A Little Update

So, three-ish weeks later... how are we doing?

Honestly, sometimes I forget it's only been three and a half weeks, and somehow I think I should be running at full capacity again. Or, you know, as close to full capacity as I get these days. 

Like all losses, there are good days and bad days. And really, when the bad days come, I'm generally like, "Oh, come on! What is wrong with me today? Why am I so exhausted and sad and..." It's like somehow I think I didn't just lose a baby - a baby that I spent two months very carefully nurturing, worrying for, loving, hoping for, and trying not to lose.

But, here's the thing. When I lost a beautiful future, my right now - my daily routine - got... well... better. That ten week pregnancy was hard, and there were intense sacrifices in my daily life. Everything - major diet changes, nausea, headaches, nightmares, debilitating exhaustion, painful cramping - disappeared. Having all of that stress and weight lifted definitely helped soften the blow, and as I stuffed my face with every piece of previously-forbidden-chocolate I could find, I found myself saying, "I'm glad I'm not pregnant right now." I was never, never glad I wasn't going to have that baby. But I was glad I wasn't enduring the process of growing one.

It was almost scary how quickly I moved from "processing the emotion" to "planning what comes next."

I researched adoption. It's a $30,000 minimum. I've always liked the idea, but realizing it cost an entire year of our family's income, with no guarantee of success, more or less nixed that possibility. 

So now what? 

Two weeks after the miscarriage, I was ready to move on. Ready to try again.

Two weeks and a day after the miscarriage I definitely needed more time.

When I hit that all-important fertile window last week, I was definitely ready to try again.

Today I need more time.

Ha ha, me.

Ha ha.

If last week's enthusiasm creates results, I'm two weeks and five... oh no wait... it's midnight. Two weeks and six days. My due date would be two days after the twins' sixth birthday, and two weeks before Ember's fourth.

Is it too early for symptoms? Because the last two nights have been filled with vivid dreams... always the first symptom I experience. I've cut down on sugar again, and I'm moving back into caring for the maybe-baby, at least for the next week. 

So, when all is said and done, how am I?

I'm worn down, but I'm okay. I don't ache every day anymore, and my bad days are generally just low energy and inexplicable frustration while I forget I'm actually still moving through the grieving process. I really should have given myself more time, but I know I have a much better chance of holding a pregnancy immediately after a miscarriage, and I'm afraid to waste that. 

I'm trying to be happier and say "yes" to the kids more, and to invest more time into playing with them, and teaching them life skills. Things are hard for them too. Mommy has been a little off her game lately, and they can tell. I'm trying to exercise every day, and cook healthy meals, and keep the house clean. I'm trying to teach the twins how to clean their rooms, and keep screen-time at healthy levels. And somewhere in there I'm trying to read scriptures more, write in my journal, and keep my perspective in check. I'm reading the news because this past year has been so historical, and I'm looking to see if anything else apocalyptic has gone down. 

And I'm playing games on my phone - shutting down for a few minutes to push buttons and watch meaningless achievements stack up... that false feeling of accomplishment. Honestly, how do I get anything done when there's false accomplishment to feel? But somehow I do. Last night I tried out my new scrubby-socks and scrubbed the kitchen floor. Today I folded all the laundry, grocery shopped, organized/filed the tax documents that have been sitting on my desk for two weeks, and did all my usual kid-care, including French toast for breakfast. I've exercised 12 of the last 14 days. The house was completely clean as of this morning (though, admittedly, it has a day's worth of kid-chaos all over it right now). 

So I'm fine. Things are still hard sometimes, but I'm okay.

Maybe Say it Anyway

There's this culture that you're not supposed to announce your pregnancy until after 12 weeks, when the risk of miscarriage goes down. Because that way, if you miscarry, you don't have to tell people about it.

The first time I miscarried, I was actually glad, at least for the first few days. I was just so exhausted. I didn't want to say it out loud or talk about it or hear what anybody had to say. But eventually, I needed some form of validation. I needed the general "out there" of people who know me to just understand that I wasn't okay. They didn't need to say anything or even spend too much time thinking about it. I just didn't want to fake like things were fine, and if I wasn't faking, I didn't want people to think, "Wow, she's awfully mopey today. Cheer up, honey!"

