Fourteen years ago...

 

... a photographer and incredibly talented acquaintance from D's gym, Gabrielle, offered to do a photoshoot with me. She also wanted to style me, fix my hair, and do my makeup. She brought some stuff (including this floofy skirt) and looked through my closet (the shirt and shoes) and came up with three looks, changing makeup and hair for each. It was a fun few hours, and it really meant a lot to me.

I knew at that point that I was going to leave Sherman, and it was a neat little bow to put on the end of my time there.

When I look at these pictures, which include a bunch taken around my RV and in the park where I lived, I can remember exactly how I felt, why I was leaving, what my heart ached for, and what a "dead end" sign seemed to be posted on the road to where I believed my happiness lay. 

This was a world without Mal in it. A world where I'd spent the past year and a half of my life trying to get my church, my world, to approve of me. A world where James was just a guy I'd had a crush on in high school. A world where I could not imagine where my only (at the time) child would take me over the next decade.

In this picture, it seems like I'm looking back and resting for a minute before embarking on a whole new life: moving to Austin, growing my family, finding a community in a tiny town I never heard of before we came to look at a house I saw online. 

I'm not friends with ANYONE from those days. I'm not in touch with a soul from Sherman. I cannot see how any of my acquaintances would fit into my world anymore. After trying so hard to jam my square peg into the round hole I desperately wanted in, I cannot imagine something that sounds worse to me now. 

As always, onward and upward.

A Random Encounter a Decade Later

You didn't even recognize me. I mean, it's been exactly ten years, but we were kind of involved.

You once sat across a table from me and asked me, "What if God is just about to do a miracle, and you give up now?" You invested a lot of your time and effort in keeping me from leaving an unhealthy marriage because it was what god wanted me to do, and it was your job to hold me to this personal holiness. The church that you lead called men with whom they saw me talking and asked if I were involved in a sexual relationship with them. You pulled me off of my ministry of writing and film production "not as a punishment, but so you can focus on your marriage." As if that wasn't all I had done for the better part of the previous decade.

And then you just went on with your life and I slipped from your memory altogether. How nice for you.

Believe me, I know that you had good intentions. I worked with you for more than six years, and I saw your heart for people, and for unity. I know how much you worked, and how you put your whole heart into everything. I admired how you reached across denominations and cultures and wanted to gather everyone together. You even stood up for me the first time you met with my ex-husband and me. After I'd told my side of the story, you asked, "What is wrong with you, man? Don't you have any balls?"

But then you expected me to stay the course, as this was the first you'd heard of it, completely disregarding the fact that both I and a whole other church had been trying to fix things for years. I had changed so much, and given up so much of my truest self, trying to placate a person who demanded more than it was possible for me to give. It was never enough. I was always too much or too loud or too involved with my larger family or too fat or too out of control.

"I just wish you guys had come to [the church] earlier. Now we're at this precipice, and we could have helped."

I'm not sure what else I could have done. Literally everyone else knew. My ministry team, especially your staff member with whom I worked the closest, knew about the strain in my marriage. My writing partner once commiserated with me saying, "When they know you won't leave, it's like permission for them to treat you like shit." She's a better person than I am, I suppose, because... I left. I did not deserve to be treated like shit.

Exactly one year before, I had written an Easter segment for "The Bridge" about a marriage that was falling apart. My ex-husband, who was on the camera team that week, told his ministry team that the script was taken directly from our marriage.

I hadn't meant for it to be a cry for help, but maybe it was? Or maybe it was wish fulfillment? At the end of the service, it became clear that the husband had drastically changed tack and the couple ended up having a long, loving marriage. One of the choir members cried as he prayed before service, saying, "Let people hear this and be encouraged; there are a lot of people whose marriages are on life support, and they need to know that there's hope."

I mean, four months or so after that, there was a HUGE incident that several people witnessed, and it bothered one of them enough to reach out to church leadership. You met with us then, and... what? Like just assumed that because we went quiet again that this incident wasn't important? 

There was one other time, toward the end, that I saw a spark of compassion from you. After many meeting with elders, you were in one and perked up when I mentioned a mental disorder. I know what you've been through with your daughter. I know you understand that there are things you can't love someone enough to fix. You said, "You've never mentioned that before." And then you were never in later meetings. I assumed it was because you were at risk of being "too empathetic," which was a charge lain on one more friend who asked to sit in an elder's meeting with me as an advocate, and who broke down crying as a bunch of men came down on me and made me sign an agreement not to share any of what I was going through on social media.

Sir, there were people from your church who followed me on social media and read my blog just to make sure that I didn't speak a word of anything. When other church members called you because they knew me and saw what was happening, I was accused of being "divisive." 

I was in an emotionally abusive relationship, and you all cared more about saving my marriage than saving me. I was pushed out of the church home I'd had for six years, after working so closely with everyone who was making that decision.

