That rant you've been waiting for

WARNING - this post is about pregnancy and contains words like *butt* *cellulite* *crap* and *stretch marks* and I'm in a particularly defiant mood, proceed at your own risk <3

So, you know how when you're pregnant you gain weight... everywhere?

Yeah, me too. Lately I've become more and more infuriated by the seeming barrage of 'perfect body' images... everywhere!

Little known Jodie fact: I battled anorexia in my late teens and early twenties. I got (like scary) skinny... and stayed that way... for a while. I can't speak for anyone else who's battled this particular demon but I will say for me that you don't wake up one day 'not anorexic.' The thought patterns and insecurities that drove you there in the first place are always dancing around the edges of your healthy self image waiting for a chink in your armor.

Right now I got a lot a chinks.

When you're devastated, deeply bereaved, wholly bereft everything is a battle, everything. It becomes easy for the dancing demons to find chinks.

I have to live the rest of my life without my child. I vowed not to give a crap about crap that doesn't matter, never again. I'm not saying my body doesn't matter. I'm not saying fitness, health and body image don't matter. They do. I'm a bit of fitness junkie. I LOVE to work out from the burn during to the endorphins after. I love it.

But lately I'm feeling triggered. I'm feeling triggered by images of women who's bodies are labelled 'ideal.' I'm being triggered by the media's obsession with celebrities who dare to gain weight while growing their child and even more so with the ones who apparently don't. I feel the pressure of an unattainable expectation. That crap doesn't matter and it pisses me off.

I seriously feel like all of us with curves, stretch marks, cellulite, bumps and bulges (aka real bodies) should start posting pictures so the world knows variety is ok.

Lastly what really motivated this post was the perception by many I know that I do not struggle with body issues, that I do not gain weight while pregnant and that my post baby body magically appears upon hospital exit. The LAST thing I want to be is another pressure point. God forbid!

So here it is... Obviously as a former active anorexic I have body issues. I totally gain weight while pregnant. I just happen to be nearly 6ft tall so it may be a bit less obvious. I currently have that scene from The Backup Plan where Jennifer Lopez's character whines "I want my old butt back!!" repeatedly running through my head. (If you like RomCom and haven't seen it you should). Seriously, saddle bags, love handles, cellulite, the works. Finally, I know as a woman I'm supposed to be self deprecating and insist that I'm always fat and I always need to lose 5lbs and never ever admit that I actually think I look good. Sorry but I guess I'm not up for that crap. After delivery (I gained roughly 30-35lbs with each of my previous 10 month excursions into crazyville) I bust my a**. Seriously, I work HARD. I cut out junk and eat super clean and absolutely bust my tail. It's not magic. It's work. Annnnnddddddd.... I think I look pretty dang good.

Life is so so so hard. I'm not willing to put up with this bull anymore. If you're rock'n a super toned, crazy fit bod, awesome. If you're rock'n curves, awesome. I'm gonna work on staying in a healthy place in my head and keeping my shield up.

Until next time...

Silent Screams

I have so much on my mind lately. I'm swinging wildly between spurts of constant motion - go go go - to a complete paralysis of inactivity, sometimes soaked in sobs  sometimes cloaked in black. It's March. I have more than a few dirty words for March. Hey March, go to hell! I'm sick with the impending 27. The memories are coming faster, angrier, more insistent  I can't push the images away. What will 27 be like? Hell... it will be like hell.

My mind is all over the place, running, rambling  ranting. Everywhere from my fury over my triggering body issues (thanks media!) to the obvious, my missing baby, my Damon. The body issues rant is coming but it is so secondary...

Damon, it's been almost a year. A year...

There are no words.

I've noticed something. Those of you dragging yourself down this horrifying path tell me if you've noticed something similar. The silence.

I don't mean the awkward silence, or the deafening silence but the sort of knowing silence of the bereaved. I've noticed that those of us who know say so little. When my man and I lay in the tangle of each other's arms, grieving, we say virtually nothing. The pain is too deep. The loss is too much. The two friends I have who I speak with regularly who have had to say goodbye waaaay too soon are similar. Few words. Most of the words that are spoken are simple acknowledgements. "I know. I know"

I value this.

