Pain of Being Imperfect

Holidays are extremely stressful for me; so much to the point that when October rolls around, the anxiety creeps in and makes a home in my chest until we are safely in the new year.

I have had general issues with anxiety in the past, but after going to therapy for a year, I was able to come off all my anxiety medication. But, this past month has made me feel all the hallmarks of anxiety issues again. Little patience, constant worrying, wanting always to be left alone. In short, the anxiety makes me closer to being the woman who has been the main source of all things negative in my life.

This Thanksgiving wasn't great. But it wasn't for the typical reasons. It was because mounds of examples of my own Failure were laid on my plate immediately before the hardest holiday of the year for me. 

Failure #1:  The Friday before T-day, I got the news that my estranged brother's baby was born (he was not there, as he had left the woman who was about to have his 2nd child while she was pregnant). The rest of that weekend, I was just destroyed. How could such a terrible person and father have children so easily, while my husband and I -- who would make great parents -- just can't? It doesn't make sense and, worse still, just plain isn't fair and feels like failure. 

Failure #2:  Because I have an aerospace engineering undergraduate degree, there are a lot of basic business classes I didn't have to take. Now that I want to work on my MBA, I have to take a few of those undergraduate-level classes; for the past year, I've been taking them at a nearby community college, so that when I start at my intended graduate school, I can go straight to the meat of the program.
 

The problem is, the university that I applied to for Spring admission to their MBA program denied me the DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING. This may not seem like a lot, but it is to me. I have never in my life been rejected from a university before; in fact, until now, every college I applied to gave me a lot of scholarships because they wanted me. To make it worse, I don't think particularly highly of this university that I applied to and my undergraduate university is much more highly ranked than it, but I applied to it because it is 10 minutes from our apartment and the only public school in the area. And then, BAM! sorry, we don't want you.

Failure #3:  Work has been tough for me lately. I am not in my comfort zone, and it has me out of sorts. I have been at my job for three years now; almost all of that was spent on one project, and I was on it from very beginning to very end. I knew it in and out, because I designed it, ordered the parts, built it, designed the testing for it, and tested it. I have been completely spoiled by that. Now, I am in a project-limbo, where I am working on small parts of several projects that have been around for 10+ years. I don't understand much about either of them, and I have made mistakes that other people then had to clean up for me. I am used to being the one that always knows what is going on, and knows how to tackle situations. But, now, I spend an uncomfortable proportion of my time at work feeling lost.

So, naturally, I had a breakdown. I cried for days. When we celebrated Thanksgiving with my family on the Friday after, I was the crazy one. Not my mom. Me. Of course, on this side of it, I realize that these "failures" aren't unexpected, nor are they my fault alone, nor are they compeltely within my control. I have ways to go about addressing each one.

But, man. It sucks. I'm sure a more optimistic person could say that all will work out, that these are learning experiences to grow from, blah blah blah.

But the best I can give right now is that I know things will get better eventually. I know that. We'll have kids somehow. I'll get my MBA somehow. I will figure out my work stuff somehow. I just wish the pain of being imperfect wasn't so acute.

oh baby

As I mentioned in my oh brother post, 

"When I was a sophomore in college, completely living on loans and buried in schoolwork, I got the one and only letter I received from (my brother). He was in prison and asking for $100. My then-pregnant 18-yr-old sister got the same letter. After that, I stopped talking to my brother and started refusing to talk to my mom about him as if he has been wronged by the system."

This is still the case, with one exception. On February 14th, I got a text from my mother telling me that my brother was released from prison that day after being there so long that he's never met my husband. I was not expecting that; it wasn't even a tad bit on my radar. Apparently, it was well-known in my family that this was going to be his release date, but because it was known I didn't want to talk about my brother, nobody told me. (Ironic, isn't it? It seems like the one time I draw a line and it's respected, I wish it wasn't. At least when it comes to that little nugget of information.)

Apparently, immediately after his release from prison, the mother of his child took back up with him. March 22nd, and she's pregnant. As if my brother's release from prison wasn't difficult enough for me. He immediately become yet another person flaunting how easy it is to make babies. Well, easy for some people, at least.

