Therapy and Haircuts

Tuesdays are therapy day. I see my counselor once a week as we continue unwinding my history. It's a good news, bad news scenario. I'd like to say I always feel better after that meeting, but of course I don't. Like yesterday, I thought we were going to talk about one thing, but in the middle of it things shifted to something different. Something I've never talked about much with anyone, because I'm ashamed of how strongly I feel about it.

I've been pregnant twice and given birth to 2 beautiful, healthy children. They are all grown-up now at 24 and 21. I used to joke that I'm bad at pregnancy, but at least I make great kids. 

The reality is there is some really deep pain with those difficult pregnancies. I felt like a failure because here was the most natural thing in the world -- bringing new life into the world -- it's what my body was made for -- and yet, I struggled with it both times. So much so that my ob/gyn practically begged me to never get pregnant again after my son was born. 

I spent a lot of my life feeling like a failure. An outsider. The one who didn't get the instruction manual. Now, at 52, I understand that much of that feeling was the result of the abuse I suffered as a child. But it's also from the resulting relationships I built after missing out on some basic sequential development. Abuse stunts development. Survivors go on growing physically, and we do a really good job of masking and pretending we're just like everyone else, but there's significant damage that's been done, and left alone it festers and grows. 

Yesterday I opened up another chapter to look at and understand pain and loss. It caught me off guard, and I sat sobbing trying to explain between gasps that while I felt better about what we had been talking about to begin with, a whole new area of pain had opened up in the process. My therapist looked at me and let me explain. She sat back and listened and we regrouped. Made some new plans and she gave me homework. 

I left her office still trying to calm the tears, but I didn't really try to hide it and I didn't internally run from the feelings. Instead I sat in my car and thought about what had happened and what I needed now. I took care of myself and made a plan.

Later in the day I had a hair appointment. I'm blessed with a stylist who is smart and caring, and for good or ill a survivor herself. It's another mixed bag having a hair appointment on therapy day. I had another round of discussions with her. Mostly about different things, but still intense. And here's the thing -- it was good. I got a clear cut reminder that I'm not alone in my fear and insecurities. We laughed about scheduling hair appointments for any other day in the future, but it might have been a blessing yesterday.

So today I'm feeling a bit wrung out and I didn't sleep well, but I still feel better. I took something out and looked at it. I'm not carrying it by myself anymore and that is always a good thing.



linking up with Just Write

Day 8 of 31

Three weeks before my son was born, I planned his funeral. 

Pregnancy was hard for me, and I've never known how much of that was abuse related and how much was just the vagaries of fate.

When I was pregnant with my daughter I developed pre-eclampsia late in my third trimester. They put me on bed rest and then induced me 2 weeks after my due date. I labored for 24 hours to no avail, and wound up having a c-section to deliver my beautiful red-headed 9 pound baby girl.

Throughout my pregnancy with my son there were all kinds of difficulties. Early bed rest. No heavy lifting. And inside my head was the question, "Why can't I do something as simple as pregnancy right?" 

That day I went to see the ob/gyn and he said don't do anything until this baby is born. So I went home, glad that I'd hired a college student to come and help with housework. She came that afternoon and I fretted while she cleaned my house and I did nothing but lay on the sofa. My daughter was 3 and as I picked her up, I felt a gush of water. I called the doctor and he said go straight to the hospital labor and delivery. I called my husband.

As we drove to the hospital, I told him if the baby died I wanted a funeral. He was a real person, and he deserved to be recognized as such. I was 7 months pregnant and this was 19 years ago. I didn't know what his odds were, but I assumed they were bad. And yet I was calm. I would handle this.

I spent the next 3 weeks in the hospital praying for my baby to be all right and wondering why I couldn't do things right. Why did I always have to screw things up and make drama?

When my son was born all those weeks later, it wasn't him they were worried about. It was me. I was in intensive care for a couple of days, and I railed at God to please let me live to care for these children. I wasn't scared of dying. I just didn't want to leave my babies without a mama.

Over 19 years later, I look back on that time and the first thing I feel is gratitude. My son is healthy and happy and away at college. He is strong, loving, and full of humor. When I wrap my arms around him I am still amazed.

But the second thing I feel is sadness. Sadness that I spent all those months of pregnancy worrying about what I was doing wrong. All those weeks sitting in the hospital berating myself for failing at something so simple as having a baby. 

The lasting effects of abuse.

But the final emotion I feel? It's joy. Joy for that beautiful baby boy grown into a fine young man, and joy for me that I have pushed through to the other side. Not perfectly, but with resolve to fight to the end to reclaim my life.


linking up with Lisa-Jo and Ann Voskamp

RemembeRED -- Comparisons

It was May 1993. We went to the mountains with another couple as a getaway. We rented a cabin just outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, the same cabin we’d stayed in for our honeymoon. 

The weather was beautiful that weekend. We unloaded cars and headed to the grocery. We bought lots of healthy, easy foods to prepare, and just a little junk food. The next day we planned to hike Laurel Falls. It’s a relatively easy trail that leads to beautiful waterfalls where we could picnic and rest before heading back.

Saturday morning we headed out late in the morning for the trail. I was really pushing myself to keep up with the others. They seemed to be in much better shape than I was, and I was getting embarrassed that I was slowing them down. A couple of times, John, asked if I was all right. I assured I was and that there was no need to slow down just for me. I kept comparing myself constantly to everyone else on the trail – not just my group. Why was I having such a hard time? I was really having trouble breathing and my face was flushed. Finally we made it to the falls. We settled on some of the large boulders and ate our picnic. After lunch the others decided to play around in the falls. I sat on our lunch rock, too tired to contemplate anything but the walk back to the car.

When we got back to the cabin I had to lie down and take a nap.

The rest of the weekend was relaxing and uneventful. We drove home on Sunday and picked up our daughter from my parents house.

On Monday morning I had an appointment with my doctor. I went in for a checkup and they wouldn’t let me go home. They wanted me to go straight to the hospital. My blood pressure was very elevated. Did I mention I was 28 weeks pregnant at the time?

It took me years to realize that I had been comparing apples and oranges while on that hike. I wasn’t lazy and out of shape. I was pregnant! I was developing signs of toxemia that would ultimately lead to my son’s premature birth, and would leave me near death.

link up at RemembeRED