The Parable Of The Ankle Brace

This post has been marinating for about a month.  Perhaps percolating, rather, but you get my drift.

About a month ago, I went off my meds. 

Wha?

You heard me right.  I've been writing about my struggle with panic and anxiety for years, long before I became a mom. It's an epic battle, one that I know lots of people share.

It happened in Martha's Vineyard when I accidentally ran out of meds.  Three days later (3 days is as long as I've ever made it in the past), I was feeling pretty good.  So I decided to give it a few more days, but I wanted to do it responsibly.  I filled my script and weaned myself slowly.  A week later, I started to feel better off than on. 

And there you have it.

Some people have given me high fives, but I have to be honest when I say that coming off my meds doesn't feel high-five-worthy.  You see, going on the meds never felt like a failure so coming off the meds doesn't feel like a success.  It just is, as they say, what it is. Plus, I'm totally realistic about the fact that I may need to go back on them in the future.  It's just life.

So what's up with my life?

My husband is present.  He no longer works 80-100 hours per week, and he's grown a ton in the last few years.  Being a parent will do that. Being a better husband will do that. Being a healthier person will do that.

I've done the work.  Lord in Heaven, have I ever done the work. I've gone to therapy...strike that.  I've had my ass kicked in therapy.  I've worked through my demons.  I've grown up. I've made choices.  I've looked in the mirror. I've cried buckets of tears. I've done the work, people.

And for now, the work is paying off.

So what's up with The Parable of The Ankle Brace?

Several months ago, Ferris helped one of our friends with an ankle injury.  He needed a brace for stability so a strained tendon could properly heal.  A month later, his ankle was better and he no longer needed the brace.

You guys, that's it.  My brain, my soul, and my heart needed a brace for a while, but the story doesn't end there.

Once the ankle brace came off, our friend complained to Ferris that while his tendon no longer hurt, other parts of his ankle had become weak.  The brace was allowing the tendon to rest, but the added stability made it so other muscles weren't firing. Ferris says that happens all the time.  The hurt part gets better, but the whole thing gets weaker.

You guys, that's it. It's weird coming off meds.  I felt pretty good, but I also felt like the bag of tricks I used before the meds had been weakened by the brace.  I was quick to tears, quick to anger, quick to frustration.  All my emotions were at the service, and I needed to work on my bag of tricks.  I needed to recalibrate. I needed to get used to this new no-meds self.

The new plan is to let that percolate for a while and see what happens.

In Defence of Food

Originally, this was going to be a sidebar post, but I'm finding I have more to say than will fit in a 1 in x1 in margin. My relationship with food has been a long and sordid affair. I've written about it lots of times, most notably here and here. While I can say with relative honesty that I've never been healthier and more well-adjusted in terms of my relationship to food, it remains something I struggle with on a daily basis.  Of course, some days are better than others.

I work hard, very hard, to be healthy.  I'm not talking about weight or BMI or what I put into my body.  I'm talking about happiness.  It's something I think about every single day. I go to therapy, I take my medications, and (most importantly) I've started to make choices that bring more happiness into my life.  Choices like: inviting good people in while letting other people go, having fun with my husband, having fun with my children, maintaining boundaries with the people in my life SO THERE'S SOMETHING LEFT AT THE END OF THE DAY, paying attention to what I need (exercise, a cup of tea, a walk, a movie, a nap), moving my studio into my home.  I stopped waiting for other people to tell me I was ok.  I stopped making excuses about not having fun.  I stopped looking outwardly for validation as a mother/photographer/wife/friend and got the hell off the couch.  Basically, I stopped waiting for life to get better and started making it happen.

I make it happen by maintaining a million different decisions every single day, and I stopped asking for permission.  Turns out, Ferris is happier now that I've stopped looking to him for happiness.  Turns out, my kids are still alive and well and no turdier than they were before I started down this road. Turns out, by cleaning house in those ways, my anxiety about food and my body has subsided as well. Turns out, the issues with my body weren't the problem but rather a symptom of not being happy.

A few weeks ago, I got on the scale and didn't like what I saw.  Instead of feeling the regular blame, shame, fear, panic, and self-loathing, my gut reaction was to tell the scale to f**k off.  So that's what I did, and I haven't looked back. It was never about the scale anyway.

