Who Even is Savannah Anymore?

It has been a loooooooooong time since I updated my blog.

Last I wrote - and I mean really wrote - I had newborn twins. They were a month old.

Now I'm sitting on my bed - a mattress and box spring on the floor - with my back against the wall, in the basement of my parents' house. My bedroom door is locked, lest said twins should decide I'm the only one who can save them from the horror of a piece of Lego that's not sticking to another piece of Lego the way they want it to.

Carl is out there trying to manage lunch, because it's my turn to take a nap... which I'm clearly doing.

So, how have the last four years been?

Well, in my humble opinion, I rocked having twins.

I really did. I was super mom. The superest of super moms.

So super, in fact, that when the twins were about 15 months old, I thought, "Hey, I'm pretty good at this! I rocked the socks off of twins. I can handle anything! Let's have another one!!!"

I'm here to tell you that, in fact, I cannot handle anything.

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So, we'll start with when the twins were about two months old. Carl had officially failed his attempt at studying Biochem, thereby dashing hopes that he would be a pharmacist. As the last hope for Biochemistry was crumbling into rubble and dust that lit on fire, Carl took a class that combined chemistry with computers and discovered he's actually phenomenal at programming.

Too late.

We had two babies.

I had every intention to be a stay at home mom, but before I could formalize a decision on that, the company I worked for laid me off.

With the severance package they provided, Carl and I packed up our lives and moved our babies home to Missouri.

My parents offered their basement apartment to us to help us get on our feet, which we figured would take about two years.

The twins grew so quickly, and it was tough, but I still loved it. There was a point when they were about five months old that I was sure I was failing everything, but then I realized that I was actually just being dramatic and needed a nap.

When the twins were fourteen months old, Carl and I talked about having another baby. It had taken two years just to get pregnant with the twins, so we figured that was a good time to start trying. Hopefully we wouldn't need medical intervention that time, and maybe when they were three or four we would have our third baby. We decided to start trying on my next cycle.

My cycle was late.

No big deal. I've had irregular cycles my whole life.

I waited for my next cycle to start... and waited... the twins turned fifteen months old... and I waited...

I was getting frustrated.

You probably know where this is going.

Yeah. I was already pregnant.

I was due October 9th, and yes, I was a little panicked. Three babies in less than two years????? HOW THE HECK WAS I GOING TO HANDLE THAT??? OMG WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!!!!!

It took a couple weeks, but as soon as I started making plans, I started to calm down. We were going to get through. We would be okay. In fact, I couldn't wait to meet my baby. I had a whole list of names, and I was excited to find out if it was a boy or girl so I could narrow that list down. This was going to be amazing. I'd done a good job with twins, and this pregnancy was already SO much easier. I was at seven weeks without even a trace of morning sickness. In fact, other than a couple weird dreams, I hadn't had any symptoms at all!

I could handle it.

I could handle anything.

At eight weeks the bleeding started.

Then the cramping.

I hadn't been to the doctor yet, but I'd made my first appointment. Instead of waiting for that appointment, I went early to find out if everything was okay.

No heartbeat.

The shriveled up figure on the ultrasound only measured six weeks.

Two days later my uterus dumped the remains of my baby.

It was bloody and agonizingly painful as my body expunged everything it had spent two months building, and my heart was crushed. Even though the timing had been terrible, I wanted that baby. Yes, it was going to be hard. But I would do anything, even squeeze three babies into two years, to have my baby.

There's a thing about miscarriage, though.

You are fertile after a miscarriage. Your body is flooded with hormones, and for someone like me, who struggles to have the necessary hormones to create or sustain a pregnancy, the timing couldn't be better.

And I knew that.

I didn't even wait for another cycle. I did everything in my power to make sure those extra hormones didn't go to waste.

April 7, 2017, I took a pregnancy test.

Positive.

My heart still ached for the baby I had lost, but that ache died down some knowing the future had so much waiting for me.

That pregnancy was far easier than the twin pregnancy, but it was still difficult to manage with two babies running around. There were plenty of times Carl came home from work to find me passed out on the couch with the kids running amok.

Still, I was determined to be the same level of super-mom I always was, and I kept the chaos more or less under control. Yes, there were moments of disaster, but I always came back from it.

