burn(ing) out

Honestly.

I've tried to write these words down for days and weeks and months, and I get so discouraged because they're the same words that I've been writing, and the same ideas and concepts that other women have been writing, and I just keep talking myself out of it, because who needs to hear the same thing over and over?

Honestly.

I'm in a hard place right now. I'm burned out, I'm emotionally exhausted and mentally spent. I am fighting the comparisons with other women who seem to have found their place and are fulfilled by doing all those things that they say God wants for them to do. I'm embarrassed by my lack of contentment in my life right now and by my desire for a life that has more meaning. 

Honestly.

I'm filling my days up in an effort to feel important, to prove to the world that I have just as much worth and value as everyone else, because look at what I can offer--but really I'm just spinning my wheels and lighting a fire inside of myself that burns so brightly it threatens to reduce me to ash when it's gone. 

Honestly.

There is ugliness hiding here. Ugliness in the shape of jealousy, comparison, discontentment, selfishness, impatience, rage. This heart is a black hole.

Honestly.

I am afraid. I am afraid of who I am right now, I am afraid of what I am on my way to becoming, and I am afraid of what I might miss out on in the future because I didn't work hard enough in the past. I am also exhausted, in a way that is more than just sleep-deprivation. It's an exhaustion of the soul, of the heart--a weary mind crying out, "I give up! I cannot do this anymore, I cannot live up to these expectations, and I'd rather lie here in the dirt than keep trying to play this game of pretend."

Honestly.

I don't know how to write anymore. And that is just one more log on the fire, one more rock to add to my pile. Writing was a gift, a calling, and I feel like I've wasted it. Babies, and housekeeping, and a different life took over and now it's just a whisper of something I used to know. 

The baby is crying, it's getting late, and I know I've got a full schedule tomorrow. And so that's the end of that.

Read more...

lost and found

I feel like I spend an abnormal amount of time writing and talking and thinking about motherhood, but I guess that makes sense considering I am swallowed up in it literally 24 hours a day.

With the addition of a second child, I am finding more and more that I feel like I've completely lost any sense of who I am outside of changing diapers, sweeping crumbs, and trying to come up with creative activities that don't involve any sort of screen or animated character. I forget that I was once a person with autonomy, someone that had talents outside of being able to carry a screaming toddler, carseat with infant inside, AND diaper bag all at once. I used to write, and read books, and have friends, and stay up late talking with my husband just because we could.

Now, I write about my kids, I read about things I need to do so I am better for my kids, I have friends with kids, and I stay up late talking with my husband because it's the only time of day we see each other without being climbed on, puked on, or cried at (unless its me, crying at him).

I'm trying desperately to regain some of myself, but in doing so, I'm realizing just how much of myself has changed. I look back on that twenty-one year old that flitted around Chicago and I cannot help but wonder at how self-absorbed and so incredibly naive I was. Obviously some of that is normal, since you only change and grow by going through life-altering events, but it also makes me feel like I'm on shaky ground, because I don't know just how much of that silly girl to reclaim. My children are my life, my job--being a mother is what I want to do, and who I want to be. But it's not everything. It can't be everything, because if I lose myself in that, I put the burden of my identity on my kids, and that's something that they should never carry or be responsible for.

So for now, I'll sit here and try to scrape the rust off my fingers, and pick up a book that has nothing to do with parenting in any sense and I'll try to remember that I am capable of creating things outside of human life (even though they have been my best work yet).

Read more...

the sleeping thing.

So there was this time that I had a baby (you may have figured this out by now).

Before I had this baby, I had this general assumption that I would make his nursery so cute that you could post pictures of it to Pinterest and that we'd hang out in there a lot, and he'd sleep through the night by about 6 months or so, and nap fairly regularly and then when we wasn't sleeping in his crib in his nursery, we'd go out and do all sorts of fabulous things that you see moms and their babies doing.
Then I decided, well babies are supposed to wake up a lot in the middle of the night, so maybe we'll get a Moses basket for the first few months and he can sleep next to the bed where Daddy can change him and I'll feed him and then we'll lay him back down and go back to sleep and that might make things a little easier. So we bought a brand new basket with cute matching sheets and teddy bears, and got a little stand so that it would be even with the side of the bed and had everything set up for when I went into labor and brought said baby home.

Then came June 30, 2011. My water broke at 12:30 am, Jameson was born at 7:14 am, and we came home by 10:30 pm. I remember getting home and looking around at about midnight (after skyping with my sisters back in the States) and thinking, "So...what do I do now?" Then my mother suggested that we should probably go to bed, and I thought, "Oh yes, this is when I get to put him in that cute little woombie I bought and lay him in his brand new bed and go to sleep because I am so exhausted from being awake for over 24 hours and GIVING BIRTH."
So we changed him, zipped him up in his swaddle (after having a long and arduous discussion about how many layers he needed. The books all tell you to make sure they're really warm, but not too warm, but not too cold. So, that's clear.) and laid him down in his bed.
And he started to scream.
I looked at my mother and my husband with this dazed glaze over my eyes and said, "Well, that wasn't supposed to happen." So I picked him up and nursed him in bed, and kind of laid him down next to me while I waited for him to fall asleep. Next thing I know, it's 3 in the morning and he's screaming again (I remember it being the loudest thing I'd ever heard, but I'm sure that was because I was so tired and had never actually had a newborn baby lying next to me) and in my delirious state I ripped off his swaddle, thinking that he hated it and hurriedly tried to figure out how to work my nursing bra and get his mouth in the right place at the right time. And that's pretty much how the rest of the night went.
Hubs and I woke up the next morning in a complete and utter stupor, handed the baby to my parents for a few hours and tried to sleep as much as we could.

The next five days were fairly similar, with variations in the form of trying to get Jameson to sleep in his moses basket (the only way we could make that work was if Hubs slept with his arm on the edge of the basket and his pinkie finger in his mouth so that he could suck), trying sleep with the woombie, trying it without, drinking lots of coffee, drinking no coffee (it upset bebe's little system and made him so anxious he'd just cry for hours). It was, essentially, the most exhausted, emotional, exuberant, hellish five days I've ever been through.

Then my parents flew back home to America.

I remember hearing people say that in the beginning, you just have to do whatever it takes to make it work. You sleep however you can get it, whenever you can get it, but no one really explained how to get a baby to do that too. So we tried a bedtime routine (6:30 rolled around and he got a wipe-down, baby massage, and nursed to sleep) which ended with me trying to transfer him into his basket while rocking it and hoping that he'd settle in. Occasionally this worked, for about 45 minutes, at which point I would then go back in, nurse him down again, and start all over. By about midnight each night, we gave up on the basket and would end up just letting him sleep next to us.

