries and going under, but I don't think I'm really going to start healing and moving past this until I do. I wake up in the middle of the night and the first thing I think of is the baby that will never be, and then I'm awake for hours. 

Dave and I talked about whether or not this was something I wanted to share here. I knew I needed to, that it would be therapeutic to write this out and throw it out to the universe.  I fear I will never move past this. That I'll never be over it. I'm afraid I'll have trouble conceiving in the future. I fear that I'll always think about this baby and what he or she could have become. I'm afraid one day I'll forget him or her. I'm afraid of what is to come and saddened by what will never be. 


I have my moments where I am okay and then I'm not. Writing this out has helped a little. I know with time, I'll be fine. I know that I've dealt with difficult things in the past and I've been strong enough to work through them, and I know I'm strong enough to work through this. I  just need time to find that strength.  

Jamaica

If a blogger goes on vacation and doesn't devote at least one post to a bunch of pictures, did the vacation even happen? 

 

See the hummingbird?

  The resort we stayed at had football (soccer) teams for each "department". The game we got to watch was between the Butlers and the Barmen. The guys were super competitive and it made for a really great game. It was so much fun to be a part of the event. This was our third time visiting the resort (Sandal's Royal Caribbean) and the staff there aren't just "employees" to us, they are family. We even had my "brother" Ray who worked on the dive team fly up for my wedding. When we got to watch everyone play football, it was like hanging out at a big family reunion. 

 And of course, we can't have a vacation pictures post without at least one of Dave. In this picture, he's preparing for a dive he was about to go on. 

Hope you enjoyed the pictures!