I get it, I suppose. When I hear about someone else's personal tragedy, I never know what to say. Grief is so personal, and rarely ever rational. I have no idea what would be comforting to that individual person for that situation, or what might accidentally trigger more grief. And then, when the condolences come in, how does the bereaved know what to say in reply? That's just as tough. 

Either way, the culture says to reduce that situation as much as humanly possible by just not telling anybody you're pregnant in the first place. Nobody wants to hear about your miscarriage, and you don't want to tell them about it.

But to not say anything just leaves the former mom-to-be feeling hollowed out with nobody to understand why. Nobody knows she's not okay.

So here it is:

I'm not okay.

But it's okay.

I'll be okay.

With time.

It's okay not to say anything. Or if you have something to say, it's okay to say it too. Either way, I just needed to get that out.

Thanks, 2020.

I read through my last post.

It ended so hopeful. Carl's learning a new skill that can get us a higher income! He'll have an apprenticeship! Then a job! The end of this time in my parents' basement is in sight!

I also mentioned I was sick. It started with a high fever, and involved a dry cough that just would not go away. I was sick the whole month of February.

In March... well... 

Yeah. Hi, COVID. Nice to meet you, jerk.

I've always wondered if what I had was COVID, but I never got tested. I guess I'll never know. 

So, COVID changed our lives. Carl's apprenticeship never came because the whole program pretty much evaporated when everyone started working from home and nobody was doing anything extra. Now, we're a year later, and he's still working for Hallmark.

But, at the end of March, Hallmark announced they were shutting down the warehouse for a while. Carl was officially furloughed, and that REALLY changed things... mostly for the better.

First of all, the stimulus unemployment checks were larger than his usual paycheck, by a lot. He went from making about $550 a week to about $850 a week. While I have a rather large set of opinions about the economic intelligence of that move (or lack thereof), the extra $1200 a month made ALL the difference in our ability to save a down payment for a house.

Before we got our first unemployment check (and when I was genuinely wondering if it would ever come), I got an email from someone at church, saying they were looking for people to work in a factory, manufacturing face shields for the pandemic. I was SO excited to volunteer for that. With Carl home, I was officially free to go back to work for the first time since the twins were born. I applied, got the job, and started bringing home an extra $300 a week or so. (Factory work doesn't pay much.)

I'd love to write a whole blog post on that experience, but it's a little much for this one, so I'll just say it was VERY eye opening. The work absolutely sucked, but it was an incredibly educational experience.

By May the supply of face shields had outpaced the demand, so I was out of a job.

I wasn't sad, honestly. The work was so boring, and I missed my kids so much. It was nice to be away from them for 40 hours a week, because it helped me get some space and refocus on my relationships with each of them. By the end of it, though, I missed the quality time, and I'd regained my appreciation for their little things.

I spent most of June at home, until my brother-in-law approached me about another job. He needed a temporary neurofeedback tech for his counseling business, until he could go through the long process of hiring someone permanent (and more qualified). 

That's another experience I'd LOVE to write a very long post about, because it was amazing. I loved that work so much, and I'm not going to deny it's something I'd like to do again, if ever I'm looking for a job.

But, that job turned out to be cursed. As I was in training - not even fully working yet - we got the news. Hallmark was FINALLY opening the warehouse again, and Carl was going back to work. They timed it RIGHT before the stimulus benefits ran out in the first part of July. 

So, Carl worked 7-3:30, and I worked 4-9. I'd get up with the kids, mom all day, meet Carl at the commuter parking lot near his work, switch cars, and he'd drive home with the kids while I drove all the way down to Overland Park for work. I'd meet with my clients, come home at bedtime, get the kids to bed, and collapse into bed myself. I'd sleep for a few hours, then get up with the kids the next day. 

I did that for a month and a half before they got enough people trained on neurofeedback for me to quit. 

It wasn't a terribly long time, but it was kind of devastating for my mental health. My depression was already teetering on edge from the stress and uncertainty of pandemic life, but the physical strain of mom-ing all day and working until bedtime tipped me over the edge and dumped me back into binge eating and all the feelings of guilt and anger that had plagued me during the worst of my depression.

