How Can I Serve God?

So back in 2022, I had just moved back to Denver for the third time. I was on a high, feeling like I had the world at my fingertips. I had been on this Denver kick for so long now, I didn't even know what it was. I told myself, maybe it's because my mom kicked me out of the state when I wasn't ready to. So maybe it was closure that I needed or something. But there was always this damn pull for me to be there, even when I didn't truly know why, it was just a feeling that I absolutely had to be there. I know, it was fucking stupid. Denver was like a black hole that I just couldn't fucking escape.

2022 was another "try-harder" in Denver. I left Tahoe at the beginning of June. Hastily and impulsively moved into an apartment with a roommate, whom I knew from my previous apartment. And the first day of our arrival, I sat out on the 5th floor balcony staring out at the city and the mountains behind it, everything just shining and glowing and sparkling. My stomach full of butterflies. I couldn't keep a smile off my face. I should have known then that this was a manic episode. How I started smoking again about 2 weeks before my move. My impulsivity, my lack of appetite, my inability to sleep normally, how everything around me looked golden and glowy and rose-colored, and how I felt invincible. But I didn't take it for what it was. To me, these were all signs that I was meant to be here. That this time, I was going to be okay. This time, it felt right and like everything had aligned. I even had written a manifestation journal a couple months before that ended up matching the description of where we now lived...for the most part. And so that was huge confirmation that this was absolutely it. I can only shake my head in disappointment now.

Let me tell you the events that unfolded at the beginning of this episode. About 2-3 weeks into the "New and Improved" living situation, I started seeing an ex fling of mine. Like I said, impulsivity. He was in a relationship with someone else. Inside, I told myself, "Well, I was first so..." The logic wasn't there. Remember, with Mania, logic leaves the room. It's all pure emotion and feeling. And 100% delusion while simultaneously being convinced that you are right in these matters, and nothing and no one can talk you out of any of it.

While applying for a million jobs every day, I was also reached out to by someone from my past; once considered an old friend of mine. Though, one who ended up not treating me well when I was 16-17. In fact, he took advantage of me; something I wasn't aware that he truly knew that he did. But in fact, while in communication with him during this time, he apologized to me. And though an apology may not have been enough from someone who raped me, it still meant something to me to hear that he was sorry. That he was taking accountability. Because I was a lost soul as a traumatized teenager. And it's really shitty when people see that and prey on you for it. But out of all the people I had wished would take accountability for the fucked up shit they did, this man who had taken advantage of me, came forward and did so. And I appreciated that. I know, my logic was not in the building!

We got into deep conversations for the most part. About our lives. About our kids. What had been happening over the years since we last saw each other. Queue another sign that this was still mania: It felt good talking to this man. The way this man hurt me, I should have never wanted to see or speak to him ever again. And yet, it felt good to talk to him. Where in the world did that make sense? But I am me and I give the wrong people too many opportunities. Throw in the mania and now I'm just asking for it. I explained it to myself that it was because he'd grown up and matured and was no longer a cruel person. Now, that's not to say that an apology isn't welcome from people who are giving them! And also, people can change. But...damn.

I told him how I had been wanting to become a birth doula for the past couple of years and open up my own business. Being a business owner himself, he told me he would help me get there as a sort of business mentor. He gave me all kinds of tips and advice on how to get a business going. Pointed me in all the right directions. Answered any of my questions, and even paid for my Doula School registration. He said anything I needed for the business, send it his way and he'd take care of it. I was so grateful to him. And I thought maybe this could be a rekindling of a good friendship? (eye-roll) Now, mind you, he was engaged to be married at this time. And he was struggling through a lot. Mainly, his happiness in life. I got the sense that there was a lot of pressure on him to be a certain and specific kind of person. And that he wasn't sure he could be said person. I wanted him to follow his heart and his happiness. Because it was his life after all. 

We would talk almost every night on the phone. And not too long into it, I got a further sense that he was looking for an out. And worse yet, I was this close to inviting him to do so. And oh, what a disaster that would have been! His impending marriage was coming quickly. His anxieties were increasing. Secrets and pains from the past were starting to come up for him all at once and I was sure that he was going to back out of the marriage due to overwhelm. Just the day before his wedding, he told me he wasn't sure if he was going to marry her or not. He was afraid of letting her parents down and looking like a fool and a coward to his fiance. I told him to consider himself too. 

