Boobs: if it ain't one thing, it's another

Breastfeeding is a whole trip, and they don't even tell you the half of it before you start the journey. The breastfeeding class I took before my son was born was an absolute joke. In all honesty, it did more harm than good. Lead by a breastfeeding purist, I came away from that 3-hour waste of a Saturday thinking bottle feeding and/or giving my breastfed child even one bottle of formula would be the absolute worst thing I could do for his development. Spoiler alert, that's total bullshit. Fed is best. I remember thinking that when my mom friends would express their struggles with me prior to me becoming a mom. I've always said it (because it's true), but the reality when you're in the thick of it is that you feel like the absolute worst, most inadequate parent in the world if your breastfeeding journey hits a few speed bumps along the way, and I assure you, it will. Now, I'm sure the struggles I have been through don't happen to everyone. Some lactating parents are just super lucky and don't have to deal with the horrors of breastfeeding that I have. Everyone's experience is different, I know. But lactating parents, just know that I see you. This shit is hard.

When I first started feeding my son from my body it seemed to me like I was going to have the easiest time of it. I was wildly impressed with my body when my son latched right away and my milk started to really come in by his second day of life. It was amazing to witness my body doing such a natural thing. But it hurt. And I mean, it REALLY hurt. Those first days of him being at my breast felt like my nipples had been put through a sawmill. Every time he latched on I'd have a surge of pain for about 15-20 seconds before oxytocin would kick in and I could relax while he fed. But then he went into the NICU because he was breathing too quickly, and the doctors told me it wasn't safe for him to take food directly from me. They placed a Gtube and I was forced to pump exclusively for the first week and a half of his life. In those first days of him being in the NICU I wasn't making enough milk to keep up with how much and how often they wanted to feed him, so he was almost immediately taking formula to supplement. This was at the hospital! Clearly the "dangers" of giving my breastfed baby formula were actually nonexistent.

So the hubs and I left the hospital after I had been discharged, and went to buy a breastpump. I wanted to be able to get my son as much breastmilk as I possibly could. Soon I was producing multiple ounces at a time and feeling like a stock cow. I was making so much milk that I could have been a wet nurse. The staff in the NICU were constantly joking about how I could feed the whole ward. Eventually I got into a pretty good rythm of pumping and bringing milk up to the hospital, and they stopped having to supplement with formula. I was doing it!!

But then we got him home and everything changed. I went from pumping exclusively to feeding exclusively almost overnight. My body was thoroughly confused by the change. Cluster feeding is real and it's hard. It seemed like right as one feed would end he'd be ready to start all over again. My nipples hurt so bad all the time. When he was about four weeks old I got my first clogged duct. When I tell you that was the worst pain my poor boobies had ever felt... My breast was hot to the touch and hard as a rock. I did so many things to try and alleviate the pressure and pain. I was taking tylenol, I was pumping, I was changing positions with the baby, I was doing breast massage, by hand and with a lactation massager (which is basically just a repurposed vibrator), I was hand expressing. Honestly, you name it, I tried it. At one point later down the line and several clogged ducts later I even had the hubs try to suck it out. That was terrible by the way and I 10/10 wouldn't recommend it. It did NOT help.

For the next several weeks it felt like my body was fighting back. One breast would clear up and the other would clog up. Over and over and over. At one point I broke down and ugly cried while feeding my son a bottle of formula, because he was clearly hungry and my body, which was a lactating machine just weeks prior, was suddenly just giving up. That's what it felt like anyway. Really, my supply was just regulating. But they don't tell you that. They don't tell you how hard it is, emotionally and physically. They don't tell you how hungry you're going to be, and how you'll need to eat basically nonstop if you want to keep feeding your child. They don't tell you your boobs are going to fluctuate between too much and not enough in those first several weeks because your body is running off surging hormones. They don't tell you that the feeling of letdown in the beginning hurts just as much as the latch. They don't tell you that you might get thrush on your boobs. Yeah, THRUSH! That's been my life the last week. There's just so much they don't tell you. If they did, I'm sure there would be much fewer babies being born.

