growinghumans


Plastic Surgery?!
January 30, 2016, 2:04 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

If you recall, a few months ago a friend of mine who works in the medical field thought that I had a diastasis recti; that is, a separation of abdomen muscles caused by carrying a giant alien baby inside of my stomach for 9 months.

Armed with this new information, I went to my annual exam at my OBGYN and asked her about it. She had me lay flat on the table and then lift my head up off the ground, causing my belly to form a severe peak where normal people would have flat abs. She looked at it for about 3 seconds and said, “No, this doesn’t look like a diastasis. This looks like a large hernia.”

Huh.

So. She referred me to a general surgeon to be evaluated. She suspected the hernia was so large that it would require an operation.

For a month I have stressed about this information.

I don’t like people touching my stomach. It gives me the heeby jeebys probably do to the traumatic labor I experienced.

Abdominal surgery is like one giant hug.

No, really.

The best part was the next morning after my C-section when they told me to try and sit up and sit with my legs hanging off of my hospital bed. The world’s largest NOPE happened right then and there.

Anyway, so I finally called this surgery center last week, because I kept READING THINGS ON THE INTERNET and they all basically said I was close to dying and I mean that’s not good. I made my appointment for yesterday.

For a week I walked around thinking I was a ticking time bomb and that I was definitely going to have to get surgery–my logical rational thinking was completely gone.

I made my husband go to the appointment with me. We sat in the appointment room and the doctor came in, shook our hands, and asked me to lay back.

“Let me just stop you right there. I hate people touching my stomach. I know you have to touch my stomach and that’s fine but I just want to let you know that if I spaz out, that’s why.”

The doctor kind of blinked at me for a second and nodded slowly.

That’s fine.

He had me do the same pose that my gynecologist had, laying flat and lifting my chin up to make my stomach peak.

“You do have a small umbilical hernia behind your bellybutton, but if you were born with an outie bellybutton it’s probably just from that. You actually have quite a severe diastasis.”

He then asked me to RUN MY FINGERS down the center of my belly so I could feel the gap–it was about an inch wide and it made me want to throw up a little.

This doctor then sat there for about 6 minutes explaining a few things to us:

Insurance companies won’t cover diastasis repair because they see it as purely cosmetic.

If I wanted him to repair the small hernia, he would also repair the diastasis while in there for free.

However, because he’s not a plastic surgeon, he would make a long mid-line incision to do all of this and he couldn’t guarantee that my stomach wouldn’t look more jacked up than it already it when he put me back together.

A plastic surgeon doing both procedures would be my best bet, but I would be paying for plastic surgery.

While physical therapy is usually successful for repairing a diastasis, it’s usually only useful right after the baby is born.

Oh.

Ok.

So basically, I am annoyed.

I am annoyed at my OBGYN for 1. not recognizing this issue at, say, my 6 week postpartum check up and 2. failing to see it even at my appointment 5 years later.

I am annoyed at this new doctor for making me feel like plastic surgery is the only option.

I am mad at my insurance for thinking that an injury like this isn’t serious enough to be covered. I gave birth to the biggest child ever in the history of children–not really but it felt like it–and to tell me that wanting to not look a little bit pregnant anymore,no matter how much I diet or work out, is not something they’re willing to pick up the tab for makes me realize even more that this country hates women.

I think, for now, I will just leave everything be.

 

 

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I’m With the Resistance
January 18, 2016, 12:37 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

I just saw Star Wars: The Force Awakens for the second time. I took my Tiny Human to see it, as she has fallen in love with the franchise–like her mother before her.

It hit me, this second time watching the film.

These characters, even the original characters, they are all fighting. Yes, they’re fighting the dark side, the light side, The Rebels, The Resistance, The First Order; but, most importantly, these characters are fighting their destiny.

I’m not talking about the things they’ve always dreamed of. I’m not talking about anything easy. All of these characters start off by fighting something that will make their lives more difficult.

Finn. Finn spends the entire movie lying to people by telling them he’s with The Resistance. He thinks he’s being sneaky. He thinks he will steal away to the outer rim and quietly escape the life of a Storm Trooper.

What Finn never realizes is that the first time he refused to discharge his weapon, he was with The Resistance.

Finn just wants to be a defector run-away. Not a Resistance leader.

Rey just wants to be a scavenger who is waiting for her family. Not a Jedi.

Han Solo just wants to be a scruffy looking smuggler. Not a hero.

Kylo Ren just wants to be the prince of darkness or whatever it is that Snook is training him for. Not a mortal human who is at least half light. (I mean, Rey totally jacked him up in that fight.)

“I’m being torn apart,” RenBen says to his father on that bridge. The dark side is easy for the grandson of Darth Vader. It comes naturally. Jedi training, as we saw with Luke and Yoda, is hard. It is unforgiving and it never yields the results you want. To be a Jedi of the Force is to be a conduit of the Force. The Dark side promises absolute power in the place of that.