Some of this was selfish in my part. Part of me wanted him to not go through with it. And not even because I loved the dude or wanted a relationship. But because he gave me good feelings and I was searching for a friendship, even if he had betrayed my trust in the past. But, the genuine part of me also just wanted him to be honest with himself (underlying my hope that he would choose to be my friend instead of getting married). I figured, no matter which path he chose, there would be some form of regret there. And still, I hoped he would not say I Do at the altar. Come to visit me in Denver so we could have dinner and go dancing as he said he wanted to do. The next day, he got married. And I saw all the photos on his Facebook. He looked happy in his smile. I saw something else in his eyes. But maybe that is just me.

After this day, he never spoke to me again. Understandably so. And it was bittersweet. I knew he was doing what he thought was right. And even though I was a bit disappointed, there was also an edge of relief for avoiding a new chapter of drama. I hope he is well and that life finds him happy and in love.

Through all of this with him, I was still finding my way back into my ex-fling's life, for some god awful reason. It didn't take long. And he was very quick to drop whatever it was that he was doing to see me...even though he was in a relationship. The High in me at the time did not care. And this was another red flag that I would stitch together.

Shortly, and still in my High, I found myself intertwined in a new chapter of misguided "Hope, Renewal, and Transformation." Having impulsively jumped back into a "relationship" with my ex-fling, which as we know, is always a bad idea, especially when the reasons why you broke up with him were serious and accurate in heart. I saw it as an opportunity to delve in deep and to let go of my past, once and for all. Doula school was starting up soon, and the summer was going to be amazing.

Ex-fling and I went on a camping trip, meant to bring us together in ritual or something. And all he wanted to do was drink and sleep. I just wanted to do was meditate and do the LBRP in the forest! Red Flag collected! I found a job at a stupid sushi restaurant. And 6 days into the job, I left it. A common theme in my job world. But, I had a reason this time that was not surrounding the state of my mental health. One, was that I was 6 days into my training when they told me they had to cut back on my pay (by $4) and my hours (by 20) because they hired too many people, AND asked me to train the new kid...while I was still training. And I was very newly pregnant and had a threatened miscarriage. Which is my pregnant body's way of telling me to, "SLOW THE FUCK DOWN, WOMAN!" So I quit while in the hospital.

I had only been back in town for 2 months. I had only had 1 moon cycle. I bled for 5 days. And then wouldn't bleed again for 313 days.

Now, I won't get into any of the pregnancy stuff and everything that happened afterwards in this post. Though you can read the very beginning of that story here. I wanted to talk about the only thing great that I was doing during the months of my pregnancy; Doula School. I had this "Calling from God" to be a doula. It was fueling me through a time of uncertainty and abandonment. A time of grieving and anger and hurt. It was the only thing at the time giving me sense of purpose. And I finally felt like I was on the right path. If you didn't get it already, I had fallen from My High, down into the depths of My Low. About a week into finding out I was pregnant, I had crashed and crashed hard. I was impaled with every single thought, action, reaction, and inaction that I had made up until that point. It was like waking up from a nightmare, only to realize that you're still in it. 

I left my home and the love of my life to come back to a place of trauma and alone-ness and struggle and unnecessary suffering. And for what? Why? Because I did DMT in April that triggered a 3.5 month long manic episode and decided it was in Denver that I needed to be? That Denver, for some damn reason AGAIN, had all the answers. Denver was my siren call. And I fell for it again. Leaving our stability and safety and support system behind for the third damn time. Except now, I had conceived a baby with a person of addiction. Someone I didn't know very well, but the things I did know about him should have kept me very far away. But this is the gift of Mania. Sabotage, destruction, chaos, except you feel it as an "Essential Breakdown and Transformation" in order to welcome in your newly aligned life. It feels good to do so (another eye-roll). Then when you wake up, you see the reality of what you did. And internally panicking, you try to convince yourself that everything is okay and that all of this was meant to happen because God doesn't give you something in life that you can't handle. 