It's probably the hardest thing I've ever done. The rollercoaster of emotions and supply issues takes a real toll on a person. Physically and mentally. It's not all rainbows and sunshine like they told us in that stupid breastfeeding class. When you're in the trenches of it, it really does feel like a breastfeeding battlefield. And they'll tell you, "just keep breastfeeding!!" Like you're not trying. Like you're not already beating yourself up for not being enough. Well, I'm here to tell you that you are in fact enough. So much more than enough. And if you choose to supplement with formula, good for you. I applaud you for making the decision that works for you and your growing family. We've been giving our son both breastmilk and formula consistenly for about a month now, and he's absolutely fine. More than fine. He's thriving.

All this to say, feed your kid however you want. What matters is that they are full. In their bellies and in their hearts.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

She's a Bad MotherBirther

I suppose that since my son is now nearing two and a half months earthside I can share his birth story. Many of you reading this may actually have heard all the gory details, but if you haven't, here you go. Buckle up baddies, because this is about to be a wild ride.

My due date was June 5, but no, I did not make it that far. Oliver was born on May 31st just before 9 o'clock in the evening. For those of you wondering, his birth chart is as follows: Gemini Sun, Scorpio Moon, Sagittarius Rising. He had a massive head which gave me a lovely second degree tear, and yes, I did poop while pushing. You're welcome.

For a few weeks toward the end of my pregnancy he was presenting breech, with one of his cute little feet pressed right up to my cervix. Makes sense, because I could totally feel him kicking my cervix/colon towards the end there. Fun stuff no one tells you about pregnancy. Anywho, I went in for an External Cephalic Version (ECV) the week before he was ultimately born. If you don't know what that is I will save you the horrifying google search. It's where someone, presumably an experienced medical professional, basically turns the baby manually. As you can imagine, hubs said it was the wildest thing he's ever seen (jokes on him, because he was about to witness childbirth). It wasn't terrible. It was defintely uncomfortable, but not the worst thing. Getting an IUD inserted is worse. Probably, didn't hurt that the midwives told me to have a hefty glass of wine before the procedure. So, anyway, that happened, and it was successful, thank goodness, although the midwives didn't really do any of the hard work. Right as they were getting ready to start one of the midwives asked the sonographer if she'd take the lead, because she "just really wanted to see her technique." Mate, if you can't do it you could have said so well ahead of time. Me, the hubs, and the sonographer all looked at her like she had three heads. But, like I said, it was succeessful, and baby stayed head down till he arrived. Although, after the procedure, the sonographer did tell us that I had an "extra lobe" on my placenta. Should have immediately been a red flag, but the midwives brushed it off and just said they'd make sure it came out. Well, more on that here in a moment.

So fast forward to the day before he was born when I had what would be my last prenatal checkup. The night before this I suddenly lost all control of my bladder, and was just peeing randomly without any warning. Sexy, I know. I got to sport myself some stylish adult diapers. At the appointment, the midwife doing my exam said I was already at 1cm dilated, but that I would probably not start going into labor for several more days yet. I was over it. I wanted that baby out of me. That evening I tried relaxing in the bath and having another glass of wine (at the midwife's direction). Didn't, or rather couldn't finish the wine, and I had lost my appetite as well, so I didn't finish my dinner. I never did really get any sleep. My mom brain knew it was coming. By midnight I was starting to have contractions. Around 2:30am I decided they were coming with enough regularity to wake up the hubs and call the moms. It was go time. Around 3 o'clock we took a little walk around the neighborhood just to sort of get things moving along. My mom arrived at the house, we lit a bunch of candles, put my birth vision board up, and started doing all the things we learned in birth class to prepare. By 6am I was really feeling it. I threw up once and decided it was time to call the midwives. The response we got was less than cordial. My husband said she told him that I was likely not actually ready to give birth, but that if I really needed to, I could come on in to the birth center at 7am and she would do an exam. I'm over here like obviously I want to get this started. I'm definitely laboring.

