Projections

When I graduated from grade school (it was a K-8 type establishment), I thought I was going to become a great feminist orator, taking down the patriarchy one impassioned Gloria Steinem speech at a time. When I graduated from high school, I thought I was going to become a great humanitarian, an eventual czarina of the American Red Cross, traveling the world on a campaign to suck the world of its healthy blood.

When I graduated from college, I thought I would move to Boston, drink a lot of martinis, work a mediocre job while applying to law school, and eventually become a great attorney, vanquishing injustice one power suit trip at a time.

When I graduated from graduate school, I thought I was really in a pickle because I would have loans and a kid and a mortgage and no time or no energy reserve to produce anything worthwhile for the next eight years.

And I have to say that pretty much none of these projections have really come true.  There are letters next to my name that don't mean a lot.  There are bills in my name that should mean more but don't.  There are clips in my portfolio for which I nearly killed myself and for which I was paid a pittance.  There are dozens of jobs on my resume that led me closer to more detours that led me closer to more doubt and self-loathing. Yet I wouldn't trade any of it for a smarter dossier, a shinier car, a more assured career path.

I want this life, this one that I never expected.  This union with my best friend, my laughing partner, Saturday nights spent unloading Trader Joe's of all of its inventory.  This urbane home of the dirty, cluttered, creaky floors and the neighbors who like to bang upstairs.  This full-time job of motherhood where the overtime pay comes in chubby fingers reaching out to latch on to yours.

Not even 30 and my stock portfolio includes a closet full of lip gloss and an enviable supply of cloth diapers.

Happy Mother's Day to those who never expected to love the job as much as you do, and for all those who will join the force soon, I'm wishing you a blessed journey.

And to you, Newbie 'Nother Baby:  We're keeping a "wook-out" for you....

P.S. Here's a Mum's Day-ish column I wrote.  Enjoy.

Out the Rabbit Hole

There are some things we have to do in order to get the urge out of our system, no?  I don't mean nefarious deeds or illicit affairs.  I mean more alone the lines of indulging our curiosities until we flush that curiosity right out of our system. In my case, that has meant:

- Eating 3 Aunt Annie's pretzels in one afternoon.  Glad I got that urge out of my system.

- Yelling at the top of my lungs in the college weight room at two guys that kept changing the radio station to super misogynist song station.  I don't think I will be creating another scene like this, again.  Out of my system.

- Marrying an Asian.  So glad that whole desire was fulfilled and put away.  And I kid!

- Applying to law school.  This is pathetic, but there was a time when I just needed to get the whole application and acceptance song and dance out of my system.  To prove that I was that smart, based on some faceless law school admissions committee decision.  I got in, I never attended, and it's out of my system for good.  For sure.

- Snorting a Pixi Stick.  It was red, it was messy, it hurt.  Out! Out of my system.

- I am sure Loverpants could rattle off a mile-long list of other things I just neeeeeeeded to buy/see/chew/do so that I could tuck away that burning desire.

But the latest includes getting our pictures made with the mall bunny.  Just had to do it.  Glad we did.  No regrets.  The bunny's name was Dennis.  Crossed Dennis off the list.

***

Fallout

I have recently been battling a few things that have crept up to the emotional surface.  I made out their forms beneath the murky waters of obsessiveness and doubt, I saw their heads rise and I was ready with my harpoon.  I tried to conquer them. But the battles were exhausting, and kept compromising my sleep. Until I realized that those forms in the water would always be there, would always keep rising to the surface.  And they weren't mine to battle.

***

I went through a very low time this past summer.  I scared my daughter.  I scared my husband.  I scared myself.  My fears about our finances and the what-ifs of placing Baby Girl in day care absolutely consumed me.  I slept very little in the month of June, and even less in July.  I would lash out about everything.  By early August, I had to take a four-hour roundtrip flight with Baby Girl and on the way home, I remember thinking that if the plane went down, I would actually be relieved because then I wouldn't have to deal with everything that was burdening me at that time.  I came home and cried and cried {I am not a big crier} and felt terrified of what I was capable.  Loverpants asked me pointblank if I thought I needed to be hospitalized. He was ready to take me that night. ***

It's hard to think back to that time.  It seems like it happened a long, long time ago, to another woman, in another season of life. ***

I started therapy.  I started an anti-anxiety medication.  It turns out that it's not normal, it's not just the parasitic stress of new motherhood that prompts a total-body panic - about nothing in particular - while driving in the car, on roads you've driven before, on perfectly sunny days with no place to be in a hurry.

*** I won't say the healing was instantaneous, but it was expedited by the meds, a visit from my mother, and by the encouragement I received from Baby Girl's childcare provider that all would be well.  These forces, along with my employment going exceptionally well, seemed to fast-track me on the path to mental wellness again.

*** The other souvenir that I take from this time is something that my therapist {and believe me when I say, I know how v. pretentious starting anything with "My Therapist says..." sounds} is that I do a lot of judging of myself, judging my thoughts, judging my reactions, judging my own judgment. Therapist said I should try to acknowledge...and move on.  I should say, "Ah, I'm having a moment of irrational fear about this.  I'm acknowledging it, and ...I'm over it."  Corny, but helpful.

***

I tear a page out of Dooce's playbook in saying that I know many who read this will think I am being a complete First World Ween about this whole thing, that I should have prayed more or done more yoga or gone pescatarian and all of my problems would have melted away.  And that's fine.  They can think that.

But I have found something that works and I feel happy most days and capable of taking care of my family and myself.  If anything, my faith has been strengthened in the last six months because the excessive doubt and fear no longer plagues my every thought; I can concentrate on Him, His goodness and care. My prayer is that anyone who is feeling in the pits of despair might also receive the same good care as I have received.  And that no one would worry about any judgment.  You can be sure it's not coming from me; I'm too busy trying not to judge myself.