To the Child I Will Never Conceive

I have wanted you since I was 4 years old.

In my 20's, I wanted you so bad, I had vivid dreams of you in which we would have conversations about you, your life, my parenting, and my growth.

In my 30's, once I was single, every "oops" or delayed period became anticipation and dread.

Dread that I conceived you with the wrong man, done you an injustice, given you something less than perfect love in both of your parents.

Even when I had that moment with a good man who I was in love with, I still feared for you:

The circumstances weren't right and I feared you would grow up without adequate love, with pieces missing the way I had in my childhood and I didn't want that for you.

So I prayed my body would continue to malfunction and you would have no life.

But each time, I felt anticipation anyway.

I've wanted you since I was 4 years old.

Maybe this time my body will do as bodies do.

Maybe this time is the time I'll get to look into the eyes of the child I dreamt of.

Maybe this time...and I would dream of you still more and imagine our life together.

I would think of all I could do to keep you safe and happy. The ways in which I would rearrange my life in order to accommodate yours...seamlessly integrating you into my plans for myself; that's how much I wanted you, wished for, dreamed for you.

But not this time, dear child.

Not this time, not anytime.

My body does not function in such a way that will allow you to live and I've always known this, even before the first time I heard the words, "You will never conceive."

I am sorry, my unknown child:

You will always remain a person of my dreams.

Finding Purpose

Very recently, I hit rock bottom.

When I say rock bottom, I mean the lowest I've been in my life.

What got me there was a family member coming dangerously close to taking their own life. In response, I came ridiculously close to ending my own.

Let me explain what ridiculously means: For the first time in 35 years, I came to a conclusion as to how I would end my life.

I didn't know when I would do it, but in the moment, I felt it would be soon. I decided I would go ahead and update my will and start getting rid of any excess goods I had to lessen the burden on my survivors. Because I'm me, I suppose, I also came to the conclusion in the moment that I was not in a rational enough frame of mind to take action right then. I decided I would need to sleep on it and give myself a few days before I started the process.

You might think of me, what's happened in my life, what I've said about having a member of my family consider their own life and think, "Well, of course you hit rock bottom. Perfectly understandable." But as having had depression my entire life and having been through many other stressful situations, I myself was startled by finding the bottom. I was so startled that I struggled for a couple of weeks to get my head above water.

Fortunately, I already had a scheduled visit to a counselor because I've been feeling overwhelmed in general lately. Everything has felt immeasurably harder and I've been frustrated as to why. My conversation with my counselor involved a requirement to sign a contract that I wouldn't hurt myself.

Initially, I was angry:

"You can't take away my autonomy," I told her, "if I decide to take my life, that decision is mine and mine alone."

"Of course, it always is," she replied, "but the sum of it is that if you won't sign a contract, I have to call the police to take you to the hospital so you can be committed."

"Okay, let me think on that."

After a couple of minutes, she interrupted my thoughts with, "How would your children feel? There are still people that need you."

I became enraged, "But the whole point is that I don't have anything to live for. And I can't and won't live for anyone else anymore. I have to live for myself, but I have to find a reason why."

After I spoke it, I realized what I needed and was able to sign a contract, adding my own addendum that if I felt I was a threat to myself, I would take myself to the hospital. Over the next few days, I talked to those closest to me, letting them know what was there for me and telling them what I was searching for.

Finally, after a conversation with a friend I hadn't seen in almost a year, I realized what I was missing: My Purpose.

You see, when I was a child, as mentioned in A Promise to Myself, my sole purpose in life became turning 18. With all that was happening, I reasoned all I had to do was make it to age 18 and my life would be in my hands, to do with as I pleased. While I was still 18, I met my now ex-husband. On our first date, as he told me what his children had already been through in their very young lives, I discovered my next purpose: to ensure they reached adulthood feeling loved and cared for.

Well, guess what? My youngest turned 18 just over a month ago. This left me totally without purpose. Also, since he's a quite independent young man and has been for some time, I started feeling purposeless back in June or so. But it took this situation with the family member and then my own to realize that purpose was what I was missing.

