It's been 70+ days since we found out that the adoption fell through.
In that time I've: wept, blogged, withdrawn from the world, come back out into the world, exercised, not exercised, gained and lost 6 pounds, gone back to therapy, attended a conference for work, decided that I'm going to have a nervous breakdown if I continue my work, tendered my resignation (effective July 1), started looking into new careers and returning to school, cleaned my house, let my house become a complete wreck, avoided the subject of adoption, talked incessantly about adoption, got weepy when I would see little babies out with their moms, came down with The Plague, missed a week of work, started revamping my novel.
And...
At least over the course of the past week, I stopped thinking about the fact that I am still not a mom.
Until today.
It just kind of hit me. And I don't know why. I walk into the house after my trip to the gym and there it is loud and clear in my head:
I. Am. Still. Not. A. Mom.
Which then leads to this thought:
Chris. Is. Still. Not. A. Dad.
And the really sad thing is that we're not having those great little conversations that we had been having for a long time before the adoption fell through...
"We're not going to be able to sleep in on the weekends anymore once the baby comes."
"I can't wait until we get to take her to her first PawSox game!"
"Omigod. I am so not looking forward to the poopy diapers."
Nope.
It seems like we've kind of lost our enthusiasm.
We've turned our attention to other things to avoid thinking about the fact that we were supposed to be more than two months into parenthood by now.
I am still not a mom.
Which kind of sucks.
However, there's not much I can do about that now except be in the present moment.
And so in this present moment I am off to drink a green smoothie, have some lunch, shower and then hit the grocery store.
Life goes on.
22 May 2011
18 May 2011
Being with discomfort
"Did you take anything for that?" my husband asks me a few days ago during the height of what I am now calling "The Plague." The "that" he's referring to is me practically hacking up a lung every twenty minutes or so.
"No [coughs]," I reply in a deep scratchy voice through a stuffed up head and chest. "I'm waiting until I go to bed for the night [coughs] to take any cold meds [sneezes and blows nose twice] so I can at least breathe a little better while I sleep. [coughs] During the day I'm just trying to let [sneezes] this thing make its way [coughs] through my system."
He looks at me as if I have lost my mind.
"Yeah...umm...OK."
A few hours after this conversation I still cannot breathe. I'm huddled in my nest of blankets on the living room couch and still hacking away. Our elderly cat is enjoying the warmth I'm emitting as a result of my fever. She lays snoozing on top of me, opening her eyes each time I cough to regard me with a baleful glare as if to say, "You're disturbing my nap. Hush."
Like my husband, I'm sure the cat would love it if I would just take the cold medication.
Nope.
Unlike those folks who medicate themselves day and night in an attempt to squelch every symptom of an illness, I prefer to simply be still and quiet and let whatever upper respiratory yuck (because that's usually what I get) just run it's course.The cold meds aren't going to make it go away any more quickly. If anything, I sometimes think squelching the symptoms slows the progress of a virus through your system forcing it to linger.
Better to just let it do its thing and get it over with.
Yep, that's my strategy.
It hits me as I'm laying there trapped under the cat and coughing yet again: In spite of feeling wretched, I am actually good at sitting with physical discomfort.
I am good at just being quiet for days on end and being still and sitting with the discomfort. At waiting it out and letting it run its course.
How weird is that?
In the next moment it hits me that, sadly, I do not possess the same skill when it comes to my mental and emotional life. While I might be good at sitting with physical discomfort, experiencing psychic discomfort of any kind...yikes!
Nope. Not good at all at being quiet and being still when it comes to sitting with difficult emotions or thoughts.
Like most people, I want to squelch the symptoms of discomfort in the realms of the mental and the emotional - numb them with things like food, movies, televsion, my computer, solitaire, anything fun and pleasant that will distract from the discomfort.
How sad is that?
And especially now when I have just given notice at my job, with no new job in the wings and my future plans uncertain. I'm making the leap into parenthood (hopefully, if our adoption ever goes through) and potentially into a writing career.