When he was six months old, we traveled to America to visit family, and although my parents graciously bought us a toddler tent with an air mattress, the kid would have none of it and ended up in our bed for a consecutive five weeks. I told myself we'd start "sleep training" when we got back and then he'd sleep through the night in his own room and I could stop being so tired that I felt like I was going crazy. So we got back and we tried it. Started out laying him down in his crib after the bedtime routine. He'd sleep for an hour, I'd go in, nurse again, lay him down (and pray I could get him down without him crying. This happened maybe 25% of the time) and have another hour before he woke up. Again, at midnight I'd be so tired that I'd give up and he'd come in to our room.
By now I was getting the guilt trips and hearing that other people's kids were sleeping through the night, and it's so unhealthy for your baby to still be sleeping with you, and you're just letting him take advantage of your emotions because he's willfully acting out and so I broke down one night and bought Ferber.

We tried it for a week and a half and I cried every single night.
Not once did he EVER sleep through, and at the end of the week and a half we found out that he had another ear infection. So we gave up on that for awhile, brought him back in with us, and decided we'd try it again when he got better.
He healed, we decided to go with the Sleep Lady Shuffle. He cried for THREE HOURS STRAIGHT, with me sitting right next to him telling him I loved him, but I couldn't pick him up and singing "Jesus Loves Me" with my heart in my throat. Quit after the second night.

Finally, when Jameson was about nine months old, I reached the point where I literally thought I was going to have to be hospitalized for sleep deprivation and depression. I was so tired that I would forget what I was saying in the middle of my sentence and couldn't think rationally about anything. I'd break down in tears over everything. Nothing was okay, nothing felt right, and I felt like the world's largest failure as a mother--I mean, who can't get her kid to sleep?!

I remember the moment I decided that I was done with everything. My last sane thought was, "I have got to start sleeping, and it doesn't matter how that happens." It didn't matter that everything I thought I knew about co-sleeping was that it was indulgent, dangerous, and letting-my-kid-have-his-own-way. I told Hubs that I was giving up on trying to get Jameson to sleep anywhere other than with us and he said, "Okay". And Jameson's been with us ever since.

And here is why I am telling you this.
I am telling you this, because I wish someone would have told me all of this, waaaaay back at the beginning when I had all of those expectations of pretty cribs and seven straight hours of sleep.
If your kid will not sleep in a crib, you are not a failure.
If you want to cry every time bedtime rolls around because you feel like you have no idea what you're doing, you are not a failure.
If you are terrified of "the sleeping thing" with your second child that you are currently pregnant with, you are not a failure. (Oh good, because that's me).

The Mommy Wars are raging hard, and for some reason, the sleep thing is one of the biggest battles.
When I think about this, logically and rationally however, it boggles my mind.
Why does it matter where anyone else's kid sleeps? Why does it matter if my kid sleeps for seven hours straight a night, or only recently stopped waking up in the middle of the night even though they're almost two? Why does everyone have an opinion on this, when there are fact-based studies showing that co-sleeping can be completely safe (and even, *gasp* desirable) if done correctly?

Why did I spend almost a year feeling bad about myself for letting my kid sleep in my bed, next to his momma, where he felt the safest?

I'm not here to argue either side of this, but this post has been on my heart for a long time. I see so many new parents who are trying desperately to cover up how much they are struggling with all of this and it breaks my heart. You don't have to keep your newborn on a minute-to-minute schedule, you don't have to go out and buy BabyWise, you don't even have to look guiltily down at the floor when someone asks you how your baby is sleeping and you say, "Um, they're okay, you know, they're still a baby!" I just want to run up to those people and let them know that right now, staying sane is the most important thing of all, and if that means letting your kid sleep in your bed, then let your kid sleep in your bed.

And if your kiddo loves their crib, and is happy in there, and sleeps straight through the night, then that makes me so happy for you, momma. But please, remember, there are those of us out there whose babies just don't work the same way as yours, and as much as we loved that crib we bought and that nursery we decorated, we're just trying to do the best that we can.

Read more...

the background [pt.5]

Find part 1 here.

____________________

I'm sure there are some of you that are wondering where exactly I think God was during my whole tragic ordeal.

He was there.

And He's still here, regardless of whether I want to acknowledge that or not. 

So much of these past nine years have been spent wrestling with God, demanding an answer and promising to "do better" as long as He'd tell me why or get me through it. I'd rant and rave, and then I'd beg and plead, and then I'd sit and simmer.

Ironically, I honestly feel like I've found myself the most distant from God in just the last two years. 

You'd expect it to be on the nights where the blood was flowing and my heart was pounding and all I wanted to do was escape, but even then, I knew He was there. I knew, and I knew that it would be a relief to stop being here and start being there. Sure, I thought that I wasn't good enough and I thought that He must be angry at me, but I knew He was still around.

But the last two years--maybe the last six months in particular--I've found myself in an ambivalent state. 

(and I think this is the most raw and terrifying confession of them all)

It's the closest I've ever come to "losing my faith".

You see, it seems like the hits just keep coming.

Some of the blows are softer and don't knock us all the way down.

Others strike sharp and hard, leaving us reeling and crawling on the ground trying to find a safe place to hide.

And all I want to do is stand up and shout at the sky, "This is what You promised us? How does this serve You? How does this bring You glory in any sort of way? Where are You?"

But I keep my head down instead, for fear of being struck even harder, and I go on about my life with a semi-blatant disregard for anything having to do with God.

~*~

I told Hubs today, "I just need to fall in love with Jesus again."

And this is true.

I need to sit, and savor, and be still. 

I need to stop rushing around and stop trying.

--more Bible, more prayer, more church, more study, more holy.

It's exhausting.

And before you start shouting "behind me Satan",

I'm not saying that it doesn't all have value.

Of course it does.

Of course it's all important.

 But it's not always about the action.

Sometimes it's about the motivation behind the action

and right now, the motivation is wrong.

So for now, I am choosing to believe that God can and will meet me where I'm at.

I am choosing to believe that He loves me despite ______ (fill in the blank).

~*~

Ben Howard's 'The Wolves' is playing right now, and it feels strangely accurate.

So, even though this post feels like it's lacking all of the right words, and even though it feels like nothing came out right, I'm going to dump it all out and leave it.

It is time to be finished.

Thank you all for the kind words of encouragement and understanding.

It felt like ripping my heart out to write these five pieces of smoldering honesty, but it's a relief.

And there is more, because there is always more. 

And if you need someone to listen, someone to dump it onto, I'm here.

I love you all.

Read more...

the background [pt. 4]

Find part 1 here.

_______________________

A few days after contemplating whether or not I should drive my car into the side of the freeway, I made an appointment with the counselor at my community college. I was scared out of my mind, but I walked into that office, shaking and queasy and determined to get help. The appointment began with me in tears, and the counselor looking at me with pity--it was pretty apparent why I was there. As she began to go through my chart, she stopped and looked at me. "Well, it looks like we've got a problem. You're only seventeen?"