I'm pleased to announce that I have already discovered my next purpose: To Love and Care for Myself. You've probably already noticed me working on this to some degree, but I feel it's time to own it. So I'm going to spend the next chunk of my life working on discovering what makes me happy individually and then obtaining it. I'm also working on falling in love with myself, loving myself the way I've always wished someone would love me.

I'm not sure how long it will take me to find this purpose fulfilled, but I do hope that I'm more aware next time, so I can find one soon after.

I can say this, at least: having the purpose of loving myself and making myself happy makes it so much easier to swim and not sink when major stress comes along.

Managing Depression

"When we were children, we used to think that when we were grown-up, we'd no longer be vulnerable. But to grow up is to accept vulnerability...To be alive is to be vulnerable."
--Madeleine L'Engle


You'll find I'm not ordinarily this vulnerable to, well, anyone and I'm certainly never vulnerable in public.

In this particular instance, I have a friend who was suffering recently from a series of setbacks. And I was standing there, holding them while they cried when they stepped back to look at me. I said, "Okay, go do x (thing that will be accomplishment)," and they blinked and said, "Okay," and walked off. In the moments after, I felt bad for having sent them off, but then I realized I did it because I know how important it is to accomplish something when you're having a bout of depression. So then, I thought I'd write this for everyone.

This may come as a revelation for many of the people who know me:

I have been chronically depressed for most of my life. Really for as long as I can remember.

The first time I recall contemplating suicide was when I was about 5 or 6 years old. My sadness at the world I lived in, my constant feelings of being alone, these were too much to bear at that age. I lived on a road that was a horseshoe and I lived right at the curve, the road sloped so that my house was at the bottom of two hills. I remember thinking that one day I might just jump out in front of the school bus and let it end my pain.

Thoughts like this plagued me my entire childhood. When the stress that was my life became overwhelming, I would hide myself in a small, dark corner (eventually on top of a shelf in my closet) and hold myself crying, wishing that I could just stop the pain. End my life, be done.

This perhaps explains why I was such an underachiever as a child. I recall my mother talking to my babysitter once when I was about 6 or 7. I had just moved to Texas from Washington after my parents had their final split (which in itself had been a traumatic event) and I was listless, I suppose. I don't recall the experience internally, because it was all a haze of not wanting to exist anymore. But I recall the babysitter and my mother discussing it while I sat on the stairs and I recall my mother saying that she attributed my behavior to what happened with my father and then the move, that perhaps after being given enough time to settle in that I would improve.

When I was about 11, I discovered for the first time what might be going on in my head. My mother had the newspaper spread open on the kitchen table and she was talking on the phone. While I stood patiently waiting for a moment to ask permission to go play, I saw an advertisement talking about depression. There were several questions, you know the standard, "Is it difficult to wake up in the morning, blah blah," and as I read the list, I found I had answered yes to five of the six questions and the ad said if you answered three or more with yes then you might have depression. When my mother turned her attention to me, I asked permission to play and she granted it. I then said, "Hey Mom, you see that ad there," pointing, "I answered yes to five of those questions."

My mother stopped, "Are you sure, Andrea?"

"Yes, I'm sure," and I pointed out which ones I answered yes to.

She read them, looked at me again and said, "And you still want to go play?"

"Yes, I don't feel that way right now. I feel happy and I want to go play, Steve and the guys want to play basketball."

And for my young brain, the situation was so black and white. Sometimes I feel that way and I can't function and sometimes I don't feel that way and I'm happy.

The results of this revelation to my mother however, were not good. I did end up seeing a child psychologist (not necessarily bad), but I ended up being diagnosed as manic depressive.

Because you see, I had already been living with the depression so long, it was already so much of who I was that I self-managed. And the opposing end of the depression was a happy, hyper girl. I had become already used to kicking my own butt out of those feelings and into the only ones that felt good.

But I was prescribed Lithium, which made me likely to fly off the handle and hit someone. And I did, I broke a boy's nose on the bus one day for swatting my butt with my textbook. Because that is what anti-depressants do to me, they make me so agitated that I'm ten times more likely to lose my cool and strike someone.