Yep, there's definitely going to be some psychic discomfort heading my way.
Maybe I should replicate my nest of blankets from my days with The Plague? Think that would help?
"No [coughs]," I reply in a deep scratchy voice through a stuffed up head and chest. "I'm waiting until I go to bed for the night [coughs] to take any cold meds [sneezes and blows nose twice] so I can at least breathe a little better while I sleep. [coughs] During the day I'm just trying to let [sneezes] this thing make its way [coughs] through my system."
He looks at me as if I have lost my mind.
"Yeah...umm...OK."
A few hours after this conversation I still cannot breathe. I'm huddled in my nest of blankets on the living room couch and still hacking away. Our elderly cat is enjoying the warmth I'm emitting as a result of my fever. She lays snoozing on top of me, opening her eyes each time I cough to regard me with a baleful glare as if to say, "You're disturbing my nap. Hush."
Like my husband, I'm sure the cat would love it if I would just take the cold medication.
Nope.
Unlike those folks who medicate themselves day and night in an attempt to squelch every symptom of an illness, I prefer to simply be still and quiet and let whatever upper respiratory yuck (because that's usually what I get) just run it's course.The cold meds aren't going to make it go away any more quickly. If anything, I sometimes think squelching the symptoms slows the progress of a virus through your system forcing it to linger.
Better to just let it do its thing and get it over with.
Yep, that's my strategy.
It hits me as I'm laying there trapped under the cat and coughing yet again: In spite of feeling wretched, I am actually good at sitting with physical discomfort.
I am good at just being quiet for days on end and being still and sitting with the discomfort. At waiting it out and letting it run its course.
How weird is that?
In the next moment it hits me that, sadly, I do not possess the same skill when it comes to my mental and emotional life. While I might be good at sitting with physical discomfort, experiencing psychic discomfort of any kind...yikes!
Nope. Not good at all at being quiet and being still when it comes to sitting with difficult emotions or thoughts.
Like most people, I want to squelch the symptoms of discomfort in the realms of the mental and the emotional - numb them with things like food, movies, televsion, my computer, solitaire, anything fun and pleasant that will distract from the discomfort.
How sad is that?
And especially now when I have just given notice at my job, with no new job in the wings and my future plans uncertain. I'm making the leap into parenthood (hopefully, if our adoption ever goes through) and potentially into a writing career.
Yep, there's definitely going to be some psychic discomfort heading my way.
Maybe I should replicate my nest of blankets from my days with The Plague? Think that would help?
17 May 2011
How many self-help books are too many?
I open the plastic storage bin in search of a specific journal that I've used in the past to record notes and thoughts about a particular self-help book.
And there they all are.
My collection.
I've had to move them because we turned what was the guest room/my studio into the baby's room. My studio is now down in our finished basement. And I haven't taken the time to pull out and shelve my self-help book collection in the new space.
Until I look at them in their bin this evening, I had forgotten how many self-help books that I actually own.
Holy buckets, Batman.
That's a whole lot of advice from a whole bunch of experts staring me in the face from inside that bin.
That's a whole lotta books.
Books rife with meditations and affirmations. Buddhist books. Art therapy guides. Zen books. Writing therapy guides. Mystical books. Practical self-help books filled with strategies that I can easily incorporate into my everyday life!
Authors who promise they'll take me on the wonderful journey to becoming the thin, healthy, professionally fulfilled, sexy, happy human being that they know I can be!
Many of my self-help collection have illustrations. Others have accompanying workbooks or spaces within for me to write and journal. Still others allow me to create my own illustrations or add my own artistic touches.
So many tomes devoted to guiding me through multiple exercises that will lead me through the pain through the suffering through my past and my present to get to the healing and to discover my ultimate truth!!!
I've read them all. I've worked through them all.
And yet...
Here I am.
Forty-three years old and not quite where I would like to be in my life.
Still struggling.
Still looking to yet another new self-help book for some guidance and inspiration.
Maybe I just haven't connected with the right book yet?
How many self-help books are too many?
And there they all are.
My collection.