Maybe you guys thought that I was being a jerk. I probably was. Another former preacher, Kevin Odor, used to say, "Hurt people hurt people." I'm sorry about my part in those things. Maybe, as one friend expressed concern, you were trying to make an example of me, to let everyone else know that marriage was so important, you couldn't tolerate its dissolution. I know you genuinely believe that you were trying to keep me on the straight and narrow.

Writing about these times brings everything back to the fore for me. And you clearly could not place me, even when I pulled my mask down, and said I'd been in Sherman when you were there.

You said, "Oh, things have changed since then..." then you told me about the church you'd pastored after the one I attended, and how now you're here, in my back yard, on staff with your son's congregation. I introduced you to my husband, and my child. I said, "He looks a lot like D at this age." Of course, you didn't know D as "D." And you probably wouldn't remember them, either.

"My wife's around here somewhere," you told me. I said I'd keep an eye out for her. And I did. When I saw her, I made sure my mask was up, and I averted my eyes. I could be polite and chatty with you, but not her. She said two of the worst things anyone said to me during my divorce, and I don't believe that the second one is forgivable, frankly.

The first thing: "Well, he's not hitting you, and he's not cheating, so you're kind of stuck." No, I was not. The law doesn't care why I wanted out; I was free to go. And if there is a god who expects women to tolerate every single thing that is not hitting or cheating, then that is not a god I am interested in following. I didn't have the guts to say it then, but I do now. I do not believe that. I absolutely do not.

The second, worst thing she said, though, after telling some anecdotes, was, "And, you know, most people are pretty miserable, anyway, so..."

What kind of "Christian" advice is this? Your marriage sucks? Well, guess what? NO ONE IS HAPPY so just give up dreaming! I mean, is Jesus supposed to make up for this? "Sure, your life sucks but one day, you'll die and be in heaven as long as you stay in these parameters!"

I'm not talking to her.

Anyway, my mood tanked for much of the event, because it was quite a surprise to see someone I thought was way back in the rear-view mirror. But, I have to tell you, as hard a time as I had, and as much as I struggled with the loss of my church family and friends, I probably should have thanked you.

"Oh, do you go to church here?" you asked about the congregation that hosted the event. I told you no, that I go to church in Leander.

What I didn't tell you was that I would never go to that church, and that was before I knew your son pastored it or that you worked there.

The reason is largely because of what I learned in my experience with your old church. My old church.

As I mentioned, I have no doubt that you and most of the men involved in pushing back on my divorce meant well. As you saw it, God demanded that divorce not happen, and therefore divorce is sin, and it was your responsibility to prevent my sinning if it were within your power.

The same thing happened, though less dramatically, with the church I attended here, when I was engaged to James, an "unbeliever," and the leadership stepped in to discourage me from marrying him. When I said I was going to go on with it, the preacher told me, "If you can't submit yourself to leadership in this way, then I don't really know what we have for you." I told him that wasn't the first time I'd been asked to leave a church, and that it's very demoralizing. We're still on okay terms. But what the hell, man?

Writing this, I think one might, perhaps rightfully, be tempted to say, "They were all right, and you're just a rebellious freak." I mean, maybe I am.

But I happen to believe that rebellious freaks also deserve to feel loved and accepted by their creator (if there is one, and in the context of the church, there is).

I have absolute confidence that the "church discipline" I received was done in genuine love.

And IT SUCKED. It felt awful. It felt invalidating, and humiliating, and made me feel like a problem child. Even knowing I was loved.

If this hadn't happened to me, I might not have thought about that in the context of the LGBTQ+ community. I'm embarrassed to admit that, but it's true. I've gone to church with gay people who were welcomed to the congregation but not allowed to serve in positions of leadership. I've also gone to churches where a gay member would have to keep the gay part on the down-low.

Because of my personal experience, I know that being loved and also seen as a problem doesn't feel like love. It's very "othering." It's condescending. It denies a part of who you are as being unseemly or sinful.

I never want anyone who steps into a church to feel that rejection, and because of that, I'll never attend a church that isn't open and affirming. I might not have come to this decision if it weren't for the way you cornered me and tried to shove me into a mould that I could not inhabit anymore.

So, really, thanks. Thanks for making me a more compassionate person.

If I happen to see you at the store or local events in the future, I'll keep my distance. And I won't let it ruin my day. 

I'd love it if you and your wife could know that you were wrong, though. Sure, there are days in my life that are stressful or monotonous. However, I'm happy. It's attainable, and I hope you guys aren't settling for "pretty miserable." But if you are, it's not my problem. And I'm not yours.

Is It Going to Hurt?

I've signed up for the membership class at the church we've been attending since the beginning of the year (literally; we went the first time on New Year's Day). This is a big deal. I have been invited to leave the last two churches to which I belonged (and left the one before that because of a big split down the middle that was a fight in which I was not involved and did not want to participate).

