On Friday I went and had an ultrasound. They have to look for cysts before they will give me the medication. No cysts, so that’s a good thing.
Saturday evening, I started Clomid again. On Wednesday I will start injecting a second medication into myself. I’m a little anxious about it, mostly because the injector is a pen this time. Last time I had more steps and was somehow less nervous. Maybe my nurse explained it better that time? I’ll figure it out. Luckily you can truly find videos on anything. A few nights of that shot and then I go back Saturday morning for another ultrasound. I’ve had so dang many of those it’s not even funny. Then….well I don’t know exactly. I’ve not gotten past that point yet. This is where I’ve gotten stuck both of my other attempts. So we’ll see what happens.
For both previous attempts, the Clomid made me a complete spaz. An emotional weeper. I cried at anything and everything. It was not so much fun. This time? Well so far I’m just a big giant grouch. It started yesterday afternoon and it hasn’t passed. Working today when half the country isn’t? Has made me even more grouchy. Having to send my girls to daycare and trying to work and entertain Harrison all day makes me grouchy. My boss being shocked that everything is closed makes me grouchy. The dog barking. The laundry that didn’t get done yesterday. The sound of Cars on my TV right now. Basically everything makes me grouchy.
I almost think I’d be better off with the weeping.
Anyway, I thought I’d give you a brief update.
Last week I contemplated deleting this blog, shutting down my Facebook account and getting rid of Twitter. Not just a passing moment, as has happened before, but for weeks I considered really doing it. I tell you this, mostly because I didn’t do it. I don’t know that I ever really would have. I just know, something has to change. I have to change. I can’t do this the way I used to anymore. I feel like I’ve just called it in the last six months on here. Looking back on previous years, I know this to be true. I have written here just to be here for at least that long.
The reason is fear.
Fear of being real. Fear of saying what I need and want to say. Fear of being judged. That’s the big one. That’s the hard one. The piece that keeps me silent when I want to talk. Frankly, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of being afraid of my own thoughts. I’m tired of being afraid to share what is really going on in my life. When it came to the point of me seriously thinking I just needed to walk away, I knew it was either man up and talk, or just fucking do it and be gone. So here goes nothing.
For a long, long time, I’ve wanted to have another baby. Logan and I were actively trying the entire year before we separated. I had a miscarriage in May, 2009 and well we never had any luck after that. It has nothing to do with why we divorced, it’s just fact. We wanted more kids and it just didn’t happen. The thing is, just becuase I got divorced, doesn’t mean I don’t want another baby. I want another baby badly.
That’s my truth. I’m actively trying to have another baby. Surprise.
I am trying to have a baby, alone. Just me. Every piece of this will be happening in a doctor’s office. Just know that.
The hard piece of this, is that it’s not easy for me to get pregnant. I have PCOS. In July I went to see a phenomenal Endocrinologist/Fertility specialist. I have some other issues, because of the PCOS. It’s complicated. Basically? I’m going to start menopause in say another year or maybe two if I’m lucky. I’m only 31 years old and this is my reality. I am not done. Every day I long for another baby. Every night I dream about a little girl. Every fiber of my being knows I’m not done. There is someone missing. However? My body is almost done. This is my last shot.
I know I could consider adoption. Yet with only one income and adopting as a single mom, it’s not feasible for me. I’ve considered becoming a foster mom. That is something I still may do, but not until my children are older.
I have given this much thought, I promise. I debated pros/cons/am I crazy’s for almost a year. I’ve decided that yes, I’m probably crazy, but that doesn’t make it wrong. I didn’t make this choice lightly. Yet it is the right choice for me.
We (my doctor and I) were shooting for October. I no longer create eggs on my own. I have a perfectly good uterus and my ovaries are fine. But I don’t create eggs. In my October cycle, we tried Clomid. Clomid makes me insane by the way. Fun times. Ahem. It wasn’t enough. I had eggs, but at some point they stopped growing. I was crushed. Completely crushed. Leave it to me to think that things would be easy.