And anger for me is a scary thing. I witnessed abuse as a child, I was abused, I became angry and abused others. And that, too, like the depression, I learned to rise above on my own. Because more than any other thing in my life, one constant has been that I have been on my own. No one but me to take care of me and since, like every other human being on the planet, I want to be taken care of, I rose to the occasion.

So, here we are, roughly 20 years since I broke a boy's nose and decided that I would never use anti-depressants again. When I was 18 years old, a psychiatrist overturned the diagnosis of manic depression, indicating that I was far too grounded and aware of myself and my actions to ever be considered manic. We never addressed the depression and it's entirely possible he never noticed it. Because I have lived with it for so long that most people, even professionals, don't even notice that I have it unless I'm in the middle of a particularly bad bout.

And ask any one of my friends. Unless they are in my inner circle, they would answer "no," to the question, "Does Andrea suffer from depression?"

But I know the truth of the matter. I know that I am probably one of the most highly functioning depressives you will ever meet.

For me, a bout of depression is an automatic signal to go through the motions of my regularly scheduled day. Without thinking, I set little goals for myself, a to-do list, so that I can methodically tick off accomplishments. I re-evaluate myself and my life, look for what kicked off this bout so that I can avert one in the future. And most importantly, I reach out to people. To have them remind me that I am not as alone as I feel in that moment. And I keep within reach those strong enough to take my hand when I need it.

In short, for me, being chronically depressed simply means to manage a part of myself. Like any other feature, I notice it when it interferes with what I'm up to and I learn from it and find ways to make it better for next time. People who notice I have depression (professionals, other sufferers) often ask me if I self medicate. I guess you can say that I do, in the ways noted above. I also drink energy drinks, on constant bouts of quitting and restarting. It has been pointed out to me that these may also be self-medicating.

Either way, I see it not as a disease, but simply a facet of the being that is me...another part to consider as I go about the daily business of conducting my life.

Drugs are not the answer, self-awareness is.

Being Too Independent

It has been brought to my attention multiple times lately that perhaps I'm too independent. I don't rely on others the way humans ought to or something of that nature.

The most recent example of this was my last trip to the hospital. I woke up in severe pain and quite reasonably, so I felt, did nothing about it, attributing it to food I had eaten the day before. Around one in the afternoon, I attempted to take my kids to the State Fair as had been planned. Let me say here, since I attributed the pain to having eaten something I knew I shouldn't have, I was expecting it to go away by afternoon. But I've also been in chronic pain due to an injury and so I took the pain medication I had for that with me and dosed myself while waiting to park, absolutely determined to enjoy the fair with my kids.

When I went to get out of the car after parking, the pain was so bad, I could barely get out of the car. I told the kids I wasn't sure I was going to be able to go to the fair, but I would at least get them to the gate. Despite the drug I had swallowed approximately 30 minutes before, I was in so much pain I could barely move. I shuffled along at a snail's pace and then finally, I became dizzy, clammy, nauseous, and began hyperventilating. I stopped my kids and got down to the ground in the event I lost consciousness. I described all my symptoms to the kids, in the event an ambulance had to be called. I had a moment of absolute panic. The symptoms subsided within five minutes and I realized I could not even get the kids to the gate. I chalked up the symptoms to taking the drug, the hot sun, and the energy drink I had consumed in the car. I told the kids they were welcome to go to the fair, but I needed to go home and possibly to the hospital, but I was unsure. The kids walked me back to the car and then took themselves to the fair.

I drove home, contemplating whether or not I should go to the hospital. I've been in lots of pain over the last six months and while this was different, it didn't necessarily translate to needing treatment or warranting emergency. After I arrived home, I rested for an hour or two, attempted to take something for my stomach (remember, I thought it was something I ate) and when I realized I had been in severe, unsubsiding pain for over 7 hours, I finally admitted that I needed to see a doctor to have the systems checked. I should include here that both of my parents are nurses and I have a LOT of medical knowledge. I grew up with parents who assessed my symptoms and followed a lot of "wait and see," before seeking treatment, both with myself and themselves.