As I mentioned  a couple posts ago, my husband had some testing done to begin looking further into our fertility issues. The results came back: not great, but not bad enough to even take any kind of medication. There were a couple things worth looking into more, so they are going to run more tests...including what I imagine must be one of the most uncomfortable ultrasounds ever.

Somehow, this was absolutely devastating for me. I finally realized that I had never really believed that I was the trouble here; I chose to completely believe he was the problem. When I told him that, he said the same thing -- that he had just assumed that I was the problem and there wasn't anything wrong with him. We laughed about how that seems like something that should be in a psychology textbook -- people, when given a choice, choosing to believe that they are perfectly fine and that the other person isn't, even in a situation that clearly takes both people to be healthy.

So, now, 10 months or so after my initial doctor visit, it is my turn again. I haven't been able to bring myself to make the appointment yet, much to my husband's dismay. He told me that it hurts his feelings and makes him feel as if that I'm never going to go to the doctor, but I asked him to remember that I made the initial step to make an appointment for myself about a year ago now, and that I just need a little bit of time to get my head on straight. 

It feels like a lot to ask, but I know now that I have to understand that whatever we learn about our problems on this fertility fact-finding mission, it may turn out that I am the problem. And if I am the problem, hormone therapy and IVF -- to me, these are the two scariest beasts of this whole mess, even above the possibility of hearing that adoption will be our only way to parenthood -- may be in the not-so-distant future. 

I told my husband this, and his response was: "I will never ask you to do anything to your body you don't want to. I just see this as figuring out what is wrong."

I responded: "That's sweet, but that is to say, if we're in a stage where it seems as if the only thing between you and your natural-born children is me saying no to hormone shots or IVF, that you'll just be okay with it? Because if I were in your shoes in that situation, I think I would be incredibly resentful."

Him: "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound kind of bad. But, nevermind that, one thing at a time."

This is no longer a fact-finding mission for me. It can't be. Because I may be heading directly towards procedures whose side effects absolutely terrify me, or a possibility of blowing up my relationship by refusing them.

inspiration and wonder

After a few years of doing yoga at home on and off to DVDs, I got up the guts to attend my first yoga class last week. While I'm not inflexible, I am unbelievably uncoordinated -- I have broken two bones in my lifetime by tripping, one of which occurred within the last year. Also, I do not have the yoga-y, flat-chested with a bubble-butt figure. Instead, I have a chest that gets in the way of everything, hips clearly meant for child-bearing and no discernible tuckus (as my husband lovingly calls it, including the "no discernible" part).

Tonight, 3 days after the first, was my second class. It is difficult; it is no wonder regular practitioners of it end up flat-chested bubble butts. In the middle of both classes, I was completely convinced that I would never do it again. But by the end of both, I wondered if it would be possible to go the next day, too. 

After the first class, I could totally understand why the yoga-types also tend to be the possibly-vegan, all organic type people, as well. After I left the class, I felt like I understood my body. I could feel my quads screaming at me for overworking them, I could feel my body craving water -- no substitute, it HAD to be water -- and I wanted to go home and throw all the junk food in our house away. The first time, I wondered if this was from some sort of culture-immersion  influence, but after tonight, I'm convinced it is just how in touch with your body you have to be during yoga that causes this reaction.

So far, I love it. I like the studio I found, I like the two teachers I've had. I like the buzzy feeling afterwards. I like the tingling in my recently-broken foot that feels so restorative. I like the quiet. I like the complete non-competitiveness of it all. I like the time away from my brain, and the anxiety relief it provides.

I was thinking tonight that I hope I stick with it, that I don't tend to stick with things. And then I thought, well, that's not really true. I quit drinking and never fell back. I started this blog 15 months ago and here I am. I'm going on three years without caffeine. I've been off gluten since September purely because of the positive reaction my body had to leaving it behind.  Maybe the intensity of the wellness yoga makes me feel will be enough, just like the rest. We shall see. 

No big revelation or rant today. I'm feeling well, and after last week, that's really all I want to say. I want to end this with a reading my yoga instructor read today just because I find it beautiful.