In November, we tried Clomid and a shot that I’m forgetting the name of. Three days of me injecting myself. Not so fun, but I did it. Yet again, it wasn’t quite enough.
As hard as it was, I decided to take a break in December. With Morgan’s birthday and Christmas, I just couldn’t try again in that moment. The drugs are harsh. I needed some time to relax, some time to feel sane for a bit. I quit my antidepressants in June because of this. October and November were hard without them. The insane amounts of hormones coursing through my system, plus the lack of meds? Yeah. I was a mess for a bit.
This month I will try again. Because I want this more than anything in the world, I’m willing to subject myself to more Clomid. To shots every day for my entire cycle. I’m willing to do this all, because this is what I know I want. A baby. There is no certainty in this world. I have been given no guarantees. Everything is up to chance and luck. I do know, that if I don’t try this, I will spend the rest of my life wishing I had. That’s something I’m not willing to do.
I’m scared. Not of what I’m about to try to do again. No, I’m scared of hitting publish. Of sharing myself with all of you. Of putting myself out there. It’s been a long time since I’ve been real here and I’m timid.
I know though, it’s time for me to be me on my own blog. If I’m not willing to do that, I have no reason to be here anymore.
Is there a prize for that? For making it six weeks off of anti-depressants? There should be, although I’m not exactly sure what it could be. Maybe a nice pretty gift box of treats from Harry & David. WHAT? A girl can dream can’t she?
It’s weird, making it this far. I know six weeks isn’t far. However after four years, it seems like a big step in the right direction. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that there were many times I wondered if I would make it this far. I wasn’t sure I’d make it a week, much less six. I’m not sure what will happen long term. I’m honestly not sure. However, I know I’ve made it this far.
A lot of people asked me why I did this. Why risk falling into a major depression? Why deal with side effects if you may have to go right back on it? Why now? I’m not sure I’m willing to answer that in the moment. I had my reasons and I’m not really ready to share them with the world. But I do promise you that I thought about this very carefully. I weighted all my options and made lists of pros and cons. Will I make it through winter? Hell if I know. It’s a goal though.
As you all well know, I’m an emotional person. High maintenance you could even call me. (Trust me, I’m aware.) I have problems with anxiety, depression and a very over active mind. I’ve had some really exhausting days in the past six weeks. Days where I let myself get too upset over nothing. I’ve had days where I’ve ended up weeping at night until I fall asleep. I’ve had a few days where I’ve been mildly depressed. I’ve been angry a few times. Really seriously angry. (Which is a new one for me. I’ve never really done angry.) Yet, I’ve managed it. I’ve made it through whatever was going on and gotten up the next day knowing it would be better.
I’ll tell you the weirdest thing. There was a day at BlogHer where I thought, fuck this, I can’t do this. I am falling apart. My anxiety was through the roof. Everything I ate made me sick. Every fiber of my being wanted to crawl into bed at 4pm on Friday. So I did the only thing I could think of in that moment. I called one of my best friends and talked to her about laundry. Literally for ten minutes I talked to her about cleaning clothes. I called her, because I knew I could bring up anything and she’d roll with it. I didn’t call my other two best friends, because I knew if I did, I’d fall apart. I could have fallen apart with her, but I also knew I could manage not too. So I talked about laundry and then I was able to continue on with my day. Because I heard her voice and she calmed me down without even knowing it. (Later I told her this and she did know, but like I said, she rolls with whatever.)
BlogHer was a hard one for me this year. Not because of the conference at all. Just because I was un-medicated. Plain and simple. I had no help for my social anxiety. It was a big test and I managed to make it through. Barely, but I did it.
Six weeks. I’ve made it six weeks. My goal in the moment? Is to make it six more. I have to be realistic. I am me and I know myself. If I think long term, I will psych myself out and call my doctor in a week. If I think more short term, it seems more manageable.