We got to the birth center shortly after 7am and my midwife brought us straight back to the exam room. I thought we were staying so I had asked the hubs to bring all my supplies and my vision board. All of it, loaded into the car and ready to go. But the midwife did my exam and told me I wasn't ready. She said I was only at 3cm and 80% effaced, but that my cervix was "really stretchy," as she then proceeded to try and stretch my dilation even further with her fingers. That's when shit hit the fan. That pain easily surpassed any pain I had previously endured. I screamed bloody-freaking-murder and yelled at her to get out of me. That's when I knew something wasn't right. Deep in my bones, maybe not in my conscious mind, I knew. But the midwife told me to go home, get some breakfast in me, and take a Benadryl and a nap, and to come back later when things were a little more serious. Are you freaking kidding me? From the moment she stuck her fingers into my cervix my contractions started coming much harder and closer together. By the time we got home I could barely stand, barely breathe before another wave would hit. And it just kept getting worse.

I did take a Benadryl, but the contractions were so close together that I couldn't possibly have gotten a nap. No way. By 9am I was convinced that I wasn't going to be able to do this. And the hubs, sweet man that he is, kept telling me exactly what I had asked him to tell me; that I was in fact doing it. But something was wrong, and I wanted an epidural. I told him he was right, and that I'd hit a wall, and I wasn't going to be able to do this unmedicated. After hearing me willingly admit he was right about something, I feel like he could tell something was wrong, too. So he called the midwife back and explained what I was going through, to which she replied, "well, you need to make her believe in herself, because if she doesn't believe in herself, then she definitely won't be able to do it." I was livid upon hearing this, and borderline ready to fire the birth center altogether. But hubs suggested we go back one more time and see if they'd call all systems go. So we wen't back to the Birth Center, only to find out that my lead midwife had left the building for a chiropractic appointment, which she did not tell us she was doing. I mean, her business, but you would think she'd have told her patient who was about to have a baby that little tidbit of information, especially when she had previously told us she'd be there all day and to come back when things had really progressed. Which THEY HAD! I digress. So we called for the second midwife on our team, and she did another pelvic exam. She said I was at 5cm by then, and closer to 100% effaced. She offered to fill up the bath for me and give me some Nitrous, but I wasn't having it. I wanted to be in a hospital. It was amazing to me how quickly that dream of a water birth dissipated when shit started getting real.

So hubs loaded me into the car, contractions coming hard and two minutes apart, I'm screaming and crying and really struggling. We got to the hospital and through emergency room triage, and I was wisked up to Labor and Delivery by 10:30am. But I still had to wait for my epidural because the Birth Center didn't send over my records and they had to do a complete work up of all my blood panels and such. The next two hours were probably some of the longest two hours of my life. Blindingly painful contractions were coming one right after the other, and though the nurses had been able to get an IV in me and give me fluids, there wasn't much else they could do other than coach me through the worst of it.

Finally, at about noon-thirty, the anesthesiologist came into the room ready to load up my epidural. I tell you, I have never been so grateful to see a man in my entire life. And this guy was good. He managed to get the needle into my back between contractions while the hubs was holding me steady and coaching my breath from the front side. It was incredibly quick, considering he only had 60-75 seconds to maneuver around my freaking spinal column. Within 15 minutes I was blissfully relieved. I was my old self again, cracking stupid jokes and singing rap songs with the nurses. It was smooth sailing from there. Or so I thought.

I suppose around 5 o'clock or so one of the nurses was doing an exam and she noted that I was passing an alarming amount of clots. We didn't know what that meant, but she left the room to go and inform the doctor before we could really get a clear explanation from her. I mentioned to one of the other nurses in the room that the sonographer who did my ECV the week before noted that I had an extra lobe on my placenta. She asked me why the midwives hadn't immediately referred me back to an OBGYN for placental abnormality, which is instantly a higher risk factor. Honestly, I couldn't answer that. Looking back, there were loads of red flags I chose to ignore, but I'm glad I made it to the hospital in the end.