My personal experience with emergency rooms, whenever I've sought treatment for myself or one of my children is that, for the most part, they administer a lot of first aid. Unless something is truly life-threatening, there's not much they can do. Much should be handled by a regular physician as opposed to the staff whose real job is to save lives.

So why didn't I go to the emergency room sooner?

I didn't feel there was any threat to my life.

Why did I go to the emergency room when I did?

Because when pain has lasted that long and has not responded to a drug which is designed to eliminate/reduce pain, there's potentially something life threatening going on.

And indeed, six CT scans later, I was admitted to the hospital to have my abdomen hoovered and my appendix needlessly removed (it was an excuse to hoover the abdomen).

Was there ever truly an emergency?

Probably not.

Should I have gone to the emergency room sooner?

I could have, but it wasn't necessary. Even the surgeon agreed that my timeline was reasonable and acceptable.

But now, I have an increased reputation for being "tough as nails," "too independent," and "stubborn." I drove myself to the ER, and had some intervening company while I was there. I was mostly by myself in the hospital and while I might have liked more company, I was zonked, so when my bestie and my daughter came to visit, I sent them away within a half hour so I could sleep more (they also had a toddler with them and they are contradictions to rest).

I balk a little at this reputation, but on the other hand, I accept. I know myself to be logical and reasonable. And sometimes, just like any other human being, I get illogical and unreasonable, but I'm always willing to hear out the reason of others. That's why I'll be going back to the hospital tonight or tomorrow (is there ever a convenient time to do so?) and getting treated for my continuing issue. In the meantime, I will know that those who call me too independent and stubborn are doing so because they care.

The Polite Way to Discuss Weight

So, I'm sure I made a few waves with my previous post and that was not what was intended. My intent was to address something that annoys me deeply.

You see, I've been overweight since I was 11 years old. Science still doesn't understand why, but I went from weighing 52 pounds at my 10-year check-up to 110 pounds at my 11-year check-up with no significant change to my diet or activity level. Best guess is that it's a matter of hormones, google Syndrome X or Metabolic Syndrome to learn more.

And when I was 11 years old and 110 pounds, the world was a cruel place. The way I was treated by many people was, well, not nice. If you were there, lived in that world, you know the kind of thing I'm talking about. Because, see, I went from being the kid who sang, "Fatty, fatty two-by-four, can't get through the bathroom door," to being the kid the song was sung to. And so the jokes about fat kids and Twinkies became not funny, because I didn't really even like Twinkies.

And so this is where "fat acceptance" comes in. There is so much going on in the world, technology is snowballing far faster than evolution has the chance to keep up with and we have some weird stuff happening to our bodies as they try to keep up with an onslaught of NEW.

Perhaps, once upon a time, all fat people were fat because they ate more calories than they burned. I mean, I'm sure this concept comes from somewhere. And I look around at the rest of the populace with envy as I see people enjoying a soda and it not impacting their weight or metabolism. I had a partner tell me, "I've always eaten whatever I wanted. When I got to be about 27, I noticed I was packing on the pounds, so I cut out donuts in the morning, that's about it." Clearly, he is on a different evolutionary chain than I am. He looks like a model and he doesn't even work out.

So because there are people like him vs people like me, it's important that everyone be nicer and more understanding. I spent many years struggling with my weight, frustrated at my attempts to lose weight while I just got heavier and heavier. And I did get tired of the comments everywhere I went (on a stretcher once, the EMT was struggling to lift me and pointed out how many miles of capillaries I had for every extra 10 pounds of weight).

But. Part of what made it difficult for me to lose weight is the point of my previous post and what I'd like to extrapolate on here:

When you are trying to lose weight, the whole world is your enemy.

Now, I understand that there are many people out there who have 10, 50, even 100 extra pounds and are perfectly comfortable in their own skin. More power to them. If their numbers look great and they feel good in their bodies, then there's really no reason for them to change anything, is there? But, I suspect that many have decided it's easier to be overweight than to deal with trying to lose weight in this society.

Because it doesn't matter your reason or your method when you want to lose weight, people are clamoring to tell you how wrong you are. 