It’s been a weird, yet good six weeks. I think I can do this. I really believe I can.
Now….where’s my gift?? 
I have an entire post in my head. A post about my amazing experience at BlogHer; about old friends and new friends; about taking a little boy to the beach and the experience of sitting on a couch for the first time ever with my three best friends. This will all be said. Just not today.
Today I’d like to talk about how I managed to get to BlogHer this year. Or rather how you may want to think about how you can get there next year.
The conference location for next year was announced before I’d even left my hotel room Friday morning. What can I say, I’m slow to get ready. The tweets started immediately. People pissed at where it was. People thrilled at where it was. People wondering why it wasn’t in their city. No offense to anyone, but Kentucky, Nevada or Texas are not places I want to go in August. I was a bit annoyed in the moment by people, but I decided to shut down Twitter and move on with my day. BlogHer does the best they can with it. The location will never make everyone happy. They need places near good airports. They need huge convention centers near multiple hotels and tons of restaurants. They look for cities that people will enjoy. Mostly? They have to find some place that will take us. This is just a guess, but bloggers aren’t known for being nice. Social media has made us all big complainers every time we dislike anything. If you were a big hotel/convention center, are you sure you’d want us there?
That all said and done, the real thing I’d like to talk about is the reality of cost in going to BH. I think people make it out to be much more than it really is. I’ve heard people claim you need $3000 to attend. If that were true? I’d never of gone. I think going to BlogHer is possible for most people. Not all. I won’t claim that anyone can save the money for it. I do know though that if you want to go next year? Why not start trying to save now? It’s easier than just complaining about how horrible expensive it is on Twitter during the entire conference. (And the entire month prior.) It’s easier that admitting defeat the second the next years location is announced.
I want to try and break it down for you, if I can. I want to take a bit of the mystery out of it. Maybe then, you can come next year. Or the following year at least. Maybe then you won’t be that person on Twitter complaining about the #BlogHer11 tweets, while never bothering to mute the hashtag. We all know curiosity and jealousy and sadness some how all get jumbled up together. However, when you say you can’t go the second the following year is announced, most of us do not feel bad for you.
Sorry. I know I’m being harsh. I’ve also been doing this blogging thing for six years. That’s six conferences. I’ve only been to three of them. I get what it’s like to sit home and wish you were there. I do. But I’d made the choice to not go those years so I had to just let it go.
Anyway….here’s what I know:
Plane tickets are generally cheapest if you buy them on a Tuesday or Wednesday. Two months out is best. Mine cost me $156. I had a lovely friend who was stalking all airline websites for us to find tickets. Now, please note that I flew out at 7am on Thursday morning. That meant getting up at 4am, yet I did it for a cheap flight. Last year my flight to NYC cost me $256. That’s pretty dam good for NYC. I also got up super early that year.
A full BlogHer conference pass costs $160 if bought today. It will go up to $200 around February. You can also look into volunteering for them, which means working about 6-8 hours over two days and they’ll give you a full pass for free. There are student rates if you are in school. There are also Party/Expo only passes which I believe are pretty cheap. Under $70 I believe. I’m considering doing that next year.
BlogHer always get a certain number of rooms at a discounted rate. They filled up about two month prior to the conference. They are $199 a night. Sounds horrible, I know….however Hilton/Marriott/Sheraton are the hotels they pick and to stay there is always higher than that. My hotel room this year cost $340. That was three nights and I didn’t share my bed. We only had two to a room. Next year, I will likely do 4 to a room, which would be $170. That’s the cheapest way to do it and it’s always like a big slumber party. Pick your roommates wisely and it will be the best three nights of your year.
I saved money to eat out at nice restaurants. You don’t have too. I know someone who only spent $7 on food this year. She’s like the BH food wizard or something. She ate the meals the conference provided. She drank the coffee they provided. She made her dinner out of the appetizers served at parties and snacked at the Expo and in the hallways of the convention center. There was always food out somewhere this year.
