Christmas cheer

First off: we are all alive. The world didn't end, the zombies didn't come to eat our brains, the sky didn't fall. So :p to you, myan-calendar theorists!

Anyway...

So this is my favorite time of year. I have always loved anything to do with christmas. I love glittery things, pretty wrapping paper, ribbons, ornaments, ledgends of santa, snow, the smell of things baking, spiced nuts, apple cider and wassal, christmas carols, and crazy sweaters. (There is a lot more I love about christmas but if I listed all of them, we'd be here all day.) What I love most about christmas is being with family. I love spending time watching stupid movies, singing songs, laughing till all hours of the night, and eating way too much of mom's good food. I love silly traditions like finding the pickle, hiding the army-man in the tree, and eating pizza instead of ham. I love silly games, inside jokes, and socks in your stocking. I love that people treat christmas as a sacred time to reflect and to love their family; to let kids be kids; to have peace in their lives.
It makes me sad when I see the stress people add to their lives during this season all in the name of keeping up appearences.
But it does warm my heart that so many can put aside their personal agenda's for the good of others.

I love that this is a season of hope and joy. The past few months have been filled with hope for me. Doctors say things are starting to look better. Officially diagnosed with PCOS but the medication is working well and in small doses, which is very encouraging. I am filled with confidence and hope. I am still trusting in God and not science to heal, but I am thankful for the doctors who were able to provide some answers.

I am hoping for a little bundle of joy soon, but I will enjoy this christmas with our little family duet. I look fondly forward to a christmas where I can share all of the things I love with a little gift from heaven.
I will hope for that everyday till it happens.
One day, one hope at a time.

Sand through the glass

So it has been one year ago this weekend that I stopped birth control. Wow....time sure flies.
One year ago I decided to open myself to hope, to keep a little secret to myself, and to be excited about sharing news I didn't have yet. It was a bit vain and very naivie to hope that such a small decision would have as drastic results as I envisioned, but I guess that is the risk I took.

One year. 365 days. 12 months. No matter which way I spin it, count it, or look back on it, all I feel is the pit of my stomach.
I am currently watching "Julie&Julia" and the scene where Julia Child finds out her sister is pregnant flashed across my tv. I couldn't help but tear up while Julia sat and cried all while professing her happiness. The fact that I teared up at all, but especially in a movie I've seen before is proof of my melacholy. I can't help it. I feel a piece of her pain. Obviously I am not Julia Child in any way. I am barely a cook, I cannot keep house, I am not tall or glamrous or funny. But I do know how it feels when many women around you get pregnant and don't know how to handle it while you long with every fiber for a child of your own. I know how it feels to try and be happy for someone while you choke back sobs.
I do, like Julia, have a man who loves me to death, and for that I am very grateful. In this whole ordeal he has been there to make me smile, tell me I'm beautiful, and cry with me when that line doesn't show up month after month. I couldn't have made it without him. "He is the butter to my bread"...a bright spot in my day.

Yet still my greatest frustration, my not-so-hidden secret, my privately public struggle has seemed to take over my heart and mind, has tainted many relationships, and has made me miss so many changes in our life this past year. We have grown in so many ways together, we've had the courage to pick up our whole life and relocate it, we've survived and made it a wonderful first year and a half of marriage (aside from this stuff, though it helped us grow in ways too). Why do I feel like I missed all of that and more even though I was there?

Because in a way I did.

I missed a lot and I don't know how to bring myself back so I don't miss anything else.

So one year later....a whole lot of hour-glasses full of sand, 525,600 egg timers, 17 home pregnancy tests, 4 blood tests, and too many terrible Doctors appointments later and I am trying to not give up on that hope I started with. One year later and I am trying not to listen to that nasty voice in my head that has piped up for years before this and every month since one year ago...

Tomorrow is coming in less than two hours and I guess I have to go through it. Just one day...
Seems harder than it used to.

So a guy walks into a bar.....

This internet pic has been circulated a few times....but it cracks me up!  The first time I saw it I am quite sure I guffawed. In fact, I know I did because my husband looked at me funny and asked if I was ok.
I know it's pretty awful to laugh at someone else's pain....but it is really funny.