I approach weight loss via the scientific method. Have a theory, test it. If it works, test it again until it stops working. If it doesn't work, discard that theory and try another. Eventually, I will (and have) found just the right combination of methods that work for me. And as mentioned in my previous post, I was in a car accident, so some of my methods got derailed--I can't exercise much at the moment, so here goes the scientific method again.

And really, that's a good plan for anyone wanting to make any change within themselves ever.

But when I go to have a conversation with someone regarding weight loss, rather than approach it like a fellow scientist, everyone's an expert. "Oh that method is bad for {x reason}, or {y result}." or "I heard {ABC famous person} got hospitalized when they did that." That's great, but their results are not mine. I have a different body, different environment, different lifestyle and my method of diet may have that one key element which makes the difference between success and failure. And you have no idea unless you ask me.

So here's how to approach someone who calls themselves fat or says they're trying to lose weight:

First, ask why. If there's a self-esteem issue that needs to be addressed, it'll come out right here, first and foremost. And if that person is a loved one or a human being and you happen to care, then please, by all means, address their esteem issues. Let them know that their value does not rest on the package they come in.

Second, ask how. This will open up a logical, rational discussion. No matter where someone is in their journey, asking them how will give them additional things to think about. Had someone asked me how I became fat and we had discussed theories together, perhaps I would have gotten more information sooner that would have saved some of the physical issues I now have. If people ask how I'm working to lose weight, they then have the option, without making me wrong, to discuss theories on what works and what doesn't.

Thirdly, be supportive. Know that their journey is not yours and what works for you does not necessarily work for them. What you've heard in the media or for pete's sake even in scientific literature is not necessarily the right answer for that person. Hear what they are saying, listen for where they may be struggling and offer them information if you have some or your sympathies and encouragement if you have none (and the latter, anyway).

But please don't tell them they're wrong.

I once went on a McDonald's diet just to see if it would work. I've also been on a Taco Bell diet. Both times I lost more than 10 pounds. But I didn't feel good with those foods that lacked in nutritional value and they were difficult to stick with, so I quit.

Finally, let me address the issue of what I call drug pushing. We are all guilty of it, even myself, who sees it for what it is and have willingly and knowingly participated in it.

Many years ago, I was working a job and at the time I was coming close to being 200 pounds overweight. I felt extreme measures were necessary and so I investigated liquid diets. I created my own and then sat down and discussed it with my doctor. He said, "the risks associated with a liquid diet are far outweighed by the risks associated with you continuing to be super-morbidly obese. The biggest thing we need to watch for is your liver as you process out all the fat, so drink lots of water and see me once a month so we can keep an eye on your liver, here are signs to look out for..."

So I had my physician's blessing. But this didn't stop my co-workers. At an office birthday party, I stood around and sang with everyone else. And as the cake got doled out, I remained in the group so I could continue to socialize. And I got offered cake, by my boss. At first my response was a polite reminder, "No, thank you, liquid diet, remember?"

"Oh, Andrea, I'm not so sure that's healthy."

"Doing it with my doctor's blessing, remember?"

"Fine."

Two minutes later: "Hey, Andrea, are you sure you don't want a piece of cake?"

"Yes, I'm sure thank you."

Another minute later: "Andrea, are you sure you don't want a piece, it's pretty good?"

"Yes, I'm pretty sure my health is tastier than a piece of cake."

Five minutes after that: "Andrea, are you sure? It's just one piece of cake, it won't hurt you or your diet, it's no big deal."

"You sound like a drug dealer! 'C'mon, first time's free...everyone's doing it!!'"

She was ticked. But it is so true. I'm not sure why, but we have this damnable need to push food on people in our society. And 99% of the time, we are pushing foodstuffs that are pretty universally agreed to be not part of a healthy diet. And yet, we do it anyway.

Conclusion:

Be polite. Be supportive. Ask questions. Don't "push drugs." 

Oh and don't ever bring up someone's weight to them. These suggestions are only for when they bring it up. Anything else is offensive, plain and simple.

I'm Fat and Don't You Dare Tell Me Otherwise

So here's something that has me worked up enough that I'm actually going to finish and publish a post.

