Dresses & Therapy, so the Thank You goes to . . .

Have I mentioned that I am way busy this spring? Two classes are kicking my butt. I spend all of my time on the computer and internet and none posting or emailing. In fact, I am supposed to be writing two, no, four papers at the moment. Some are small and some are large, but at this point, I doubt it matters. Instead, blogging seemed more productive.

I am trying to decide if I want to write about the shallow or deep stuff right now. Will you bear with me if I start shallow and get deeper? Like the beach or a lake? Because if I delve into the deep stuff, I won't be in a cheery enough mood to write about shallow things, which I enjoy doing.

Shallow: I went shopping yesterday and found a great dress (I am so into dresses over jeans and I blame this completely on AM), TWO pairs of jeans, and two tank tops on sale. Actually, everything was on sale and when I mentioned to Mom that I really don't buy much (anything) not on sale, she seemed surprised. At some of those stores, the full price is more of a suggestion and I know it will drop in a matter of weeks. I do very much value my money. I also need to comfortably clothe my body, so it is a compromise. Friday night, we did not head home like I thought we would, so I became obsessive (perhaps it is in my personality) and HAD TO make a dress to wear Saturday. I started at 8:30p and "finished" at 2:30a. That's what I mean by obsessed. While I could have worn it Saturday, there are some things I need to fix, so I didn't. However, that AM was so impressed meant a lot to me (really!). Want to see some pictures? Thought you'd never ask!

Less shallow: Therapy went well, I think. She listened and I spoke and then she spoke and I tuned her out a bit. She examined my grief pattern, which is remarkably brief considering I've only lost my Grandma (and it was her time to go) and this child. Big difference. She suggested doing something more to commemorate the baby, but I really don't want to and told her so. Whether I am consciously thinking of him or not, I carry him very close to my heart. It's all that I can do. Perhaps the most telling statement made on my part (and I'm not looking to offend anyone) was that I don't consider myself a mother. Not really. There is no reason I should. I see moms all the time and the things they do and don't do. I can't take that label for my own. I just can't. But these are things I don't think about much. I go back to see the therapist in two weeks or so.

Still less shallow: I am thankful for the ways that my friends have made me feel so loved and appreciated lately. Through comments, messages, emails, phone calls, and the ones that can, hug tightly. AM, thank you for looking out for me, because I know you do. My forever A, the lunch we had together was fabulous and you are in my thoughts and prayers. Miss C, I'm so glad that we found that we had never really lost one another and to reconnect was so easy: I'm counting on seeing you in May. Miss J and M, I'm headed down to see you guys soon-ish and I can't wait because you're both such generous and loving people. How do I get through the rocky days when tears are just begging to fall? I know that you all and many others love and care for me and that helps me more than you realize. Thank you, love Anne.

When You're Dreaming with a Broken Heart,

"The giving up is the hardest part." John Mayer is not my favorite by any means, but I like that song and I enjoy it loud. I haven't given anything up I don't think, but I have let things go and drift about a bit. The weekend is fast approaching, which for me, means lots of school work and that I get to see R, AM, little E, AM's mom, brother D, New N, and assorted others. For those that are curious, I'll write a little about therapy later. It was good in a ripping-the-scab-off-of-a-wound way.

Always Thinking About Tomorrow

Tomorrow I get to meet a complete stranger and tell her about my life. This makes me nervous. But I will be paying her, so she will be compensated for listening to my issues. That makes it all okay. But I'm still nervous.

I realized two things in the past two days. The first one is that I have a professor right now that is creative and hippy and zany and special. I might really like her. She reminds me of my dearest, AM. But (and there shall be a but) the huge difference is that I love AM. My heart goes out to her in the midst of happiness, trial, upset, or fabulous aqusition. I appreciate her more than I can clearly convey and she knows and accepts me. Who else knows what the topmost picture means to me than the other girl that lived in the Anderson House with me? And I like to think that she found her love there too . . .

Second thing, disjointed as this may be, is that (AM we just talked about this) I am under the impression that my formative years were not middle school or high school. My life shattering understanding of the way the world functions dawned during my senior year. This spell lasted through mid-college. You know who was there? C was. I grew up with him. I became a mature, responsible adult with him by my side.

Quick vote: Who thinks I should give the therapist my blog's address and refuse to come for another session until she's read the whole thing?