I wish I could laugh at my own problems like this. I am often told that it would make problems feel less overwhelming if I could just laugh at myself. I don't. I am a HUGE offender of taking things too seriously too often. Lately I can relate to this poor guy in the picture. He is obviously in good shape, has all the sponsorship and equipment, made it through the qualifying rounds to get to this point, and probably went through excruciating training to get his feet into the starting blocks. The Gun fires and he and his companions charge forward! But all of the training and support he had going into this could not prepare him for the one misstep that changed everything. Sure he probably still runs (as long as he wasn't hurt) and may race again; but that race was over for him. There is no "keep going" after that kind of "OOPS!"
As of late it feels like no matter how I prepare for things, I keep slamming my face right into hurdle after hurdle (pun totally intended. Sorry dude in picture). Most days I feel like I'm holding my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. What feels worse than that is when I get a glimmer of hope, a vision of the finish line in this sprint, it turns into a solid chunk of "AHH that's not what I was expecting!!" which is usually briefly  sharing electrons with my face by the time I realize its there. 2 months of unemployment for my diligently seeking husband, nursing him through Mono, a sinus infection, and a killer ear infection. For me, a sinus infection, historic rain levels for the area, tough adjustments to work, and a relapse of some of the same cycle issues including moodiness, weird almost-pregnant-but-not-really symptoms, and irregularity. (Truthfully, all of the stress in general is certainly not helping.)
At this point I would love to see any sign of good news just so I can remember to breath again. Jobs, health, change, weather, Hurdle after hurdle after hurdle. Jump jump jump! I know that at some point it will be easier, it will get better, and I will be stronger. Till then I can only hope that at least once I will be able to clear a hurdle without so many scars.
In the words of Dory the fish "Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming! Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming!"
Just one day at a time...

The mystery of the murderous smile

It is really difficult to stand still and smile while you are being insulted. I know this first hand. Working retail often puts you at the dangerous end of someone's long day or emotional frustraion. We've all done it too. I have worked retail and serivce for more than 5 years and I am ashamed to admit that I have taken a long day out on many an undeserving service clerk or waitress.
Sadly I am a prime example of being able to dish it out, but not being able to take it. The closest I can come to handling insults is a sly smile, an apology, and throngs of complaints to my family and friends. To those who have suffered at the wrong end of one of My bad days: I am truly sorry. When I am finally clear headed after a day long (or often longer) battle against the great forces of ungratitude, ignorace, and injustice (yes some days I really feel that is true) I am humbly reminded of Martha preparing a feast for her Lord. She was truly doing good work and was upset that no one took notice of the work she did. Her sister was lazy and sat with the men learning and listening. How dare she! I am too often in martha's shoes and too often martyred in my own mind. In colosians, paul reminds us that every work we undertake is for the Lord and not for man. The hard thing is to remember that no one else needs to take notice. It is only his approval you need. A little observation about Martha's story: I'm pretty sure jesus was thankful for all the work martha did to make the meal for him and his followers. I would imagine he thanked her for the food and for being willing to open her home. So his problem doesn't seem to be with her actions, but with her attitude and priorities. Definitely something I need to remember when that oh-so-perky smile and the "thank you" pass over my lips with the anger behind my eyes. I am not doing it for them, and that means they don't have to care. Its not easy to serve. But we are asked to do so. So I'm learning One day at a time

Turning pages

I'm a pretty avid reader. Have been since I was a kid. How I developed that is a slight mystery since I have dyslexia and read fairly slowly, but I am very fond of reading. In general, I like stories. I prefer adventure filled tales of fantasy and valor, but I am also drawn to any good story that keeps evolving and changing. I had a really hard time with charles dickens and some quarrels with JRR tolkien (walking is great but things have to happen before the reader developes a cramp in their arm) because of the resistance to change they seem to display. Eventually their characters learn something and grow but fundementally they remain unchanged. As I read through these author's work and felt such an aversion to finish, I wondered what spawned my reaction and I came up with this: I didn't want to see a character struggle with change the same way I do. Instead, I prefer to see myself as a hero of my own story who deals with change in a graceful and welcoming manner. I wanted to be Katniss or Elizabeth Bennet or Violet (leminey snicket) not Mrs. Everdeen or Lady Catherine or count Olaf. I wanted to usher my story in my way, not sit on the sidelines, or worse, get in the way. Change is difficult because it only comes through testing and hardship. Boy, they try and tell you that stuff but its never so true as when the test is staring you in the face and you feel totally inadiquate. My testing has been pretty intense over the last few days and I have definitely felt the pangs of growth in myself. Watching our belongings be packed away and sent ahead of us, saying goodbye to friends and familiar places, putting away old plans, it all makes you think. You look at all the things you've accomplished, or never got to, all the people you connected with, and all the ways you've changed. I realized with an anxious and heavy heart that I am headed straight into an ultimatum: either rely on old habits and friendships to keep me afloat (and probably fail) or change. Change is never a comfortable thing, but I live on the bits and pieces of wearing memories. I don't want to feel that the highlight of my life is behind me and all I can do is retell the tale. I will cherish the time and the people from this last chapter. They have helped me become who I am thus far. To quote a favorite broadway hit "who can say if I've been changed for the better, but because I knew you I have been changed for good." I love you all and I want you to know you have changed me for good. Now I stand on the corner of the last page. Its an emotional brain bender to stand in two places at once, and I feel like I could split in two. One half too afraid of the unknown to dare look at what is on the other side. The other half, the stronger half at the moment, is done with the last chapter and ready to move forward. So today I turn the page as we arrive in our new home. Part of me still fears the unknown and the possible heartaches that go with it. But to be the hero you have to keep going forward. Even just one step at a time....