It’s doable people. It’s possible if you want it enough.
To go this year, I gave up going to Starbucks every day. I took up making coffee at home. I took a hundred dollars a month and put it aside. Please know that I went to California for a week, so I needed to save more money. That included me renting a car and driving to LA to spend three more nights with best friends. That included me eating out at phenomenal and somewhat pricey restaurants.
I probably spent around a thousand dollars total. Which is insanely expensive. I understand that. However? I lived big. I took tons of spending money. You don’t have too. You can still go and do it small. Hell, I still have money in my wallet to replace my car battery which is completely dead.
If you want to go next year or even the following year, start saving now. Put $50 aside at the beginning of each month. You don’t have to put $100 aside. Stop going to Starbucks or using RedBox. Downgrade your cable one tiny step or turn off Netflix. Put down the shoes that you don’t need a few times. Eat in one more time a month. Eat cereal or grilled cheese that one night instead of ordering pizza. Each time you do that, take that money and put it in a jar. You’d be surprised how quick it adds up. Don’t use your change when you use cash. I put all change in a large Pepsi tin. All year, I put any change in there. That was how I had spending money for this trip.
If you want this, you can make it happen. If not? If you’re not willing to at least try, then you feel free to complain about each tweet next summer too. But at least be willing to try, if it’s something you want to do.
Complete darkness is all around me. (Black out blinds, best investment ever.) My bed is comfy. Soft sheets, even softer blankets. My air conditioner is set at the perfect temperature. I have no reason for being awake. I just am. I wonder to myself for the seventh time that night what time it may be. I reach for the iPhone on my side table and stop myself before I pick it up. I have a strict don’t look rule when I am like this. It’s worse to know what time it is. If I don’t know, I can tell myself it’s only midnight. If it’s midnight I have tons of time to sleep enough to feel human. I know I’m lying to myself. It’s still better than knowing that it’s 4:22am. Or 3:46am. Or whatever time it happens to literally be in the moment. When I know, I figure out how many minutes it is until my alarm goes off. That is a guaranteed way for me to not sleep. I toss and turn the rest of the night anyway.
I haven’t slept well in a week. The only night I slept all of the way through, I took two Benadryl. I’m contemplating doing that again. My kids come home tomorrow after a week on vacation with their grandparents. I need to sleep.
My head pounds all day long. It’s a pre-migraine headache. It hasn’t turned into a migraine, yet I can’t get rid of it either. No matter how much water I drink or Advil I take, it won’t leave.
I went through a few days of being slightly nauseous. Now, I’m eating everything in sight. I believe that last part is PMS, but really I’m guessing.
I am irritable. At everything. At nothing. I get on and off of Twitter. Mostly because you all breath. Literally. I’d like to give a real reason, but I don’t have any. Everything annoys me. Which is odd, because I can ignore most things online. When things annoy me, I hit that pretty red X. Yet, right now, everything annoys me. I’m finding myself grouchy non-stop.
I just yelled at my dog. Because I tripped on her bone. Yeah, she was asleep across the room. I am thankful my kids haven’t been here for a week. I’m sure pissy, yelly mom wouldn’t have been fun for them. I’m hoping I can keep myself from being like that when they come home tomorrow.
I send emails and after a week of no response I wonder what I did wrong. Sigh. This is the part I hate. The over thinking. The believing it’s always about me. It’s not me. I am sure of it. But I have trouble not jumping to that first.
I’m half the time so spacey I can’t remember why I got up and the other half the time there are so many details in my head, I can’t write them down fast enough.
I’ve been off my anti-depressant a week and a day. Awesome side effects huh?
The weird thing, is that the irritability is what bothers me the most. I hate being that person that is grouchy at everyone and everything all of the time. I hate watching every word I say, just to make sure I don’t spew my irritation at others. The rest I can handle, but this annoys me. Ha. I’m annoyed that I’m annoyed. Fun times.
