My Laundry List

Beside my bed are two laundry baskets and another two-laundry bag full of clean laundry that I haven’t put away since washing them over a month ago. Mia likes to climb inside them in the mornings when I try to sleep in. She likes to pretend she’s taking a bath. Reminds me of when I used to climb into my parent’s closet and sit on top of their laundry basket filled with shoes. Laundry baskets are truly a children’s playground.

Next to the the clean laundry is another set of laundry baskets full of yarn, fabric, and other craft supplies along with other assorted piles of paperwork, books, and the occasional snack. I have to think really skinny thoughts to get into my closet and reach really far hoping I don’t fall on top of my piles and ruin my organized chaos.

I remember sharing a picture of the same side of my bed, just a different but familiar mess, a year ago. I was passionate to inform people what depression actually looked like. I'm still annoyed by the ad that inspired that post. I wish I could just tell adsense to just send me all the ads for yarn, fabric, and craft supplies, but that’s an issue for another day.

I’ve spent more time in bed this year than out of it. Being in bed means I have a love hate relationship with the objects that occupy the space around it. I love them for their constant presence, but I also hate them because they’re reminders that my body is weak. I use my energy to feed my kids in the morning, to change their diapers, to get them dressed, and after that my body protests and demands to lie down someplace where I won’t get jostled or jumped on.

My bed is so comfy. Warm blankets and my pillows that smell like my shampoo and Richard’s body wash. It’s safe. It’s my space. It's where I like to crochet and knit when I need me time. But I’ve had more than enough “me” time. While I don’t like the screaming or the jostling, I love that Mia, determined ninja that she is, scales my tall bed to tell me to get dressed in the mornings. It’s even sweeter when she climbs under the blankets to put her tiny popsicle toes against me, because she wants cuddles. More often than not, if either of my kids are frustrated with me, they often tell me to “go back a bed” or “go your room, mommy.” They associate me with my bedroom because lately, I’m rarely out of it.

Some days I think “I can totally be in the living room today. I can eat some breakfast like a normal human and be a decent parent for once.” I use up my energy to do the necessities (feed, change, and clothe the kids) and then I try to push through the discomfort of my guts feeling the weight of gravity. Then I try to beat back the nausea from my uncomfortable guts. And then I try to eat something and my body is like “abort! Abort! Abort!” while I tell it “we need energy, silly meat bag.”

My meat bag is very tired. My brain likes to also go into reflective mode when my body’s tired. I think about how gross I feel, and how I wish there was easier, cheaper options to test for food allergies than one insurance wont cover or a complete change of diet. I think about how grateful I am for doctors who do their best to treat my many ailments over the years with some preventative care. But I also have been told often “you’re so young to have this type of problem.” Considering the fact that several different doctors, across multiple specialties have told me this, my hypochondria is acting up again.

I’m educated enough to know there are risks with multiple tests. I’m educated enough to know that all the tests in the world won’t cure or solve everything. I’m educated enough to know that while modern medicine is incredible, there’s a lot of things doctors, scientists, and people just don’t know. When my bladder get’s another UTI, or my kidneys get an infection from the rouge UTI, I’m scared that my kidneys will fail like my dad’s did. When my guts act up, I just don’t want to eat anything for fear of living in the bathroom. And this is just the physical fears.

I feel like the laziest mom ever because my kids watch a lot of TV and I can barely interact with them. On days when I’m not curled up in a ball I regularly ask for hugs and kisses, of which only Corbin is usually interested. I feel like Richard carries me and all the primary parenting duties on his shoulders, which also makes me feel like the laziest wife ever.

I seek audio books and very talkative YouTube channels for some sense of human interaction, because when I spend all day in bed, I get very lonely. Richard is responsible and goes to work and then spends a lot of time with the kids, making them snacks and dinner, reading to them, helping them clean up their toys, and checking in on me every once in a while. He’s so tired by the end of the day that there’s some talking but not much, and I don’t want him to lose more sleep.

I try to knit or crochet or sew to beat away the boredom. I often try to get homework done when my brain has enough energy to do a lot of analysis. But often I’m playing games to do something that gives me a hint of feeling somewhat in control of my life- and kill digital spiders. They need to die.

            

            I am grateful for a very understanding husband. He went through a similar physical experience and his compassion makes me feel like I have a life raft to cling to in this whirlpool of suck.