Shift change happened and still no baby. Meanwhile I'm coming up on not having had any food in 24 hours. I was starving. By 7:30pm I was ready to start pushing. I'd just like to say, that shit is really difficult when you can barely feel the lower half of your body, and you don't really have enough space to take a deep breath before each push. Childbirth is freaking hard. I mean I knew that, but I don't think anyone really understands that until going through it. It was the most difficult thing I've ever done. But I freaking did it. After just a little over an hour of pushing my little boy was born. They placed him on my chest and I cried from relief and joy. But it wasn't over yet.

We had asked the doctor if we could leave the umbilical cord attached longer than hospital procedure, which I think is like 30 seconds or something. He said that was fine, and that he wouldn't make us do it until he thought it was medically necessary. I got to hold my son for all of about two minutes before it became medically necessary. Hubs cut the cord and the nurses passed him the baby and pulled him over to the other side of the room to try and busy him with new father tasks while the doctor worked on me. Apparently after I delivered the baby, I stopped having contractions altogether. My placenta wouldn't detatch. It wasn't coming on its own. I told the doctor about the placental abnormality, and his eyes went wide as he told me he'd have to go exploring. This man was literally up to his elbows inside of my body. I was so grateful for the epidural in that moment, and I knew that I never would have been able to cope with that unmedicated at the birth center. He was literally scraping pieces of my placenta out of my uterus. I looked at it later and it was absolutely horrific. It was like badly butchered trash meat.

After he got all the pieces out, my bleeding wouldn't stop. I was hemorrhaging. Hubs said later that the floor beneath my bed was covered with my blood. The doctor called in a crash cart and the number of nurses in the room doubled in a matter of moments. One of them asked the doctor what he wanted prepped on the crash cart and he responded: everything. I ended up getting two shots, two different clotting medications. At some point he said the words "possible emergency full hysterectomy." I remember asking the doctor if he didn't want me to fall asleep, and he said it wouldn't be ideal. So I focused all my energy on keeping my eyes open. Eventuallly he got it under control and I didn't even have to have so much as a transfusion. He did, however, inform me that if, one day, I decided to have another child, it would definitely be a high risk pregnancy, and I'd have to be monitored closely. He told me that what he'd just dealt with in me he only saw maybe once every two or three years. Very rare.

Later that night, after all the chaos had died down, my bestie, queen that she is, brought me a bunch of sushi as my first meal post delivery. We feasted and I rested, and just like that it was all over, and hubs and I had a beautiful new baby boy to show for it.

Parenthood is a whole other story. A story for another time.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

Hello, Third Trimester

You read that right. This Anxious Housewife will soon become an Anxious Stay-at-Home Mom. I know, it's crazy. I've always wanted kids, but my own trauma has stopped me from getting pregnant up until this point. Now, I'm 31, happily married, mostly mentally stable, and well cared for by my husband, so it was finally time. It's a boy, and he's growing absolutely perfectly. He kicks all the time (probably preparing for that metal band he's going to start once he's earthside), but when I dance he goes right to sleep. He responds to classical music most often, but he also loves when his daddy plays the guitar for him. Very musically inclined. It has me wondering, will he be a dancer? A musician? A singer? I just love speculating about the kind of human he's going to be.

First trimester freaking killed me. I was sick ALL THE TIME. It was awful. I couldn't keep anything down other than chicken broth, water, and sometimes crackers. The weirdest my cravings ever got was hot cheetos with lime, but I also had way more mac 'n cheese than I've ever craved in my life. Also pickles. I lived for pickles. The big ones you get in a bag at the gas station. I would put a straw in and drink all the juice, then when that was finished I would shove the straw into the pickle itself and slurp out the insides. Something about the acidity, I suppose, was really great for easing my nausea. At one point I was craving baked potatoes, but that's not necessarily abnormal for me. I've always had a tendency to get a potato craving. Because let's face it- potatoes are life. But there was that one time when the hubs made probably the single greatest brisket he's ever made in his life, and I was NOT having it. I felt so bad. That was basically the only time I had him make something I then could not even imagine eating. He made it to go with my baked potato, after all (what a man). Smoked it all day. It was perfect, so I'm told. But the second he brought it into the house my stomach flipped and I had to hide in the bedroom with the door closed for the rest of the evening. He came in to check on me at some point and I couldn't even handle the smell of it on him. I made him go take a shower before he got in bed with me. He ate a lot of brisket that week.