As my due date neared, I started having dreams. The twins kept falling into water. Over and over I would have a dream where the kids would fall into water. A lake. A pool. A river. The water was frequently placid, but murky. Once it was even a sea green hue. And then I would have dreams where I returned to Utah for a vacation, but I always forgot to do the things I had loved. I forgot to see Gena. I forgot to eat at Café Rio. I would get to the end of the trip and realize I hadn't done any of the things I had been longing to do.

Ember came a little early. She was born December 1, 2017, a mere three weeks after the twins turned two. She was 6 1/2 pounds, and a teeny, tiny ball of ferocious happiness.

The twins loved her! She was their baby, and they adored everything about her. They were eager to help me change diapers, to give her kisses, and to hold her. She settled into the family immediately, and none of us knew how we ever lived without her.

I was in a state of bliss. I've heard about postpartum depression, but I had something completely opposite. I existed in a fog of euphoria, with my little baby on my chest, and my little toddlers running around. There is something about Ember's soul that makes her irresistible. Her touch is calming, and my adoration for her bordered on absolute obsession. It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I felt sad about how I'd never had that with the twins, and I wondered if it was because there were two of them, and I was just too exhausted, or if there was something unique about Ember that drew people into her.

Six weeks later, the obsession faded.

My soul emptied out.

Everything I had and everything I was swelled into my chest, converted to breast milk, and then got sucked out of me.

I vaguely remembered something like that from the twins, and I held tight. Twelve weeks and I'll feel like myself again.

Twelve weeks came, and I felt the pressure start to ease.

But I never fully came back.

I had moments. Sometimes the twins would nap - actually nap - and I would get moments alone with Ember. Annalaé Rose more or less stopped napping before Ember was born, so quiet nap times were rare. I think I can count on one hand the moments when all three children were sleeping at the same time. But in those very rare moments when the twins were both quiet in their cribs, I would take Ember outside, take pictures of her, and enjoy one on one time with my baby.

And I did my absolute best to be the best mom I could for each of my twins as well. Annalaé Rose stopped sleeping through the night when Ember was about a month old, so there were some late nights with her... mostly spent with me and/or Carl crying and begging her to sleep. Carl and I arranged one on one time to take them out to the store or out to dinner. Anders was pretty chill, as long as he got his snuggles in.

I did a pretty good job. I kept supering my superest. I made every breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner, and bedtime bottle. I taught the twins to count. I quizzed them on their letters until they knew the sounds for all 26 letters of the alphabet. I played games with them. I got on my knees and talked them through their tantrums. I enforced the rules consistently and put them in timeouts when they misbehaved. I did loads and loads of laundry. I reduced the clutter and kept the house at an acceptable level of cleanliness (far from perfect, but acceptable). I changed diaper after diaper after diaper after diaper after diaper. Three butts needed diapering, and I diapered all the butts, all of every day.

I took care of my husband's needs, just as he was taking care of mine. We teamed the teamiest of teams. He would come home from work an hour before bedtime and help change diapers, cook dinner, and whatever else needed to be done. Then we'd bathe the kids, clean the whole house, read scriptures, read stories, sing songs, say prayers, and tuck our two little munchkins into their beds. After that I would disappear into my bedroom with Ember and nurse her for half an hour - an hour - whatever it took, until she fell asleep. While I was doing that, Carl made sure the twins stayed in their beds, while working on his writing. He wasn't sure how he was going to change our financial situation, since we couldn't afford to send him back to school - in time or money - but he knew he was a good writer. So he started a blog and focused on getting one short story up every week. I supported him as well as I could, and even offered to take over his most time-consuming chore for him, because I'm not just Super Mom... I'm Super Wife too. I'm supportive like that.

I made sure that I didn't just keep my focus on my kids' needs - I remembered my husband and his needs too.

And I took care of me too! Twice a week I'd go grocery shopping all by myself. That's right. I was supering my super mom, and multitasking me-time with the grocery shopping, thereby saving more time to stay on top of my to-do list, so I wouldn't get overwhelmed.

Oh, and cloth diapers. They're better for the environment, better for your budget, and SO freaking adorable. I had some friends that were really into them, always talking about how much money they weren't spending on disposable diapers. Since we were now nearly three years into our stay in my parents' basement, and our first attempt to buy a house had ended with the reality that we just didn't have the money for that, a chance to reduce the diaper budget was essential. I moved from disposable to cloth.