I just wish I had the energy to put my laundry away.

Parenting with a Mental Illness

When my kids frustrate me and I lose my temper, I often have thoughts like “I hate you so much right now. I wish you were someone else’s problem.” Some weeks I want as little to do with my kids as possible. I don’t want to look at them. I don’t want to listen to them. I don’t even want to hear about what charming little things they did.

To put it bluntly, I don’t want to be a mom. I admit, some days aren’t so bad. But raising my own kids feels like a punishment rather than an adventure. I feel like Sisyphus – I wake up, do my best, only to make a mistake and watch all my progress roll back down the metaphorical hill, right to where I started.

To be fair, I’ve only really experienced parenthood from depressed and anxious mental state. I hated being pregnant from week 6 onward. I cried whenever the nurses left me alone with my son right after he was born. I have struggled with finding lasting peace and acceptance of this change in my life- and I now have two kids and my son is almost 4. I don’t think any parent would be enchanted by or happy about parenting when the outcome has led to lasting damage.

I had serious postpartum depression after my son was born and I spent a few weeks in the hospital being treated for suicidal ideation, because I couldn’t see a reason to keep living. Right after my daughter was born, for a small fraction of a moment, I kind of understood why people wanted more than one kid. But then my symptoms came back. My premenstrual dysphoric disorder reared its ugly head, and I have to battle this along with being a parent.

 PMDD has no cure. There are band-aids like medication, therapy, and exercise, but none of them stop my brain from feeling suicidal every month.

For all my fellow parents out there- you know the struggle of having to put an energetic child back in bed for the 50^th time. What it’s like to clean up vomit out of the carpet because they missed their bucket. The giant messes. The tantrums. The backtalk. These things alone are draining.  

I’m one of the several thousands of women who get the added bonus of feeling like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde every month. My own mind is working against me and I have to hold it together and be a decent parent. I feel like a concert pianist with my hands tied behind my back and I can only play with my nose, but I’m still expected to play Chopin perfectly.

Crying “life isn’t fair” will get me a Captain Obvious award. But I don’t know what else there is to say. I could go into a whole historical rant where expectations of modern mothers far exceed any expectations of historical mothers when it comes to childrearing. But none of that is going to stop the fact that this is my reality.

My reality is that I’m so frustrated with trying to keep myself together. I’m frustrated that I wake up some mornings with “I should die today” as my constant thought and still have to get out of bed and feed the kids and deal with tantrums like nothing’s wrong. I’m frustrated that toddlers are destructive and full of energy and I like a semblance of order and I have little to no energy. I’m frustrated by people sharing their “look how perfect my baby is. I love them so much. They’re my whole world. There’s nothing better than being a parent.” Not because they’re wrong, but because I have never seen parenthood that way, but feel expected to react that way when talking about my kids. I’m frustrated because my own capabilities are so limited, and so instead of hating myself- I end up hating my kids.

I know myself well enough to know that when I’m sad, I try to be productive through anger. Anger will make me clean up a mess. Sadness will make me stare at it and cry. Anger will make me save a crying child while sadness will make me let them scream. Anger moves me, sadness roots me. I have told myself and even got to a point where I legitimately believed that I hate my children. But the truth is, I hate myself. And that self-loathing has been a constant companion throughout my whole life.  I just projected it onto my kids because they are mine and I taught them to talk like me, act like me- and I hate what I see. But I know it is not them. It’s all me.

My biggest struggle is staying sane every month when it’s easier to yell and scream, and cry, and the only solution I find in this state of mind to fixing this stupid mess of my own self-sabotage is death. Because if I was dead, I wouldn’t be scarring my children for life. My husband wouldn’t have to wonder if today was a safe day to leave me home alone. Because the future looks so bleak, especially when I know that I’m going to deal with this for a vast majority of my adult life. Every month I turn into a monster, and every month I have to rebuild my relationship with my husband and kids and sometimes my extended family and friends. Every month I feel suicidal- sometimes it’s a passing thought, and other days, like today, I just want this torture to end.

Being a parent while feeling like a walking time bomb just sucks. I wonder what I did to deserve this situation. Emotional experience chalks it up to me being a terrible child. I made my parents hate me, so this is what I get. I know logically that doesn’t make sense- but emotionally it feels like the only answer that makes sense. Because bad things happen to bad people right?