Second trimester was much easier. I stopped feeling like I was gonna throw up every five seconds just in time for Thanksgiving, hallelujah. Was able to eat all my favorite foods and desserts. I didn't even really start showing until well after Christmas. For the most part I was able to wear all my same clothes and engage in all the same activities I love, like dance and yoga. Hubs and I did a Babymoon in February to Hawaii, where we got to hike a bunch and see so many whales!! We also did a fun snorkeling tour and saw a cuttlefish!! That was probably the coolest thing I've ever seen in the ocean. I mean the whales breaching all the time was super awesome too, but we literally saw dozens every single day we were there. I only saw the cuttlefish once. It was so cute! About the size of a whole coconut, maybe? Hubs didn't see it at first because it was blending in with the rockface, but then it blinked and color shifted for a second and he got all excited about seeing it!

Now, here we are, second day of the last trimester, and things are starting to get interesting. My pubis hurts really bad all the time. It honestly feels like I've been kicked by a horse. I've learned that that's perfectly normal and even has a name- Pubic Symphysis Dysfunction. Left unchecked it could potentially lead to diastasis, which sounds like no fun. I'm seeing a prenatal chiropractor in a couple days and that will definitely be a topic for dicussion. Might have to wear a support belt. But also, I've started adding collagen to smoothies, and hopefully that helps. I've also been told to eat three medjool dates a day to support a healthy and safe delivery. I guess I should also start perennial massage. Ya girl does not want to tear! Ouch. Baby's movements are visible from the outside now. That's a whole trip. I can tell when his back or butt is pressed up against my belly, and sometimes I can identify a foot or a tiny elbow poking at me. I've definitely started feeling the dreaded ribcage kicks and those are not cool. Sometimes it wakes me up at night. It feels almost like a really hard muscle spasm when he kicks, but a little different. I'm just waiting for the day he starts to look like an alien trying to push his way out of my stomach.

Last week, I went to yoga and for the first time in my entire life I had trouble getting my body to move the way I wanted it to. That was interesting. I won't lie, I had a little bit of a moment in my brain. Definitely struggled with some feelings about it. But hey, I'm litereally growing an entire human here. My body is doing amazing things right now. Did you know the metabolic activity of a pregnant woman is comparable to that of an endurance athlete at the height of activity? That's wild to me. But then again, I believe it. For me, pregnancy has been really taxing on my body. I've been napping a lot, pretty much every day for around two hours. Sometimes more. Shout out to the realest Sister in Law for letting me borrow her pregnancy pillow, because that has really helped me get better sleep throughout the night. Also, I'm using my stupid CPAP pretty consistently now. I won't lie and say I like it, but I guess that's also helping me sleep. At least I'm getting enough oxygen at night, which is important for, you know, growing a human.

Anywho, so that's what's been going on in the life of this Anxious Housewife. Need to get the nursery set up and settle on a pediatrician. Everything is going to change soon. Life is going to get a whole lot more interesting. We can do this, though. I know it.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

We Don't Talk About COVID, No, No, No

Welp. I managed to go two years, three different countries, a bazillion nose jabs, and a friggin wedding. I am officially infected with the plague. Well, you know, the COVID plague. And you know what? It hit me out of the blue like a ton of bricks. I wouldn't have even taken a test if I hadn't woken up Monday morning feeling exactly the same way I felt after getting all three of my vaccines.

To be fair, I drank a lot of wine on Sunday night. When I woke up feeling like trash on Monday, my first thought was, "dang, I'm hungover AF." It was about 5am and my nose was all congested, my throat was scratchy (which I assumed was from my drunk snoring), had a horrible headache, and my arms were super heavy and achey. Throughout the day that ache moved throughout my whole body, and by mid-afternoon I had developed a low-grade fever. Just a few hours later that was a full on fever. That's when I decided it was time to take a rapid test, just to be safe. Up until the moment I saw it was positive, I was CERTAIN that it couldn't possibly be COVID.