Then the funniest thing happened. Super Mom started to grow laser eyes. Ice breath. Fire.

I noticed I had good days and bad days. Around October it was a good day if I made it through the day without yelling at anyone.

By December, a good day was if I made it through breakfast.

I was angry all the time, and I didn't want to touch, hear, or even look at my kids. Every snuggle felt like an act of martyrdom. I gritted my teeth and spoke the words, "I love you," with as much tenderness as I could infuse into my voice, because I knew that beneath it all, it was true. I did love my kids, and I would die if I lost them. But I couldn't force myself to feel that emotion, no matter how hard I tried to make it come back.

Timeouts became longer, more frequent, more inconsistent. They happened for pettier and pettier offences, while some major offences went undisciplined because I just didn't have the strength to stand up and put the toddler in the timeout chair.

I knew I was falling apart, but I didn't know what else I could do.

Somewhere around then we got the news - the company Carl worked for was closing, and he was out of a job.

I should have been upset and stressed, but I was intensely relieved. He was going to be home, and I was going to have more help with the every day. And yes, he would need to job hunt and find a new job, and it was going to eat into the money we had scrimped up to go into a house fund, but he would be home.

During his last couple weeks of work, an article tore through social media, talking about the effects of burnout - how Millennials are frequently labeled as lazy and weak because they get "anxiety" for such simple tasks like mailing bills or returning phone calls, but Millennials are a generation that runs beyond full capacity. They try to do it all, all at once, and frequently fall apart and become immobilized by the simplest of things, because they have nothing left to give. And then people tell them they're just being lazy.

That article hit me through my soul, because I was utterly immobilized by some of the simplest of things - picking up a toddler for hitting and putting them in a timeout. It's not hard. But it requires standing up. And I just... I can't right now. I'll just pretend I didn't see it. Biting back my temper, taking a deep breath. I've done it a million and a half times. Why can't I now? Why am I turning on my two year old and yelling at them like they're somehow supposed to understand that holding my leg when I'm trying to cook inconveniences me? And how is that flood of rage even a little bit proportionate to the offense of standing in my way when I've asked them to move three times already? They're three. They're toddlers.

The article talked about the importance of self care, and gave some suggestions for how to do it. Not just "have time for yourself," but to pay attention to what activities leave you feeling filled up, and not drained. Taking a yoga class isn't self care if the teacher bothers you and you leave feeling anxious and judged. And for me, grocery shopping leaves me tired. Yes, I'm by myself, but I'm tired.

As soon as the company closed and Carl was home more, I launched into a phase of self care. I went for a walk outside every day. No exceptions. If it was too cold, I got in the car, drove somewhere, and ate yummy food. I did things that left me feeling better. I gave myself a minimum of an hour every single day, where I just did things that made me feel good.

It didn't take long. After a few short weeks, I wanted to hold my kids again. I enjoyed the sounds of their giggles, their mispronounced words, the funny things they did. I stopped yelling at everything. With Carl around to handle the discipline when necessary, I really stopped yelling at all. I could just turn around and say, "Anders, go get Daddy." Or, "Carl, Anna Rose is driving me crazy." He shouldered so much of that burden, and I felt myself starting to come back.

During that time, when I had the energy to process what I was going through, I started to learn some lessons about life itself. I started to see perfection in a new light, and to get a healthier understanding of what was required of me. I found new ways to approach life, and learned what things I could simply let go, and let fail.

Six weeks into unemployment, the financial strain was starting to eat at me. Our house fund was shrinking, and I was back to functioning capacity, which meant I needed Carl to work more than I needed him home. He was offered a job, but they didn't start until mid-March, so he kept looking.

Eventually, mid-March rolled around with no other jobs in sight, so after two and half months of financial strain but lots of self-care for me, we started a new routine. I was back to solo stay-at-home-parenting.

I was careful this time. I let the clutter in my house build up, because that was one area I didn't mind failing. I kept things basically clean, but not in any way orderly. I made sure my me-time was spent doing things I liked, not multi-tasking with what needed to be done.