But that’s not true. Things happen to people regardless of their “goodness” or “badness”. People get sick. People lose their jobs. Accidents happen. Attributing a punishment/reward mentality to life does nothing but make things more confusing.

Nobody “deserves” a mental illness.

I wanted kids when I talked about marriage with my husband when we were dating. I wanted kids after we were married. But once I had them, my own negative childhood experiences and my physical and mental state have painted parenthood as bleak and soul sucking. It’s nothing against my kids. This is just my burden to bear. I’m sure there are plenty of other parents out there who have felt something similar.

For those parents who too feel inadequate, guilty, or otherwise just plain awful because of what cards were dealt to them, I’ll gladly be the first to tell you it’s okay to not like parenting. It’s okay that your kids aren’t the center of your universe. It’s okay that you don’t feel as in love with being a parent as you “should” be. You don’t need to have an incredible bond with your child in order for you to be a “good” parent.

I admitted to my doctor that I wished that I could have taken motherhood off my plate. He didn’t berate me. He knew that my feelings were a legitimate concern and we had a good talk.  If you have similar feelings- share them with your doctor, therapist, trusted friend, or on a hotline if needed. You aren’t an awful person because of those feelings. Your feelings are a symptom, not a cause.

It’s scary to admit things like this out loud. Some people won’t take it well. Breathe. Keep trying until you find the person who listens, who understands. There may not be a magic cure to make it all go away, but it’s easier to find hope when you have an ally, than when you’re all alone.  

What living with PMDD feels like.

If periods make you queasy, then the TL;DR version is: I feel like Dr. Jekyll half the time and Mr.Hyde the other.

I've talked about Depression, Pregnancy, Social Anxiety, and childhood trauma here on my blog. But I haven't paid much attention to my PMDD.

Pre Menstural Dysphoric Disorder is basically my brain going on the fritz when I'm menstruating. It's not typical PMS. I still get regular period symptoms, like the bleeding,the cramping, the bloating, the irritableness. But on top of that I experience extreme depression, lack of concentration, low motivation, and often deal with thoughts of suicide or homicide.

Now the last bit might sound scary. I'm not going to sugar coat it- it is scary. Because on any given month, one day could have been great and the next morning I wake up to thoughts of "wouldn't things be better if I was dead?"

Night and day. That's what it's like. I go from friendly, invite everyone over for games and food, Daria to think thoughts like "if my children squeal one more time I'm going to smother them." I go from churning out projects like a machine to barely touching anything that isn't junk food or my phone. One moment I'm happy mom eager to sing silly songs to scary mom who shoves the children in their room and let them wrestle eachother to death.

And to be completely honest- it's terrifying. Somedays it's like that Studio C sketch- the "boys brain" and every aspect of the boy's mind is in charge but rational thought.

I like to think of my brain ala inside out, but with only two people in charge- Rational Thought and Emotional Thought. Emotional thought during my mebstural cycle liked to put herself on loudspeaker and shout at the top of her lungs whatever she is feeling in that moment. She has control of the panels and she does whatever feels right. Crying, screaming, hiding, stress eating, scroll through Facebook for hours, etc.

Rational is shoved aside and is the one mumbling in the background about how irrational my behavior is- "of course we don't want to be dead. Death doesn't actually solve any of these problems!"

Or when I yell - "Oh yeah. Great parenting right there. Did you really need to shout? Does it really make you feel that great?"

Or when I curl up in my bed and hide all day - "well, that was a productive day."

I know I'm overreacting to small problems. I know I didn't need to yell, or hide, or get into arguments. But I can't turn my emotions off. So I just ride the waves as best I can. I try to be rational, I really really do.

But my energy level is so low- because it was drained by moping, and fighting to get out of bed and get dressed. Or it was drained by having to deal with a toddler who refuses to stay in bed and finding the means to stay calm in the face of chaos. And this drainage happens. Every. Single. Month.

For half of the month, I'm my normal self. Human, but capable of handling life. The other half I turn into my evil twin.

It's rough. And it's scary. And I HATE it when I try to explain what's going on and it's just laughed off as silly PMS. Like I'm over exaggerating. Like my diagnosis is a no brainer.