So I sat there in my car, trying to convince myself that this gift of a baby was going to be the solution. That this baby had something to teach me. And that this baby would somehow change this man. That maybe this baby was exactly what he needed to grow up and let go of all his addictions. And I had every faith in him. If only he had the same thoughts and feelings and emotions. 

I stayed. I took responsibility and accountability for what I had brought into my life. And I loved this new soul growing inside my body. Even if he didn't. Because for every ounce of fear that he felt, was an extra ounce of love, desire, and protection that I felt for this little baby. Even in the months-long major depressive episode I was in.

I had to find reason and purpose for my being there, now carrying this baby, and starting Doula School. It was a time of creation. It was a time of shedding my past. At least, that was I told myself. If I was to be in this new chapter of life, I needed to let go of M in order to be fully present for the new guy. Even though I genuinely did not want to. I did a lot of shadow work. A lot of internal work. It was the roughest time I'd been through at this point. Because I was doing it all and I was doing it alone in hopes that at some point that New Guy would see me and finally want to be there with me. That he'd finally choose us over the booze and the drugs and the women and the toxic work environment. But I sat there like a pathetic dog, whining at the front door waiting for him to come home, and he never did.

So I put everything into becoming a doula. Everything into preparing my body and mind for this birth. I made a new best friend through Doula School which was a godsend. I don't know what I would have done without her. 

For a long while, I felt a sense of purpose, even if I was going to be alone through it. Being a doula was my passion. I had many, many plans with what I was going to do as a doula. Me and my best friend were even going to be business partners. It was set in stone. And it felt good. Not Mania good! But healthy good! I was still in the depths of My Low, but at least I had things to look forward to when I got back to baseline.

Unfortunately, it only got worse from there. And my best friend and I had to put our doula business (as partners) on hold. Because my kids and I had to leave back home. To be safe again. To be stable. To have support. And since this move back home, I have lost all desire and passion to be a doula. I made a glorious website for my business. Came up with some decent business cards. Tried to get into death doula stuff. Tried to make my way into the communities here in the area. Share my business and that I was open to clients. Hesitantly so. Because I wasn't even convinced I wanted a client.

This confused me because how had I gone from feeling like this was God's push or guidance to my life's purpose to being 110% uninterested in being a doula at all! Yes, birth trauma had something to do with it. But that was only a sliver of my Why. I thought to myself, "Maybe God gave me this Doula thing as a way to DO SOMETHING during the time of My Tower Moment. Something to do that he knew would interest me, hold my interest, at least for the time that I needed it most." Like he knew exactly what was awaiting me and this is how that old friend of mine had reached out to me to apologize. And how that old friend gave me the gift of Doula School and paying for my business costs. And how he sent the best friend of my dreams to keep my interest and give me some type of support during this chaotic time. At least, this is what I tell myself.

I also tell myself that the underlying reason (the reason unseen for many years) as to what the hell kept calling me back to Denver, time and time again, was because I needed to bring this baby from the cosmos into this world with me here on earth. And because I needed to meet this amazing woman from Brazil to make her my best friend. And to learn the Greatest Lesson of all: Self-Love.

Through all of the pain and sorrow and heartbreak, the trauma and disappointment and fear, the try and try and try again. Was rewarded with this beautiful baby boy, a best friend, and a genuine love for who the fuck I am.

So now I've been faced with that unnerving question: What is my life's path and purpose if I am not to be a doula? How do I truly serve God. Because as a doula, whether I was going to be a birth or death doula (or both as I had envisioned), was to be in the presence of God. Because when are you closest to God if not when you are bringing a baby earth-side or sending off a soul into the next life?

I am thinking of the movie, Soul. When Joe is so set in life that he is meant to be a jazz musician and that his ultimate achievement is to perform with Dorothea Williams. But when he enters the death realm, he's faced with all new perspectives on life and what people's purposes on life are. Yet, he stays rigid in his idea and plan as a musician and his obsession to perform with Dorothea. It's not until he spends time stuck in the body of a cat mentoring a soul named 22 that he starts to see himself from a new perspective. He does finally get the opportunity to perform with Dorothea, but finds himself not feeling fulfilled by this experience. Shortly after, Joe sits there, remembering the simple things that brought so much joy and appreciation to 22. Her spark. And it was like he was seeing the simple things in life for the first time; like through the eyes of a child who is struck with wonderment. Everything is beautiful. Everything is amazing. Nothing is taken for granted. Joe discovers that 22 became a Lost Soul because she became obsessed with the idea that she had no purpose. He chases her down to show her the sycamore seed that had brought her spark to her in the first place, hoping to restore that spark that once filled her heart. He was successful. It was realized that Your Spark is not your life's purpose, but rather the simple desire to live. To just...be. 