It’s not as bad as I thought it would be, the side effects of withdrawal. I feared the anxiety and so far, I’ve been mostly okay. It’s not pleasant, that is for sure. Yet, so far? I can do this. I have not gotten depressed. I have not had a panic attack. I think I can deal with the rest of it. I need to keep myself in check at times. But because I’m aware of how I am, I’ve so far managed to do this. I’m being hyper vigilant right now.
Anyway, I wanted to share. Because you all have been here with me for years and you deserve real. What I posted yesterday? Total crap. I know this. It was my need to not feel like I was over burdening anyone. Yesterday was a bad day. Today will hopefully be better.
I keep telling everyone I’m okay. And I am. Not great, not bad, just okay. I’ll take it right now.
This, by the way, is my theme song right now. Not sure why, but it just seems to sit well with me. I thought I’d share.
When I hit puberty I started putting on weight. I didn’t know why. I didn’t eat anymore than I had before. By the time I was 18, I’d tried every diet in the book. I once even ate nothing but oranges, carrots and crackers, for two months straight. Some odd diet a friend came up with. The Orange Diet. Snort.
Nothing ever worked. I’d lose five pounds and gain five pounds. The same five pounds over and over and over again. I’d beat myself up. I’d belittle myself. My step-mother tormented me. She would give me books called FAT for Christmas and insist that I open them in front of everyone. I’d pretend not to care and then cry myself to sleep for the next three days.
Logan only knew me as me and he prefers big girls. He never, not a single day in our entire lives made me feel anything but beautiful.
I learned to live with who I was. I was the fat chick. The big girl. I built a wall around my insecurities about weight and learned not to care. I decided that I had to embrace it or I’d hate myself forever. I built a stone wall and locked that fucker up and threw the key into the Pacific Ocean.
I have never been a big eater. I don’t eat much fast food. I may joke about chocolate and cupcakes and cake all the time on Twitter. But I don’t eat a ton of them. Maybe more than I should…but I actually eat pretty decent. I’m not making excuses for my weight. It is what it is. I’ve ignored it since before Morgan was born.
However, last month at a regular OB visit, I let it slip that I’d not had a period in over a year. While my PAP was normal and always has been, I’ve always had this problem with not being regular, unless I was on the pill…but I’ve never been on it for long periods of time, because I get horrible leg cramps and well honestly, I like babies. Anyway, my OB had like 22 pints of blood drawn from me and tested me for everything under the sun. She was the first one to ever offer this and I’ve gone in every year or every other year since I was 16 years old. The two biggies that she was sure I had one of, were PCOS or a thyroid problem. Funny how after being told to lose weight at every single doctor visit in the past 15 years, even for broken thumbs (BECAUSE OF COURSE I BROKE MY THUMB FROM BEING TOO FAT) no one had EVER bothered to check for either of those things.
Most of my tests came back in a day. Not a thyroid problem, nor any of the other 15 things she checked for. So I sat and waited and waited and waited. Yesterday, I got conformation for what I, in the past three weeks had already come to realize, I have PCOS. Basically my ovaries are lazy mother fuckers. Oh and my body produces too much testosterone and not enough estrogen.
I’m guaranteed I’ve had it since I was a teen. Some of the symptoms? Acne that never goes away. Hair. Lots of hair. Hi, I’m an Issa Chi Pet. Oily skin. Lack of periods. Cysts on your ovaries. Gaining weigh around your stomach, because of something to do with your body not metabolizing correctly. If you don’t eat small amounts of food throughout the day for some reason, your body starts to think it is starving so it starts to store fat. Fun huh?
It can cause miscarriages. Of which, I’ve had two. My OB thinks the fact that I had kids at all, was because of being on and off the pill before their conception. Which is true. Generally they find it when women have trouble having babies. Since I’ve had a few, no one ever thought of it.