I was in the hospital twice for suicidal ideation. A month apart. On my freaking period. I was okay after being released and then my cycle started again and I was not okay. I have evidence to prove that this is not all in my head. I am not faking or pretending things are worse to get attention.

So why tell all of this. Because I'm scared. Because I yell, and scream, and am purposefully mean because my first priority when I feel like this is "make whatever is causing me stress stop"- and my biggest stressors are my kids.

I tell this because I feel so alone. Because I have no idea what I need on bad days. Because I don't feel in control of myself at all. I feel like a monster. I feel unworthy of love and help because of how uncharacteristically cruel and short I can be. And it lasts two weeks and then it's over. I can be myself again for a little bit.

But then the process repeats.

In case you are saying to yourself "But Daria, what about birth controll?"

I am on birth control. It is a hormone. It has helped with my long lasting heavy flows, but it has not stopped the cycle of happy Dasha to Dasha Hyde.

"What about pregnancy?" If you haven't ready any of my blog posts about my pregnancies- pregnancy is a special living hell for me.

"What about medication?" Meds are important. They are. But they don't solve everything. They don't prevent the fight or flight response in cases of stress. They don't make every period cycle a smooth transition. Oh and they make my body hate me for a while- very very unhappy guts.

I feel like two different people. Happy Daria makes plans that Dasha Hyde is incapable of following through. It's like trying to keep a schedule with your worst enemy- you both hate eachother and wish the other would just shut up and do what I want already.

I wish this wasn't the demon I had to face. But here I am. My personal demon is the face I see in the mirror. It is terrifying. It is scary. And I really, really hate this. 

Sometimes I'm a Bad Friend

I’ve haven’t been treating my friends very well lately. Which is really, really unlike me. Because I care. I hate scaring people. I hate inconveniencing people. I strive to be the kind of person who is ready to be there for you whenever the need arises.

Because I didn’t have that growing up.

I didn’t have a person who stood in my corner when I was attacked. I didn’t have a people react well to being bothered when they were busy. I didn’t have a person who called out bad behavior. I didn’t have a person who protected me from the scariest person in the world.

I became that person, because I knew no one else was going to stand up for my siblings or my mother. I had to be the brave one. The strong one. The one who fought back. I claimed the role of Momma Bear, Mother Hen, the Protector, because nobody else would take on the mantle.  I never wanted anyone to ever feel the way I did.

The flip side of being the protective one, is that you gather a lot of people who rely on you. You gather people who look to you for comfort, love, advice, inspiration, etc. But they aren’t the kind of people whose first instinct is to catch you as you fall. They expect you to continue to stay strong no matter what.

So, when I say I haven’t been a very good friend lately- I should clarify. To me, my “bad” behavior looks like ignoring text messages, ending phone calls instead of answering, avoiding my friends.

Why am I doing that?

The short answer is “I’m tired.”

The full answer is a little bit more nuanced.

I have depression. Some days are really, really bad. Bad in this context means I’m struggling.

Struggling with feeling emotionally drained- like those times you have when you’ve been dealing with conflict with loved ones or when one bad thing after another keeps happening- and finding the “happy” is not the first thing on your mind. My struggles include sensitivity to noises, like screaming, crying, loud or repetitive sounds- they make me clench my teeth and flinch. Motivation is low- because things don’t hold much interest, or their demand of my attention feels draining.

So I did what I normally do on a particularly bad day- I reached out the best way I can when I feel drained- by sharing a Facebook post letting people know I’m not okay.

But I always have impeccable timing- because on my really bad days, everyone else is having an incredibly busy or rough day too. Normally I just give up on the fact that anyone will be able to help me at that moment and just lay on my bed and distract myself until hubby gets home.

However recently, with the amount of reoccurring “bad day, I let people know, nobody comes to help” instances, it’s beginning to feel like I’m not worth it. People read my “I’m having a bad day” and think I just woke up on the side of the bed. When my reality is my brain is telling me to jump in front of a bus, my kids are being typical destructive screaming toddlers, and I can’t stop crying.

On those days I feel like the worst parent in the world because I yell, because I want my noise to be heard. On those days I feel like a waste of space. The epitome of human garbage. My attempts of reaching out for someone, anyone to just come and sit in my house while I cry on their shoulder, or shower, or just have a quiet house for fifteen minutes and is met with nothing but “I’m sorry” and “love you” makes me want to scream.