So maybe, in this same sense, I shouldn't be obsessed with finding my "true path." And feeling down on myself when I can't seem to get there. When I am feeling like I have no purpose or that I am letting God, society, and myself down. Maybe the point in life isn't to DO anything specific. Maybe the point of life is to just fucking LIVE IT. Feel it. Experience it through the eyes of a child. Who is fully present in each moment of Life. They don't worry about a life's purpose. They don't care what they look like. They don't worry about upsetting other people. They are just here and they are present and they are in awe of everything around them. Every blade of grass, every leaf on a tree, every ray of sunshine or snowflake, every breeze they feel, or food they taste, or the person who's arms they are in....it's just everything to them. Maybe this is the way of life.

Even when we are busy with the bullshit. Because as adults we get caught up in it. Sometimes we need to remind ourselves that this life is ours and that sometimes we shouldn't take it so damn seriously. And I think God would be very pleased if he saw how much you enjoyed the small things and how you tried to be present in it as much as you could. So very newly, I have begun this journey. And it is hard! Being present and appreciative and grateful is not an easy task to fulfill every single second of the day, especially when you're going through the wringer. But be proud of yourself when you are able to. Know in your heart that this is the true path! The one underlying whatever else it is that you might be doing for society. This one is for you. Because you matter, even if your life feels meaningless, purposeless, or useless. FYI: It's not.

Facing Truths and Making Mountains

March 12th, 2024

It has been almost 7 years since my hospital stay at the Psych Ward. And yesterday, we drove back to that awful place so that I could pick up my medical records. On the front page it reads: Diagnosis Information- Bipolar disorder, current episode manic severe with psychotic features. Dysthymic disorder.

This got me to take a look back in time, I mean like, as far back as I can remember. This whole dysthymic disorder thing is mind-blowing to me. Well, not really. It actually makes perfect sense and I think was the perfect foundation for me to develop bipolar disorder. Thanks trauma and neglect! Back in 2020 I reached out to an old caretaker of mine from when I was 5-6 years old. We called her Grandma Carol. On the phone, we spoke for a decent 40 minutes. I remember her saying, "I never knew a kid so young could be as low, depressed, and internally angry. All I wanted to do was make you smile." Every time I went over to her house, she would buy me a beanie baby. These beanie babies were my best friends growing up!

It is sad though. Looking back from the beginning up to now and seeing and feeling that underlying, consistent sadness and depression. The perfect foundation for a disorder such as bipolar disorder. You see, because any time something good happens, no matter how small, it becomes the greatest thing ever! Which can trigger mania. And if something once good turns bad or doesn't work out in the way I had imagined (due to manic thoughts and daydreaming), then a major depressive episode gets introduced; and because I internalize everything, there might even be some self-deprecation, self-hate, and nihilism. I go off and abandon myself. This cycles forever and ever it seems. And I have Resting Sad Face.

I am recently back on my head meds. Bupropion (Wellbutrin) and Lamictal (Lamotrigine). Since knowing my baseline is actually a low one, I feel the drugs bring me up just enough to be categorized as a very low-grade depression. So far. We are upping the dosage of the Lamictal every two weeks. It is helping.

Bipolar disorder. Mania. Major Depression. Psychosis. Dysthymia. It's time I call it what it is and stop running from it. I vaguely remember back in the day saying something like "You can't run away from yourself because you always catch up." In my mind I see I see her and she's just sitting there on the sidewalk, head in her hand, looking bored and she says to me, "You done now?" Well, me, yes. I am quite done running. 

Now, that doesn't mean trauma didn't play a role. But, you can have both. Like a two-for-one deal you didn't sign up for! Buy one get one free!