Being fat has come up for me quite a bit lately or at least this year. It started with a partner who told me that sometimes he simply didn't find my body attractive. He started telling me this when he met me and I was more than a hundred pounds overweight. I perfectly well understood what he meant. At the time, I never found my body attractive so the idea that he ever could was something of a surprise for me.

So over a year went by and we come to early this year. I hit my lowest weight ever (in my adult life anyway) and I was pretty well exuding sexy. No matter whose numbers you looked at, I wasn't more than a hundred pounds overweight. I have no idea what's a healthy weight for me, but at my best guess, I was at the point where I was only 65 pounds overweight. At the same time, I was getting attention from the male half of the species pretty much everywhere I went.

And then I got stressed, for a number of reasons which are not important here. And I was dating, a lot, so I was eating...a lot. And I gained five or so pounds. And then one partner didn't find me much attractive anymore. For that and other reasons, he stopped wanting to have sex. And the first partner broke up with me. Ouch. Two blows to my ego. But I had one remaining. The one that bristles anytime I call myself fat. So I wasn't in too bad of a way in self-image. Great!

But wait...not great.

I have a problem with this. I have a problem with fat acceptance that is so damn accepting that it denies who a person is.

And honestly, I bristle at most fat acceptance articles and memes I see. And I bristle at people telling me I'm not fat.

Are you kidding me?! I am five foot two and weigh over 200 pounds. THAT. IS. FAT.

And the point here is not "being self-accepting": I love me. In fact, I really love me. I am a great person. I am goal oriented and achieving of goals I set for myself. I take pretty good care of myself, there's nothing wrong with me at a fundamental level.

But none of those facts change the fact that I am not at a good physical weight. Yes, my "numbers" are all phenomenal. Blood pressure, cholesterol, et al are great, perfect even. But carrying what I calculate to be 74 extra pounds as of this morning is not healthy and you can't convince me otherwise.

But that doesn't stop you. No, not you. Not a specific person, I'm talking about the general population. More than half the time, the first time I say something about being fat or feeling body conscious, somebody has to argue with me.  Somebody has to argue that I'm not fat or I look good or something of that nature.

And hey, that's fine. I understand that some days I still have the sexy going on, I know I do. But my clothes have all gotten tight and that's simply not acceptable. And what I'd like to bring to your attention, yes you, dear reader who may well be guilty of this: When I say I'm fat, if I sound like I'm depressed, sure, remind me I'm pretty or I have a great personality, but please don't tell me I'm not fat.

And here's why: By telling me I'm not fat, by telling me it's okay to be 74 pounds (or whatever) overweight, you are by commission telling me it's okay to be not healthy. And you are telling me that my desire to change myself for the better is not okay. You are saying that all of the health problems I am already starting to experience at 33 years of age are okay.

But they're not. I want to live a long life. And I want to be able to enjoy that long life. And realistically, it's not going to happen if I stay this way. My recovery from my recent car accident is hindered by my extra weight. I told the doctor I've been working to lose weight and he replied, "Yeah, it'd help a lot if you dropped about 50 pounds." And yes, he was being insensitive or whatever, but he was not wrong.

And I understand that part of this fat acceptance campaign is all about being nicer to our fellow human being and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I have never once told a partner that I didn't find them attractive this day or that because they carried some extra weight, because I believe that what makes me want to spend time with someone or not depends in large part on their personality, not their body. And I don't want to lose weight because I want to look like Kate Moss or some other such public figure because I don't care how thin or not anyone else on the planet is.

So please, I beg you, stop undermining my weight loss efforts. Stop telling me it's okay for me to be overweight when I tell you I don't feel good in my body. Stop telling me it's okay for me to eat whatever I want when I know it damn well isn't. And for the love of all that is good in this world, stop treating me like I have self-esteem issues just because I want to change something about myself. I can love me and be happy with me and still want to improve.

--Signed, A disgruntled fat chick

P.S. The partner mentioned above only bristles when he smells potential esteem issues. He is completely supportive of my desire to be healthy and lose weight. More on how everyone can do that in a future post.