I scroll on the internet, waiting to just feel numb so I can attempt to tune out the “I’m garbage” echoes in my head. And when friends see my post and text or call, all asking me to do something- let them know if there’s anything they can do, do I want to go out, do I need anything- I was angry.

Angry that I had to continue to explain how I felt. Angry that my call for help was interpreted as a “I’m being a good friend if I ask you how you’re doing ” instead of the one thing I actually needed.

All that anger brought up other memories, memories of me reaching out the best way I knew how – asking to live with friends because I couldn’t stand living at home anymore and being told no. Trying to explain how bad things were and being brushed off with, "everyone get’s mad sometimes." There were more times than I can remember- and no one believed me, or were too busy to do anything.

I relied on isolation then, to protect myself. And I have reverted back to isolation now to cope with my feelings of rejection and dismissal. I feel angry even now, even though the recent occurrence was a week ago. Because it’s easier to be angry and lash out, then it is to sit in isolation and feel truly, and undeniably alone.

Rationally, I know I’m not being fair to the people who have worried about me for days. I know it’s not fair to judge them for their lives being busy, having obligations, or having their own bad days.

Emotionally I wish they never made the promise “call me if you need anything” because it feels like a lie. A lie that they tell to feel good about themselves, but one they never intend to act upon. Which is unfair, because friends do come help, family does reach out and watch the kids. I don’t expect people to revolve around my life, nor would I want them to. I just wish that people understood the depth and true severity of the situations when I make my “It’s a bad day” posts. Because on days like that, I don’t need your words of concern or affirmation. I need a hug. I need a babysitter. I need someone else to actually be the strong one while I lose it.

I’m sure some of my good friends reading this are like, you told us you wanted us to check in, and now you don’t? Why do you keep changing what you need?

Because I’m human. Because on bad days, words of affirmation feel like lies. They don’t sink in. “I love you!” from far away is as good as “I ate a sandwich”. It’s just words. There’s no, “I love you enough to drive over. I love you enough to watch your kids. I love you enough to hold you while you cry. I love you enough to listen. “ That’s the difference. And I’m going to admit that when it’s a really bad day, like last week, I still might not respond well. I’ll still isolate myself, I still won’t believe anything you say, I will still be emotionally distant. Because I’m struggling, and the words “I’m garbage”, “Why am I not good enough?” will be the soundtrack in my brain. And all that any of us can do is wait it out.

I guess the thing I hope you take away from me sharing these occurrences is to check in before your friends post they’re having a bad day. If they are having a bad day, and you are able to- take them food, a good movie or game, give them a hug, clean their house, put them in the shower - anything to let them know that you care both in words and in deed.

The other thing that I think is incredibly important to understand about people with mental health issues is explaining everything that’s going on in their head can be complicated, extremely frustrating to condense, or just plain exhausting. It really can be a struggle to have to tell people over and over and over again why you feel sad- when maybe the only reason is the chemical imbalance and the medication isn’t adapting. You are not entitled to the inner working’s of their mind. It’s not wrong to ask them what’s wrong. Just let them know that they don’t have to talk about it or explain everything. Let them know that you are there to be supportive presence, and not another drain upon their energy.

I really do have good friends, whom I love and I know love me. Right now I'm working on forgiving the ones in the past and the ones in the present for not saving me when I wanted to be saved.

Adventures with a New Therapist

I went to see a new therapist today. It was not a good therapy day. Not because of the paperwork, that’s just a necessary evil. No. Today was difficult because I had to answer questions that even I don’t ask myself anymore.

Trying to explain to a complete stranger why you answered “I feel the dread of impending doom” on a questionnaire is no easy feat. Because trying to take your thoughts and translate them into comprehensible English is hard enough. Add crying to the mix just makes it that much more difficult.

To answer the question- things just…

Bad things happen to everyone. But it often feels like the universe likes to be particularly cruel with its distribution of “sucky-ness” when it comes to me and my family. It’s hard to be excited for the future when you know that getting your hopes up for good things is just asking for heartbreak. Example, getting kicked out of your house not long after Christmas. Finding out your parent has a disease and watching them being hooked up to a machine daily in order to live. Watching another parent go through an already sucky pregnancy and then miscarrying.  Sibling getting injured right after a parent loses a job.