So what do we do? Where do we go from here? Let's go back into my medical records from that psych stay I had and see what it said.

Challenges/Barriers: Pt states she guesses herself, doubts self, and sees her mother as a challenge.

Mental Status Narrative: Alert, cooperative, wanting to improve her sleep and mental state.

Summary of Finding: Pt is somewhat fragile, becoming tearful when discussed that her voices were really a thought misread as a voice. Pt frightened of her own mental illness. Motivated to move through these issues with current psychiatrist and therapist.

Recommendation for Goals and Interventions address patient clinical needs: Stabilize sleep, reduce auditory and visual hallucinations, problem solve coping skills that can reduce personal stress and improve functioning.

Now remember, this psych visit was because I had insomnia induced psychosis. I had been hallucinating and hearing things that were absolutely debilitating and frightening. The insomnia was a reaction from the sexual trauma avoidance. And boom, it hit me all at once when I was forced into that hospital. Terrified of the dark, afraid to sleep...but yet there was no choice but to face it all.

Since then, has there been any movement and growth? 7 years pass and has anything changed? Do I still have mommy issues? Daddy issues? Do I still doubt myself? Am I still losing my damn mind? Am I still fragile?

There has been growth with my mom and I over the years. Are we where I'd ideally like to be? Far from it. But day by day, year by year. I hope. I try. Actually, that's a lie. I don't hope anymore. I accept it for what it is. I accept my mom for who she is. And I understand that she is only able to give what she received in her own life. Does it hurt? Yes. But I try my best to not let it affect me. 

I still struggle with self-doubt. But not all the damn time like I used to back then. As for the fragility...well, not so lucky with that one. I still feel sorta like a ghost. Maybe ghost isn't the right one. More like, I feel like an alien and this planet makes me feel out of place. 

I still have moments of time when I begin to experience psychosis. I have been able to bring it back down with the help and support of my partner and with the various tools I have learned through many variants of therapy. So luckily, I have not had a full blown psychotic episode since 2017. *knocks on wood* Though I probably should have never gone off my head meds in the first place...

A thing I notice about myself is that when I have a good day, the next day is guaranteed to be a low mood day. 100%. I don't know if it's because it throws my dysthymic disorder out of whack and my brain has to expend itself so hard to reach those high levels of serotonin or something, but damn. It sucks. The lamictal is helping me more and more, and I finally feel motivation creeping back into my life, which has been a godsend. Slowly but surely I feel like I'm getting my life back.

Yawn. Why am I talking about this stuff again? Well, it's because I need to stop lying to myself and take accountability for my own brain. The things I've gotten myself into because of it all. The way I have treated people in the past, thinking I was doing the right thing. Remember the Red Balloon with the Silver String? My mania, if you may. Well, I held on a bit too tight to it. My intuition kept trying to tell me to let go any time I started to float a bit too high. But I wouldn't let go. Until I found myself floating high above the clouds and got really scared. And just then, POP! And down I went to go meet my dark monster yet, again. "You must feel the darkness, my dear one." He whispers. We can call him Major Depression. Look, it's alright to hold onto the Red Balloon. Walk with it a little. But find something to help you stay grounded. For me, it's my head meds and my partner that help me do so.

All of these play a role in my life and in my actions, or inactions. But I'm 29 now, not a teen, and not a young 22-23 year old. Life speeds up the more you age. And I couldn't keep up with it back then! So I find myself still trying to find my purpose and path in this world. Not long ago, (when I was feeling low), I said to my partner as we were driving through the Rocky Mountains, "You can see every layer of rock in these mountains. For millions of years, these mountains have been growing, layer by layer. One day i'll become a part of the Earth, not even a sliver of a layer in these mountains. My life just completely....small, meaningless, and insignificant." I stared out the window watching the mountains as we drove through them. M said, "Well your layer matters to me. I'll notice your layer." And to me, that was everything. He always knows just what to say to make my heart smile.

