perfection

 

Perfection. So many unhealthy thoughts come to mind when I think about being perfect. Twelve years ago, when my husband and I married, I thought I would be the perfect wife and mother. I was all set to have the perfect Instagram life even before Instagram existed. 

When we got married I was bubbly, energetic, optimistic and out-going. Over the years, and in some part due to my Bipolar Disorder, I've become introverted, overly serious and even pessimistic, though I like to call it realistic. 

I was striving for perfection in an imperfect world. I know that real people are never perfect but that didn't stop me from wanting it. I don't believe anyone is the same after 12 years of life experience, but I know I can do better. I can try to look on the positive side more instead of dreading and expecting the worst. 

 

I want my home life to function a little more smoothly and I think that needs to start with me. I don't need to be perfect, just better. I think optimism will follow from there. I want to have joyfulness for myself and for my family. Things may never be perfect but that doesn't mean we can't make it work.

we all fall down

 

Summer of 2000, when I was 19 years old, I did a college internship working at Walt Disney World. It was amazing and truly one of the best experiences of my life. 

They set us up in apartments on Disney property and I had 5 roommates who I still consider dear friends. We were paid a pittance but we didn't care. We had free park access and could roam to our hearts content on days off and after work. 

I worked exclusively at Epcot as a vacation planner. That was Disney speak for saying I sold entrance tickets to the parks. But don't get me wrong - I loved my job. I sat at a computer, in air conditioning, at the height of summer in Florida humidity. I had nothing to complain about. 

The College Program was so thorough they even bused us back and forth to wherever we wanted to go on property. That meant a ride to work every morning for me. 

On one such bus ride, I saw a cute fella sitting a couple rows behind me. He, too, was going to work at Epcot so we had the whole ride to exchange glances, smiles and even a hello. As we arrived at work, I was first to depart the bus but, suddenly, I found myself on hands and knees, bruised and shaken. I had somehow completely missed the two stairs following the first and ended up on the ground. With the cute guy right behind me. 

He quietly scooted past me and promptly left amid the laughter surrounding my little acrobatics. All I could do was laugh louder than everyone else, embarrassed, and check to make sure my pants were intact. I then hurried inside to clock into work on time.  

I told my roommates later what had happened and was able to laugh sincerely by that time. It wasn't the first time I'd fallen down and it certainly wouldn't be the last. 

I even saw the cute fella a couple times after but he never even made eye contact. I guess my clumsiness had scared him away. But who cares; who wants a man who couldn't even help me up when gravity had chosen to hold me down. 

Bruised knees and scraped palms weren't my only take away from this experience. I learned that picking yourself up after you fall is important, in all aspects of life. I laugh about it now, saying when I fall for something, I fall hard. And I think, maybe, we fall because there's something down there we're supposed to find. I found a new set of confidence that summer which has served me well in life. 

So I fell down. That's inconsequential. I picked myself up. That's the life changing part. 

the journey

In the year 2000, I had my entire life mapped out in my head. I was not quite 19 years old but I knew how life would go. 

I'd continue in my current job working at The Disney Store in the mall. I'd leave that summer for my college internship at Disney World and come back with a host of new experiences to share and use in my career. I'd keep studying in college, getting my teaching degree in high school English. Then get married. All within three years or so. I'd have three children - two boys and a girl -  and then I'd be a stay-at-home mom. The BEST stay-at-home mom, who never yelled and whose house always smelled of fresh baked bread. 

And I'd do all this with my best friend Bobbe at my side. We were two peas in the same pod and would move forward through life together, forever, Amen.

  

Then April 20, 2000 hit like a hurricane. Bobbe was in a serious car accident. She did not make it. She died and I felt like I had too. Nothing mattered anymore. 

My world had collapsed but time keeps moving. You can't change that.

I kept my college internship because everyone said it would help, being away from home for a while. And it did. I met amazing people, who, to this day, I still call my friends. When I got home from Florida, things fell apart again. I was severely depressed so I took a semester off from school to re-evaluate. I took multiple aptitude tests because teaching didn't seem right anymore. I ended up back at school in the spring with a new major - Business and Marketing. 