And from the stories from one parent’s childhood- let me just say, that they’ve been dealt a whole load of suck their entire life, and it just only goes down hill from there.

So I find it extremely hard to find things to be excited about in the “future”. If I want to function like a slightly normal person, I don’t allow myself to think that far ahead. Because the future only holds chaos, pain, and day to day suck fests.

I still cling to the immature belief that good things should happen to good people and life proves me wrong every step of the way. I just want things to lighten up. I want the world to just freeze and be okay for five freaking minutes. But life doesn’t work like that.

Everyone has tragedies, crises, failures, and letdowns. Everyone also has good things happen to.

But back to therapy.

I know people mean well when they bring up the good things. Like my little family. But again, this stranger doesn’t know me yet. They don’t know that I originally sought out therapy because I believed that my son “stole the sun”. I believed that my pregnancy with him screwed me up. On the really bad days sometimes I still believe that. But I’m seeking therapy now to try and heal from my miserable, awful childhood.

It was hard answering question after question about why I answered the way I did, only to start crying all over again and have to take five minutes just to be able to speak. Again, crying isn’t weakness- I’m just annoyed because it’s a barrier to explaining my thoughts.

After our session, I wanted to call up my previous therapist. I wanted therapy for going to therapy. Haha.

I feel raw. I feel drained. I feel all the emotions of digging up the past- anger, pain, vulnerable, protective. I am again emotionally paralyzed and I can’t do anything remotely productive when it comes to work. My hands and my brain aren’t responding. Because all I want to do is curl up in my bed and listen to lives other than my own- be they on the internet or in an audiobook until I don’t feel anymore. 

A Difficult Day

Sometimes things dont get done. The pile of laundry in the corner of my bedroom is as tall as me, my kitchen hasn't been mopped in months, and I cant even see the floor of my children's bedroom.

I think the last time I truly deep cleaned one room was literally December. It's now May. There are dirty dishes that have sat by my sink for literal months, always getting glanced over for more pressing dishes, like sippy cups and spoons.

Sometimes I feel insane- seeing things where others dont, making mountains out of molehills. I wonder if anyone else feels the weight of the chaos pressing in on them, trying to swallow them into the black void that is MESS.

I reach to make a real dinner from scratch, not from a box, and things are squishy that shouldn't be.

The children are screaming. And when there's silence I turn around to see more mess- fabric pieces thrown everywhere like confetti. But I cant rush to put it away because I have chicken on high heat, and it's almost done. One minute is the difference between cooked and burnt.

They're hitting eachother. Screaming at eachother. Nothing I'm doing is helping. I know that my children won't even eat what I made. Why am I even doing this to myself?

They brought toys into the kitchen. Every step must be thought out carefully if I don't want to stick to the floor. Or worse, slip and pour everything on top of myself.

There's some kind of loud rattling coming from outside, like someone decided to make themselves a nuts and bolts smoothie. I can't get the clamor of screaming kids, the kitchen timer, and this unknown noise from pressing in.

It's a different noisy now. After husband finally woke up from his nap. After fleeing the house. The birds are singing. There's the swooshing of cars as they drive past. But my mind can only help me type as my heart continues to pound. My teeth ache, I forgot I've been clenching my jaw.

I wonder how other mothers do it. If they too shove their children in their bedroom and pray that they just come out alive in a half hour. If they contemplate just letting their children wander outside by themselves and become some other poor soul's problem.

A familiar yet hated cage, this stay at home mom situation. I feel guilty for sitting by myself and working alone for a few hours everyday. I feel guilty for wanting to leave. To plan time outside of the house, because it becomes harder and harder to find available and willing babysitters.

I crave freedom. I crave being outside, but I hate leaving my home. Because people are scary. They will see me and know that I'm a terrible mother. They will see my children and hate them because they aren't clean enough, nice enough, smart enough. They will hate me and wish that I didnt exist, they will see me and my spawnlings as a burden. And all the effort and work I do is for nothing.

Today is a hard day, harder when my spouse is already tired, already done with the few hours he spent with the kids. And it's my turn again to pull the chaos into some kind of familiar order.