Rumor mill

Just in case anyone is in doubt or has heard otherwise, I make this statement: I am Not pregnant! Thank you.
I am grateful for people wanting to be jubilent with me but unfortunately this roundness, this swelling of my midsection only denotes my love of cookies and lack of motivation/energy to burn them off after consumption.
Its not the mos enjoyable thing to have someone ask when you are due after struggling with TTC, cycle issues, and self-worth. But while you are angry at the situation its hard not to jump all over the person asking.

Which brings up a difficult dilema: how does a person change their perception of themselves when the people around them aren't willing to change their own filters? When you are trying to grow and evolve you need to have reflections that are accurate to help you see where you still need to improve. If you are surrounded with people who still see the old you, they are never going to help you become the new you.
I've been dealing with this growth process for several years and it always comes down to this problem. How do I change myself and be proud of my progress if no one else sees the change? Its hard. That's the only answer I have. So I still grow and change one day at a time and maybe they'll catch up someday.

(Just for fun, this is a picture of my fat-baby. Its a cookie!)    

So next time you want to ask a lady when she's due, don't. Just say hi and tell her she's beautiful. She'll appreciate it whether she's having a baby or not.

The Mirror part 2

At some point in every Girls life we go through a period of loathing with the mirror. The sad thing is that our society encourages this loathing because it sells diet pills, fad diet plans, and as seen on tv equipment. It is a battle that I will fight for myself and my daughters some day. I don't enjoy this loathing but it is a reality most days. Staring at my face and picking at the wrinkles (yes at 24 I have wrinkles), the dark circles, the zits, the blotches, the pores, and all the imperfections and I make the only noise I can use to describe how I feel: harrumph! Catching a side glimpse in the mirror and being painfully aware of the weight I've gained, all I can do is wince. "How can that be me?" is the immediate and resounding alarm in my head. I try to remember what I looked like 70 pounds ago, when I could have passed for Jack Skellington, and the phenomenon is that all I remember is the same loathing. I don't remember what it was I hated or what made me upset, but I remember the emotion being identical. 

So that poses a question: How do you change what you see if you've already been both extremes? It is totally an attitude thing, but where are all the healthy minded individuals we are supposed to emulate? How can we end this cycle of hatred and self-deprecation without adding to our already self-obsessed and vain society? What else is there to do if changing circumstances doesn't change the problem? Where are all the women who are willing to stand up and show us how to do it right? And why are men SO fricking silent about this? Sure, a lot of men are pigs and just want boobs and butt and model figures. But I know men who think that is repulsive and who genuinely delight in their woman's figure. I have heard them say this out loud, in front of other men and women, and not even blink funny. But yet when the question is posed to them "How do I look, Honey?" Their faces instantly change to the face of a man about to utter his last words. Guys: Grow some balls! Yes if you say a girl looks bad in an outfit she is going to become upset. DUH! If a girl says something that emasculates you, you have a bad reaction too! But we ask because we want to know. We really don't want to be walking around thinking that we look awesome and find out later that my butt really did look ENORMOUS in those pants. Now I have also heard guys say that confidence is what makes a woman beautiful and attractive, right guys? Well guess what inspires confidence? YOU! Even as a friend, if you notice a woman and she looks lovely (if she inspires feelings you should not be having, capture those thoughts and make them obedient to Christ, then tell her that she might want to cover up a little) TELL HER SHE LOOKS GOOD! We need to hear it! We tell each other all the time, but that is different. We are desperate to hear something from someone so we compliment another girl which forces her to say something nice in return whether she means it or not. Yes that is really how it works. I have just shared a sacred women's secret and will probably be scorned for it. (Sorry Ladies, but they need to know this stuff) So guys: be men and tell us you like what you see!