I nodded, and my heart promptly fell into my stomach.

"I'm sorry hon, but I can't treat you without your parents consent because you're still a minor."

I couldn't believe it. I'd finally, finally tried to reach out and get help, but help was telling me that I wasn't eligible. I wanted to give up, crawl into a hole, and never come out.

"I know you're scared, and I'm so sorry that I can't treat you. But I want you to go home and talk to your parents about this. I want you to ask them to take you to a doctor and get you help because I know that's what you need. I'm going to call you later today and make sure you've done this. Alright?"

I sighed out a shaky "okay", and rolled off the table. 

When I got home that morning, my heart was still in my stomach, rolling around and making me feel sick. I walked through the front door and saw my mom sitting on the couch and I knew that this conversation had to happen now or nothing was ever going to change.

"So, I went to the clinic at school today..." 

And we were off.

~*~

The next ten months are a blur of so many emotions that they're hard to sort through. 

--That dangerous boy that I was so fascinated by turned on me--abuse in the form of words and text messages came spilling through my phone and it got so bad that I had to change my number and time when I left the house so I could avoid him. 

--I went to the doctor and was tentatively diagnosed with clinical depression. I was offered anti-depressants but turned them down because I thought that if I could just get out of the state, I'd be okay. (Besides, I still thought that "being depressed" was something that you should just be able to make go away, if you tried hard enough.)

--I applied to Moody Bible Institute, begging them to consider me for the fall semester even though I'd missed the application deadline by a week. The answer came back--waitlisted for the spring semester.

--I enrolled in the community college for another semester, trying to take classes that would transfer to Moody (hoping I would be accepted) and working as many hours as I could.

It was basically me trying to keep my head above water for as long as I could.

I often tell people that it felt like being chained to a treadmill and forced to run as fast as you can--a pace you know that you can't keep up for long, but if you stop running things will only get worse--so you keep running even though you're more exhausted than you've ever been.

And then.

That golden day.

I ran out to the mailbox and ripped open the envelope on the side of the street.

"Dear Camille, we are pleased to let you know that you have been accepted to Moody Bible Institute for the Spring semester..."

This was it. 

I was getting out, and it was going to make me better.

~*~

The train to Chicago pulled in to Union Station on a cold night at the beginning of January. We took a taxi to our hotel room and skyscrapers and lights flew around me in a blur outside of the window and I breathed in freedom.

Classes started and I made friends around every corner. I was adjusting well to living in a dorm, I was getting out of my shell and talking to nearly everyone I saw. I got brave and began to explore this big city with it's magical charm and secret places to call my own.

This much happiness was foreign to me--or it had been for nearly five years. 

There were no dark shadows here, no monsters tearing apart my brain, no desperate desire to escape.

Because I had arrived.

At least for a little while.

I met the man I would end up marrying three weeks after I got to Chicago.

He noticed my big teeth and loud laugh, and our love story began.

Spring break came and found us on different sides of the country talking about marriage.

Summer vacation came and I found myself standing in front of the Eiffel Tower with a diamond ring on my left hand, a rose in my right, and the love of my life in front of me.

We were the couple on everyone's lips during the first few weeks of the new semester, and I finally had it all.

Except that my brain was starting to fall apart again.

I was crying over things that didn't matter.

I was taking five-hour "naps" and just getting through the day felt like swimming in a sea of peanut butter--thick and impossible.

My fiance and I were constantly at odds--I needed this, and he needed that, and neither of us were sure that getting married was the right thing anymore.

And then one day, one of the friends I had made found me crying on the sidewalk in between classes and promptly walked me over to the counselors office and stood there until an office door opened, and I was put on a couch with a box of tissues in my hand and I began to spill out all the words that I just couldn't say to anyone else. 

I honestly don't remember much about that first session except that I walked out of there with a prescription for some anti-depressants and an appointment with a counselor in the next few days. I saw the on-campus doctor, who explained what the pills would do and said that he fully supported the decision to begin taking them. He also warned that they wouldn't cure everything, and that I needed to make sure that I was going to my counseling sessions regularly. If I really wanted to see improvement, we had to attack this from both angles. 

So that's what I did.

~*~

I wish I could say that everything was magically cured and I was fixed and all better. 

But, as with everything, nothing is that simple.

Counseling was hard. It was good, because it gave me a place to spill all of the emotions that built up during the week, but it hurt to dig up the issues and work through them. I had to explore places and people that I would have much rather shut off, and  I left the counselor's office every Friday tired and irritable.

The pills helped to balance everything out, but they came with side effects. Headaches, dizziness, lightning bolts in my brain if I forgot a pill. And then there was the stigma of "being on anti-depressants". It doesn't matter that general usage is on the rise--there are still whispers when people find out, pitiful and judgmental looks that are given, questions that may seem innocent but that cut like knives.

My fiance and I worked hard on our relationship, and our wedding day came and it was everything I wanted. Our first year of marriage was hard, but we made it and we came out stronger on the other side. Eventually we decided that we wanted to have a baby, and I knew that I didn't want to be on my medication while we were trying. I know that many people have been successful with pregnancy and anti-depressants, but I felt like I had an adequate handle on my depression--I had been taught different tools in counseling to recognize when another episode was looming and knew how to ask for help. Weaning off of the medication was torture, but eventually I made it and we got pregnant with our son almost exactly two years ago. 

All throughout my pregnancy I knew that I was at risk for post-partum depression, so I watched myself and I asked my husband to watch as well, to make sure that I wasn't blind-sided by this monster if and when it decided to rear its ugly head again.

Then Jameson was born, and everything felt perfect and terrifying.

I had anxiety walking out my front door and I cried a lot. But I loved my baby, and I had no trouble bonding with him or feeling like his mother, so I chalked a lot up to our living/financial/everything else situation. 

And now it's been a year, and the background has turned into the present, and I still think that p.p.d. might be roaming around inside my head. Sadly, I never went to the doctor for it, because I didn't want to be "back there" again. I don't want to be on medication again, and I don't want to rip my guts apart in a counselors office once a week. Maybe that's pride, and maybe I'll change my mind in the future, but that's where I'm at right now and I'm doing okay.

~*~

Of course, there is more.

But there is always more and so this is enough for today.

I'll do one more installment, because there is one more thing that I want to address.

I'll also answer any questions you may have, so please leave them in a comment or email them if you're not so comfortable with others reading.

As always, thank you for reading. Thank you for your incredible words of encouragement and your high estimation of my bravery. You make all of this worth it.

Read more...

the background [pt. 3]

Find part one here.

___________________

It hurt more than I thought it would, the first time.