It's exhausting, this life of work never being done. And it won't ever be enough. Hindsight will plague me with would's and should's. Because experience hasn't proved to me otherwise.

This isn't the worst day ever. It's not even a bad day compared to most. Despite that, here I am typing my thoughts in a cemetery not wanting to go home.

Usually I'm good with tying in some kind of lesson I want people to learn. Perhaps today is that the ordinary can be unbearable. 

My Thoughts on Abortion

I am but one voice among the many. Since it's not my state that passed the abortion law, my opinion shouldn't hold that much weight.

But I have this feeling, that somebody out there is wondering where I sit with all this. Maybe it's a friend, maybe it's family, or former coworkers. I don't know who needs to hear me of all people but I'll state my case anyway.

I grew up like many other Christian people did, believing abortion was evil. I even said something along those lines to a girl when I was 12. She had told me that her mother had one, long before she was born. I don't remember her exact response, but I do remember the hurt in her eyes and the lesson I learned. Which was that her mother was human, and it wasn't my place to judge this girl's mother, let alone call her evil.

When I got home that day, I told my mother about the experience. And you know what she told me?

 Abortion is between you and God.

Sometimes things happen to a woman that are scary, and terrible, like rape. God wouldn't force her to live through that experience. It's not our place to judge her for her decision. Because in the end, it's between her and her creator.

I have thought long and hard about that conversation over the years.

Now, I have gone into detail about the unpleasant experiences I had growing up in a different post. If you want a clearer picture you can read my Unpacking Baggage post. Here, I will simply say that I often wondered why my parents had so many kids. Why my dad kept me, if he hated me and my siblings so much. I don't wish my childhood on anyone. I often wondered why I was even born if he obviously didn't want me.

I am well aware that there are so many kids out there living in abusive homes, being neglected, bouncing from foster home to foster home, and living in orphanages, or subject to slave trafficking. The adults of this world are not kind to children. Sometimes children are treated as trophies- beautiful in public but never treated with love or affection at home. And worse, the women subject to terrible circumstances, and then being handed the responsibility of taking care of themselves while pregnant. My heart mourns along with these mothers and children in their current state.

My opinion? I believe in God. I practice my religion. I believe that abortion should only be practiced in cases of threat to a mother's health, or in cases of rape and incest. And I believe that *I* should follow that belief.

Others? They didn't have my upbringing. Those young teen moms, the mothers with cancer, the women dealing with addiction and mental illness. And the women who wan't an abortion because they can't take care of a child, or another one. Women who suffer from the fear of being pregnant. Pregnancy is awful. I know. I've been through it twice and for me it is literal Hell. I wouldn't wish that Hell on anyone that wasn't fully willilng to undergo it, keeping the baby or no.

That is why, I personally, fully support a woman's choice and access to abortion. I'm not being forced to get an abortion and neither is anyone else. I believe that
women need to have a safe place to go, without resorting to deadlier methods to get rid of a child they clearly do not want.

Because I am a firm believer that children shouldn't grow up believing that they are the reason for their parent's suffering. They shouldn't grow up questioning why they even exist. They shouldn't be praying to a God they have a hard time believing in why they were born. Or worse, praying to God to let them die, because they weren't wanted in the first place.

I dont feel like adoption is a part of this argument. Because for me, adoption isn't just putting a child into a system of care. It's adults picking and choosing a child. Children don't get to pick their parents, whether they are adopted or not.

I do have further feelings on the subject of adoption, but they are not needed for this post.

I don't need to argue about the NY law, because it's not my state. My opinion is nothing to those lawmakers or citizens.

I don't need to argue with you, my reader, either. Because like my mother so eloquently said, "it's between you and God." You don't have to agree with me. I understand your point of view, whether you call every abortion murder or not.

I just want the women who have contemplated, or undergone an abortion, to know that I love them. Your reasons are your own. Your fears, dreams, hopes, and struggles are your own. I will stand with you while others spread their hate and scorn. Because I too have been there.

I sat there staring at a positive pregnancy test two weeks after getting out of the hospital for suicidal ideation, wondering if my meds and therapy were going to be enough to keep me and my little family safe from myself. I did survive pregnancy a second time, but I had an amazing support system.

You might not have a support system. I understand why you wouldn't, couldn't, keep a baby.

Again. "It's between you and God." I am here to simply love you.