While I would like to blame the men for all of the issues we women have, because its just easier when it's not your fault, I can't. They can certainly contribute from time to time, but they are not the root of the problem. The problem is that we have never been SHOWN how to love ourselves. We are told that if we love ourselves we are vain but if we hate ourselves we need therapy. We are told that we must earn the right to to love ourselves or look in the mirror with satisfaction. To earn these positive points we have to eat well, be a saint around everyone without exception, be caring, flexible, kind, sweet, hospitable, inviting, and warm to anyone we might come in contact with. Basically we demand of ourselves that we be Betty Crocker, Martha Stewart, June Cleaver, Mother Teresa, Gandhi, and Jackie O with a heaping dose of Marilyn Monroe in the bedroom to help keep our husbands happy. And if all these demands aren't met we get to stare in the mirror and tell us how awful we were today or yesterday and how we have to make up for it now. No wonder we can't keep up. Not even the people we are supposed to be could keep up! (Look at each one of their stories if you don't believe me. Even the TV perfect mom was a bit lacking. A son named Beaver? good one mom!)

So if fictional and non-fictional women can't uphold the universal standard for women, then who can? If it's an unattainable goal, how do we change it?

I wish I had an answer! Every time I look in a mirror my wish for an answer becomes more desperate and my emotional reaction becomes more confounding.   

I guess for now I will wait for an epiphany (anyone seen the movie Hook? yeah I almost typed apostrophe) to strike my brain and reconcile me with my reflection.

till then,

One day at a time

The Mirror part 1

A thin pane of smoldering hate. A portrait that never matches memory. A ledger of events, people, places, and sins long past. A conversation with a dear friend. A memory shared from another's perspective. A heated argument. A word spoken in haste. A backhanded compliment. A staring contest you will always lose. An intervention. An introspection. A Portal to obscurity. Unlucky if broken but often intolerable whole. Dangerously Demanding. Most often misleading. Coldest companion, Who is the fairest of them all?

The Unexpected

Sometimes things surprise us. That is just the way it goes. We are told growing up that we should try and avoid certain surprises by saving up, eating right, and being cautious. Those are all good things to do in most circumstances, but sometimes you have to do things because you don't know the outcome. Moving to a place you don't know much about would fall in the category of reckless in most minds. I think in my mind it falls in that category as well, but its something that we are doing and I'm super excited about it. While visiting our new place I expected that I'd feel terrible and take some real time to adjust to the new weather and climate. Most travelling I do takes one whole day of uselessness followed by a slow day of minor activity and rest. While I was on a bit of a high (and adrenaline always helps with rough days) what I didn't expect was exactly what happened: I felt almost normal. I took almost no pain killers to balance my day (just one pill for a genuine headache), only required 9 hours of sleep to feel rested (versus a normal 11 to noon to even feel close to human), and stayed fairly mood-swing free (at least I thought so...if it is not so family...leave me my bliss for a little while longer). I was a happy, adjusted, mellow individual. I even felt the urge to go for a long walk...because I had the energy! There was no restless drive pushing me, no sluggish feeling to shake; it was amazing. For the record, I have never felt that close to normal since my symptoms started. Never. If you find that hard to believe, I'm sorry you have such a limited scope of thought.