I've found that most everything else feels like a contradiction. Those words of "encouragement" just seem like arguments. People, good, kind, loving people just want to make it better. There is no making this better.

This leads me to the silent screams. I'm pretty sure we all have them. What are yours?

I thought I'd share mine. You see, there are audible screams... there are times when I moan, scream, rant and cry but those times are rare these days. The pain masters me in those times and I rarely allow it to do so anymore. Its just too awful. But the silent screams... those I wear every single day.

Damon had a book that he loved. A book of colors. Each page featured a color, grey with an elephant and a grey crayon... etc. His FAVORITE page was the orange page. He would grab his book and do his precious little backwards waddle walk into my (or his daddy's) lap and hand me his book. I would start at page one and his impatience would have him insistently flipping half way through the book looking for orange. This didn't really register before he died but after it was something we grabbed on to and have held fiercely  Orange.

Most of my silent screams are orange.

Will and I both wear these simple plastic bracelets. A friend got them for us. I think they were given out at the funeral. I honestly don't remember. I know there are several people who still wear theirs <3 We NEVER take them off, ever, ever. We've each had one break recently but we will find more.

As you can see I also have several pieces of orange jewlery. I usually wear a least one. This was a gift from my adopted 'mama'. I also have one I wear on my left wrist that was a gift from my SIL.

I have 19 orange Freesia flowers tattooed on my left side. The word 'Dance' arches over my hip where my little dancing baby always sat. The final flower rests on my chest where he used to lay his head. This picture was taken the day my tat was completed, the canvas has grown a bit since then!

I used to wear the necklace you can see in this picture every day. When I started to slowly emerge people constantly commented on it. They often pointed out how beautiful my little boy is. It hurt too much and caused me to withdraw so I switched to this necklace. Sorry about the sideways picture... I seriously can't seem to get that figured out. Anyway. I never take it off, ever, ever.

My fingernails and toenails are always painted orange. Please ignore the sloppy job, its getting harder to reach those bad boys!

Recently my cousin added orange streaks to my hair...

Today this ring came in the mail. I cried... It came with an orange business card that read "you make me want to dance." My friend who lost her beloved daughter only a few months before we lost Damon sent it to me. I love you!!

These are some of my silent screams, because the screaming will never stop and because there just aren't words. They sort of help me say "I will never forget. I will never stop missing you. I love you." Most people probably just see and tattooed, orange haired, orange toed misfit but now some of you know.

Until next time...

Violated

So often things spiral out of control. Foreclosures, divorces, collection calls… How do you navigate in this dark, mean, unforgiving world when you can barely even stand. Life keeps happening, even when yours has stopped, and life is hard.

‘Normal’ things are sometimes excruciating. I did our taxes this weekend. The IRS said “tell us about Damon.” I sat staring, picturing his amazing blue eyes, his perpetual smile, aching with his absence from my arms and hearing his laugh. His laugh that his daddy says was just like mine. Tell you about Damon? He was amazing. He was ours and he was stolen. But these aren’t the things the IRS wants to know. It’s a routine question. I had to check the box that says he died this year. “We’re sorry for your loss. You can claim him for the whole year.” Gosh, thanks computer screen. Can I have him back, too? Nope.

Never.

That was hard…

But not nearly as hard as opening my email and seeing that our return had been rejected. Wait, what? Why?

Why….

Because someone has already filed a return claiming my son. My child. My Damon.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Confusion.

Anger.

Ripping, agonizing, screaming pain.

What?

And the hits just keep coming. You have got to be kidding me life. Really? Could you please find someone else to pick on!???

I’m sick with fury and agony. I’ve sobbed and reeled and steamed and ranted.

I get it. I get the spiral. How do you hold it together when it just keeps falling apart? How do you stand up under the onslaught when all you want to do is lie down? I get why bereaved parents give up. One step forward and life knocks you back again.

I’m sick of it. I’m angry.

Violated 

Something other than whining *update*

So the combination of being a former full time PhD student, nesting and my mental junk that makes me seriously unpredictable in social situations has thrust me into a bit of a conundrum. I’m not stable enough to go back to school. It is incredibly hard for me to focus, I cry hysterically at random times and social interaction can easily send me into a full-on panic attack.