Bright side? I think it seems to be moving through me pretty fast. The fever broke sometime during the night between Monday and Tuesday, and the full body aches have subsided. I have developed a cough, and I'm told that might hang around for a while. That sucks, of course, but I'm doing everything I can to support my immune system. Today is day four of symptoms. I still have a load of congestion in my nasal cavity, I have low energy, and the cough. As long as I can get ahead of that congestion moving down into my chest, I should be okay soon. Fingers crossed.

Honestly, the worst part has been the lack of physical affection from the hubs. He tested negative, so we've been staying away from each other. I hate it. He's been sleeping on the couch or in the yoga room on a cot. I'm pretty much sequestered to the bedroom. The dogs are nice company, and they give me good snuggles, but I'm needy and I would give anything for a kiss from my husband. I know that's ridiculous. He needs to stay healthy, not just so he can take care of me, but also because being sick freaking sucks. I hate that he has had to step up so much this week, but I love how he has. I know he loves me dearly. Also, every once in a while he comes in and gives me bum squeezes or makes me go outside for some fresh air.

I'll take another test on Monday, I suppose. I'm already so over this. Being sick is the worst.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

PS. The results are in from the sleep study. Guess who has a shiny new case of Sleep Apnea! That's another story, for another time.

All You Have To Do Is Sleep

Let me just start off by saying that I've heard those words way too much this week, leading up to and just before my sleep study. Yeah, okay, I've been grinding my teeth for over a decade, I snore... Occasionally I maybe stop breathing a little bit in my sleep. I've been complaining about my ability to function in just basic day-to-day tasks for years. I know I'm not sleeping well. It's no secret. The signs are all there.

Somewhere in the middle of the Pandemic I got on TikTok and the algorithm quickly threw me over to the neurodivergent side of things where people who had been diagnosed with ADHD and/or ASD, or some other neurodivergent or sensory processing disorder, talked about their experience. Very quickly I started to feel more seen and understood than I have been in my entire life. So when we moved home in November I immediately reached out to my psychiatrist's office for a chat. Lo, and behold, 4 whole months later I have finally been "tested" for ADD/ADHD, and basically told that since I was hyperfocusing on the test I couldn't possibly have an attention defecit.

And then there was last night.

Now, I've had a 72-hour EEG done before, so I knew what to expect when they said they were going to put sensors in my hair and on my face. I was not prepared for everything else, and it is a long list. So not only am I already anxious because that's basically my resting state, but now I'm also super irritated because I know that this is going to be a long night of me not getting any sleep.

Let's go over the list of wires and sensors I was attached to, shall we? First of all, the technician prepped my skin by using some abrasive gel that I have no idea how my skin is going to react to in a couple days. And he's just like "ooo, free facial." And I'm just sitting there thinking, thanks, but I already did my skin care for the night. Anyway. So he hooked up like four sensors to my forehead, one on either temple, one on my right mandible joint, and two along my lower right jaw. So that's already nine wires. Then he had me run four wires down my pajamas and out the bottom, which attached to two sensors on each leg. We're up to 13, and we haven't even gotten to the ones in my hair. So there were like four or five more precariously spread throughout my scalp and basically glued on with this disgusting paste that is a pain in the ass to get out. So like 17? 18 wires? AND THEN. I also had to wear a pulse oximeter on my right index finger. And just when I thought he had to be finished, he pulled out two straps, fastening them, one around my waist, and the other around my chest. These straps, too, were attached to more sensors. And to top it all off, I had one of those oxygen tubes in my nose, but it wasn't sending me oxygen, it was monitoring my breathing. It also came with a super (not) cute matching buddy with more freaking sensors all shoved up my nose.