While all of this wonderful unexpected was occurring, I was also headed straight for a not so wonderful side of the unexpected.
Once we returned home my health took a nose-dive. I missed three days of work (not sequentially) within a week of being home and began my period two weeks early...for the third time in 5 months. Along with the fear and crashing hope, this time pain came. While pain is a constant companion for me, this pain had an uglier face. It was sharp, sudden, hot, and unpredictable. Terrified, I ran to the Doctor. Miserably, I poured out my story again and the Doc listened sympathetically. However she did not panic in the least (which was helpful but also irritating at the time.) and she calmly explained that this is just a hiccup. What I wanted to say was: " A HICCUP?!?! Come on Doc! I'm like the weirdest thing ever, right?" but I did not. I wanted something to be actually wrong. (I know that is weird, but bear with me.) It was so nerve wracking to have yet another thing obviously out of sync, but nothing wrong; to have another thing I can't totally explain but that is unavoidable and almost un-treatable. I was desperate for this Doctor to pull a magic, ten-syllable, word-of-impending doom type thing out of her medical dictionary and then have an equally long but easily broken down fix ready in the wings. I wanted it to be the flu, but for your uterus. (Yeah, that sounded way better in my head but I couldn't fix it. Besides, this is my blog.) When the blood and pee tests came back normal and my physical exam was also normal, the doc repeated her hiccup theory. (In medical terms she said it was probably an inovulatory cycle. Google it) I was a little weary to leave it at that, so she kindly got me in to have a pelvic ultrasound, which came back normal. I was reassured and I can reassure you, reader, that I would rather I NEVER did that again! BLEGCH!!! The tech was really nice, very calming, and very gentle. That didn't really take away from what the procedure is, or the fact that it was being done while the full curse of eve was blaring in my innards. (Again with the googling if you really want to know). At the end of the appointment I asked the looming question: Is there anything we can do that will help getting pregnant go more smoothly? The answer was no. NOT the answer I wanted to hear.
With some attitude adjustment and some tears I reconciled myself to the fact that it was a long road ahead and before I could worry about a tiny life inside me, I needed to worry about the vessel intended to carry said life. I needed to get me in shape (well closer than I am) and ready to handle life around me first before I added the stress of trying to essentially grow a life as well. Final decision between me and the doc was to go on a different birth control for three months to smooth out and regulate my cycle (read: kick the lazy ovary into gear) and to try and lose about 30 pounds. The pills...well suck. Mood swings galore (we are talking giggles and sunshine to hurricane kayla in 90 seconds or less), increased appetite, and bloating. Yuck! The last two symptoms are not exactly encouraging in a weight loss situation and the first tends to cause obsessive eating of chocolate or gummy related items. Needless to say, the weight loss thing is....slow...and or non-existent. That unexpected energy I had during our trip? Gone. The discipline I had to track my cycle symptoms, temperature, ovulation days, etc? Poof! (I am remembering to take my pill at the same time daily though. Truly a small miracle)
So now each day I prod myself out of bed to go to work, and motivate myself to finish with the thought of how close we are to a clean slate and a new life. At the moment, that is the best I can do.

So in every turn, expected or not, I just tell myself

One day at a time....

(ps it doesn't always help...but I still say it)

Good and Bad Days

So in case you haven't guessed it yet, I'm not very good at updating things regularly. Sorry about that.

Anyway...

If there is one thing about Fibro that you can count on it's that on the days you need it most, your energy or your hormones will go haywire and you will be left with the table scraps and a very long to-do list. As humans we all have good days and bad days. Some people use that as an excuse for a bad attitude or even just being a rude person. With fibro, there is a fight against every day feeling like a bad one. With pain as a constant companion we don't get to use that as an excuse to be rude. Some days it is a harder battle than others, and some days you can't win. Those are the bad days. I had one of those yesterday. No matter what I did, how long I rested, or how well I cared for myself I couldn't shake the feeling of worthless, fat, and lazy. This feeling overwhelmed me to the point of tears. So for no reason and with no provocation I sobbed for probably a good 20 minutes. My poor husband sat near by trying to comfort a feeling of inadequacy that had nothing to do with him. I felt really bad that he couldn't help, but I couldn't help it. Some times that's all you can do: cry. Some times we all have bad days. I'm learning that those bad moments don't have to last all day. Bad physical days means you have to find a way to get past the pain and use the energy you have in the best way you know how. My mom calls it "spending your spoons." She has a good analogy of how fibro effects a person's energy levels. If you know her, ask her about it. Bad Hormonal days means you have to fight the urge to yell, cry, or curse at anything in your path and this fight against yourself drains your energy before you even have a chance to roll out of bed.
There have been days where I wake up and feel like I've already lost the fight. There have been and will continue to be days I don't even want to try. I just have to hope for good days and when I don't get them I have to make it through the day and start over tomorrow.
Health update: annual women's health check was good. Doc says things should come together fine when the time is right. So now we are back to the waiting.
One day at a time, one step at a time.