It is important in life to be constant. The ancients urged their students to look at the moon. It was faithful to its course. It was the center of the night sky. For thousands of years, children, women, and men looked up to it and found inspiration and wonder.

The moon keeps to its orbit. Silently. Unwaveringly. True, it has its phases. Its course, its movement, its path in life -- leads it into shadow and into brightness. Does it complain? Does it seek a different course? It does not.

Let the light that falls upon it change. Let its face sometimes be in shadow: The moon daily witnesses with its own body the play of shadow and light. It accepts that, and in so doing it uplifts all who see it.

The moon has its own primal power. It pulls on the earth; it pulls on the oceans and on the hearts and minds of human beings; it paces the seasons. The moon does not fight. It attacks no one. It does not worry. It does not try to crush others. It keeps to its course, but by its very nature, it gently influences. What other body could pull an entire ocean from shore to shore? The moon is faithful to its nature and its power is never diminished. 

Look no further than tonight's sky if you would want to know how you can be true to yourself.

              --Everyday Tao (edited slightly)

...how many Z's is that?

I have been trying not to write this post, because I am fairly certain that it will devolve into whining or ranting, and I am not sure that this is a healthy outlet for either. And I'm not sure I want to show you how mad I am at somebody for something that I have no right to be mad at them for.

As I have mentioned before, my husband and I are trying to get pregnant. Every book I've read said that after trying for a year for a woman under 35, it's time to figure out what is wrong. It has been over two years for us. I went to try to figure out if there is anything wrong with me in June, but once my GYN learned of my husband's medical history, she said that in all likelihood, the issue lies with him. I told my husband that she wanted him to get checked out before moving forward with me.

I know that this is a very difficult thing for a man, especially a young man who literally wants nothing more than to be a daddy, and so I decided not to push him into it. We both need to be ready for what we find out about from the appointment. I would gently bring it up over time, not to force him to get tested immediately, but to get him to think about it and deal with the idea of it a bit in order to get him to a point where he is okay with setting an appointment. I have a relationship with a counselor so that, whatever happens, I can talk to her about it; I asked him if he would be willing to do the same, and he started seeing a therapist a couple weeks ago. After his first appointment with his therapist, he set a date for his testing: middle of March.

We went out to a celebratory dinner last night because of a raise and a promotion I received last week, and on the way home we were joking about his appointment. We talked about how we both kind of hope that it is both of us, because then there won't be negative feelings about whoever has the issue. I told him that we both knew our medical histories when we got married, and we talked about the fact that we would likely have issues (which is why we started trying immediately). I told him that when I married him, I knew that with him came the possibility of not being able to have children with him, I accepted it then, and that has not changed a bit. This isn't a surprise to him or I, and finding out the issue lies with him, or with me, or with both of us won't surprise me either. What we do know is that if we want to figure out a way to have children that are half him and half me, we first need to find out whats wrong. I told him that we are both very loving people, and that we feel connected to every child we hold; if adoption is our only option, we will make for great adoptive parents.

And just to make it a little worse, my mother was finished with menopause by time she was 40, with it starting in their early 30's. So was her mother, and her mother's mother. I am 25 years old, and I can hear the clock ticking.

But this post isn't about our baby journey, really. Reader, I want you to understand my mindset when I tell you this next part.

Mike's sister had her baby. They gave her a ridiculous name -- cute for a baby, but, not as a legal name to put on passports and job applications. It is so unique that I can not type it here, or my blog will be found by searching her name. Suffice it to say, when I tell people her name, they ask me how to spell it and how many Z's are in it.

All through the pregnancy, his sister talked about how happy she is to be adopting the next one. Within days of having the new, beautiful baby, she's talking about adopting the next one. She doesn't work right now, yet her husband -- who is working full time -- splits night shifts with her 50/50. She doesn't breastfeed, but she pumps; and I can't help but think that's to make sure the feedings get shared.

And in the middle of it all, this wonderful, beautiful, quiet little baby. The kind of baby that, if all your babies were like this, you'd probably have a hundred of them. Whenever I hear a negative tone in her mother's voice, I think -- she has no idea what she has. She has no idea that not everybody can just make a little baby like it's nothing, and she's taking it all for granted.