And so I say to the technician, "you can't honestly tell me that people actually get any sleep like this." To which he retorts, quite whimsically I might add, "Oh no! People say this is the best sleep they've had in their entire life, because there's nothing to distract them!" And the worst part is, I think he was serious. Meanwhile, I know I am in for a long night. And not just because I was telling myself it was going to be horrible, BUT BECAUSE IT ACTUALLY WAS AND EVERYONE WAS JUST MINIMIZING IT. I'm sorry. I have sensory processing issues. All I could think of all night was how I could feel all these wires on me trying to strangle me. I barely relaxed, and when I finally did get to sleep I woke up again anyway because I was SO UNCOMFORTABLE, and couldn't get back to sleep until 30 minutes before the test was over at 5am.

I hated it. It was awful. I managed to get all the gunk out of my hair (I think) but I know I pulled out a lot of hair in the process. I wouldn't be surprised if the doctor decides it wasn't an accurate enough study and wants me to come back in and try again.

But I'm really going to have to think on this one. Is it worth it? Is there some sort of compromise we can make? Who knows?

I spent most of today napping. I definitely don't ever want to do that again.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

Back, and Crushing It

What's new all you cool cats and kittens? Do we remember that stage of the pandemic? It's been over two freaking years now, with seemingly no end in sight. COVID is just a part of our new reality, I guess. Which totally sucks, right? I mean because literally all of us have been really struggling with mental health stuff (and if you haven't, you're either lying or you're a sociopath). Ever since hubs and I moved home from the Netherlands I have been in a deep funk, and it has been nigh impossible for me to climb my way out of. I wasn't eating enough and all I did was lay on the couch and binge trash TV. To be fair, sometimes I was spinning yarn, so I wasn't entirely unproductive, but basically other than feeding hubs breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I was hardly functioning.

Which is why I am so glad we took a ridiculously long road trip all over the western United States. We were gone for a month, and all that time on the road gave me a lot of time to think and reflect. Also, we listened to about a hundred hours of this hilarious British podcast called Shagged. Married. Annoyed. which I HIGHLY recommend, but I digress.

Turns out, I've been super struggling with my depression lately. It's not necessarily sadness that is manifesting, but more apathy, I guess? But really that makes sense, when you think about it. We've all just been barely hanging on for a while now. You see, for the most part, I really have the best life ever. I'm essentially a kept woman. I have all my needs met and exceeded in some places. Hell, I'm even medicated. But Depression is a nasty bitch, and sometimes if you're not careful, she'll take over. Taking this road trip with the hubs has really helped me to point out those feelings, as well as kicked my ass into gear to do something about it.

We got home last week, in the wee hours of Thursday morning. Now, I don't know why I'm like this, but I like to start changes or new routines or whatever on the first day of the month or the week, depending on which one comes first. So, basically I slept all day Thursday, made up my schedule for this week on Friday, then did all our laundry on Saturday and Sunday. I definitely took lots of naps too, because I for sure did not get the best sleep while on our trip, and also I am pretty sure I have some kind of sleep disorder, but that's a story for another time.

So we wake up today, and of course, I'm dreading having to adhere to the schedule I made for myself. Which is silly, because I definitely made it in a way that works for engaging and rewarding my brain. Follow the dopamine. But anyway, so far, I HAVE TOTALLY FREAKING CRUSHED IT! I did some reading for a few hours while I sipped my coffee, then I sat down and adulted by calling all my doctors and scheduling appointments and such. Shout out to the homies who hate making phone calls! I see you!!

Anyway, now I am done with the boring stuff and it's on to blog time. It's actually super exciting to get on here for the first time in such a long while. There's that tiny little hit of dopamine my brain was looking for. Brains are so weird. It's like having a toddler or a puppy that you can't communicate with clearly, no matter how hard you try. But I'm learning.

So. Gameplan. Tomorrow morning, ADHD test (hopefully it works this time). I signed up for a sleep study, so I'll hear back about that sometime soon. I think what I am most looking forward to is learning how to work with my brain instead of against it. If I can just get confirmation that my brain works differently, that would make a whole world of difference.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

In Happiness and in Sorrow

So I'm officially a wife now. Yay! I can finally live up to the household name. We've been married now for a little over 3 weeks and I have honestly loved every second of it. For those of you who were unable to attend/watch the stream, I did promise to let the Husband touch my butt whenever he wants to for the rest of our lives. For those of you who were, you'll be happy to know that I have been doing my best to live up to that very important vow every single day.