Being reminded of this, I spend every day doing my best to not abandon myself. Ever again. The past two years was all about learning self-love and knowing what I deserve in my life. Now I have the opportunity to put it into daily practice and focus on getting my health back in order. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. I've been on the back-burner for far too long. That's done. Goodbye old life, Hello to this one! Even with my microscopic layer of a life...it matters. I matter. And no matter what my life's purpose and path are, I know it'll count for something good because it is my duty to do so. Because it's not just my layer. It's my children's layers, and their children's children's layers. And on and on and on. And that's how these beautiful mountains are created.

Ironically Home

It has been 4 months since I got back on my Wellbutrin and about 3 months since I got back on my Lamictal. I had not been on any medication since I left that psych hospital back in 2017. I was so angry with my psychiatrist for "betraying" me, sending me off like that. Of course, I understand why he did. Legally, he was obligated to. But it makes me upset the circumstances that led to said event. I was not suicidal or homicidal. I was severely sleep deprived to the point of psychosis, whisked away in the darkness of 3 am to I didn't know. And the fact that I was so angry about it that I went off my meds in protest. To somehow prove that I wasn't sick and struggling. And you know, I was so good at lying to myself that I forgot I needed help. 7 years. 7 years of unnecessary destruction and struggle. But, alas, these are the things that teach us. These are the things that grow us (if we are so inclined to actually learn the lessons instead of repeating them....which I did repeat until I finally fucking got it).

I must admit, I feel like these past few years has somewhat damaged my brain. I feel, mentally not together in the way I used to. Which is crazy to say since now I am almost 30 years old. It's not that I don't feel like I haven't matured, it's more so that I feel so emotionally damaged to the point that it feels almost like a trauma. I think I had been going through so much that parts of my brain had to shut down in order to just simply survive. I'm trying to wake up these parts of myself that shut down. 

I used to write on Quora. Very eloquently if I may add. These days, I feel like my writing is quite lazy. Even this blog. I shut it down here and there. Just not even having the energy to write my heart out. And you know what is super fucking awful? The only time I could get anything meaningful and soul-truth out was to write letters to all these assholes I let in my life. Literally, each asshole, I wrote pages long letters. Some to share my anger and hurt for the things they did (or didn't) do. Some to beg for love and commitment. Some to try to close out pain and trauma. Some to give hope and motivation. Some to take accountability for their actions. And each of these letters were for naught. Useless to them! I would pour my soul out and it meant nothing to them. 

It disheartened me completely. In so many ways, it broke me.

And so, I needed to be honest with myself. I needed to sit with myself and face my hard truths. I needed to hug and hold myself and apologize for abandoning myself. For allowing these horrible people into mine and my kids' lives. And for giving them so many damn opportunities to do the right thing, in which they would disappoint me every time, causing deep and searing wounds. Taking all of these red flags and stitching them into a quilt, lying to myself that it was okay. I was safe. I was warm. Inside I was screaming. But I had nothing left in me at the time to do anything about it.

Then the year 2022 came along which was the beginning of coming home to myself. Finally it was the birth of my last son. Which is ironic because I had just conquered life's biggest physical challenge: Giving birth. And yet, the events that took place gave me fuel to finally DO something and get the fuck out! Which is precisely what I did.

I needed to get my family back. I needed to finally go home to myself, whom I think had been waiting for me back in Tahoe. I left her in the rivers and the lakes and the trees. I think I felt myself slowly dying for many years. I remember a moment in the psychiatric facility when I had been sitting in that strange looking outdoor birdcage we had. I had written something about how it felt like there were ashes and embers in my body; like the fire in my heart was being extinguished. And how I was peering out at the birds in the trees and how ironic it was that I was the one in the cage now. Maybe in that moment, I lost myself. Because everything that took place after I got outta there didn't make any sense. Like, everything I decided or did was not something I would do. A monster had taken over, and I didn't even know it. 

The monster was my own fucked up brain. Does psychosis damage your brain at all? Mania? And remember how, years ago, I had shared that Paramore song and had realized in the music video that mental illness was not to be conquered but rather surrendered to? To know that you can't defeat mental illness without killing yourself? Well after the psych hospital, instead of embracing all aspects of myself, the light and the dark and everything in between...I pretended that those dark aspects weren't really there at all. Being surrounded by critically severe mental patients, I told myself I wasn't crazy. Not like these people were. I dismissed my severe mental conditions just because, on the outside, I didn't appear to be crazy. And then I proceeded to run away from myself. Well, attempted to at least.