Even though I was careful, the demands returned. Meal after meal, laundry after laundry, timeout after timeout, snuggle after snuggle, lesson after lesson, mess after mess, diaper after diaper, potty treat after potty treat, cleaning up pee over and over as Anna Rose learned to potty train and Anders flunked potty training for the second year running.

I refused to let the anger come back. Somehow, I don't even know how, I managed to turn it off. Even though I had sunk into exhaustion again, I kept my temper under control.

Honestly, I was so afraid I would get that far down again. I hated how angry I had become at the end of 2018. As 2019 progressed, and I felt myself sinking into that exhaustion, I was terrified I would lose myself to that anger again. I held it back, and while there really were days I felt anger, I refused to let it become a part of me, or the way I responded to my kids.

And you know what? I didn't really feel much else either. Just tired. And guilty. And pretty hopeless too. And tired. Did I mention tired? Always so, so, so tired.

As I watched my progress reverse, I wondered about depression. It had been so long since anything other than food had brought me positive emotion, but I had no history of mental health disorders. It was just burnout, right? Burnout can look an awful lot like depression, but it's not the same thing. But even when I was getting enough sleep at night, I was still physically tired.

My mom has thyroid problems. Same with my maternal grandma. And women are more prone to them. Must be my thyroid.

I finally went to the doctor, hoping for a pill that would fix it. All I need is a thyroid pill or something.

I walked out of that appointment with perfectly normal blood work and a mental health diagnosis.

Depression.

The real thing. Not burnout. Not my thyroid. Nothing I can fix with a nap or maybe a simple, easy to prescribe pill. My brain isn't doing what my brain is supposed to do.

My attempts to find a counselor fell through - my insurance wouldn't cover squat, and the one I could afford who treated depression wasn't taking any new patients. But, I took my doctor's suggestions, starting with one night a week devoted to me. My "me-time" had grown more inconsistent as the demands crept up, and it was usually only an hour or so. She ordered a three-hour minimum, at least once a week, and talked to me a little about what depression looks like.

In a way, it was helpful just having the diagnosis. I could take all the guilt I felt and combat it with, "This is just a symptom. It's not real." And I felt guilt over the silliest of things. I fed the kids corn dogs? Guilt. I said something that wasn't rude or anything, but might have been more impactful if I'd phrased it differently? Guilt. I ignored a phone call from an unknown number? What if someone needed to talk to me, and they were on their last hope, and now they're going to commit suicide. Guilt. Everything was guilt, guilt, guilt. And there was guilt over big things too. I told Anna Rose to just stop crying already when she was clearly upset and needed compassion. Guilt. Ember fell off the couch and got hurt. Guilt. The kids are fighting. Guilt. But with my diagnosis, I was able to take that guilt, and tell it where it could stick it, because it was just my brain malfunctioning, like depressed brains do.

Having the diagnosis also helped me say no to people. My mom asked me to help with taking care of her horses, and help with the farm work that was overwhelming her. And yeah, any other time, I would have looked at the fact that I'm living in her house for free, and that is 100% a fair request. But I had absolutely nothing left to give, and for the first time I was able to look at her, and with a clear conscience tell her that she was trying to drink from a dry well. Church callings? Ha. No. I don't have any responsibilities at church, other than taking care of my kid with separation anxiety who won't let me out of her sight long enough to go to nursery.

There was one point, maybe a month or so after the fateful visit to the doctor, where I was standing outside, pushing Anders in the swing. I don't know where the girls were. Maybe they were playing in the dirt. Maybe they were inside with Carl. Either way, it was just me and Anders, playing outside. Summer was dying down, and the sun was warm, but the faintest hint of a breeze was gentle and cool. The air smelled like grass and leaves, and birds were chirping. In the swing, Anders was laughing and kicking and being generally euphoric every time I pushed him. I looked around at everything - flowers, summer breeze, giggling toddler, a perfect day - and all I could think was, "Huh. I don't feel anything. Just... sort of empty. Not happy. Not sad. Just empty. This sort of thing used to make me high."

I had good days and bad days. On the good days, I would simply live my life. I didn't mind life at all. I'd just do what needed to be done, maybe do something enjoyable too. Eating was always pleasant, and even brought me genuine happiness, but the doctor told me not to let my "me-days" center around food.