I am getting better, slowly, very slowly. I’m pushing myself to interact with people on my ‘good’ days and really trying to focus on what I can do every day. But I am used to being super productive, maybe even over-productive. This transition is hard. It’s really hard for me not to get incredibly down on myself. For the first nine months after Damon’s death I disappeared and my husband carried everything. I truly remember almost none of it but I know. The bills get paid, the dishes got done, Isaiah got fed all while I huddled in a hole and sobbed or stared blankly into space. Will did it. I don’t know how but now that I am slowly emerging I realize it. Another layer of guilt and regret.

Now that I’m trying, now that I am awake more often than I’m catatonic I’m stuck between the desire to contribute and the ability to do so. We’ve suddenly become a one income family with added expenses to boot and a baby on the way. Again, my husband carries the load.

I’ve given up searching the various employment boards. They just depress me. 1) I’m an academic… my skill set if fairly limited. 2) I have severe PTSD, need I say more? So, I finally arrive at my point (unlike usual this post was not intended to be emotional vomit). What can I do? I can take care of my home. I can take care of my man. I can take care of my son.

Ok, so what does that look like? Over the past few months I’ve slowly worked out of my complete paralysis. I can cook and clean and organize now. So, I’m once again in charge of grocery buying, meal preparation and household what-nots. Comparatively, it’s not much but it’s what I’ve got. So, I’m gonna do it with everything I’ve got. I’m revamping our home.

Number 1 goal – if I can’t make money I will find ways to save it.

1)    Organization/decor – I’m slowly beginning to organize every nook and cranny of our home. At first I was convinced I couldn’t do this because of ‘number 1 goal’ but I’ve realized that there are gazillions of things I can repurpose as storage and organizational solutions. I’m reusing cereal (and other) boxes to organize papers and food. I found old drawers at Habitat Restore for $.92 that I’m using to make end tables and under the bed storage and repurposing an old junk table that was just sitting in the back yard making us look white-trash into an ottoman.

You'll notice this picture was taken post-organization frenzie beginning but pre-homemade food transition!

Cardboard box converted to 'hubby's random counter top stuff' container (think I need to cover the inside too)

2)    Groceries – I’ve found a blog by a mom whose family of four lives on $14k/year (here). I’m slowly easing us into many of her suggestions. I’d already begun making A LOT of our food from scratch since discovering that Isaiah is allergic to dairy (yeah, it’s in everything). His allergy forces me to check every single label and I’ve been shocked. Why is there so much junk in my food? That new knowledge combined with the above mentioned blogger’s insistence that making food from scratch is loads cheaper has pushed me deeper into domesticicity.

My first attempt at homemade bread!

*Update* I am a domestic goddess! How gorgeous is this bread. My kiddo came home from school to an afternoon snack of fresh baked bread!

3)    Household – have you ever noticed how freaking expensive household cleaners are? Nesting has put me in cleaning overdrive. However, I’m pretty limited by all the nasty toxins in cleaners. The hubs is very protective from “get down off that counter!” to “you ARE NOT getting in that shower with that bleach/toxin/what-not containing cleaner.” What can I say, he’s awesome. He also works HARD. So I’m not about to ask him to clean it “Hey babe, after your 2.5 hr commute, full day of work, papers to grade, lectures to write, being an amazing husband and father would you mind cleaning the bathroom while I lay here on the couch?” Um… no. Solution? Homemade cleaners. I’m figuring if I can eat it I can breathe it while I clean. This week I’m trying out a make your own detergent recipe that you can find here if you’re interested and using baking soda and vinegar (not together in a closed container! *explosion*) to clean the bathrooms.

The recipe says to use whatever bar soap you want. I used Irish Spring so now my clothes will smell like my man!

I paid roughly $9 for these and used half a cup of each...

Ok... so I'm new at this.

I made a little over a gallon of laundry detergent that smells like my man, win!

These are a few of my baby steps toward functionality. I’ll be sure to let you know when they fail miserably (hopefully with pictures!) and when they succeed, too J

Until next time…

Parenting

Saying “the hardest thing about grief is…” is pretty pointless. Everything is the hardest thing but I guess some things are more consistently hard. Like parenting.