And, of course, because I wasn't stressed enough... we found a house.

With all the extra income we'd saved up a solid down payment, and even though the housing market was in utter insanity, we managed to find a good house.

It was 105 years old, being sold "as is," and had serious drainage problems in the yard, but there was nothing about it we couldn't handle. It was spacious and on a big, corner lot, and it was IN OUR PRICE RANGE!!!

We were the first people to look at it when it became available for viewing, and since we knew how quickly houses were disappearing, we put an offer on it that day. Our offer was accepted, so while I was finishing up training neurofeedback techs, I was also filling out paperwork for a mortgage and walking Carl through the process of filling out his share of the paperwork. 

We closed the first day in September, two weeks after I'd quit my job, and then began the process of fixing up our fixer upper. We got the core basics done enough to move in, and in early October we moved all our stuff over.

Actually, my mom moved all our stuff over. 

I think she was a little eager to have her basement back.

I'm sitting here now, in my office, looking at the dark, purple-gray walls and wondering what color I'll paint them after I've saved a little more for the renovation budget. We're doing things a little at a time. We painted the walls and replaced the nasty carpet in the front room, and repaired some holes in the lathe and plaster. We completely redid the bathroom, since the subfloor was rotting and sinking into the crawl space, the sink only came out in a trickle, the toilet was probably installed in the '60's, and the whole thing was just gross. And then there was the laundry room. We got that one functional, and even looking significantly better, but we still have to stain and install the counters that are sitting up against the wall, do trim, fix that one stair, and put up decor. There have been little things throughout the whole house we've been fixing as we go. 2021 will be the year we regrade the backyard so it quits draining into our dining room, which... yikes. We're basically going to have to rip out most of the wall and the floor from all the water damage in there. The kitchen needs to be a different color. Anna Rose's room needs the walls and ceiling completely ripped out and replaced. Anders and Ember's room pretty much just needs new paint and some form of new floor. (Original hardwood? Maybe?)

Our budget is mostly gone, so these are projects we'll work on as we go.

For now, we're in our new home, even though we didn't permanently raise our income, and we're safe and financially stable. I'm learning how to operate in our new budget where we pay a mortgage and utilities, and I'm looking forward to the coming tax return... and maybe more stimulus money? Who knows.

My depression is in a pretty good place right now. I still feel it a little, but I've got it under control, and I've definitely recovered from the summer. Having more space REALLY helps. 

The twins are five now, and I'm staring kindergarten in the face, unsure of how I can possibly let them be away from me for that long EVERY DAY! How do parents do it? They can't possibly be ready for that! Maybe the pandemic won't be over by then, and I'll be forced to homeschool them for at least the fall semester.

I'm gearing up to potty train Ember this Spring, when the weather is warmer and the house is warmer and I can just let her run around naked while we practice. She's a VERY sharp kid, so I'm hoping she'll pick it up quickly, and then I can have ZERO kids in diapers for the first time in five years.

You know, for a few months.

Until August.

When Baby #4 comes.

Yep. I did that.

See, I had this epiphany. I've been wanting my next baby for over a year now, but I was just waiting until I got my depression under control. Three kids pretty much did me in, so adding in another one was just not a good idea.

But, now that I know what depression feels like, and I've become intimately familiar with it, I realized this is not the first time in my life I've had it.

I had depression during my last year of school, and the year following it. I had it when I met Carl. 

It was funny, when I was dating him, everything was perfect. We fit together SO well. We liked all the same things. We believed the same things. We were absolutely perfect. And the first time he kissed me... well... it was the best kiss I'd ever had. 

I actually felt the tiniest hint of butterflies in my stomach.

Which was, honestly, a total letdown. I couldn't figure out why I wasn't feeling fire and passion, or anything even remotely resembling it. I was definitely happy, some days actually giddy, but only when I was with him. The rest of my life felt frustrated and unsure and... well... depressed. But, he was perfect, so I made the very cerebral decision to marry him. 