What does one have to do to be invited to leave a church? In my specific situation(s): carry on with an "unscriptural divorce," and marry an "unbeliever." The situations were vastly different, with the first being "you have to do XYZ and if you do any other letters, you have to go" and the second being, "if you can't trust leadership on this issue, I'm not sure what else we have to offer you." But both hurt.

Am I more rebellious than the average church-goer? Do I not value the guidance of the Lord and wish to obey him? Actually, that second one is a question with which I have wrestled most of my life, and most intensely in the past seven years or so.

I realize that the Bible mentions specifically only one reason, sexual infidelity, for divorce (so when my church offered "physical abuse" as another out, they were being every bit as "unscriptural" as I was, in my view). It also says not to be "unequally yoked" to an unbeliever. It (the New Testament, specifically) also tells women to cover their heads when they pray; and not to braid their hair or wear gold; and not to speak in church, but to ask their husbands questions at home. It talks about how all Cretans are liars and gluttons. And that we should keep the Passover festival. And many people take those literally and observe the commands, while many people are of the opinion that there are things, even in the New Testament (because I'm speaking to Christians, who largely see the Old Testament as Judaic law and history, which does not apply to them/us), that are not literal but illustrative; that are cultural notes not intended to apply widely to all people in all times; or that were included as a personal note from the writer and not a command from God.

So a lot of times, when people who genuinely love Jesus and want to bring God's kingdom to earth, say or do things that they feel justified in doing without compromising their faith, a common question is: If you're going to pick and choose what to believe, where do you stop? And that's a valid question. For everyone. Because we all do it. Every single one of us. I can't tell you which parts of the Bible you should literally apply to your life because I'm not the Holy Spirit. And if there were only one "right" answer to that for everyone, I don't think there'd be a need for the Holy Spirit. Because we'd all just "get" what the Bible meant, and we'd all agree.

But I digress.

My point is that joining a church is an invitation to be hurt, honestly. Yes, it's an invitation to join with others to do some good in this world. I looked carefully before choosing a congregation, and am confident that this is one where I can help make a difference here and now. (Or in a few months/years when Mal will let me do stuff.)

And I don't think the Christian faith should be "easy." But there is "difficult" and there is "something is wrong here."

For instance, when you go hiking, it's not easy. You have to work. You have to push yourself. You have to make adjustments. Sometimes, you think, "Blehh; it's too hard." But you persevere. It's different if you're wearing ill-fitting shoes on the hike, and every step is painful and damaging.

Basically, I want to be somewhere that I can appropriately submit to the church authorities while still being able to make some decisions that might cause tension, without being seen as "in rebellion."

And, heck, in the first instance, my "rebellion" was largely just acting out of a horrible place where I wasn't sure how to proceed. The second time... well, it was just the right thing to do, no two ways about that. I'm more "equally yoked" to my current husband than I ever was to the Christian one... And maybe that *does* say a lot about me. But I'd rather be tethered to someone who has empathy and extends love without judgment than not. *shrug*

Wish us all luck, I suppose?

20th anniversary of the OKC Bombing

I probably won't get this posted before midnight, but it seems worth the effort.

My memories of finding out about that awful day are foggy.

I know that I was under water that month (-ish). Part of me thinks that we just found out about it through a regular weekly news update. But I don't ever remember getting one of those. I think that I probably found out in a letter from my Mom, dropped off when we surfaced to deal with a crew member who'd gone crazy or gotten injured.

I think the letter boiled down to "Someone blew up the building where your Uncle Bill works. He's OK--he had to go out in the field because someone else called in sick." Or something along those lines.

But the brain's funny. I think I remember finding out about it while we were out at sea, but that isn't the way things work. Complete and total isolation and boredom is vital if you ever have to do that job. You have to be cut off from your humanity before you can participate in massive carnage.

I know that I learned the details that I've managed to pick up in bits and pieces.

Lots of people died. My uncle was OK. My mostly-deaf grandmother heard the explosion in her home miles away.

I might be able to dredge up more details from that time, but I'm glad that my brain has shuffled those details into the discard pile.

The big thing that I remember from that day is laughing at the idea that killing 168 people (possibly including a relative who was at the top of my parents' will to take custody if they died too young) was a big deal.

We spent our days drilling for the day we needed to make Hiroshima and Nagasaki look like sock hops.

Thankfully, that day has not arrived. I pray that it never will. If it ever had, I took solace in the basic fact that a retaliatory strike was almost guaranteed to kill us so we wouldn't have to live with what we'd done.

I don't have an ending here. Just memories that I wish would go away.

Team Dave's Road Trip, Day 5 - Boulder and Nederland

We hung out at the hotel for a couple of hours this morning, ate left-over dinner stuff for breakfast, and then drove out to Boulder to Celestial Seasonings for a tour. Daphne said, "I hope the workers here don't look like slaves like they did at Hammond's Candies." Well, the candy people were VERY focused, as they only had a few moments to work before the molten candy hardened. But there were not a whole lot of people working on the floor at Celestial Seasonings, as it's not their busy season anymore.