Parenting was hard when my life was sunshine and roses (and yes, my life was pretty darn close to perfect). Now it’s like a never ending boxing match where me staying in the ring means the difference between a healthy happy child and a seriously screwed up kid.

Seven year olds don’t have that thing that (we hope) adults have that says “I should not take advantage of this situation.” They just aren’t there developmentally. When you’re a parent, particularly a parent of an irritatingly brilliant kid (he actually is that’s not just my mommy coming out) like mine, showing weakness is like being the gimpy gazelle at the back of the herd.

No matter what kind of awful day I’ve had, no matter how much I’ve cried, how many panic attacks I’ve had, or how much I just want to die my first born still needs me. He needs me to say “No” when I would so much rather just say “yes.” He needs me to be strong enough to be disliked (a lot) and even hated now and then. He needs me to crawl back in the ring with him battered and bloody because I love him. He needs me to keep PARENTING him even when he’s pushing every button wanting me to stop already.

One of the many blessings of being entrusted to a man like mine is that I never have to do this alone. Sometimes I do get to just curl up in a dark place and let Will be dad for the night. As we say “that’s teamwork” but only sometimes because my baby needs his mommy.

I’m scared for what this is going to do to the first person in my life to teach me what true love is. Everyone says “kids are so resilient.” How resilient? The entire trajectory of my son’s life has changed. His parents struggle every day just to function. Where do we go from here?

… Well, the short answer is to the kitchen to make Rice Krispy treats for his Valentine’s party tomorrow. I’ll try to limit the number I shove in my face (but no promises).

Until next time… 

Pinterest, love handles and baby beautiful

Profound grief changes everything. EVERYTHING. On the rare occasions when I manage to feel something beyond the bone shattering ache that feeling is huge. My adoration for my man, HUGE. My affection for my son, HUGE. My irritation at the stupid things people care about, HUGE.

I’ve ‘discovered’ pinterest recently. Not that I didn’t know it existed but I hadn’t checked it out. I find myself wasting all sorts of time scrolling through the endless pins. My favorites are the DIY. I’m presently DIYing an ottoman and a side table. I’ll let you know how those turn out just in case you care.

Occasionally I come across a ‘fitness motivation’ picture. Seriously? I mean, come on people. I’m a running, weight training, any kinda workouting, yogi but these pictures are NOT motivational. They just make me feel fat. I don’t want to feel fat.

My body is currently on the ‘there’s a human growing inside you’ expansion plan. I’ve had numerous fits about the baby’s apparent need for love handles and saddle bags. The first few times my husband appealed to the scientist in me by reminding me that one of the functions of progesterone (pregnancy hormone) is to instruct he body to store energy. It didn’t work. He’s since given that up for sympathetic grunts and repeated ‘I think you’re sexy’s (yes, he’s awesome).

But the other day my crying hissy fit in the middle of my now-too-small clothes strewn about the floor, those cursed pinterest pictures and my new way of looking at the world collided. I’m done. My stretch marks, love handles, saddle bags, dark circles, weird skin what-cha-ma- callits and weight gain is because my SON is growing inside me. By gosh if I’m not gonna rock it. I had 39 weeks with Damon that no one else in the world got. I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste the 39 weeks I have with Raz.

Pregnancy is beautiful. Every ounce gained, every scar that rips its way across my belly, even the love handles. Beautiful. And every single second that I get and got with my boys is worth it. Consider my attitude adjusted. 

This time last year...

Yesterday was my birthday… ugh. The memories of this time last year are too painful to face. My complete happiness is like an ice cold dagger in the back. This time last year…  Many, many times over the last ten months I have ranted to myself about humanity’s cursed obsession with marking time. Why??? Why do we need to know what freaking TIME it is? What day it is? What month it is? All it does is provide the grief with more potent ammo. It’s February, next month is March… hell month. The blackness is descending, thick, heavy. All the memories my broken mind has been partitioning, blocking, filtering, shadowing… all are bubbling to the surface and popping violently into my consciousness. This time last year…  This time last year my baby was alive. I held him. I rocked him. I laughed with him. I watched him dance. Hell, hell is where I live. Damon, I miss you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!