I was too scared to use anything as "dangerous" as a knife or a razor blade, so I went for what I had available--a safety pin. I scratched deeper and deeper, and felt the sting, and saw the blood, and went a little bit numb. It was a relief.
The music was pounding in my ears, and part of me knew that I was in it for good. If I didn't have "problems" before all of this happened, I certainly did now. I remember, after it was over and the cut was there, the panic and despair sinking in a little deeper.

How was I going to explain this?
How did I ask for help without saying a word?

The worst part is when no one noticed. I guess it shows just how good I was at keeping the mask in place--no one would entertain the notion that I could do something so "disturbed". It was such a surreal feeling, walking around with the cut on my wrist, waiting for someone to say something, to point it out, to ask. It was like holding my breath, and waiting for someone to tell me I could breathe again.

The relief was only temporary, as it usually is.
The darkness kept getting thicker, and life kept getting harder to get up and live, and the mask was starting to crack. I think I wanted it to crack. I wanted someone to look at me and say, "You're not okay." and "Let me help you, because I know this is real, and I know it hurts, and we can fix this."
That's what I wanted most of all. To be fixed.

~*~

I don't remember how it came out--whether I finally broke down and told someone, or if they asked, but somehow my parents learned about my scars. 

Now that I'm a parent, I understand the panic that they must have felt when they saw the pink lines and the fear they had to swallow when they heard the words spill out of my lips. I also understand the desire they must have had to rationalize the situation and put it in perspective with my age and where I was at in life. They did the best they knew how--prayed with me, sat with me all night on a "self-harm watch", and told me that emotions and hormones were hard things, but they weren't absolute truth. Although it felt empty at the time, I know they were doing everything they could--and I love them for that.

Unfortunately, I needed more. 

I needed more than the knowledge that I couldn't let my emotions or my "teenage angst" control my behavior.

I needed more than a command to not let the devil win. 

I just didn't know all of that at the time.

After the "night of revelation", I bucked up my resolve as best I could and decided that I was going to muscle my way out of this. 

I took the words "fake it 'til you make it" to heart, and started acting the part. I figured that it would have to work eventually--light would break through if I just acted like it was already there.

And it kind of worked for awhile. 

The monster was still inside my head, and the whispers of darkness still wound through my brain, but I buried it deep enough that I thought I was safe and that I had finally conquered it.
I went to school, I went to work, I went to church.

I talked to God, and He listened. I thanked Him for saving me from the devil, and I promised that I wouldn't let my selfishness take over and drag me down again.

Because I thought that's what it was.

I thought that it was just me--the deep, ugly sin inside of me, causing me to get caught up in my own head and my own feelings and putting myself in the center of the world.

Because if I was really a Christian, and if I was really a good person, I wouldn't struggle with any of this. I mean, look at what I had--Jesus, two parents who loved each other, sisters that I loved, a house full of clothes and things, a car, a job, an education, and on and on and on. 

I knew people that had infinitely less, and came from monumentally worse situations that didn't struggle with any of this, and I thought that I was simply the most selfish person on the planet for feeling so absolutely low and sad all of the time, even when I didn't want to.

And that is what made me want out.

~*~

Because I was homeschooled, I skipped my junior year of high school and attended a community college my senior year. 

The pressure was on, since I wanted to get into an Ivy League college or a private university in-state. I knew I needed scholarships and good grades, and that I was going to have to live up to the potential that everyone was telling me I had.

It's kind of funny though, because the strongest memory I have from that time of my life really has nothing to do with college or grades or any of that. 

It's of the freeway, stretching out and curving to the left of my car and the sun rising over the mountains and the thought so plain in my mind, "You could just not turn the wheel, you know. You could drive straight on, into the concrete dividers and all of this would be over." And there was a moment. A split second where relief flooded through my entire body and I knew that it would be the answer.

But it wasn't.

Because the next thought that screamed at me was, "You have got to get help."

Read more...

the background [pt.2]

If you haven't read it yet, you can find part one here.

______________________

Before I really get into all of this, I feel like I should give a disclaimer.

I don't know how to do this eloquently, and I am afraid that I'm going to stumble over my words, or convey the wrong emotion and message and present myself in a very bad light.
But at the same time, I also know that I need to just get it out there and over with, and let you be the judge so that I don't have to anymore.

So I am just asking for grace for the telling--this is a rough jumble of words, and I'm just trying to get it as right as I can.

__________________________

I guess the first time I remember any inclination of it all was back around seventh grade. 

I was part of a co-op of homeschoolers that all got together twice a week and brought in teachers to teach different subjects--Spanish, Creative Writing, Algebra, Marine Science, etc. It was where I got to hang out with most of my friends, get out of the house, and get a taste of "normal" life. Unfortunately, there was always a little bit of a stigma around us, since we were a Christian group, meeting in a church, holding a Bible study, and so on. A lot of us felt the pressure to live above the standards that were set, and to be better than the examples that were held up of "the world out there". This was hard to live up to, especially since we were teenagers and trying to figure out who we even were, let alone how to be better than everyone else. 

There was one girl, a little bit older than the rest of us, a little more distant. It took her awhile to make friends, despite our mothers urging, but eventually she knocked her way into the group and settled down into it. She had all the girls over to her house for a sleepover one night, and I remember going into her room and seeing her sitting on her bed. Her arms were bare for once, and I noticed that they were covered in swirling silvery-pink lines. As I looked closer, I realized they were scars. Some more faint than others, but all etched deeply into her skin.

I remember being shocked, with a twisting in my stomach because I knew that was "bad". But I was also curious--up until that moment, pain had been something to avoid, something to fight against. Yet, here was someone actively seeking pain, giving it to themselves and carving it into their flesh.

When I asked her about it, she shrugged it off in her very nonchalant manner, saying, "It's not a big deal. It's just carving, just like a tattoo." Even though I knew there had to be more behind it, I didn't want to believe that she was carrying around so much baggage that she needed to bleed it out of her. So I accepted her answer, and walked out of the room.

~*~

I always kept the scars in the back of my mind, and every time I'd see them peeking out from underneath her sleeves, I'd feel a jolt of electricity in my stomach. 

By the time I hit high school, the emotional confusion had only intensified in our group. We were getting older, we liked boys and the boys liked us. Some had branched out and met "other" friends, dangerous friends that would take you down the wrong path. A select few had gone rogue and were the subject of much prayer and discussion. 

I was toying with all of it. 

I'd met a boy, a dangerous and mysterious boy that intrigued me and left me desperate to "fix him" and make him happy. He "had problems", but I didn't care. I was getting tired of being the example, the leader, the good girl. (They call it a cliche because it's true.)

I could feel echoes of the sadness that he felt inside of me--it's like seeing them in him allowed me to realize that they were in myself as well. And even though I sometimes wonder whether being around him magnified my own problems, I am still sure that they would have been brought to the surface eventually. It's like he was the catalyst for the implosion that was bound to happen one day. Things started to get darker and darker, like falling into a hole a little bit deeper at a time, until one day I was so far down that I couldn't see the top anymore.