While we waited for our 11 o'clock tour, we got to sample teas; they had about a dozen made and in dispensers, but you could ask for any of 80 varieties. I learned a lot on the tour, like that Sleepytime is their best-seller and that it's not actually a tea because it's made with herbs and not, you know, tea leaves. Also, that white, black, and green tea are all made with the same plant, just varying methods. White tea is made from the flowering buds of the tea plant and can only be harvested 1 week a year. Green tea is heated to make sure it won't ferment. Black tea is withered and left to ferment. Now you know.

After our tour, we drove up to Nederland, where James used to live. He took us to lunch at Backcountry Pizza, and it was excellent. Daphne had a meat pizza and chicken wings, I had cheese and garlic pizza, and James got two specialty slices: Nedeteranian and something with ham, pineapple, and jalapenos *shudder*.

Daphne was exhausted after lunch; I'm pretty sure she's full-out sick now (this girl's sinuses do NOT travel well). We walked through a nature center, then she laid down in the car while James and I visited an alpaca shop and hit the grocery store. Then we drove down the road to where James used to live. Memory Lane then took us to Boulder, to the Pearl Street Mall. We got Ben and Jerry's, walked around, and finished up at Dushanbe's Tea House. That was five hours ago, and I'm still stuffed.

When we got back to the hotel, James and I went to check out the hot tub and learned that: 1) It's outside on the second floor and 2) it's barely lukewarm. I'm too chilly, so we came back to the room and watched the awesome sunset instead.

Pictures have been uploaded here; hope you enjoy them!

Everything I know about parenting, I learned from my daughter

I had some serious postpartum issues with Daphne. I can't guarantee that hormones won't try to make my life miserable this time, but I can say for sure that I learned a few things the first time around that will definitely be different with this baby.

1. Scheduling. I had read a lot of books by the time I had Daphne. Without a doubt, the worst was "On Becoming Babywise" by Gary Ezzo. What I remember most about this book is its emphasis on getting your baby to sleep through the night. While I definitely agree that sleeping through the night is a necessary goal, this book places a lot of emphasis on enforcing a schedule or else the child will never lead an organized life. It basically implies that if you do it the way they tell you, there's no reason that your child won't be sleeping through the night after a few short weeks.

Do you know when my daughter finally slept through the night? After I forcibly weaned her from that final middle-of-the-night bottle when she was about ten months old.

You read that right. Except for the one night Ken took over and the night my mom spent the night with us to give me a break, I did not get a full night's sleep (or more than four hours at a time) for the better part of a year.

This even though I did exactly what the book said. And it was awful.

For example, the book says that babies should not ever nurse to sleep. If they do, they'll not be able to calm themselves from wakefulness into sleep alone. They say to feed the baby and then keep it awake for an hour or two before putting it down for a nap. If your baby starts to fall asleep while feeding, you are supposed to do everything you can to try to keep it awake, and the one thing I remember doing exactly one time and feeling like a creep then never trying again was to take off Daphne's clothes and rub her skin with a cold washcloth. It made us both cry.

You are supposed to keep a schedule, like a robot, ignoring the cues of your child and forcing them onto a feeding, playing, sleeping schedule that works for you. Well, I'm sorry, but as a clear-thinking older adult who now has some experience with infants, I see that you really can't force a newborn to do anything. They're creatures of need and demand and expediency. They do what they need. Just as we are told to listen to our bodies and not eat when we're not hungry, or to stop eating when we're full, babies do this and can thrive.

I spent so much time fighting and setting alarms and worrying that I was doing it wrong, and why my kid wasn't sleeping six hours a stretch when her month-younger cousin was that I absolutely failed to relax and rest myself, and this was a huge factor in my postpartum stress.

Oddly enough, what shook me out of this stress mode was something a server at the Cheesecake Factory said in passing. We'd met some out of town friends for lunch and Daphne, several weeks old, was sleeping in my arms. The waitress asked me how I was doing, and I said, "I'm really tired!" She said, "Welcome to the new normal."

This made me feel better, for some reason. She was not promising a time when it would be less stressful if only I would do this plan. She was saying, "This is how it is now. Embrace it." And she was right.

(Also adding to the stress of her not sleeping through the night was that after Daphne was two months old, we lived in a residential treatment home with six teenaged boys, and I hated to think that she would wake them up with her crying. That's obviously not going to be an issue this time.)

2. Stimulation. If Daphne woke up wanting to feed any time after 5:00 AM, I'd just stay up for the morning until she went back to sleep. I'd drowsily feed her, then felt like I needed to do something to engage her, like talk or sing or make faces. I sang the alphabet and pointed to parts of my face to name them, etc. And I was exhausted. Now I realize that babies are CONSTANTLY stimulated because everything is new. If I wake up at 5 AM with this baby, and all I want to do is hold it and lay my head on the couch for a while while the baby looks around, that's plenty of stimulation. It's all information going into a tiny head, and I don't have to force it. Oh, but I felt like every moment had to be rich with meaning and purpose. Bleh.

