Truth

I had depression. Maybe you don’t believe me because I didn’t get a doctor to tell me what I’d already figured out.

I had depression. A bout or two in my young adult years while completely surrounded and supported by family–so how much worse was it when it came again? So far away from familiarity, identity. With a new baby and sliced up insides. With thirty pounds of new flesh on my bones.

Anxiety. Paranoia. What if They ever found this, knew it was me? They threatened to take my children once already. They look at mental health history, they do.

Some days I am actually afraid to go outside. Afraid to be seen. Most days though, it’s just too much effort.

I had depression. Now I must always be on my guard, watching for the beginnings I can recognize. Sometimes it starts in embarrassment over some random mistake I made hours or years before–truly–and embarrassment quickly turns to feelings of being stupid, which in turn pave the way for self-loathing and despair. Sometimes in a matter of minutes.

And you know what gets me? All the times in the last year and a half of suddenly feeling more like myself–my healthy self. No one day when the world went right again. Just steps, increments of wellness, climbing higher, thinking how slippery is the way back down.

8 Weeks

So it’s been 8 weeks now.
It was about 34 hours from first twinge to birth.
1 hour waiting to push,
20 minutes pushing.

I did it.
8 weeks ago.

[the letter I won't send]

Why didn’t I inform you when sensations began?
Why didn’t I summon you when they grew closer together, more intense?
Why didn’t I beg for you near the end when I paced in discomfort and roared in pain, couldn’t pee, leaned over the sink waiting to push?

The Status is not Quo

My wedding ring still resides on my littlest finger, its home since it went back on my hand a few months after baby number one.
My stop-gap jeans (two sizes up from pre-[this]-preg) are now too big. I must be the size in-between.
My body image has caught up so I see this 200+ pound version of me as correct. Three and four-year-old photos no longer induce the sad pining.
My short, short hair is more suited to this body as well. Buzz cut before Creation ‘05 made me look like a boy, before the bleaching at least.
My pelvis, my feet, my breasts, (various other parts)…changed.
Did I get my body back? You tell me.

Mirrormother

When it comes to me, I have no perspective, and there’s a part of me that is very comfortable with feeling bad. Then I’m important, not subject to the laws of nature; I’m the worst and darkest.

What is this internal, familiar reward I receive for the
“oh, I don’t need to eat now”s
the
“there’s no time to paint”s
the
“but going for a walk is too hard”s
the laters
the nevers
the indulgent sorrow over bodily asymmetry and damage and changing size?

Would I be this towards another mother in my care and home?

Surely I would bring her water
find her food
encourage her in the activities that are hers beyond the baby and the house
help her find ways to move her body
ways to go outside

Would I not listen to her mourn the loss of her old body then seek to help her rejoice in the new
to be gentle with herself
to get new clothes if needed and to not think of when those jeans might fit again
to be thankful
to then look beyond body and self and to say
“Here I am, Lord”?

Neither Here…

3 weeks, 2 days, and I’m in-between.

Maternity jeans falling down, but I’m not yet ready for my good old size 18s.

No appointments on the calendar with those who have invaded, but we’re not yet released from their over-zealous hands.

Paperwork for passports, visas, and more in progress, but the move isn’t certain and certainly isn’t yet.

Some friends give us Psalms, some tell us not to take it all personally. Some understand, some don’t but don’t say nothin’ at all (if they can’t say somethin’ nice.)

I wait for the Lord to rescue me while I wonder if I should make complaints.

I am brave. I am frustrated. I am in love.

Babymoon still in progress, I prepare for the world, closing up my open, open mind.

I discover that victory and victimization can co-exist. I choose to push my thoughts back to the former, no longer existing in old pain and fighting against the new.

I tell the truth, but only parts of it to some. (as everyone does) I wonder if I’ve lied, too.

Miss real life. Miss conversations, hugs, the hard work of seeing and being seen.

The chosen guest is cherished now, as is the friend with uncritical eyes, the mother with wisdom and pride, the sister whose frame of reference allows her understanding from few words.

I’m in-between homes. Old world new, New world old.
Kingdom come–so far away?

I’m nothing to the world, but everything to one hungry babe.
I can live with that.

My Coat Looks Kinda Brown

They haven’t done anything to convince me I was wrong.
If anything, I feel even more justified.
Meddlers.

It drags on. How is it less than three weeks? It feels like they’ve been on our case for ages.
If “every child matters”, why terrorize their parents?