You see, you have to understand something here.

This was not the expected outcome for a girl like me.

I was the little girl that grew up in the same church since she was a year old. I was the daughter of leaders in the church, the girl that everyone looked up to and parents told their kids to emulate. I kept my room clean, obeyed my parents, got a job, and did well in school. I never openly rebelled, rarely talked back or broke curfew. I was the safe friend, the one that parents liked to have over to their house because they knew I wasn't going to get their kid in trouble.

So when the darkness started creeping in, and the world felt like it was going to collapse on top of me, I didn't know what to do.
People like me don't get *shhhh* depressed. 

"Too blessed to be stressed", don't you know? 

I remember feeling like I was suffocating, drowning, being buried alive. 

I hated myself, and I hated everyone else for being better than I was, or being worse than I was and not caring about it. 

I hated God, for letting it get this far and not saving me from myself. 

--in fact, I remember screaming at Him, asking if He knew that this was how I was going to turn out. Did He know that that sweet little girl with the ringlets in her hair, singing 'Jesus Loves Me' in Sunday School was going to wish that she were dead on a daily basis?

Because I did. At some point each day I thought about how much better, how much easier it would be if I simply ceased to exist.

And that's when I remembered the scars.

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the have and have nots.

just a moment.

For the last few weeks, I kind of feel like I've focused on the ligher, more surface-y side of life.

The weekend chronicles, the ridiculous mom-wear that I sport, the random thoughts I have during massages...

But there's always something there, just simmering under the surface and I don't know what to do with it.

Jameson is nearly 13 1/2 months old. I should be far beyond the "adjustment" period of life with a child. My body has officially replenished itself of all the nutrients and things that Jameson took while he was growing. I've lost all the baby weight and a little bit extra. I should be back to normal.

So why am I not?
Why do I still wake up in a fog, and still feel so exhausted at the thought of all the things to come?
Why is living such a difficulty, and why am I swallowed up in guilt about things so small that they shouldn't really matter?
Why does this darkness come in waves, and snatch away the good moments that I do have?
Why can't I just put a name and a face to this monster, so that I know how to fight it?

Part of me knows that some of this stems from where we live and the situation that we're in.
After so much defeat in England, I feel like I've kind of emotionally died inside a little, almost as a form of self-preservation. I've put up a lot of walls to dull the emotion so that I don't have to deal with the pain of failure and difficulty that we're experiencing.

I don't see the wonder in the rain anymore, or glory in a field full of flowers.
I don't find meaning in the wind, or dream about the passions that I used to have.
I don't do things just to do them anymore, because that takes energy that I don't possess.

And that makes me sad, because I know that I'm somewhat of a shell of who I used to be.
It's like living life in black and white and gray instead of the vibrant colors I used to see.

And I just want to heal.
I just want to be happy, and to laugh without it taking effort, and to be vibrant and passionate and bursting with life.

So I will keep moving. Keep living.
Keep waking up in the morning and taking deep breaths.
Because what else can I do?

--linking up with The Wiegand's

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sifting and snatched.

I feel bad about everything.
When I remember anything, it's with this twinge of guilt or failure, because there is not one area of my life where I feel like I am succeeding or 'on top of things'.

I think of work, and it triggers an anxiety attack--"Is my only client going to fire me because I'm late with an order again?"

I think of my son, and it brings up what a crappy mom I've been for the past few days--putting the tv on and staying in the house because I cannot bring myself to do anything else.

I think about laundry, or cooking dinner, or my bathroom floor and I am overwhelmed with just how many chores there are that need doing, and how my house is so grossly dirty. I also think about all the natural cleaning products I have meant to make, and haven't gotten around to.

I think about the taxes I still have to print out and file, and the back payment we've got to make up somehow.

I think about friends, and how I've forgotten to answer emails or phone calls, not asking about hard situations or circumstances that I know they're in.

I think about my relationship with the Lord, and how He deserves so much more of my time and energy. I think of all the times I've chosen sleep or mindless internet activities over spending time reading my Bible.

I think of my husband, and all of the ways I've failed as a wife--all the difficult places in our marriage that I should be working on making better, not dredging up and making worse.

I think about myself, and how I've only been to the gym once last week, and all I've eaten today has been bread and sugar--and how on earth can I actually consider bringing another child into this world when I can't even handle the life I have now? To be honest, I feel like it wouldn't be fair to short-change another kid on having me for a mom. I mean, I'm such a royal failure now, how could I subject another human being to that--and probably worse?

I'm scared to push 'publish' and scared to let these demons out.
I don't know what to do with all of this--I don't know how to let it go. I know the standards I set for myself are impossibly high, but I don't know how to do otherwise.
I can't even have a breakdown on the kitchen floor without thinking about the time I'm wasting and all of the things I should be doing instead.
I mean, how long is too long to use, "I'm just having a hard time right now" as an excuse?
How many times can I blame my incompetence on my failing mental faculties and still have people believe me or give me grace? How long can I give myself grace?

I am so over this.

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words.

I bought a maxi dress for £10 today.
It was money we don't really have, but it gave me the hope of a summer and the feeling of caring about what I looked like for a half an hour, so it was probably worth it.
___________________

I have got to break out of this funk.

I've lost the eloquence and elegance I once possessed.
Right now I'm working out of a desperate attempt to grab what I used to have, and it's strange...my entire life has been spent pining for the future, for the day when I "arrive". But now, I'm pining for the past. I lay in bed at night, and close my eyes, and do my best to recreate where I used to be, the sights and sounds and smells of it all, and it helps me sleep, and escape the place that I am in.

(Wow, cause that didn't sound depressed and sad AT ALL.)

I wonder what it means that all of my dreams have sunlight in them, and that when I dream about the future (which is rare, because it's not really worth it anymore), the biggest thing I notice is the sunshine streaming through my imaginary windows, and the t-shirt I am wearing because it's warm.

(This isn't even coherent anymore).
_____________________

It's a struggle here, to be honest.
It's a struggle in every facet of my life--
being a mom
being a wife
being a follower of Christ
and everything in between.

I had a thought the other day, after my mom wrote me a letter reminding me that I will never be enough for Jameson, and that I was never meant to be. I was meant to fail him, because he needs to find Christ through my failures. My inadequacies should lead him right back to the God that loves him even more than I do, and the cracks in my human self should be the place that Christ shines through.

I keep trying to tell myself that, night after night of trying to get him to go to sleep and sobbing because I just feel like I've done everything wrong.
_____________________

Sometimes I go through these periods of deciding to be a "real" writer, and cleaning my act up: writing things with thought and flow that make sense and sound nice.
And then I always stumble back into the raw, messy part where I vomit words onto a page and it's all for me, because I just can't write for you anymore.
I don't even know who you are, so how am I supposed to know what you want?