Because of this new major, I met and made friends with a whole new crowd of people I'd never have met otherwise. I was still sad and overwhelmed by Bobbe's death but time was passing. Quickly. 

Bobbe's family had always considered me one of their own and this led to me becoming dear friends with one of her cousins, Angie. 

More time passed. I finished school with my BS in Marketing (a degree I have never used to this day). During my final semester, Angie moved to Utah. A year later I followed her there. Honestly, I moved because I had nothing better to do. I had been working and going on lots of first dates but no second ones. All I had was time on my hands. So I moved to Utah thinking a change would do me good. 

By this time it was 2005 and losing Bobbe from my life had gotten a little easier. I was still upset that she wasn't experiencing life with me but, time heals, as they say.  

I knew the move to Utah was the right one but it was a huge leap of faith for me. I changed states with no job secured and only my savings to tide me over. Then, one week to the day, after moving in, I had a job lined up. Six months after that, I was set up on a blind date with Jason, my husband. Eight months after that, we were married. 

 

Time passes. Sometimes quicker than we're ready for. And change occurs. It's scary at times, especially for me. But had all these changes not happened I would NOT be the person I am today. It's not the life I mapped out 18 years ago but it's still pretty beautiful. 

The big question is - Do I think I'd still be where I am now if Bobbe had lived? After much consideration and thoughtful prayer, my sincere answer is no. I believe my life would have still been good with her by my side but I would absolutely not be where I am now or the person I am today. 

I tell you all this because I want you to know that I can see God's hand in my life. What started out as the most horrible change I could ever imagine, slowly morphed into a different but wonderful life. My plan for myself was not what Heavenly Father had in mind for me. The changes were subtle at times but all have led me to where I am now. 

I have learned to try and not resist change. Because who am I to know better than He? Sometimes it seems like the harder path but I always get to where I need to be. And for that, I am humbly grateful. 

 

 

the struggle of Sundays

I've talked about this before, how being a mom, every day, hour, minute, can be a struggle. Luckily for me , my medications have been working and, except for a week after Christmas, things have been going well for about 8 months.

I'm doing well {knock on wood}. Well enough that I've even begun looking forward to situations I usually shy away from. I'm not 100% in every circumstance but the anxiety has gone way down. 

Except for Sundays. 

That day seems to be the exception to every anxiety rule I follow. And it mainly centers around church. It just about breaks me every week. 

On Saturday nights I give myself a pep talk; you can do this, it's only 3 hours of church! Then we get there and the panic attacks start threatening. I am certain of where it comes from and I hate to place blame but - 

 

It's Everett.

I know he's only three and a half and still learning how the world works around him but that first 70 minutes of time before Sunday School is like a waking nightmare. His boundless energy and independence is the exact antithesis of what is required to sit still and be reverent for that long. We've tried explaining what Sundays are all about but all he understands is that, eventually, he gets to play with his friends. So the first bit with talks and songs seems like an eternity for him. 

And us. 

I understand that it's just this stage and this too shall pass and he'll never be this age again so enjoy it, etc. 

I get it. But Sundays are supposed to be a recharging day for me and instead it just starts the week out on a misstep. 

My anxiety finally starts to calm by Sunday School but then flares again as church ends and I have to chase Everett as he runs wild around the building. By the time we get home I'm so frustrated and overwhelmed I just need space and a nap. Instead, it's time for dinner, baths and bedtime routines. All of which is a fight because his adrenaline is still up. By the time 7pm rolls around and the kids are finally in their beds, if not asleep, and I have a minute to think, it's always the same thought - 

Why are Sundays so HARD?

They're supposed to be a day of peace and contemplation. Not hard feelings, exasperation and panic attacks.

So I'm making a pledge to be better on Sundays. Me. Not Everett. He's going to be the same no matter how I feel. He's him and I can't control his emotions. But I can control mine and how I react to him. 