3. Breast-feeding, diapering, sleeping, responding to needs, etc. This is all a personal matter, but people outside of me and my family have extremely pointed and vocal views on how to handle all of them. I was especially surprised to see how militant the La Leche League was about insisting that I breastfeed. Don't get me wrong: I wanted to breastfeed. It is ideal, both in terms of health and cost. But Daphne was tongue-tied and couldn't latch on. I didn't realize this until after three miserable days of trying to get her to nurse and her being mad and groggy and finally starting to lose weight and become jaundiced. When someone suggested that I try to give her a bottle and see if that helped, as she started sucking that stuff down, I felt a wave of relief come over me. I could tell the breast-feeding didn't seem to be going well, but I didn't know why. And once she finally started gaining sustenance, she was obviously happier and healthier. I was very grateful.

When I mentioned this during a follow-up (from the hospital) call that the La Leche League gave me several weeks after Daphne was born, they said that I needed to stop bottle-feeding her immediately and get her back onto the breast at once. Never mind that she'd never actually been *on* the breast. They told me that they even had coaches who had experience with tongue-tied feeding, and they could send someone over to help me until I got into the swing of things.

Frankly, I was tired. I didn't want an "expert" barging into my house and showing me how to undo the wrong I'd done out of desperation. But they insisted that if I didn't want a sick baby, this was what I had to do.

At my next pediatrician's visit (doesn't it seem like you're in the doctor's office every other day with a newborn?), I asked him about this. He asked me a couple of questions in return. He asked, "Is your baby eating?" Yes. "Is she gaining weight?" Yes, finally. "Does she appear to be thriving?" Yes. "Then I don't care what exactly you're doing, as long as it works."

Again, freedom.

I appreciate good advice, but I won't be bullied into feeling guilty that I can't attain some perfect version of eco-friendly, crunchy-granola, attachment-parenthood. I will do what works for my family, and I will make no apologies.

For what it's worth, my daughter has barely been ill ever in her life, save that 6-month stretch when we lived at Boys Town and she caught every bug that the boys brought home from school. So I'm thinking that the formula foundation didn't ruin her.

4. Labor and delivery. Oh, my goodness. My experience actually having a baby was ridiculous. First, I went to a female doctor I really liked, but after three visits was informed by my insurance that they were changing providers and that doctor was no longer authorized. I sadly transferred to another office, one where I had the typical 10:00 AM appointment that actually started at 11:15 and ended at 11:18. Toward the end of the pregnancy, I had dutifully created a birth plan, which, to his credit, the doctor read through. But he asked why I didn't want drugs that were specifically designed to help certain things. And he said that since this was my first child, I'd probably have to have an episiotomy. Sigh.

My water broke while my sister and I were looking at model houses, trying to get my parents to move to our side of town in Las Vegas. We went back to my house to get things in order, send the dog to a friend's house, pack our bags, etc. I didn't start having contractions until after I'd taken a shower. When they came on, they were intensely painful, which I suppose is kind of the normal labor experience. My sister called the hospital to tell them that I was having contractions, and they told her something she didn't tell me, which was that they didn't have any beds for me at the time so that I needed not to come in yet. They suggested I walk around the neighborhood until I couldn't. Well, I couldn't. At all. So we headed to the hospital.

At the check-in desk, the nurses told me what my sister wouldn't which was that there was no place for me to go yet, so they had me fill out the paperwork and go into the waiting room to sit. The waiting room was full of people who were not pregnant, and the television was on pretty loud. The Goldfish crackers jingle was on, and as I sat there with my head in my hands listening to "This is the jingle for Goldfish... the tiny snack that smiles back until you bite their heads off..." I seriously wanted to throw an axe at the television screen.

I walked back to the nurse's station and asked if I had to stay there or if I was free to leave and go to a different hospital. They said, "You don't have to stay, but we recommend you don't leave. If you go into labor in the parking lot..." shrug. Blank stare. Murderous rage.

I slowly headed back to the waiting room when a particularly painful contraction hit. I squatted down on the floor to wait for it to pass. While I was down there, a lady walked by and asked me if I was okay. I told her that no, I was not okay, that I was in labor and in pain and they were making me sit in the waiting area. She told me to hold on and she'd be right back. Somehow, she found a bed, rolled it into a linen closet, and told me that I could go in there to be alone, if that would be better. It was. I welcomed the dark, and the quiet.

Every half our or so, someone would come check on me. At some point, I suppose, a room opened up. I was lying there, very still, focusing on breathing and keeping my muscles loose when a nurse came in to move me. She remarked to another nurse, "Oh, look. She's sleeping. That's good."