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chaos.

Today, when I tried to put Jameson down for a nap in his room, he just wasn't having it. He kept pulling away from me while he was nursing, intent at staring at anything he could find. He's been napping in our room for the past few days since he's been sick, so instead of fighting with him, I just decided to take that route again.

We laid down, and I watched his big eyes start to close, sloooooowly, and I had this extreme urge to do something--anything other than laying down, doing nothing.

But then I heard the rain pattering on my window, and I felt my baby's warm body fit next to mine, and I heard a voice in my head say, "Rest."

I started to counter with, "But..."

And it persisted. "Just rest. You used to dream of moments like this--a free morning to nap, with the rain outside, and someone you love next to you. Rest."

So I did.
And it was wonderful.

---------------------

Today is Wednesday, which means that my mother-in-law takes Jameson to her house in the afternoon so that I can get some work done, and maybe Hubs and I can get some quality time in together. 

I have some really nice, flexible clients that have been so patient with me in this "figuring out what I'm doing" period, that I really wanted to make sure I got a lot accomplished today. But when I sat down to write yet another article on something I don't really care about, I wanted to scream. And cry. And pull at my hair, like my son does when I take something away from him.

I am so tired of this constant struggle. 

Why can't "just" being a mom be enough? 

I know the logical reasons why--we need my income to build up our American savings account (especially if I ever want to visit again or move back), but that doesn't mean I like it. Not to mention that it does a number on my stress level when I'm sitting there thinking, "If you want to go home, you'd better get this article done!"

I guess it's just another moment of wondering why things are the way they are, and why we're in the place that we're in.

I've been doing my best lately to let God meet me where I'm at, and choosing to see Him in my life, rather than being angry when He doesn't show up the way I want Him too...I guess this is just one of those moments that I'm going to have to let go of and muscle through.

This is what I'm living by lately:

"Your emptiness is but the preparation for your being filled, and your casting down is but the making ready for your lifting up."

 -Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening (November 4, Morning).

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rest.

Through a series of strange circumstances, I have found myself with a pen pal.

Really, this is a long-reaching goal for me, since all my friends had pen pals when we were little, but I could never find anyone that wanted to write me letters on a regular basis.
Until now. Which I love.

Anyway. My first letter from said pen pal came the other day, and it was like a breath of fresh air into this dusty brain of mine. She was so honest, and open, and everything she wrote just made me smile.
She spoke truth into my life, when so many other people haven't been able to, or when I just couldn't listen.
(I think there is something to be said about having an objective observer give advice. They're not bogged down by the drama or emotion of a situation.)

She wrote to me about how she firmly believes that the Lord has placed her and her family in a season of rest. And it struck me, because maybe that's exactly what God has done with us, too.

Why is it that I always struggle to see the good in others, and especially the good in God?
Why can't I remember that so many people are good-willed in their intentions, and that the Lord doesn't do things to harm his children, but prosper them?

The Lord has given me a son.
A fire-cracker, pistol of a son who does exactly what he wants when he wants and will not be dissuaded otherwise. And I love him all the more for it.
However, taking care of my son is a full-time job. But that's okay.
In fact, it's more than okay--it's exactly what I've wanted.
It's just that, somehow, I got caught up in the idea that I have to be doing something in order to feel validated, in order to feel that I didn't waste my time.

Which brings me back to rest. So often in scripture, God called his people to wait, and to be quiet, and to rest. And these periods were not without a reason--these people were placed in this position.
Placed there.

For too long I have ranted and raved at God, questioning His love and His care.
Too long have I begged and pleaded with Him to just get us out of this place, and put us somewhere new. To please, please, break the silence and reassure us that He heard and that we mattered.

So for now, I am choosing to rest.
I am choosing to believe that God has placed my family into this situation that we are in.
It is not without it's struggles (as I sit here and battle against the three-letter-monster that is raging war in my brain), but there can be reward if I allow it.

I am going to relish in afternoon naps with my son, walks to the park, movies on tv with my husband, and watching my child grow.
I will not allow myself to be dictated by the part of me that screams "What are you doing with your life? Accomplish something!"
And it will still be a battle, and I will still fail--but at least there is an acknowledgment and a resolve.
And maybe I can finally let go of the anger, and let my heart begin to heal.

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three little letters.

P.P.D.

Yeah.
I know.

It's not for sure (as in, I haven't gone to a doctor and gotten an official diagnosis), but there's a good chance.

It's like a fog in my head. I can't remember the words I wanted to say, or even what it was that I wanted to say about them. Sometimes I forget what it is that I've said a mere five minutes after I said it. The other day I was writing a letter and couldn't remember what month it was. Then I had to say all of the months out loud, and I couldn't remember what came after February. Finally I realized it was March, and I was so frustrated that my brain just couldn't seem to keep up.

I have no energy to do anything. No mental energy to engage in something that is unnecessary. That is why all of my inboxes are full of unanswered emails, why I keep missing writing deadlines, why I haven't written anything on this blog for days, and why I haven't finished a book in months.

There's this great analogy that I heard once: Imagine that you start out the day with six spoons. You have to use two spoons to wake up, get the baby dressed, fed, and occupied. Then you have to use another spoon to put the laundry away and make yourself lunch. Getting out with the baby and doing a grocery run is another two spoons. After that, you've got one spoon left to make dinner, start another load of laundry, feed, bathe and put baby to sleep, finish work, and then get yourself ready for bed. You have to plan out your day so that you don't do too much in one area and leave yourself empty-handed and trying to finish your day.
That is how I feel. I have to focus, focus, focus on the absolute necessities and drop everything else.

There is more, so much more, but those two things are at the forefront of everything I'm trying to deal with right now.

I've had this post rolling around in my head for so long, but every time I'd sit down to write it, I'd feel so exhausted and I just couldn't make myself put the words down. There were more elegant and coherent phrases in my head, but they flit away at the earliest opportunity, and I am left with this.

I'm hunkering down for now. I'm burrowing in to my family--being a wife, being a mom. That's all I can do right now. Dreams of writing and grandeur have been put on hold, because frankly, I'm useless until I get some sleep. (Sleep. The connotations of that word...my child doesn't know what it means. And before you tell me to let him cry, or let him sleep in my bed, rest assured that I have done everything and he remains as steadfast as ever that waking up a few times in the middle of the night is necessary. I'm just trying to live with the damage right now.) I'm not reading any more blogs about "attachment parenting" or the harmful chemicals in this mattress, or the dangers of letting your child cry, or why he needs to eat organic food and how processed food is going to kill us eventually. I don't want any more opinions, advice, or lectures about how to parent--I am on information overload and I can't take it anymore.

My brain has quit when I need it the most, again, and there's nothing I can do but hang out and wait for it to show back up.

I'll let you know when it happens.