I adore Michael Pollan and just started In Defence Of Food. I also read Food Rules which I go back to every now and again for tips and affirmation. So far, the rules I've found most helpful and easy to maintain are "don't eat anything your great-grandmother wouldn't recognize as food", "pay more eat less", and "treat treats as treats". In the end, though, I'm thrilled to throw all the rules out the window with the scale if they stop making me happy. 

Identity crisis, the logistics

Those of you who have this parenting thing figured out will have to forgive me while I rant and rave until I figure it out for myself.  It's what I do, verbal (or written) processing and processing and processing until I somehow emerge an enlightened soul...or at the very least, a soul who is surviving.

I have dear, wonderful, brilliant mother friends with all sorts of occupations from 100% SAHM to more-than-full-time work outside the home and everything in between.  What's true of all of them, however, is that no one seems to think they've got it all figured out.  Initially, that fact made me want to crawl under a rock, but once I thought about it for a while, it became very comforting. 

No one has it figured out.

How freeing?

It's like...why even try to figure it out if greater minds and hearts than mine have already been there and back?  Perhaps my energy might be of better use someplace else.  Ok.

Perhaps it might be more useful for me to find a place of validation (no matter where I am on the spectrum of work/mothering) instead of worrying about how to define or identify myself.  Ok.

When I was making the transition away from full-time social work, a co-worker told me I was lucky to have a partner who made enough money for me to work on my 'hobby' of photography while I stayed at home.  At fi

rst, I was pissed.  She was pandering and minimizing, but I also understand that there was some truth to what she was saying (no matter how idiotically she said it). 

I feel very lucky my partner makes enough money for me to stay at home with Miles and Eva.  Very lucky.  There was a time in our partnership when that wasn't the case, and I had to make the difficult decision to go back to work full-time when Eva was 8 months old.  It was hard, but ultimately the right thing (for all of us) at the time.  I loved being a mom, and I loved my job.  Somehow it worked.

The co-worker was right about my fortunate position, but that's not the whole story.  The rest of the story is about sacrifice and flexibility.  Ferris and I, with much discussion, came to some conclusions about what we want for our family...about what we want our family to look like.  The rest of the details shook down from that point.

Doctors

make WAY more money than social workers.  It's an age old pile of shit but a reality nonetheless.  So, Ferris goes to work.  I have a uterus and boobs that make milk.  This is not to say that dads or non-boob-milking individuals can't care for babies just as well...sometimes even better.  I'm just talking about our situation and what seems easiest for us.  So, I make the babies, nurse the babies, and pick up the slack around the house and in our lives while Ferris is away killing the meat to bring back for dinner.

Yes, I'm very lucky that Ferris can provide the financial support for our family.  The bonus happens to be that he loves his job and works very hard to be a good dad and partner when he's not at work. Most of the time, he gets it right.

AND

Yes, Ferris is very lucky that I've sacrificed some of the stuff I want to do professionally along with my body (having the babies and nursing) to create and sustain our family. The bonus happens to be that I love this job at home, and I've worked very hard to sustain myself by finding a profession (photography) that works around it. Most of the time, I get it right.

When we don't get it right or when things shift the balance, we reassess...for now.

Identity crisis

Just when things seem like they're totally and completely under control, an unsolicited existential crisis lurks around the corner like a wicked spider waiting to inject me with poisonous venom.  Ok, that might be slightly dramatic.  It may not be so much poisonous as it's the kind of venom that causes an itchy rash...a super annoying, red, bumpy, blistery, itchy rash that can't be scratched.

I was having a nice conversation with a friend the other day when she casually referred to me as a stay-at-home-mom.  A wha? I'm embarrassed, humiliated, disgusted to admit that I had a visceral reaction of denial.  I'm not a SAHM!  I don't JUST STAY AT HOME. My initial reaction was one that unearthed a filthy little secret that I wouldn't even admit to myself. I was holding judgment about the most important job in the world, caring for children.

I know.  I know.  I know...the shame. I feel horrible.