If left untreated it can cause diabetics, thyroid problems, high cholesterol, heart disease. The list goes on. I’m lucky that at the present time, I have none of those problems.
I’ve been put on medication that should help. Medication that I apparently get to take three times a day, forever. I need to learn to eat smaller meals. To actually eat breakfast, something that I hadn’t done in oh forever. Three weeks of eating yogurt and granola every day and I already feel better. Silly small thing, but it has made a difference. I need to cut out some other stuff and eat more veggies.
I also need to learn to exercise. Like last week. To take control of this, before it takes control of me. I’m taking the plunge…I’m going to start the 30 day shred next week. Although, in all reality it may be the 60 day shred. I have to do it though. I have to do something. I have to learn to change.
Yesterday, that brick wall, the one I built years ago, was run into. Boom. Bye bye wall of protection. All those issues and insecurities that I’d put aside 10 years ago have come swimming to the front. It’s in my face, along with my new reality of a life long health problem.
I’ve cried so much today, it’s not even funny. Just from being overwhelmed by how big this seems. It seems HUGE right now. I hate that I ignored something that could have been taken care of years ago. I hate that no doctor ever asked me about my issues. They just told me to lose weight, never bother to ask if I could. I hate the fact that I’ve probably had two miscarriages for something that is completely treatable. On this medication, I’m going to be super fertile. Great timing huh?
I’m overwhelmed and honestly, I’m just scared.
I’m so lucky that I have friends who are holding my hand right now. An amazing friend who knows exactly what I’m dealing with and has patiently listened to every question I could throw at her for weeks. Friends who don’t know but have Googled PCOS to find out what I’m dealing with. Friends who are willing to do the 30 day Shred with me, just so I am not alone in this.
I’m grateful to them. I’m grateful that at least now I know what I’m dealing with. That it was caught before I ended up with too many health problems. That I have time to deal with it. To learn to change.
But I’m still a scared emotional mess who just found out I have a life long medical issue. I don’t know where to go with this. What to do to move past the fear and the hatred of myself in the moment. I have no answers. Only questions.
There are very few posts that I regret. Yet, yesterdays goes on that list. I feel like I probably needed a breathalyzer for my own blog. One that could see how crazy I was. Then it could have locked down and said, sorry, no entry. Please to be trying again tomorrow.
I’m sorry. For posting. I shouldn’t have.
Yesterday? I lost my shit. It’s no ones fault really. It happens. I was triggered and I lost my shit. I still feel sorta shaky. That’s how bad that panic attack was.
I never know what it will be. Where it will come from. What might set me off. I will be honest, I watched Private Practice last week and was fine. I mean, I was horrified. I cried. But it didn’t make me panic. Didn’t give me nightmares. Most likely, that’s because I wasn’t attacked as an adult. I was abused as a child. By another child. It just is what it is. I have issues. Just not those specific ones.
I have been banned from watching Law & Order SVU. Which is sad, because I adore Elliot. But I can’t watch it. Never again. However, besides that? I never know what will happen. That disgusting book did it yesterday. It just did. I can’t explain it. I can apologize for it. For bringing it to this space. But I can’t explain it. Nor tell you that it will never happen again.
This is all new for me. Not because I ever forgot what happened to me as a child. Just because I’d stuffed it so far, that I’d built a bat cave around it. Now, I’m dealing with it. Slowly. Painfully. Over time.
My issues are my own. I’m sorry that I spazzed them out on everyone else yesterday. You all don’t deserve that.
I have one more thing to add. It may be an unpopular thing to say. Amazon is a large company. They will pull that book or they won’t. That’s on them. They will have to deal with the consequences of their actions. I can hope that they will. They should. But the arguments yesterday? About boycotting and freedom of speech and all that? Semantics. In truth, both sides have a point. It’s an old argument. Who will win out this time? Only time will tell.
Reality is, this morning I, remembering a commercial I saw for a Fisher Price flip car last night, opened Amazon to try and find it. What can I say? I’m a creature of habit. I didn’t think about it, until I’d already opened it up and starting searching.