I've had to move them because we turned what was the guest room/my studio into the baby's room. My studio is now down in our finished basement. And I haven't taken the time to pull out and shelve my self-help book collection in the new space.
Until I look at them in their bin this evening, I had forgotten how many self-help books that I actually own.
Holy buckets, Batman.
That's a whole lot of advice from a whole bunch of experts staring me in the face from inside that bin.
That's a whole lotta books.
Books rife with meditations and affirmations. Buddhist books. Art therapy guides. Zen books. Writing therapy guides. Mystical books. Practical self-help books filled with strategies that I can easily incorporate into my everyday life!
Authors who promise they'll take me on the wonderful journey to becoming the thin, healthy, professionally fulfilled, sexy, happy human being that they know I can be!
Many of my self-help collection have illustrations. Others have accompanying workbooks or spaces within for me to write and journal. Still others allow me to create my own illustrations or add my own artistic touches.
So many tomes devoted to guiding me through multiple exercises that will lead me through the pain through the suffering through my past and my present to get to the healing and to discover my ultimate truth!!!
I've read them all. I've worked through them all.
And yet...
Here I am.
Forty-three years old and not quite where I would like to be in my life.
Still struggling.
Still looking to yet another new self-help book for some guidance and inspiration.
Maybe I just haven't connected with the right book yet?
How many self-help books are too many?
03 May 2011
The missing piece...
Being present is challenging when you're waiting for something.
Especially when you're waiting for a big something.
Like becoming a mom.
And you have no idea when it's going to happen.
Or even if it's going to happen.
As hard as I try to be in the present moment, to be in the here and now, to enjoy this moment and the next, to live...somehow it just feels like my life is on hold.
I hang out with my husband, go to work, go to the gym, see friends, write, make art, do all of the things that I once did before we decided to adopt, but now I do these things with a sense that I'm missing something.
Something essential.
Every part of me is just aching everyday for that missing piece.
Still...everyday I try to smile, try to be a good wife/daughter/friend, try to do my job, try to take care of my body. And everyday I feel it down to my core. The missing piece.
How can I miss something so much that I've never had?
Especially when you're waiting for a big something.
Like becoming a mom.
And you have no idea when it's going to happen.
Or even if it's going to happen.
As hard as I try to be in the present moment, to be in the here and now, to enjoy this moment and the next, to live...somehow it just feels like my life is on hold.
I hang out with my husband, go to work, go to the gym, see friends, write, make art, do all of the things that I once did before we decided to adopt, but now I do these things with a sense that I'm missing something.
Something essential.
Every part of me is just aching everyday for that missing piece.
Still...everyday I try to smile, try to be a good wife/daughter/friend, try to do my job, try to take care of my body. And everyday I feel it down to my core. The missing piece.
How can I miss something so much that I've never had?
29 April 2011
All will be revealed...
"Can you at least tell me what I need to wear? Casual? Dressy? What?" I ask my husband for the fourth time earlier this week.
"No. All will be revealed on Friday," he says with a sly grin.
"But I might want to go out shopping to get a new outfit if I just knew what I need to wear!" I say getting exasperated.
"You don't need to buy a new outfit."
Argh!
I hate surprises.
Really. I do.
Hate. Them. With. A. Passion.
Early in our marriage I tell Chris, "If you ever decide to throw me a big surprise birthday party, you might as well just give me the signed divorce papers as my birthday present."
That's how much I hate surprises.
But a few weeks ago at our 10th wedding anniversary dinner Chris tells me that my anniversary gift isn't quite here yet and that I should take the day off on April 29th.
"Why?"
"Because it's part of your anniversary present."
"Are we going somewhere?"
"Can't tell you that."
"Well, what do I need to wear or bring with me?"
"You'll just have to wait and find out."
Argh!
So, by yesterday when not one of my inquiries met with anything more than a "All will be revealed on Friday" I am absolutely beside myself with curiosity and not just a little bit of frustration because I have no idea what we're going to be doing or what I should be wearing today.