My Picture of Home

Only one of you might know how much that photo at the top relaxes me. And that, AM, is because you lived with us in that house and I hope the memories there were as happy for you as they were for us.

That photo is taken out of the kitchen window, right over the sink, in the Anderson house. It is the first house C and I lived in together. He found it for rent one day while he was out surveying and it was almost perfect for us. It's an old white farm house and we lived on the ground floor only (no one upstairs) with two bedrooms and two full bathrooms and gorgeous wood floors. The windows were huge and our bedroom actually had windows that faced east, south, and west. The only detraction was that it, being so old and not fully renovated, was poorly insulated and heated by propane, which is a whole lot of money. Lots and tons. It was a wonderful spring/summer/fall house with a garden, porch, and green grass. We could let Bella out the back door and she could roam a little ways with no fence and no chain. Anyway, I would do dishes on Saturday mornings (still do because I love to watch the sun come through the window) and little bit of laundry and on this morning (the sun looks more like afternoon, actually) you can see what I saw. Vases belonging to AM and myself, jeans and blankets drying on the clothesline, part of the garden, and the old outhouse. We were happy in that house.

Do I think what we've experienced in this house detracts from it? Not really. I love this house too and fully believe that we're building our family in this house even if we aren't having children at the moment. I have to think that for every extra month that we have together without a baby or the hope of a child, we are building us into something incredibly strong, both for our sakes and our future offspring. I know that at least two of you who read this didn't get that time and I don't think you are any worse off - E, I admire the time that you and W spent together before you got married figuring things out, and AM, I am beyond impressed with the way you and R are continually building and strengthening your relationship.

A house doesn't make a home, but for us, houses have transformed into homes that are a permeable layer that contains the love, fighting, peace, and understanding. We open them to friends and family hoping that they feel our love and comfort as they pass through the door. Nothing more here - I was supposed to be writing a paper about A Doll's House and instead I posted about my homes, so I figure that I stayed on task. You know, more or less . . .

Leaves

I changed again, inspired by the lovely AM. A new leaf? Perhaps. Vow to "get over it all?" Probably not. Doing better? I think so. Therapy? 9am, Wednesday, February 13, 2008. How much? You don't want to know.

Disassociation is Funny

Monthly posts, you all can handle that many, right? Ahh, so much to talk about and yet, so very little. Should I discuss what I don't want to talk about first? Why not . . .

I think I mentioned little white pills as the first concession on a dr's part that yes, something could be wrong with a 24-year-old's reproductive system. And after taking them for a month and them presumably doing what they were supposed to do (apparently labs are not open Christmas day to draw blood to find our for sure). Then, how about one damn cycle of not taking pills, not watching the calendar, not scheduling sex, and all around not trying? The first such in about 11 months. This past month has allowed me to do a peculiar thing: push every thought of fertility and/or the lack thereof, straight out of my mind. Do you believe me? Need proof? No desperate measures for this next cycle either! I'm thinking that if I pretend not to care HARD enough and for LONG enough, that eventually, I really won't care.

Won't care that I'm infertile, or seriously sub-fertile, or practically barren. Won't care that I have no baby and that some stupid man called god gets to play Russian roulette with the calendar in deciding when and if I ever do get a baby. Won't care that other people can simply look at their wives and knock them up. I won't care that I can't plan my life and I can't see my future. Won't care, won't care, won't care.

Apparently, that last paragraph is a type of denial and doesn't disguise the anger that I am so very prone to. Which is why I have two options: get myself into therapy or run :-). Since I am lazy and actually enjoy paying people to listen to me talk about my feelings, I'm opting for therapy. We'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I really don't care.

Because there are two great women at work pregnant, I also want to very sweetly ask, how the hell do I get the sign off my head that says, "Tell me you're pregnant and feel nauseous all day long, really, I'm a good listener!" The sign used to just say "I'm a good listener," but somewhere along the way it got an upgrade. I appreciate being told early because it gives me a moment to beat off the jealousy with a huge stick and be genuinely happy for the pregnant pal. Maybe I should just leave it there.

It's funny that even as I write this, I am not actually thinking about any of it. I think its called disassociation. I am really not thinking about February 11. I remember and I'm very much okay if I am the only one. Give the impatient person an abundance of time as her punishment and surely she will learn. What am I supposed to be learning here?