For me, it wasn’t about that. It’s not who’s selling the book. Not even really who wrote it. It was just about me being triggered. That’s all.
I’ve debated this for hours now. Do I add in my words, when others have done it so well? Do my words, does my story really even matter? Last night, when I saw a tweet (Yes, I check Twitter at concerts. I’m an addict. FACT!) that my comment in one person’s post had sparked another person to post, I started thinking about this. Part of me wants to let it go. Part of me wants to scream it from the roof-tops.
I guess I will need to attempt middle ground.
The first week of seventh grade, I managed to get on the wrong side of a group of girls. The mean girls. It’s been so long that I can’t exactly remember how it started. I maybe looked at them wrong. Or had on the same shirt as one of them. Maybe I said something the leader of the group didn’t like. Maybe it was because I knew the most popular boy in school (dude, he was my next door neighbor) and he wouldn’t give her the time of day. Maybe I just looked like an easy mark. I had glasses and zits and hadn’t developed yet, where so many of them had. Your guess would be as good as mine.
They made me their target though. From that day on, I was their favorite target. Think of anything that ever happened to you by a bully and know that it happened to me that year. I had my lunch stolen. I had drinks “accidentally” spilled all over my shirt on picture day. I had rumors spread about me. How I was easy. How I’d do anything. I had my phone number written in every boys bathroom. I had my bike destroyed. How they did that, I have no idea. But it was literally bent in half. They were relentless in their threats and horrible words and taunts. My house was egged 6 times. I was shoved, slapped, pinched and pushed into lockers. I was tormented.
For seven months straight, I was tormented daily. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. I nearly failed school that year. I like to tell people, that it was to see if I could. That’s my party line. I was an A student every other year. I took AP classes. School came easy to me. But that year, I nearly failed everything. I made up a story as too why I nearly failed, because it was easier that telling the truth.
Because no one would listen to the truth. No one asked. Teachers would see her doing things and wouldn’t stop her. My mom was never home. She was getting her masters degree. She worked full time and went to school full time. I was the one making dinners and doing laundry and cleaning the house. I took care of my brothers. Me. Just me. She didn’t need that stress added. Besides by then, I’d already learned to keep things from her. To protect her.
I went to teachers. I went to the principal. I went to the school counselor. I heard it all. Oh just ignore her and she’ll stop. If you don’t acknowledge it, they will get bored. Stand up to them. You know, I tried that. It only got worse. This is your fight, not mine. We have to have actual proof that it’s her.
I got hateful notes in my locker every day; on the days that they allowed me to use my own locker. It was in their hallway, so you know, it was up to them if I could use it or not. I failed PE, because they wouldn’t let me in the locker room to change. They’d take my homework out of my hands and rip it to shreds. They tore my backpack off one day and then threw all of my books in the aqueducts. I guess the ocean needed my books more than I did. I didn’t use a bathroom at school for seven months, for fear of being shoved in a toilet. If I absolutely had too, I’d go in the middle of class and run down the hall to the kindergarten teachers bathrooms. Because it had a lock on the door.
I wish I was joking. I wish I was making this all up. I wish I could tell you that they grew up. That an adult stepped in and helped me. That the main chick moved away. That I changed schools. Anything.
The reality though, is harder. One day my brother saw them following me home. One day my ten year old brother, saw them. He became my permanent bodyguard for the next two months of school. Which he could do, because our school was a small, K-12 program.
Private school kids are even worse than public school kids.
He walked me to school. He walked me home. He stood outside bathrooms. He walked me to my locker each day, shoving them all out of the way.
He finally resorted to beating the shit outta one of the girls. When that didn’t stop it, he beat the shit outta the main leader chick. My brother, you see, had always been bigger than anyone else. People always mistook him for about three years older. He is the size of a linebacker now. All tall and broad shoulders. Mostly though? He was scrappy. He always stood up for people who were picked on. He always stood up to bully’s. He still does it now. When he said, stop or I’ll beat the shit out of you, he meant it. After the second time, they believed him.