Last night at 5:15 Chris texts me, "So, what is your evening looking like?"
I text him back, "I'm wrapping up here and can be out of here pretty much at any time."
"I'm in the mood for some chili steak. Want to meet up at Tongg D?"
Meet up at my very favorite Thai restaurant? As if he even has to ask? "Sure!"
"6:00?"
"Done! See you there!"
Of course, at that moment my computer decides to go all kaplooey on me (seriously??? now???) and I spend twenty minutes trying desperately to un-kaplooey it. So now I'm running late. Urgh.
Finally I make it to the restaurant twelve minutes late. Chris has already secured us a lovely corner table on the far side of the restaurant. He is standing in front of the table wearing what I can only describe as a huge shit-eating grin on his face. The grin widens as I move closer. Then he steps aside as I am about half-way across the room to reveal someone else sitting at the table.
And there she is.
G.
My oldest and closest friend flown all the way out from Seattle.
My surprise anniversary gift from my amazing, kind, thoughtful husband who always knows what I need.
This surprise...pretty fantastic.
"No. All will be revealed on Friday," he says with a sly grin.
"But I might want to go out shopping to get a new outfit if I just knew what I need to wear!" I say getting exasperated.
"You don't need to buy a new outfit."
Argh!
I hate surprises.
Really. I do.
Hate. Them. With. A. Passion.
Early in our marriage I tell Chris, "If you ever decide to throw me a big surprise birthday party, you might as well just give me the signed divorce papers as my birthday present."
That's how much I hate surprises.
But a few weeks ago at our 10th wedding anniversary dinner Chris tells me that my anniversary gift isn't quite here yet and that I should take the day off on April 29th.
"Why?"
"Because it's part of your anniversary present."
"Are we going somewhere?"
"Can't tell you that."
"Well, what do I need to wear or bring with me?"
"You'll just have to wait and find out."
Argh!
So, by yesterday when not one of my inquiries met with anything more than a "All will be revealed on Friday" I am absolutely beside myself with curiosity and not just a little bit of frustration because I have no idea what we're going to be doing or what I should be wearing today.
Last night at 5:15 Chris texts me, "So, what is your evening looking like?"
I text him back, "I'm wrapping up here and can be out of here pretty much at any time."
"I'm in the mood for some chili steak. Want to meet up at Tongg D?"
Meet up at my very favorite Thai restaurant? As if he even has to ask? "Sure!"
"6:00?"
"Done! See you there!"
Of course, at that moment my computer decides to go all kaplooey on me (seriously??? now???) and I spend twenty minutes trying desperately to un-kaplooey it. So now I'm running late. Urgh.
Finally I make it to the restaurant twelve minutes late. Chris has already secured us a lovely corner table on the far side of the restaurant. He is standing in front of the table wearing what I can only describe as a huge shit-eating grin on his face. The grin widens as I move closer. Then he steps aside as I am about half-way across the room to reveal someone else sitting at the table.
And there she is.
G.
My oldest and closest friend flown all the way out from Seattle.
My surprise anniversary gift from my amazing, kind, thoughtful husband who always knows what I need.
This surprise...pretty fantastic.
26 April 2011
An open door
"Come on. I'll show you the baby's room," I say to my parents during their visit this past weekend.
So, I take them into the baby's room with it's newly painted lavender walls, the gifted crib, new super comfy glider with matching ottoman, new changing table, new stroller/car seat combo, and all of the other assorted and sundry baby things that we've either purchased or received as gifts.
"You've done a really nice job in here," says my mom.
"Do you like the color?" I ask.
"It's really pretty," she replies and then after a pause adds, "I guess I just thought you'd have this room closed up."
Really?
I relate this story to Chris after my folks have gone back to their hotel. He says, "What? Like if we have the room all closed up it'll be like none of this ever happened? Like we'll forget?"
In a way, I can kind of understand what my mom means. When the adoption first falls apart back in March, every time I walk by the baby's room it's painful to see all of that stuff in there. But somehow I can't bear to close the door. I can't make myself do that.