In doing so, I lost M. I lost my home, a home that may not have felt perfect, but was my home and a place where I had safety and stability. Where we had togetherness and support. I lost all of that. And tried so desperately to get it all back in a different place and with different people. 

What came of it all was, ironically, found within myself. And I, having finally loved myself, was able to come home and give others the love I now carried. And in a healthy, balanced, and fulfilling manner. Love was restored with M and I that I never thought was possible, given the circumstances. 

Everything I ran from, everything I was searching for, had already been mine to begin with. And I just couldn't see it at the time. And boy, when I finally realized it, everything came flooding in, flashing in my head like bolts of lightning, the booms of thunder they caused were calls from my soul to come home. I had gone through this intense grieving process. I was on the edge of a precipice at this point. How was I going to proceed, knowing that I could lose it all; sacrificing a dangerous situation for a potential near future filled with loneliness and longing for the past. The overwhelming feeling of wanting to take it all back. And the acknowledgment that I never would be able to, which is the worst part. And I did. I decided to leave the danger and trade it for a potential life of regret and agonizing remembrance. Like a woman trapped in time, unable to leave her faults. I decided to have faith.

And I drove that day, feeling like I could breathe a bit better. And the wall of hail we drove into, when I had to pull over to the side of the road. So incredibly loud, as if the hail was giving a deafening applause. My kids and I looked at each other in wonder and silence, taking it all in, little smiles beginning to form on our faces. We couldn't see out the windows, and I prayed to God that some truck wasn't going to ram into us. This moment inside the car was filled with awe, fear, faith, and courage. We were one mile closer to where home had been this whole time. For the first time, I looked ahead without looking back. 

It's Been About 4 Years -Let me explain- (Part Eight)

You probably think I'm insane for keeping this guy around. And in a way, you are correct. If I had it in me at that point in time, I would have left. But when I tell you I was spent, I was so spent I wasn't even confident that I'd have it in me to have this baby boy.

I would pray each night to let this baby come late. I just needed more time. It felt like an impossible task. The only things bringing me any type of sanity were my kids and my best friend. I hated being alone with him in the house at that point. It felt very forced. It felt very unstable. And that's not the kind of environment you need when you're about to give birth.

Every night I would talk to my baby boy and tell him that I was so excited to meet him but if he could just take his time a little that would be really helpful. Oh, the things we think we can control....labor and birth...definitely not on that list of things you have control over.

At 2:32 am on April 4th, I woke up to a soaked bed under me. I felt between my legs and was extremely wet. My PJ's were soaked. My heart started to race. I hobbled over to the bathroom, leaving a trail of waters behind me. Sitting on the toilet, more fluid poured out. This was happening. And I had never had this experience before with any of my kids. My water never broke before.

I slipped a giant postpartum pad into my underwear and shoved a towel in my PJ's too because ever step I took, more water would gush out. I messaged my doula and my best friend. I sent a message to my mom who was literally arriving that very day. I called the nurse line to see if they wanted me to come in for a quick check. Since I was labeled "High-Risk" and because I was a VBAC patient, they wanted me to come in and test my waters and keep me for observation to see if I was having any contractions. I briefly woke up my daughter to let her know I was going to the hospital and that I would be right back. She drifted off back to sleep. I kissed my son on his forehead and watched him peacefully sleep. I looked over at the couch where ______ was sleeping and felt sad. My baby kicked me almost as a reminder like, "Hey momma, c'mon!" and off I went.

I remember that early morning drive so vividly. It was cold. A bit drizzly. Dark. Quiet, even for the city. The song, "Bombs" by Sami Simon came on and played the whole way to the hospital. I felt oddly heavier than before as I waddled into the hospital.

It was 3:30 am and I was laying there on the hospital bed with the machine checking my contractions. My waters were clean, so no need to stay at the hospital. My contractions were very mild, and I told them I would come back when I felt it was time. They wanted me back no more than 24 hours past when my water broke. I agreed to be here by then.