The bad days were a fog of swirling thoughts, guilt, and anger. I never went back to my temper, but I was frustrated and angry with myself and hopeless that we would ever get out of the rut we were in. Another year was going by and we still couldn't afford a house, and all my attempts to save money were being upset by cars breaking and teeth hurting and thousands of dollars of unexpected expenses. I'd lived with a toothache for a solid year because I didn't want to pay for a root canal, but by October I couldn't take the pain anymore. I sucked it up and forked out the $665 to fix my tooth.

Somewhere around the end of the year, I realized the bad days weren't coming so often anymore. They still happened, but instead of being 80-90% of my days, they were only 30-40% or so. They still hurt when they came, but they weren't coming so much.

Not long after that, Ember did something small, something cute, and I felt a little rush of happiness. Something other than food had brought that emotion on.

And in December I found the energy to exercise again. It wasn't much - just pacing around the house and getting a higher step count - but it's the main exercise I've had a history of doing consistently. I managed to walk an average of 4,689 steps in the month of December, which brought my yearly average up to a whole 3,003. (For reference, the W.H.O. recommends a minimum of 10,000 steps a day to maintain a healthy body.)

Now it's February, 2020. Mine and Carl's seventh anniversary, in fact. There are still good days and bad days, but the bad days are sitting around 10-20% of the time. My monthly step count for January was 6,452, and February... well... I'm not going to lie, it's off to a terrible start. I got sick on February 1st, and now, 8 days later, I still have acute laryngitis and a bad cough. My step count so far is only 5,264, but I still have 2/3 of the month left to bring it back up as soon as I get this sickness under control.

Ember is napping, the twins are talking happily, and I just spent two hours catching my blog up on the last four years.

Of course, it's four years, and a LOT has happened in that time. One post can't even come close to covering it. But right now I'm hyper-focused on my health, both mental and physical, so detailing my experience with depression seemed like a good place to focus this life-update.

And honestly, I'm coming out of it. I'm getting things under control, and my head is above water again.

We're still in my parents' basement, but Carl got accepted to a non-profit that teaches programming and web development. He's been taking classes for that for a while now, and only has a month of class left. After that he'll get an apprenticeship, and then hopefully a job. Maybe, just maybe, this will be the year we make it out on our own.

Either way, I'm getting better. Yesterday Carl and I had a very long day out for our anniversary, walking around Crown Center and checking out the sights in Kansas City. It was a lot like the things we used to do, before we had kids. It reminded me of our trips to Seattle, Nehalem Bay, Garden of the Gods, Laguna Beach... that's who we used to be. Taking pictures. Having fun. Talking about what ifs and stories and the future we're building together. It was nice to be out and remember what used to be... and even find some new things we can do as a family. (Legoland is so happening for the twins' fifth birthday, and Kaleidoscope is a free art center we can do at any point before that.)

I don't know if I'll ever feel the way I used to feel, or if that Savannah doesn't even exist anymore, but I like my life. Whatever the heck it is right now, I like it. I like my three little maniacs, I like my life-partner and story-builder husband, and I like seeing my upward progress. No, I'm not where I want to be. Yet. And I can't even see it on the horizon. Yet. But I can see how the road I'm on now will take me there. And I like that.

Maybe I'll Blog Again

The last year and a half has been a hell of a ride.

I'm looking for ways to write, and ways to do things that make me feel a little more human, and a little less slave-zombie, so maybe it's time to start blogging again.

That said, I'm also refusing to commit to anything, so maybe it's time to blog once or twice and then not blog again for another two years.

You know... like last time.

I still haven't figured out what to do about how transient blogs are, and how difficult it is to create a physical copy, but at least if I update once or twice it'll keep the account active. Worst case scenario, I'll copy my favorite posts to a Word document and print them out.

Ha ha.

No I won't.

Let's be honest. I've had "Make a Cousins Notebook" on my to-do list for the last 3 years and I haven't even gotten started. (If you're wondering, that's a notebook with pictures of all my kids' extended family so they can have a comprehensive list of who they're related to. They're up to 31 first cousins now. Eat that, My Big Fat Greek Wedding!)

Anyway, this is basically just an intro post to the possibility of blogging regularly again... if I do that... which I'm not committing to.

Next up, where I've been for the last 4 years, and what I've been doing.