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pressure

My tea is going cold, it's 10:30 pm, my baby is starting to wake up, and I have two articles to finish before I can crawl into my bed tonight.

And I just can't seem to wade through the fog invading my brain for a long enough period of time to get a grip and get it all done.

I'm so good at keeping things *almost* together. 

I can stretch a deadline as long as possible, until I am well and truly up against a wall, and it has to get done right then. 

I can rinse the same load of laundry five times, and throw a little more soap in there, and you won't know that it sat in my washer for three days before I hung it up to dry.

I can spot clean my apartment in five minutes, so that it looks like I always keep it nice and tidy, unless you look under the couch or inspect the bookshelves too closely.

"The ability to keep up appearances" should be listed as a skill on my resume. 

I don't really know if that's a good thing or not.

I know it's where I am. 

I know that I'm utterly failing at the standards I put on myself, but I must be meeting others, because no one seems to quite have noticed just what a mess I am. 

Don't worry.

It's the same wall I keep running into over and over again. It's got a name, and a face, and one day, I might be able to just walk past it...but not yet.

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mother

Every day I look at my son, and I discover new angles and planes to his face that I've never seen before.
He changes bit-by-bit, right before my eyes, so that there is always something new to see if I just give him enough time.

Being a mother is hard.

Lately I keep wondering if I was really cut out for this job, or if I only thought I was (and wanted to be).

Is that possible, though?
Are you meant to be a mother as soon as your child arrives in your arms? Or is it possible to have a child, and yet not possible to be a mother?

(I know I'm treading on shaky ground here. I don't mean that I don't want to be a mother, but rather am I meant to be one. There is a difference.)

I feel sad, and guilty, and very ashamed admitting that motherhood makes me feel completely inadequate. Especially because I really felt like I had a handle on this whole thing--yes, the first five months were tough in the sleep-deprivation, discovering-a-new-person, figuring-out-breastfeeding, etc. sort of ways. But I felt like I was doing it well. I had the routine down, I had the hippie "communicate with your baby" principles, and everyone was pretty happy.

But now? Now I feel like I'm stumbling and tripping through motherhood. It feels awkward, and all I can see are the holes where my inadequacies are staring me in the face. I look around, and it looks like all the other moms with babies my age have finally hit their stride, and I'm sad, because I feel like I've passed mine.
Already?

I just don't feel like I have enough--not enough patience, not enough kindness, not enough knowledge, not enough energy, not enough ______.

Most days, I hit the couch around three p.m. and I look at Jameson and think, "What am I supposed to do with you now?" And there is guilt, for letting my child down, for not being what he needs.

(I hope you know the risk I'm taking here, by telling you this.)

Most days (but not all. Not enough.) I get so much joy out of being a mother.
I love watching him grow and change.
I like going for walks to cafes, and drinking coffee while he learns to eat.
I love making him smile, and hearing him laugh and knowing that it's me he finds so funny.
I love that he's learning how to hug, and he wraps his arms so tight around my neck and burrows his face in the hollow of my throat.
I love that he makes so many noises now, and just stares while I talk, soaking it all in.
I love the swelling in my heart that I get when I look at him, and the awe that he is mine washes over me once more.

But then a bad day comes, and the house of cards comes crashing down, and I've got to build it all up once again. I just think about how I just have to get through that day, get to eight p.m., when I can nurse my son and lay him in his crib, and just sit still for a moment. Then there are a blessed few hours until I have to get up the next morning and do it all over again.

I don't know how to do this, motherhood.

I only know how to love him with an overflowing, ever-present love, and I just hope that it's enough.

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that one time

So there was that one time that I was going to do this thing called "NaNoWriMo" and write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.

There was also this time where I was going to lose the last ten pounds that I gained while I was pregnant with Jameson baby.

Not to mention that one time where I was planning on making sure that our house stopped eating most (if not all) processed food, and bought more fruits and vegetables.

Also, that time where I was going to play with my baby every day, and read him lots of books so that he would have a higher IQ to serve him better later in life.

And then, that time where I was going to start being a better wife by not nitpicking at my husband, and just being pleasant and biting my tongue when I thought I was wrong.

Oh yeah, there was also that time where I joined that one manic-lady's website about keeping your house clean and organized, and she sends you a million emails a day so that you get to practice tossing clutter out of your inbox.

And I just remembered, that time where God and I were going to really carve out some quality time together, and I was going to read my Bible daily and start journaling again.

But then, there were all those other times where the sun stopped shining, the baby wouldn't go to sleep, all I could find to eat was cereal, I couldn't come up with a plot line, and I didn't have enough energy to get off the couch, let alone clean my house.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

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there's a drumming noise inside my head

Every time I think I finally have something to say, the words vacate my head faster then I can get them down on paper.

I'm afraid that this could be a permanent road block.
But then I remind myself that I'm only 22, and I still have years and years ahead of me to write and take pictures and live my dreams.
I've just got to get through the melancholy I sometimes feel in the here and now.
I've also got to get over the guilt I feel for feeling that way, because I have a son and a husband, and those two things are more than some people get in a lifetime.

I am happy.
Most of the time.

And besides, there is more to life than being happy.
I know that.

My two guys.

The best things to ever happen to me.

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a list.

I've got too much swirling around in my head today to try and sort it out at length, so I'm just going to throw things out in a random list.
Maybe this will help.

*Three days after my burst of nesting energy, I am proud to say that Jameson's room is now painted, partly decorated, and he has a brand new moses basket to sleep in. Not only that, but the top of our dresser has been converted into a changing table, complete with baskets full of onesies and sleepers for when he poops all over himself in the middle of the night. Also, my hospital bag is pretty much packed and I even printed out our "birth plan", so if I go into labor tomorrow (not likely) we're prepared.
I'll post some pictures of the nursery as soon as we get the rest of the decor hung...It's so cute, and I can't believe how much I am in love with it.

*Went to an aqua class after being out of it for a week or so. (The bank holidays over here really throw a wrench in your daily schedule...all of my classes at the gym were canceled for two weeks and I just couldn't muster up the energy to go to the gym on my own. Except once.) It was a good class, and it felt good to work my muscles again, but at the same time I couldn't help but sit there and feel guilty for not doing more through this pregnancy. I know that I've done well, and I am proud of myself for not turning into the whale-monster that I was afraid of when I first got pregnant. It's just that nagging problem I have of tearing myself down and finding ways to turn myself into a failure.
Before I got pregnant, I had finally gotten to a place in my life where I was consistently in control of my body. My weight was where I wanted it to be, I finally felt like I looked good, and I actually began to believe that I was not at the mercy of my random DNA makeup. Going into pregnancy, I knew that my body was going to change, and I knew that it was important for me to do as much as I could to ensure that it changed in the right way. Although I've done that, and have stayed in the recommended weight gain, I still have these moments where I feel like I just should have done more. I'm sure there's a lesson from the Lord in here somewhere, about being patient and learning to value myself, but to be really honest, I just can't wait until Jameson is here and I am able to go back to being in control of my body, because it's on a mutiny right now and I don't have much choice except to wait it out.