We're going to a different church schedule now that will begin at 9am instead of 1pm. I'm hoping that means I'll still be fresh and awake, ready for whatever Sunday wants to throw at me. Because I am in charge of my thoughts and actions. My anxiety is not my master. And each week I'll do a little better because, sometimes, a little better is all it takes.

offspring

I've been re-reading some of my parenting books recently. OK, I read them all in one night. 

I have felt at such a loss as to how I should communicate and discipline my children lately. Jason helps a TON, but after he's at work, it falls to me to be the parent. The one who deals with the after-school meltdowns, the bedtime tantrums about brushing teeth and the heartbreaking sound of my baby saying "no" to hugs and kisses at bedtime. 

I'm struggling to be the kind and caring stay at home mom I always imagined I'd be - baking cookies before they came home from school to a clean house with activities ready to stave off boredom. 

Instead I've got down the basics. Feed them. Clean them. Clean up after them. Get them to bed before I have a mental breakdown. Some days that's enough. Most of the time I don't feel like it is.  

I've read through all the parenting books you see. Some are wonderfully helpful. Others - I could do without. 

It helps that I already know who my children are. 

Penny is imaginative, sensitive, fair and very animated.  
Everett is always busy, energetic, fearless and independent. 

Now these descriptions can be seen in both a positive or a negative light depending on the situation. For my purposes, I'm trying only to see the good. 

Knowing the personalities of my children is great but I don't always know the best way to interact with them. Discipline is also a struggle. I want them to understand if an action is incorrect but I don't want to kill off the innate spark of joy they both contain. There's a fine line between correcting and becoming the "mommy monster." I find myself crossing that line all the time. 

I also want to show them love in the ways they understand it best. After re-reading The 5 Love Languages for Children (a very good read, I must say) Jason and I discovered that both of our children react very positively to spending quality time with us. Either alone with one parent or together as a family. Knowing this, we have tried to set up some small parent/kid dates so they can feel that connection to us. 

I've noticed that spending a little more time paying attention instead of hurrying through the day improves sour moods almost immediately. For them as well as for me. Penny also enjoys small gifts (even if it's just a treat from the grocery store). Something to let her know you were thinking of her. Everett loves you to tell him how good he is doing at something and for us to say I love you. 

Now, these books are just outlines. I have to be the one to complete the story of how I am with my children. And every day builds a new chapter of challenges and greater insights. I love my kids fiercely and want them to grow up happy, however that develops for them. So if encouraging that involves me reading four parenting books in one night - so be it. 

Anything for these two little bugs. 

 

it's not a decision

Before I was even through unwrapping my Christmas presents, the dread began. The excitement and anticipation of the holidays was wearing off and my depression was beginning to build. Hard enough that I stuck my head into the sand (literally my pillow) and didn't emerge for three days. 

Jason and I have noticed that this happens with other overly anticipated events. I'm not disappointed with what occurs, just sad that it's over. After a few days of zombie-like behavior I swap into manic mode. This means I can't stand to be still, I'm impulsive and want out of the house at all costs. 

Going through these cycles makes me feel so lost. It feels like a huge set back when I had been doing so well. I know I have no control over when these episodes hit but it feels like I should have been more prepared. I could have battened-down the hatches, so to speak. Instead it hit me like a storm and swept me completely out to sea - to finish my sailing metaphor. 

I sink. And inevitably Jason and my parents take up all the slack. Living with bipolar and anxiety is not easy. Every day, landmines are laid, ready for the right sort of pressure to detonate them. 

Will I wake up manic and angry? Will I even get out of bed when the kids are complaining that they want breakfast? Will I quietly sob in the bathroom after snapping at Penny for something inconsequential?   

These demons I fight may only be in my head, but they are oh so real. 

Writing and thinking about this exhausts me. I want to go back to bed even though I barely left it yesterday. I'm slowly digging myself out of the trenches. Today I actually felt more like myself even though I got zero hours of sleep last night. My anxiety brain wouldn't let me rest, regardless of how many pills I took. 

I have to remember that today was better. Tomorrow will be better still. I look forward with hope that each day will get a little easier until I'm back on stable footing. I have to remind myself that this disease isn't me; it's just a part of who I am. And who I am is stronger than what my brain wants to throw at me.