I didn't want to go back home. I wished that I could just drive somewhere. Somewhere far and beautiful and quiet, somewhere by the water. Somewhere surrounded by trees. I won't lie, I was really sad that the father of my kids wasn't the one who would be there to help me feel safe. But I was doing everything I could to create my own feelings of safeness. Trying the best I could to have hope and courage for this journey with ______ by my side instead. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to feel loved by him. Like we mattered. Like we were family. And so I went home that morning and woke him up to let him know that today was likely the day we would get to meet our baby. Trying to foster some excitement and readiness.

I wanted to spent the day doing what I could to get labor going. Looking back on this day, I realize that the body truly knows when it's time; when it feels safe. My doula and best friend came by and spent the day with me. ______ was doing what he could to also prepare himself. We all talked and laughed and ate. My daughter was so happy and excited to meet her baby brother. My mom was on her way. My contractions never really picked up. And we spent all day and all night trying to get them going.

My doula and I decided we should all head to the hospital at 9 pm to try to get labor started since it had been about 19-20 hours with no real progress. 

They checked us in, put me on the monitors, and gave me a peanut ball to rest on while they got a Pitocin drip in me. And there I sat and laid there for a few hours while my contractions picked up. I moved into the tub at some point and then over to the toilet as my contractions built up in intensity. It got to a point where I wasn't sure how much longer I could do it. See, since the time that my water broke up until this point, it had already been almost 32 hours. I was in such agony and I was starting to lose touch with my own body. I said that if I was not at a 7 dilation, to give me the damn epidural. She checked me and I was at a 6. Devastated and frustrated, I gave in because I needed to give my body and mind a rest. As well as everyone else.

Surprisingly enough, ______ was being a trooper. He had only left a couple of times to smoke. But he was back at my side in a flash. He held my hand, he said encouraging things. I felt safer than I thought I would. I appreciated him in these moments.

We rested. I could not longer feel the bottom half of my body, which was a relief. I still could feel the pressure of the contractions, which I enjoyed. And I progressed further in labor. I had fully dilated and we decided to do some practice pushes. I didn't feel ready to meet my son yet. I was so terrified. Life didn't feel right yet. More practice pushes. They could see his head! 

A few more practice pushes and the doctor noticed that my baby was sunny-side up.

Not necessarily a bad thing, but for my unique anatomy, it was a better idea to try to rotate him so that he was facing the right way so as not to get stuck. Internal rotation is no joke. When I say I felt everything, even with the epidural, I felt everything. And they did it twice. Little boy was not budging. Not only was he not budging, it is my belief that when he felt something from the outside trying to physically rotate him, he got scared. With each contraction from that point on, his heart was decelerating dramatically. Like, holding our breath waiting to hear his heartbeat back on the monitor again. I was terrified. And losing touch with this world again.

The doctor suggested that we take this birth to the OR because they were worried that this baby boy was starting to lose strength. I ultimately agreed. I wanted to keep my baby safe at all costs. And our options at the moment were slim to none. It had been 36 hours of labor and I had nothing left in me except terror that I was going to lose my baby.

The doctors asked who I wanted in the OR with me, I chose ______ to come in, of course. They gave me another epidural or a spinal or something. All I know is that I was fading in and out. I was so scared that I was dying and that me and my baby were going to meet each other in heaven that day. I remember asking the anesthesiologist, "If I close my eyes, am I going to die?" I was crying. "No, of course not! If you need to close your eyes and rest, just do so." He assured me. But I refused. My fears plus the fact that for some reason, I felt things happening inside and to my body, like actual pain, there was no way I was getting any rest until this baby was safe in my arms. I kept wiggling my fingers to try to stay grounded. Praying to God and to my baby that we were going to be okay.

And with that, through 7 layers of my body, my son was born into the world. He had apparently went back up my body and turned around because they found him in a breech presentation. He cried a bit and sounded exactly like a mewing kitten. They whisked him away because his O2 was low. He was not in good health and so they asked me if they wanted ______ to stay with me or go with the baby. I told him to go with the baby. They briefly brought my baby boy wrapped up in his blanket so I could see and kiss his tiny face. I said to him, "I love you so much, Roux. Stay strong. We are almost there." And off they went. Tears streaming down my tired face while they put me back together, begging God to bring us together soon.

My Little Roux Bear.