Now, in hindsight, I realize the reason the passion was so vacant was because everything I was feeling was muted. My brain wasn't making the happy-sauce like it was supposed to. And it was really trying its hardest, but I'd been overworked and exhausted and uncertain about my future - not to mention disillusioned by some very difficult relationships - for two years, and there wasn't a lot to make chemicals with. Getting married and having EVERYTHING in my life get easier for a few months fixed that problem, and I was fine pretty much until 2014, when traces of it came back. Then I started writing again, and then I got my dream-babies, and everything was fine until 2018, when baby #3 absolutely kicked my butt.

So, there was that realization. Depression had been a part of my life for much longer than when I started having kids.

Then I remembered my oldest brother had struggled with it.

My youngest brother was currently struggling with it.

My middle brother would probably never admit it, but has DEFINITELY shown symptoms of it.

My mom has struggled with it.

This is not a momentary problem. This crap is in my DNA. I'm going to have good years and bad years for, literally, the rest. of. my. life.

So why was I putting off something... someone... I wanted so badly? The twins are old enough to be somewhat helpful. Ember is nearly done with diapers. I'm not in the depths of it anymore, and we now have the house situation taken care of. 

It's time. 

So, Baby #4, I can't wait to meet you. I'm so glad you're growing inside of me, and even though the last few weeks have been LOADED with anxiety (my body still isn't great at maintaining a pregnancy), I was so happy to see your heart beating last week. I can't wait to find out if you're a boy or a girl, so I can narrow down my massive list of possible names. I love you, and I can't wait to hold you!

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.

*

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.

Wow... hiatus much?

Wow, people of the Internet.

I haven't blogged in SOOOOO long!!!

Why?

Well, I'm freaking tired, pretty much.

Also, I haven't found a cost effective way to print my blog, so I kinda feel like everything I write on here is doomed to disappear into oblivion at some point in the future, and will never be shelved with my voluminous collection of journals. Seriously. I'm working on my 14th journal this year. I didn't even start journaling regularly until I was in my late teens. And this? This is a cool place to write words that other people may read, but I feel like I'm going to lose them, and they will never be preserved for my progeny.

Same with Facebook. Could someone please invent a cost effective way to print out your Facebook? That is SUCH an interesting peek into the lives and interests of the early 21st Century that historians of the future would be ecstatic to get their hands on.

You know, because 300 years from now, all things on the Internet will probably be lost. I really doubt anybody keeps physical archives of everybody's social media accounts, and all that data is going to get overwritten at some point.

Or lost in a techpocalypse.

A techpocalypse that occurs after all physical books have been converted to digital format, and there has been a movement to "save the trees" by outlawing the printing of new physical books, and bunches of paper books have been burned to make a statement against the destruction of trees for paper, and then World War III breaks out and the physical archives are all burned on both sides, and THEN there's the techpocalypse.

Of course, following that scenario, 1500 years later, historians would try to piece together the pantheon of the ancient world. This pantheon would included gods like Tweeton, who could change from human to bird, flying the globe in a matter of seconds, delivering firy justice, typically for fairly petty offenses.

There would also be the goddess Instagrametha, the goddess of beauty and vanity, who strangely carried an intense distain for female nudity, and would banish all humans who dared to show women in the "tasteless" form of nude, even if it was merely nude from the waist up.

The historians would be unsure of the role of the god Tumbliter, but they would assume from what little they could find of his worshippers that he generally rewarded sarcasm and held the fair skinned in great disdain.

Then they would keep finding references to some Tome of Heads that they couldn't quite figure out. From all those references it would seem that this book was fairly ubiquitous in the society, and nearly everyone made it a goal to write in it. Or on it. They would never be quite sure. Perhaps it was not a book. Perhaps it was a wall, as so many references would seem to suggest. This Tome of Heads would certainly be the greatest mystery the ancients had left behind.

Basically, writing in a blog seems so transient... such a fragile record. Why would I keep writing in it?

Maybe because I miss actually speaking to an audience when I write down my thoughts.

Yeah. There's also that.

And maybe, sometime in the future, someone will offer a "print your blog" service where you can print 7 years of blogging without it costing upwards of $200. Then I can make a huge volume and stick it on my journal shelf.