These films are fantastic voyages into worlds we didn’t know existed with creatures we could never have imagined. They are full of amazing fight sequences, sweeping landscapes, epic music.

But, with all of that stripped away, Star Wars is about the human condition.

How each and every one of us has choices to make in our lives. It is easy to coast along in life, doing what we have always done–walk in the desert, force choke people, put on a white helmet and obey orders.

But what happens when you dig a little deeper?

What happens when you stop being afraid and feel that awakening?

What happens when you realize this whole time you were saying you couldn’t do something and you were on the path of doing all along?

I can’t.

I won’t.

I don’t know where to begin.

Destiny doesn’t care if you are ready. You will never be ready for the hardest things in life.

Stop lying to yourself about what you are supposed to be in this life. Claim it. Say it.

Wield your light saber, even if you have no idea how to use it and–

May the force be with you.



Hard Things
January 14, 2016, 11:31 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I usually write when I am feeling strong.

I usually write when I feel my words might help someone else out there.

Today, lately, I feel weak. I feel beat down. I feel hopeless and worse–

I feel that I am poisoning the world around me.

No one wants to hear me whine about problems I have been battling for years.

No one cares that yet another medication didn’t work.

That I stopped going to therapy.

That my suicidal thoughts returned.

Why would they? Everyone has their own problems. I am happy to help everyone with them. I am glad of the distraction from my own hell. When people message me or speak to me about their own struggles with depression or anxiety, I can put on my brave and gracious mask.

Everyone says that it seems I am doing better lately. They say my coloring has improved. That I smile more. That I am more myself.

It is all a lie. I am sorry. I am a lie right now.

I feel the most sorry for my husband. My husband is 31 and has become my caretaker. He gives me anything I want. He let’s me do anything I want in the name of happiness. He takes the brunt of a bipolar person’s rage.

That is a mighty rage.

That rage is full of irrational, intelligible screaming. Threats. Leaving. Self harm.

My husband is young, handsome, and smart. He could have had a much simpler life where his wife was only sometimes moody or passive aggressive.

He deserves that life, I think. I tell him that often. I beg him to leave. I tell him to take our daughter with him.

This is when I am at my lowest, you see. This is when I am surrounded by the dark and I cannot see the light and I want to save them before it engulfs them, as well.

Get far away from me. Get in the car and leave before I self destruct and take the whole place down with me.

People, in general, have stopped asking me how I am doing and I partly glad for it.

I am not doing well but, as always….as fucking always…I am trying, dear readers.

I went back to my psychiatrist after being off of meds for a month. She threw me back on an old med that made me gain weight in a hopes to just stabilize me while she reconfigures what to do with me. She asked if I would mind if she shared my file with her online women’s mental health group for crowd sourcing. I, of course, consented.

Even my psychiatrist is at a loss with me.

But I am here, world. I am putting my story out there because I found that the words weighed too heavy inside of my head.

Life is hard right now but I need to remember, as we all need to remember, that we can do hard things.



The Dollhouse
January 2, 2016, 3:19 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

When my sister was small, she asked for a dollhouse one Christmas. She got it. Well, rather, she got a large box full of all the pieces to make a dollhouse.

I’m sure when my father purchased this box, he figured it would be a week long project. He could go to work, come home, eat dinner, and then work on the dollhouse each evening.

One he started assembling the house, according to the instructions, it became clear to him that there was a better way to build this house. My father, an engineer at heart, disregarded the instructions. He used screws instead of glue. He hand carved individual roof shingles and stained them to match the rest of the house.

It took my father three years to build my sister’s dollhouse.

It became a running joke in my family; how my father takes forever to do anything–even the simplest tasks.

My father does not believe in simple tasks. Everything weighs the same. To my father, he was building a house. It did not matter if it was for a porcelain doll family wearing Victorian clothing, or for the President of the United States. If he was building it; if he was putting his time into it, it was going to be done correctly.

When the dollhouse was complete and placed finally in my sister’s room, she had surpassed the age in which a girl wants to play with a dollhouse. This didn’t matter. It sat in her room and earned awe from any friend or relative who viewed it. It still sits there today. What was once a few sheets of cheaply made plywood and glue has become a family heirloom.

Things of weight, of value, of importance are worth the time. You must be willing to stray from the instructions. You must be willing to endure questions and judgement from people who do not understand your vision.

I want to be a writer.

This is the year I want to become a writer. I want to be paid to write. I want to be given assignments. I want to be professional. I maybe even want to write a book some day.

I want to sit at my little desk, pour my heart into words and know that I am making a difference to a large group of people.

I have done work–I started this blog years ago, without even knowing what I wanted. I built my content. I built interest on a local level. I have reached out to other writers.

It is taking time. More time than I thought and every day I do not know what the next step will be. I am constantly checking myself–am I sure I want to do this? Do I even know what I am doing?

I am sure. I just have to continue to make sure that everything I put out there, like my father before me, is of high quality and well thought out.

Days, weeks, months, years–time is irrelevant when chasing a dream.