Again, I wanted to punch her. Sleeping?! How could anyone sleep through that?! I was WORKING. Rrgh.

The next few hours are a blur of pain and focus and finally getting an epidural, which I loved at the time. After that, my legs were really shaky, but the only way I knew I was having a contraction was that it showed up on the monitor.

The one very awesome spotlight in an otherwise frustrating hospital experience was my delivery nurse. First of all, my doctor wasn't the one on call. His partner was. I was happy about that. I told him that the doctor and I had agreed on several things (this was a lie) including no episiotomy. "Is this your first?" he asked. Two other nurses asked the same thing. I didn't want to be cut! I wanted to be left alone. No pitosin drip. Nothing to speed or slow anything. And the only person who listened to me was this one angel nurse. She came in and talked to me for about three or four hours, massaging me and, well, stretching me so I'd be able to deliver without any surgical intervention.

At some point, she said, "I should call the doctor. You're close... But we'll wait a few more minutes." When she finally did call the doctor, I pushed maybe three times and that was it. Boom. Baby born. I really appreciated that woman. She was awesome.

Here's the part that's kind of sad. I had felt no pain in a few hours. I didn't really feel any strain in pushing, and I didn't feel Daphne being born. I didn't have any endorphins kick in after she was delivered. I felt detached and insulated from the entire process. As much as I loved the epidural at the time, now I think it kept me separated from a moment in which I'd been more participatory.

But it was good. Healthy baby. After an hour or so, she was taken to the nursery - No vitamin K shot, please! - and I was escorted to the restroom. I was left there long enough that I fell asleep on the toilet, if you must know, because they'd asked me not to try to walk back to the bed until someone came to help me.

I was wheeled into my "recovery" room, which I didn't know existed. I had been given a tour months ago, during which they showed off the amazing labor and delivery room. They neglected to mention that I'd spend the following hours in a "semi"-"private" room.

My first roommate was a lady with a colicky baby. I was exhausted and as much as I'd thought I'd want Daphne in the room with me, I fell asleep before the nurse came back, so Daphne ended up spending the hours between about 2:00 AM until 6:00 AM in the nursery.

After she was brought to my room, I was visited by a La Leche League lady who showed me how to get her into position, etc. I pulled my curtain to try on my own, and found that the curtain didn't close all the way. The nurse had told me that they were moving the crybaby to a separate room, and I got a new roomie. Quieter, but she had a very big family. So I would sit there in my bed next to the door, trying to get my new baby to latch onto my breast, and some affable Hispanic man would walk in. We'd make awkward eye contact, and he'd bow into the other half of the room. Over and over. Sometimes ladies. But mostly men.

My sister came to visit me. My mom came by after work. It was lonely and I hated it. I wanted to go home.

When I needed to use the restroom, I'd have to walk across and through the literally half-dozen to ten people sitting around the other bed. I knew I had blood all down the back of my gown. The restroom didn't have a vent. I'd turn on the shower, the sink, and flush the toilet all at the same time just to drown out the noise of me doing my business three feet away from a bunch of strangers. This happened two or three times that day, and it was humiliating.

I wanted to leave, so I wanted the staff to see how healthy and strong I was. I picked Daphne up and walked into the hall to get some exercise. Immediately, nurses yelled at me that I could not carry my daughter. She had to be in the crib, and I could push her. Seriously? Whatever. So Daphne and I did laps around the nurses' station. I told them I wanted to go home. They told me that I'd already been released but that Daphne needed to be seen by the pediatrician, and he wouldn't be there until after his office hours.

By the end of the day, the pediatrician had had a busy one and decided not to make his hospital run. I suppose I threw a minor fit. He did eventually come by at about 7:30 PM and said that Daphne could go home after she'd urinated. Well, as 9:00 PM approached, she still hadn't. Obviously now I see that's because she hadn't gotten to drink enough.

Taking matters into my own desperate hands, I took my "personal cleansing bottle" and squirted what I thought was "enough" liquid into her diaper. She'd already done the other thing. I told the nurse, and she took the diaper with her somewhere... I was terrified that they were going to send it to some lab to analyze the contents, and then sue me for hospital fraud or something. I guess that they were just weighing it.

Whatever. At 9:00ish, we were both released and got to go home. I was so relieved. Even with the stress and being overwhelmed by having a new baby... I was grateful to be home, and able to decide to walk with my baby or to go to the bathroom in private.

I never wanted to have another kid, but I immediately decided that if I ever did get pregnant again, I would have a midwife. So far, this experience is awesome. When I first started calling people last year when I was pregnant, I qualified myself by saying that I was probably high-risk because of my back and the fact that I was "too old" to have a baby. The midwife I chose said, "Ehh, the medical community might tell you you're too old, but if you're pregnant, then you're not too old to have a baby."