It’s not what you want to happen. It’s not what I wanted. It had to end though. My baby brother? He ended it for me. The boy is relentless. He didn’t give up. Eventually they moved onto picking on someone else. Someone without a ten year old bodyguard.
I was bullied. Horribly bullied. I am thankful that this was before the days of Facebook and Twitter and mass texting. I can’t imagine how bad it would have been then.
It needs to continue to be talked about. Over and over and over again, until it stops. Some of us were bullied. Some of us were bullies. At this point in our lives, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that it stops. What matters is that we recognize it and stop it before it gets so bad that our kids take their own lives.
In most ways, it does get better. I’ve hear the ads. They are all over TV. It does get better. I was only bullied for seven months though. Then it ended for me. What though, happens to the kids that it never ends for? That is what scares me.
We just have to keep talking about it.
What matters is that we stand up and tell our stories. That we use our voice. In hopes that it helps one kid or one adult stop bullying.
For more 30 days of truth: Day 1, 2, 3, 4.
When I was a little girl I always thought I’d be a writer. Well after the, I want to be a ballerina days, at least. I spent most of my time lost in a book. I always thought to myself, I will write books one day. Books people will love to read. Books people can lose themselves in. I will write novels. I will be a writer. I can do this. I wrote stories all the time. I made up characters in my head. I was constantly writing.
Then, a seventh grade AP Lit teacher told me, I’d never be a real writer, because I couldn’t seem to stop writing how I talked.
Dreams crushed.
After that, I wrote out characters and plots of novels. Sometimes I even wrote part of it. But that nagging little voice of that one teacher had gotten in my head. I’d eventually stop and shred whatever I’d been working on. Life took over. Marriage, kids, a career that I despise, but am very good at.
Here I am, 18 years later and I’ve never really gone back to writing. I write this blog, but I have no confidence in my own writing abilities. Not even enough to try and write on other blogs. I’ve carved a neat little spot here and I stay here. All tiny and small and cozy.
In my head and in my heart, I know I’d like to write a novel. I’d like to publish it. I have a good enough imagination that I believe I could write a whole novel. But I haven’t ever actually managed to finish one.
That? Is something I’d like to do in my life. Write and publish a novel.
For more 30 days of truth: Day 1, 2.
There are a lot of things I should probably work on forgiving myself for. Some I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to though. This is the hardest one though. You’ll have to forgive me, for only giving some details, as it’s not really my story to tell.
When I was eleven, I made a choice one day. A choice any child at any time could have made. This one though? It changed my families life forever. A simple decision, is what it seemed at the time.
I asked my aunt if she’d take me shopping with her for the day and not let my brother come along. I was eleven. He was nine. He was annoying. My mom had left us with my aunt for part of Spring Break, because she had a school conference she had to go to.
Such a simple thing. Time away from my annoying little brother. Didn’t seem like a big deal. My aunt agreed. She made my brother stay home, with her husband and son.
Took two years for my brother to speak his truth. To tell my mother what happened to him. Years later when the truth of what happened to my brother had become old news, I asked him when exactly this all had happened. That day. It was that day. That day that I made a choice to exclude him for my own silly reasons.
I could have protected him. I could have stopped being a drama queen bratty tween for one day. I could have let the little shit come to the god dam grocery store with us. I should have. If I could undo one moment in time, it would have been that.
I’ve never forgiven myself for that. I always protected my baby brother. Always. Even when he was an annoying shit, I protected him. I loved him. He is my friend, as well as my brother. But that day, I choose to be selfish and his life was changed forever because of it.
The truth is, I know logically that I have to forgive myself. I didn’t want that. I didn’t choose that. I never would have intentionally let anyone hurt my brother. Yet, I’m not sure I will ever forgive myself for it.
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