You hear it, don't you? Even I hear it, and that's why I'm writing this post. My head is filled with jealous rantings about my sister-in-law for having this baby and every decision regarding her they make. I can't stand it. I am not happy that she gets this wonderful second child. This baby is less than a month old, and she's looking forward to adoption of the next one. While I dream of babies almost every night.  I often dream of having an adopted Asian little girl, and when I wake up, it has me researching Chinese adoption. And when I'm not dreaming of babies, I'm dreaming of puppies, which are my brain-equivalent to babies. I feel as if she doesn't deserve the baby she has, and my husband and I do. And I know how terrible that is.

In the family, only my mother-in-law knows about our issues, and that we're in the midst of getting them checked out. I so badly want my husband to tell this sister, so she can have some idea of what sort of hell I am in around her. I want her to know that the first time I went to the doctor for it was days before they announced that she's pregnant. I want her to know so that when she talks about adoption -- especially how  foreign adoption is a immoral fad -- she has the context that her brother and I may not have a choice but to adopt, and foreign adoption has many advantages. I want her to know that I take prenatal vitamins like my doctor told me to, and that there is never a time when there isn't a pregnancy test under the sink in the bathroom (it's an indicator I have hope, I suppose; but it mostly mocks me). I want her to know that quitting drinking was, in part, so easy for me because I knew it was a step towards being a mother. I want her to know that when people ask us when we'll have babies because they see how good we are with them, it takes everything I have not to cry or tell them everything. I think I want her to know all of this because I want her, too, to feel this pain. I'm tired of carrying it.

I know how terrible this sounds, and how terrible it is. But I don't know how to make it stop. I've talked to my counselor about it before, but I've never felt okay about it afterwards. I know that I am not supposed to attempt to make stop feeling a certain way; that it can't be helped. The only thing I can really do is change how I deal with it. I'm not sure how to.

dry holidays

My grandmother and aunt have a gambling problem. My maternal grandfather, aunt and uncle are active alcoholics. My paternal grandfather was an alcoholic as well, though he quit drinking after a drinking-related incident nearly killed him.

I've always said that I think I have an addictive personality, though I never had hard evidence until my alcoholism took root. I never gambled -- I refuse to by lottery tickets and will never go to Las Vegas. I know that I wouldn't know how to stop once I got caught up in it all.

The longer I go without alcohol, the better I know that I am truly an alcoholic. A few months ago, my husband was out of town, and I went to the grocery store (which remains the most difficult place for me to keep the beast at bay). I put alcohol in my cart, fully intending on drinking it entirely that night and hiding the evidence. In a moment of clarity I realized that what I was about to do was the sirens of my addiction, and just left the cart in the middle of the store and high-tailed it out of there. I am not proud of this, except for the end result: I still have not drank since the day I gave it up about ten months ago.

I'd like to say that I have control over my addiction, that I am fully 'recovered', but I would just be kidding myself. I know they always say the addiction is always there, but I liked to think that I was different. That it was a phase for me, and once I got over it, I could be a responsible drinker.

That was the hardest part about putting down the drinks -- the idea that never again will I taste an oaky red or crisp white paired perfectly with a meal. Never is a very long time. Finally, AA taught me to stop focusing on forever, and just focus on today. I can get through today without drinking, that's easy. We'll worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

Yesterday, my husband and I went to a friend's house for a thanksgiving dinner. We haven't been out with a group of friends like this since my realization that I was an alcoholic, and we knew there would likely be alcohol there, wine -- my particular poison -- especially. And there was: a carafe of white and red sitting on the table, everybody but my husband and I partaking.

It wasn't as difficult as I thought it might be, but I did have fantasies of everybody being in another room and me escaping to the bathroom off of the kitchen with a bottle of wine. I found myself staring at an empty glass as wine was being poured into it. Luckily, it was cheap wine that I know doesn't taste good, so I was able to quiet the thoughts of, "It's just a little wine -- it tastes good, and it's Thanksgiving."  I was even able to take part in conversation without the presence of the wine completely enveloping my thoughts.

The holidays are difficult for an alcoholic, especially and introverted one with a messed-up family situation like me. But I made it through without any missteps-- my first holidays as a non-drinker.