When I've gone in for testing, she tells me, "Listen to your body. It knows what you need to eat. It knows when you need sleep. Do what it says." This is so much better than, "Try to keep your first trimester weight gain to x pounds." Etc.

I already paid the midwife for everything, up to and including the delivery and four post-natal visits. What I paid her is $900 cheaper than 9 months' of insurance premiums would cost me. And I get to walk a block up a hill when I'm in labor, then after I have the baby, I get to walk a block home. I get to deliver so close to home, without having to clean or prepare my place for the delivery. I get to give birth in a big old bedroom, with a birthing pool, and a birthing stool, and a yoga ball. I get to choose my position and who I want there, and they really don't want me hanging around too long after the birth, as long as everything is okay.

What's also cool is that the 48-hour check-up and the 5-day check-up she will do at my house (which might be more impressive if I lived further away from the office!), then I go see her at 2 weeks and I think 8 weeks.

But a midwife facilitates a birth that works for us. She guides me when I want or need it, and otherwise gets out of the way and lets me have a baby. That's amazing to me.

There are probably a lot of other things I learned with Daphne that I will do differently, but those are the ones that will help my stress level most. Cost-wise, I've decided to go with cloth diapers just because the buying of diapers over and over again is such a drain. But that probably won't eliminate any stress. Just expense.

There are other differences, too. Like, I'm not looking at starting a new job two months after I have this baby. We're in a financially secure place. I have an older kid to talk to even when I don't see other grown-ups during the day. I have an attentive and enthusiastic partner. I am grateful for all of these things.

And even given my stressful first-time parenting experience, I'm actually looking forward to it!

An Open Letter

For obvious reasons, I can't contact you. I doubt I will ever be able to, and yet I know that I owe you a debt that I cannot repay. I hope, however, that if I put this apology out there, maybe it will find you, and maybe it will mean something to you.

This is not the time to go into the "what"s and "why"s of everything. I don't think we will ever agree about what "happened." But here's something that I know is real:

I am so sorry that I hurt you. I genuinely am.

You were a bosom friend at a time when I needed one desperately. I appreciate that. I appreciate your loyalty at a difficult time in my life. I appreciate your care for my daughter, and your desire to teach her things. Your mentoring spirit and your bent to educate others was one of my favorite things about you.

You told someone once to do an internet search for some video, to which you pointed as proof that I admired you. Of course I admired you. Everyone knew that. I didn't hide it. I thought that you were a very talented person, with incredible stories, and so, so much to offer the world. I still think that.

You told me once that I was cold, remorseless, and unfeeling. You were probably right. I apologize for being cynical and hardened. I am very sorry that I pulled you into the orbit of my life at a time when my life had no center. I apologize for being self-focused to the exclusion of your feelings.

I don't think that it matters that that was never my intention.

The reality is that I hurt you. I let you down. I was in a sh*tstorm and I involved you, then once I found my way clear of the mess, I left it and you behind.

I can see how that might look intentional. I know it was callous. I empathize with your anger. I was experiencing the same anger, directed elsewhere, parallel to yours. And I have sincere sorrow about the things that I did, and the pain that I caused.

Every once in a while, I see something that I think you'd like, and I mourn a bit that I can't send it your way. I wish you all of life's happiness. I hope that you can extend grace to forgive me in your heart, but if you can't, I will understand. I really will.

You were one of the dearest people to my heart, and getting to know you, and your story, and your family's history, was a bright spot during days that didn't have much else to recommend them. I am sorry that I injured you. I am forever sorry.

Radio Breakdown

A strange thing happened on the way to a play date today. Daphne and I were driving up Mopac when a two-year-old song came on the radio. Maybe you've heard this little ditty. It's called "Titanium." Daphne and I have listened to that song a lot, and its release in early August of 2011, during which time I was going through Round Two of what I consider three rounds of craziness surrounding my personal life, made it my anthem at the time.

Since it's not a brand-spanking new song anymore, the song doesn't see as much radio time as it used to. For some reason, as I processed the lyrics, I found myself with tears streaming down my face. I could picture myself, standing, with arms open, during the chorus... something I used to play over and over again in my brain in order to steel myself against my reality.

In case you haven't heard it, or you just weren't paying attention to the lyrics, here they are:

You shout it out,
But I can't hear a word you say
I'm talking loud not saying much
I'm criticized but all your bullets ricochet
You shoot me down, but I get up

I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away
You shoot me down but I won't fall
I am titanium

Cut me down
But it's you who'll have further to fall
Ghost town and haunted love
Raise your voice, sticks and stones may break my bones
I'm talking loud not saying much

I'm bulletproof, nothing to lose
Fire away, fire away
Ricochet, you take your aim
Fire away, fire away
You shoot me down but I won't fall
I am titanium

Stone-hard, machine gun
Firing at the ones who run
Stone-hard as bulletproof glass

You shoot me down but I won't fall
I am titanium
You shoot me down but I won't fall
I am titanium
I am titanium

Why did I cry so much? Why did it hit me on this day?