But I also feel that it would be dishonest not to write about it.  I would be perpetuating the problem by pretending these sentiments don't exist, even among the most enlightened among us.  They do exist...and we feel them.

So I immediately went to my therapist to hash it out like any well-trained nut ball. 

It comes from everywhere, institutions and individuals alike, messages that mothering is an inferior profession. It's everywhere, even if (out of the very same mouths, often in the very same sentences) people will admit that parenting is the hardest job in the world and should be respected.

I don't have the energy to go through the systemic problem, but I do, however, have the energy and desire to deal with the conflict within my soul.

I'm uncomfortable referring to myself as a SAHM because it scares the shit out of me.  People often say that caring for babies is the hardest thing in the world, but it wasn't for me.  When Eva came, I knew exactly what to do and felt very comfortable being a mother.  The pain and difficulty came soon after when I started to feel the judgement and marginalization of parents, specifically mothers.  If you look back at most of the stuff I wrote when Eva was a baby, it had nothing to do with actually caring for her and everything to do with trying to figure out WHO THE HELL I WAS.

Things are easier now.  I've surrounded myself with people who reflect back the importance of parenting which validates and invigorates me.  Even so, those painful, traumatic experiences after Eva's birth lurk aroun

d the corner.  There is judgement there, deep down inside...I can't deny it.  But there is also self-preservation. Holding on to my professional endeavors...my professional identity...gives me a sense of self from which I'm totally unwilling to part. Calling myself a SAHM doesn't feel entirely honest or reflective of my life because of the business I've created...all the hard work I've put into it. But mothering, right now, is primarily and happily what I do.

I know I can be both things, simulataneously. I want to be both things. I'm supposed to be both things, right?

Argh.  This makes me tired.

The kids are restless and I have a book proposal to work on, so I'll save the rest of my rant for another day.  Both things, both jobs, never enough energy, never enough time.

At least I know I'm not alone this time.

Where do you find inspiration?

Adding Miles to our family, no matter how mellow his temperament, was a rude awakening back into the unforgiving world of taking care of a baby.  In the hospital, when I first tried to feed Miles, I stuck him up to my chest and immediately got distracted with something else...thoughtlessly expecting a latch to materialize from nothing.  The nurse took one look at me and asked how old Eva was when we stopped nursing.  Fifteen months.  "Right," she said, "He's a newborn...not a 15 month old. You need to do the work."

Note taken.

Transitions are rough for me.  It's like going head long into a brick wall or taking a bat to a glass ceiling. It can sometimes be that emotionally violent even if I'm showing no external signs.  There are daily transitions: morning, naps, coming home from school/work, evening, sleep.  And majorly huge life transitions that effect your job, your family, your 'self'.  Big or little, I've learned that I need to ease myself into things.  I need to nurture and protect myself as I battle through the brick wall or bust through the ceiling. 

I transitioned away from work (outside of my home) as a social worker at the same time I welcomed a baby boy into our family.  Countless women have tried, admirably, to describe the enormous transition from pregnancy to birth and back again, but there's still no adequate way to describe what it's like to actually make the transition...physically, emotionally, spiritually.  The speed at which your life changes can aptly be described as violent, no matter the amount of love, tenderness, and happiness you experience simultaneously.

I'm writing about transitions because I've spent a good part of the last few months becoming a professional photographer.  I can't even believe the timing, but there was an article in The Times about how amateur photographers are changing the face of the profession.  I have no idea how to validate my claim except to say that something has changed...lots of things have changed about the way I see myself and what I want to be.

Lula Inc. is changed, and with that came the time, the effort, the commitment, the desire, and the dream to be a professional photographer.  So that's what I'm going to be.  But, like I said, transitions don't come to me easily, so I'm starting slowly.  I'm starting by focusing on inspiration, which I'll be highlighting on the left column.  It will probably be a bunch of photographers, but there are all kinds of other things rattling around in my brain these days...music, various art mediums, books, smart people.  We'll see how it goes and what turns up.

That said, one thing will always remain.  I'm inspired by this place, my family, my friends, and you guys.  I listen to everything you say.  We make a collective energy, and while not everything we produce is a masterpiece, we're doing good work.  Great work. Every. Single. Day.