Breaking the Pattern

I may be starting off on the wrong foot here, but I have to say this before we go anywhere: I hate bloggers. I do. Sorry to all of you (now fellow) bloggers out there whom I have just offended. The reason I say that is because I cannot stand how people use the internet to ramble, complain, and basically do no good about the problems they are voicing their opinions over. 

So, that is not the purpose of this piece. For me, I want to reach out to some very select women dealing with a very difficult issue. It is to these women that I dedicate my words and pray that I can be of some guidance through an unheard-of journey. I say unheard of because I have looked tirelessly for guidance for myself and come up empty over and over again. I know I am not alone, but when no one shares it can feel that way. So today I speak for the women that have a chronic condition but who seek to be mothers. Maybe if I share, then someone else might not feel alone.

My story is not typical for a newly married, almost 24 year old but it is also nothing special. I have done nothing inordinately special in my entire life. I do pride myself on seeing glory and honor in the mundane but that means very little except to make me feel less mundane myself. I know and have known for some time that Fibromyalgia runs in my family and I knew one day it might rear its ugly head again. What I didn't expect was that day would come at 16. At first the symptoms were light and manageable. I was very skinny then (and remained that way for several years) which meant usually the toughest thing I had to deal with in a day was fatigue. Pain was not a stranger but because of my size and activity level it was completely tolerable. Besides the occasional day of swollen joints, misguided neck rubs, or misplaced grabs near tender spots, no one knew I even had issues. I decided with youthful vigor and the wisdom of a high school senior that I would get my massage therapy license and heal all of the people with chronic conditions! And I would do it with a condition myself. I was finally a healer who could truly sympathize with what her patients were going through. What a spectacular, selfless, innovative, idiot I was! I did get my license and I do plan on using it to help people, but I am now facing the daunting reality of potentially loosing the one tool I have to do so: my hands. We'll go into that another day. 

After finishing my training and taking the boards, at 19 I was a massage therapist ready to conquer the world. I was going to put my way through college working as a therapist and it was going to be amazing. I did go to college, but I didn't work as a therapist (besides the occasional helping a friend who can't study because of tension headaches etc.). The state requirements had changed and I couldn't practice where I was studying, but I kept up with my license and pressed forward with my schooling. For 3 years I drove my health into the ground because of my obsession with perfection. I had to deal with the very trauma that brought on my disease, to deal with my personal hatred, and my view of my future. I had a lot of anger, which for years I had turned into fuel pushing me past the pain and fatigue that would have stopped me from doing the things I loved. But the anger wasn't mine to control anymore. It had taken over and turned my actions into self destruction. I said I was skinny when I got out of high school, but after my 3rd year of college, I was a corpse. I ate maybe one meal per 18 hour day, with soda and protein shakes as boosters, and slept maybe 5 hours a night. I'd nap when I had the chance and I never really stopped moving. If I stopped long enough to think, I would not get up again. I felt like all I could do was run from the anger, the pain, the overwhelming sadness that I was not perfect but I had no way to fix what was broken. 

It wasn't until I met my wonderful Husband that someone broke my pattern of self-destruction and self-hatred. I wasn't perfect, but those imperfections were endearing to him. He delights in taking care of me, of just being there. No expectations, no demands, no judgement. It was like I could breathe again. During my last year of college I focused more on balancing my life instead of orchestrating it and it still wasn't perfect, but I no longer felt like I was a ticking time bomb. I felt the pressure, the heart aches, the struggles of being a busy senior who is getting married, but none of it was life or death. I began to see each day as something I needed to get through and find something good about it. Then at the end of the day, it was over. That's it.

Now, days are still not perfect and I'm still struggling to discover my limits. This Journey is not over by a long shot. I have no miracle attitude fixer, no magic cocktail of  pills and therapy to make it through every day. Some days I don't make it through; I just cry uncle and remember that tomorrow I can try again.

What I have discovered is that I am grateful someone broke my pattern. They interrupted my life and helped me see that just because I am broken in some ways does not mean I'm trash.  I do not have to prove my worth to anyone. Not even to you.

So there is my story. I don't really care what you think about it. It is what it is.

As this blog thing grows I will warn you: I will have good days and bad days. This is the story of a journey of mine. I might complain about things, I might rant, I might even have a pity party, but I want to leave a record of the journey I am taking as I try to deal with my own life as I (hopefully soon) carry the life of another within me. We are not pregnant yet but we are trying and this is part of the journey too. 

One step at a time...