I’ll be in the back, and I STILL don’t need the help.
For goodness’ sake, I used my own body to birth my own baby in my own home. How can they demand a say in that? I raise my children responsibly…but how can I do that with eroded parental rights?

It’s crazy, we keep asking what’s mandatory. The social worker today DIDN’T KNOW if the check we’d gotten flagged for skipping is required. Huh?

Save me, God. You know I’m innocent–still.

One Week

One week of being able to laugh,
to stand up straight
to get up from a chair
or even from the floor
while holding a baby

One week of nursing
a baby who knows how
with a body that knows how

No drugs
no drowsiness besides the natural
no interruption of the perfect flow of hormones
that brought her to me

One week since I became a mother
for the second time
and in a way the first

One week since endorphin blur
kindly started washing my mind of pain
not of one labor
but of two

One week of victory
rawness both physical and of the emotions
of plans spilled
secrets unkept
longings for seasons, feasts, and home

One week being
threatened, bullied, lectured
loved, cared for, served

One week of her
perfect little girl!

Food Fatigue

I get tired of eating.
No…
Such is my pregnant self’s picky relationship with food that I grow weary with needing to find and prepare any sort of balanced meal for myself even once a day. If small, balanced meals were placed before me every three to four hours, I’m sure I would happily devour them. But this? I keep eating for the baby. And to keep away the heartburn, if possible.
I know from experience that once I’m not pregnant again I’ll do better with food–I might still forget to eat, but it won’t be as big a deal, and I’ll have a stomach again, and hopefully my more regular (omnivorous) tastes.
Less than a month now. Weird.

Good Things

I think I may just be towards the end of detoxing from the medical experiences of Friday. And as I type this, it’s midnight, so Tuesday. So it should take less than a day to recover from future dinky checkups, right?

Something about being stretched out from the inside a second time…I knew that veteran mothers stick out sooner, but I didn’t realize the wonderful part: If the baby isn’t held in as tightly by those fresh muscles, there’s more room for things like, oh, MY INTERNAL ORGANS!

I feel so much movement from this child. I don’t think I ever connected well in my first pregnancy, and this time it’s still hard to believe I’ll meet this person in what, a monthgiveortake? But it’s clearer this time. I’m thinking about how our family will be a brand new configuration once again, and how it will be hard to imagine a time before…whoever this is.

Truth: I can give birth even if not everything is ready. Having a clean flat and organized baby clothes and bags packed and supplies on hand…well, they’re goals…but essentially, all I need for birthing is already here, either in me or around me. I can do this.

I’m stronger than I thought I’d be at this point. When I started getting backachey from walking a few months ago, I figured that it would be nigh impossible to take walks as far along as I am now. And while my latest walk was challenging, slow, and punctuated by brief rests, I still did it. My back sensations weren’t even painful like they were the other month…just interesting, like working hard.

My dear husband is already picking up the slack as caring for this baby demands more and more of me. He makes sure I have every opportunity to sleep that he can give, and keeps the boy from jumping on my belly. This bodes well for the future time when baby is outside the womb, yes?

I’m still not swelling up like last time! My hands are perfectly normal, my wrists still function, my feet and ankles are retaining some water but are rarely very annoying. Makes me wonder what was up with last time…was there actually something wrong, or was I simply not drinking enough water? I’m drinking lots and lots now…

Months of doing my own “prenatal care” have given me enough confidence to continue with intuitive eating, even though that lecturer’s mention of a low GI diet has made me think more about sweets…mmmm. (The best food lately though? Leftover chicken and green beans.)

We’re planning. My wonderful husband and I are planning a birth together, and planning a move. Though it’s so so much to think about, it feels good to be working towards things as a family. Like maybe this grown-up married thing is really real and happening and stuff!

I’m so glad I found and internalized so much Fat Acceptance before this pregnancy. My body is doing its own thing…how hard would it now be to respect that if I hadn’t learned what I’ve learned? I haven’t weighed myself that I remember for over a year. I’d be okay with checking at term and a few weeks later to see how quickly it changes…but really what’s the point? How does knowing that number help me relate to my body in a healthy way? Of course, my man helps SO MUCH by adoring me like crazy whatever changes I go through. *Love*

I’m able to read the Bible with some expectancy, and to pray and trust that God is directing my steps. I know I never left Him and that He never left me, but there was a stretch where I wondered…I wondered a lot.

I’m going home.