And I still can't just close the door. Doing that....shutting away all of the baby things...somehow that would be like I've given up hope.
So, the door stays open. I look at all of the baby stuff in there everyday. Every single day.
And I know that someday soon there will actually be a baby in that beautiful baby's room. I have to keep hoping that.
I have to keep hoping.
So, I take them into the baby's room with it's newly painted lavender walls, the gifted crib, new super comfy glider with matching ottoman, new changing table, new stroller/car seat combo, and all of the other assorted and sundry baby things that we've either purchased or received as gifts.
"You've done a really nice job in here," says my mom.
"Do you like the color?" I ask.
"It's really pretty," she replies and then after a pause adds, "I guess I just thought you'd have this room closed up."
Really?
I relate this story to Chris after my folks have gone back to their hotel. He says, "What? Like if we have the room all closed up it'll be like none of this ever happened? Like we'll forget?"
In a way, I can kind of understand what my mom means. When the adoption first falls apart back in March, every time I walk by the baby's room it's painful to see all of that stuff in there. But somehow I can't bear to close the door. I can't make myself do that.
And I still can't just close the door. Doing that....shutting away all of the baby things...somehow that would be like I've given up hope.
So, the door stays open. I look at all of the baby stuff in there everyday. Every single day.
And I know that someday soon there will actually be a baby in that beautiful baby's room. I have to keep hoping that.
I have to keep hoping.
20 April 2011
Might have spoken a little too soon...
Night before last...meltdown.
Meltdown #32? #33? Who can remember?
The night before last Chris comes home after his first long, craptastic day of the week (and, rather inconveniently it's Monday, so there are at least four more long crappy days to come) to find me puttering the kitchen, no dinner yet prepared, looking...pitiful.
"What's up?" he asks me. And then, "How'd work go today?"
And before I know it I'm absolutely bawling into his shoulder.
Bawling and sobbing.
Like I haven't sobbed in a long time.
And then last night, after another completely craptastic day at his job, Chris says to his still depressed wife, "I guess it's been easier for me. I mean, not easier, but I've been able to just say to myself, 'OK, that didn't work out' and then I let it all go. I've been able to move forward. It seems like you haven't been able to do that yet."
Apparently so.
My head says to move forward, but my heart...not so much.
I've promised my husband that I'm going to make an appointment with my therapist.
As much as I don't want to re-hash the entire adoption-falling-apart-at-the-last-minute for her (I haven't been to see her since December...), it looks like I'm going to have to. I don't seem to be working through my grief. It sneaks up on my at the worst times. Stealthily. I'll feel fine and then...BLAM!
Nausea, upset stomach, headache, tears, no energy, no appetite, depression, misery.
It's just so stupid.
I need to get over this and move on.
When will it happen?
When???
Meltdown #32? #33? Who can remember?
The night before last Chris comes home after his first long, craptastic day of the week (and, rather inconveniently it's Monday, so there are at least four more long crappy days to come) to find me puttering the kitchen, no dinner yet prepared, looking...pitiful.
"What's up?" he asks me. And then, "How'd work go today?"
And before I know it I'm absolutely bawling into his shoulder.
Bawling and sobbing.
Like I haven't sobbed in a long time.
And then last night, after another completely craptastic day at his job, Chris says to his still depressed wife, "I guess it's been easier for me. I mean, not easier, but I've been able to just say to myself, 'OK, that didn't work out' and then I let it all go. I've been able to move forward. It seems like you haven't been able to do that yet."
Apparently so.
My head says to move forward, but my heart...not so much.
I've promised my husband that I'm going to make an appointment with my therapist.
As much as I don't want to re-hash the entire adoption-falling-apart-at-the-last-minute for her (I haven't been to see her since December...), it looks like I'm going to have to. I don't seem to be working through my grief. It sneaks up on my at the worst times. Stealthily. I'll feel fine and then...BLAM!
Nausea, upset stomach, headache, tears, no energy, no appetite, depression, misery.
It's just so stupid.
I need to get over this and move on.
When will it happen?
When???
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