*I miss America. A lot. And at the moment, this is not because I hate England (although I have my moments), this is simply because I miss my home. That, and really good cheeseburgers.

There is more, but my 8-month pregnant brain just can't handle rustling it up.

Please don't read this and think that I'm still consistently down.

I'm not. 

It's just tonight, and it's just these moments of fear and doubt.

In truth, God has been good to us, and we are in a much better place than we were a few months ago. Things are definitely not perfect, and we're still slogging through, but there needs to be an acknowledgement of blessing and provision, because He showed up.

Just like we hoped He would.

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alive.

It's three p.m. on Easter Sunday, and I've spent the morning doing my best to reflect on the incredible meaning behind this holiday, as well as trying to feel the adequate amount of joy I should be feeling.
This day is arguably the most important to Christians around the world, and it should probably be the one in which we feel the most hope, and the incredible promise that comes out of it.

"In their fright the women bowed down with their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!"
Luke 24:5-6a

In an effort to maintain my honesty, I will admit that I have been having a hard time rejoicing today. This is frustrating and guilt-inducing, especially since I can't quite pinpoint why. I should be able to put aside my physical and mental struggles for one day, in order to celebrate the most momentous day in history, right? 

I read through all four gospel accounts of the resurrection, truly trying to see the magnificence of it all. 

I put on the Christian music that I usually avoid, hoping that some sort of holiness would penetrate my brain.

I asked God to please give me something, because I don't want to mope around today.

But, nothing.

Until this.

(It's the cheesiest video ever, but the only one I could find on short notice. Please just listen to the song while you look at something else.)

This is my heart cry.

I need to be brought to life today. That's all I want. 

I need to be resurrected with Christ, instead of staying in the tomb waiting for someone to come and get me--because He already has. 

So once again, I will continue to wait and seek and cling on to that last thread of hope that I've got.

Because that's the promise for today. 

“For through the law I died to the law so that I might live for God. I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me."

Galatians 2:19-20

I may feel dead, but Christ is alive, and that is all that matters.

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time.

I guess it's time.
I'm sitting here, in my living room on a thursday afternoon while the sky is blue and there is sun shining in through my windows, and I'm trying to realize that spring is coming and this is symbolic in more ways than one.

Since I've always been honest on here, I guess there is no reason why that should stop being the case now.

We've been living in this country for just over five months now. 

We arrived with eight suitcases on a freezing and rainy November 1, and since then, life has consisted of working through each new day that has been thrown at us.
When we first arrived, we were empty of things, but full of hope. We had literally stripped ourselves of our possessions and brought with us what we could carry, along with the baby growing in my belly and the belief that this was going to be the place for us.
We were finally going to put roots down, settle in, and make a life for ourselves. We had the promise of a job with a good-looking outcome for Hubs, the knowledge that I could work anywhere I found myself, and the belief that soon we would be able to start "moving up" in the world.
No more cockroach infested apartments, or budgeting until we were blue in the face.

Reality check.

The job was not what it first appeared to be, and although we held onto it's promise for so long, it has recently become clear that there is no way it is going to work.
I lost all but one of my clients, not due to anything I had done, but simply because business models are changing and I didn't fit in anymore. Not only that, but I am now in my third trimester, and finding clients only to tell them that I will be taking six months of maternity leave after the baby is born, is not really ideal.
This country is expensive, with hidden fees and other things lurking around different corners, and somehow we did not find out about it all until we got here.
This is a different place, one that I don't really fit into all that well. I'm so much more 'American' than I thought I was, and although I have found friends, I am struggling to be myself and have that be okay. I find myself holding back, and taming myself down in order to fit into the landscape, and although this is okay, it means that no one really knows who I am and likes me for it.

I have been angry at God for a long time. 

I felt like He had clearly led us to this place, obviously opened doors and allowed us to walk through them.

My spousal visa came through in three weeks, which is nearly unheard of. 

We had the promise of this job, and security, and the opportunity to make a life somewhere we thought we wanted to be.

We got pregnant with our baby at exactly the right time so that all of the tiny little dreams I had worked out.

This was supposed to be it for us.

I felt like God gave us the promise of these dreams, and for all intents and purposes, it looked like they were going to be fulfilled.
Now, five months later, this is not the case.
And to be honest, I've hesitated to share with anyone about it, simply because I didn't want to put up with the pitiful looks, and the nice "Christiany" sentiments comparing us to Job or listening to "Footprints in the Sand" being quoted at me.
I'm not trying to be sarcastic or offensive, these things are comforting in the right time and place, it's simply that this situation can't be fixed with a nice, neat answer.

In fact, all I've got right now is this:

"So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." [Matt. 6:31-34]

I've read this passage at least fifty times.
But look at it. Really look at it.
What's the promise?

God knows what I need. 

If I seek after Him, He will provide for my needs. 

Today.

And that's all we're given. No promise for tomorrow.

In fact, I'm told to not even look at tomorrow, because I've got to focus on getting through today.

The past five months have been about God whittling away this entitled part of me, and putting it to death. It means that He is taking all of my desires, be they selfish or not, and simply giving me one day at a time to live through. He is meeting my most basic needs, and He is forcing me to accept the fact that this is all I am allowed to expect from Him.

I hate this.
I don't understand the ultimate reason or purpose that God allowed us to come here and find ourselves in this situation.
I can't pretend to be happy and joyful, when inside there is still (it's much smaller, but it's there) a part of me that screams, "Why can't I have this? What is so wrong with wanting this or needing this that You won't just let me have it?"

However, there is a light at the end of it all, and even though it's small, it's there.
My husband and I have never been so happy or strong in our marriage. Life is becoming pure, in that we have so little, that we are truly learning to indulge in such small moments.
My son, my son, is growing and is healthy inside of me, and I get to meet him in such a short amount of time and finally hold the baby that I ached over for so long.
I so appreciate the incredible people that God has allowed me to find. The close friendships that I have are truly unique, because I have yet to find one like them in another country, and I now realize just how amazing the people are who love me despite knowing me completely.
We are still surviving, and still making it through each day, incredibly.
Although some days I wake up, and it feels like there is no way that we're going to make it, we always do. And one day at a time, we're continuing to get through this.
I don't know how we are, but we are.

And so that's it.
I've avoided coming here for so long, because I wasn't ready to hash this out on a public forum, and I just wasn't ready to be completely honest about my life.
Maybe I'm still not.
However, the window is open now, and maybe sometime in the future I'll be able to open the door and let all twelve of you in.
But for now, this is what I've got. 

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