There were several things:

1) Titanium is hard. It is very strong and not easily worn down. For years, I lost myself under layers of protection. I got to the point that nothing could hurt my feelings. I had to in order not to have a breakdown. I think about how vulnerable I am privileged to be with James, and it makes me sad for that person who existed for about a decade. It kind of also makes me sad that James sometimes has to navigate a minefield that might still be lurking, but just last night, I was able to talk to James about something that was bothering me in a way that I would not have felt safe confiding several years ago. And he listened. He might not even have agreed with me, or thought that I had a point. In fact, a lot of times, he probably thinks that I am absolutely ridiculous. But there is the safety here to express my true self and not be mocked or reprimanded or resented.

2) When the person who is supposed to love you the most doesn't trust you and you can't trust them, then it skews your view of the whole world. A few years ago, I felt very much on my own except for my child, and she's a child, so I never leaned on her for emotional support. I came to a point of hopeless desperation where it seemed to me that, if I were ever to have a chance at emotional well-being again, I was going to have to seek it out for myself.

Because of my circumstances and my own weakness, I did not believe that I could trust anyone. Honestly, I probably didn't think that I could trust God at that point. I felt like, if the situation stayed the way that it was, I would be better off just dying, but... I have a kid and I love her very much. However, so many very well-meaning people tried to pour into me the prudent advice to avoid the appearance of sin, and I felt a lot like the time that a friend's brother's wife tried to physically accost me, I said, "I'm going to get the *eff* out of this house," and the elderly mother told me not to swear. I was incredulous. "She can threaten me physically, but the 'f' word is unacceptable?"

I don't know how to explain what was happening to me except that I had been in a deep, dark hole for years and years, and I was finally in possession of the strength to climb out, and once I hit the light, the people standing outside of the hole were yelling at me that my clothes were inappropriate, and trying to shove me back into the hole until I could find something suitable to wear.

This all made me very, very angry and very, very hesitant to trust anyone with the full details about what was going on. Consequently, if you were involved in my life at that time, I owe you an apology. If you tried to give me advice, I most likely did not listen. If you asked me how I was doing or what was going on, I probably lied to you. I was extremely open about my life and my struggles up to a point. Then a couple of things happened: Even though I told the absolute truth, I was treated as though I were guilty. After that, other people started telling their own versions of what was going on. And a lot of people believed a lot of lies, and I'll admit that I did NOTHING to dispel any of the rumors because, after years of sacrificing relationships and trying literally everything that I could think of, I was DONE.

I am not making excuses for the way I conducted myself; lots of it was rebellious and wrong. I'm just explaining that there is a survival mechanism that kicks in after years of being undermined and betrayed by the person who is supposed to be your most trusted companion, and it skews one's view of how much to let anyone else in, and how much to let anyone else speak into your life or demand answers of you. Two years ago, I was very much in the, "Screw you; I'm just trying to survive here" mode. And I truly am sorry.

3) My sister knows a lot of stuff about me. She grew up with me, true, but over the years, as we've led separate grown-up lives, I've also told her just about everything. She is, I believe, a "safe" person in whom I can confide. Now, if she ever got mad at me, and if she were mentally disturbed in some way so that it became her goal to manipulate me into a certain outcome by threatening to air my dirty laundry AND to add some of her own embellishments to the stories in order to curry favor or turn people against me, it would come as a huge shock and pull the whole "trust" rug out from under me. This happened to me TWICE in just a couple of years. Two people with whom I'd been close did not like the path I was taking, and took it upon themselves to contact people we knew in common with information both real and imagined in order to... I don't know? Shame me? Cut me off from everyone else so that that person was the only one left who would still talk to me? I will never understand this. I have  been plenty pissed at plenty of people, but I cannot imagine trying to ruin someone's friendships, reputation, etc. by spreading gossip.

That's the worst thing ever: When someone you've loved and trusted enough to be open about your faults and fears takes those things and twists them around to use against you. The second worst thing is when people who weren't as close, but whom you also admired and respected believe the stories and/or distance themselves from you.

When all of that was happening, I had to bow myself up against the constant pain of people I thought knew me better falling away from me. I had to convince myself that I was bulletproof. Otherwise, I was going to be ripped to shreds.

In the end, I could not fight anymore. It's the main reason I moved to Austin. Well, that and Austin is just an awesome town. :)

There is so much healing that has happened over the past year or so that I can barely even fathom it. It's my nature to want to "fix" and I hate leaving messes in my wake. But sometimes, you have to give up and walk away. 

My heart is so much softer now than it was for a long time. I am grateful to James for his patience and for his creating an environment where I am free to be who I am, to have the feelings that I have (whether they make sense or not), to express myself, and to explore my passions. And I can do it as myself, not as a fake version of me that I've had to build up to protect myself.

Now, this is more the speed of my heart: