Everything started pointing towards doing this.
I looked out my window at the tiny weed jungle that used to be my garden while shaking the last prescription bottle of Ativan hoping one might have gotten stuck in the rim of the cap.
I started thinking about all the really awesome things I used to do and used to love. I started remembering excitement in the smell of freshly baked Rosemary rolls and sitting on the lawn in front of a transforming wooden stool with paint all over my arms and legs. And I peered in to my bedroom. The part of my home I close off to company and require a highly trained team of search and rescue just to locate a pair of clean underwear. Laundry wasn’t always THIS much of an issue.
There is a whole pile of things that just ceased to seem worth it after my son died. Folding clothes was one of them. There were some nights I decided to tackle the mountain of laundry and spent hours washing everything and sweeping forgotten socks out from under our bed. I would put on a movie and fold everything so neatly and organize by color and get ready to finally put everything back in its own perfect place. Then a woman would go in to labor and I would freeze- holding on to the edge of the couch for dear life. A birth cry would sound out loud through the speakers and then I would give up again. Neatly folded laundry piled on to the floor. No more energy for anything else but self-pity and denial and anger.
I woke up each morning knowing I had to change. Deciding today would be the day I would start over. I would turn my apartment in to the sanctuary it needed to be for my own sanity, I would start freezing banana bread again, I would paint the bathroom walls and finally try out that shabby chic DIY tutorial on our dresser. Instead, I’d watch 7 episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and went to bed severely pissed off with myself.
What happened to me?
“Your baby died”
Did I die too? Probably a little bit. Maybe a lot.
It has been just over 5 months. Freud would have an explanation for this. My Superego is saying “Come’on, get up, shake it off” and my ID is on the other end like “It’s too early, go get more wine, cry like hell and don’t worry about the expectations you have for yourself”. Neither of the voices are wrong, but they are so damn opposing! I am getting nowhere like this. I am no longer me.
I have always had my fair share of emotional issues. If I’m going to be public like this I might as well admit it all. Anxiety has been taking over my body and my mind long before I birthed my first child in to this world beautiful and dead. My palms get sweaty, my heart races, my index and middle fingers stick together as if they’ve been super glued. Sometimes I think I have a special magic organ in my stomach, a medical mystery if ever found by doctors, that occasionally releases a pack of angry evil butterflies that go rampant inside my body. Generalized Anxiety Disorder? I think the psychiatrist just diagnosed me as depressed but that wasn’t right because I have a lot of happiness and laughter in my life. My moods are a whole other story. And I am really sorry for everyone who has been close enough to me to witness the way I turn receiving love in to a paranoid conspiracy that I must defend myself against. At one point I really thought I had BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) and even have a copy of “I hate you, don’t leave me” in my sock drawer. I’ve done the prescription drug thing off and on, I self-medicate with large bottles of wine, but I have, through the years, found more natural ways to help my “condition”. Like someone with autism, pressure really seems to work. Before my husband came along my cat used to lay right up on my chest during a little panic attack. Regulating my breathing with the consistency of his calm puurrrrr. Now I just need to ask for a human sandwich and Nick knows to throw me on the couch and put all of his weight on me until my symptoms begin to ease.
I got in to baking hardcore one summer when I lived alone. I treated my anxiety with specialty breads, cupcakes, pies, quiches and pretzels. I learned how to braid bread and the importance of precise measuring. I also put my energy in to so many useful places. At one point I was so conscientious I recycled my toilet paper rolls. I hate to admit that if you looked in my trash right now you might see CANS- like the kind you get $$ back for from the bottle depot- I know, I know, I KNOW. Before I lost my baby I always had something on the go or was learning a new skill or becoming passionate about some grandiose and strange subject. I bounced around from task to task keeping busy and singing cheerfully while I worked. I am not saying I was ever an organized person, because that wouldn’t be true, (just take a look at my Pintrest boards!) and part of this transformation I am trying to start here is to become more organized as well as get back to the person I was before my life fell apart. In my first blog I wrote about all the pieces that shattered after my Hayden died. In this one I want to write about how I am going to put them back together. “Anxiety Cupcake” is my jigsaw puzzle project!
Ripped to shreds and reassembled, I am new.