The wedding day itself was an absolute dream. I finally got to watch the video and I'm starting to get sneak peeks of the photos, and I tell you what, I cannot get over how much it was all just a literal fairytale. It was exactly what I have always dreamed my wedding would be and SO MUCH MORE! (Good thing, too, because the Husband was not excited about the price tag XD) I definitely cried like a baby pretty much the entire day, but shout out to my MUA Sarah Baldwin who really spackled my face on good. I totes still looked like a million bucks by the end of the evening. Speaking of the end of the evening, I did NOT make it all the way through the reception in my dress, and had to go change into my cute new monogrammed pajamas by like 10pm. This is what approaching 30 looks/feels like.

Also huge shout out to Anne Quinn, my hair stylist, for not only making my bridesmaids look like freaking viking warrior elf women, but also for basically walking me through how to get ready. I would definitely have done it wrong. She had me go moisturize and put on my perfume BEFORE putting on the dress to avoid staining. Smart woman. Also, just for the record, Anne used to do J.K Rowling's hair, so I was basically one degree of separation from Harry Potter. She also said she'd done Robbie Coltraine's hair once. I'm convinced she's a wizard, and a Hufflepuff.

Way late into the evening, after all of the guests who weren't staying at the House left, we hung out with the live-in staff. As I was telling them about my grandma, I saw a shooting star. Proof that she was there. It was magic. I obviously bawled.

Anywho, the honeymoon was AMAZING, and we saw so many standing stones and cairns and big rocks and waterfalls. I loved every second of every day, and I'm pretty sure I didn't stop spontaneously crying from joy for like three days.

And then we got back to the Netherlands and received the worst news, bringing us straight back down to Earth. The Husband's Grandpa has a 7cm mass in his lung, with signs of metastisization. It's stage 4. It's not good.

I suppose I'll be making good on that "good times, and not-so-good times" vow sooner than I thought.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

WOW. It has been over two months, I guess maybe even closer to three, since I have posted. Welp. Welcome to the life of an Anxious and Depressed Housewife. To be honest, I've been telling myself I need to write this post for weeks, but I keep giving myself the excuse of "ugh, tomorrow." Mental health is no freaking joke. I'm sad all the time right now, and living just hurts. AND MY WEDDING IS LESS THAN TWO WEEKS AWAY.

What hurts, you might ask? Well, I don't know, that's not how mental health works. Strictly speaking, this is supposed to be one of the happiest times of my life. Now it's definitely not the worst, but I don't feel like myself, and I haven't for what feels like a really long time at this point. My eyes have felt on the cusp of tears, my chest tight, and my stomach totally unruly and PISSED. Many days I can't get myself to eat anything until well after 2pm. Getting out of bed in the morning is the hardest part of my day. Most days I wake up and wait till I can go back to sleep or start drinking. Definitely not the greatest coping mechanism, but sometimes you just have to do what you have to. It's okay.

My mental health has been really bad while living in a foreign country during a pandemic. I mean, let's face it, my mental health was never super great to begin with, even medicated as I am, but this has been a whole other level of isolation. It's really hard to reach out to your network when everyone who you know and love is 7-9 hours behind you, on the opposite side of the world. By the time I wake up in the morning they're all just going to bed. Then when I'm finally forcing myself to eat a plate of pita pieces and hummus around 2pm, they're finally awake, but on their way to work for the day. By the time they get off work and can finally give me any time at all, my depressed @$$ is ready to go back to bed. And don't even get me started on all the horrible, anxious, nonsensical horror dreams my brain has decided are par for the course at this time in my life. Can't a girl just get her beauty sleep, and maybe not dream about giving birth to a full-grown opossum? Kthanks.

Contrary to what you might think, I'm actually not very anxious about my wedding at all, which is honestly an unfamiliar but welcome sensation. I'm not complaining. Everything is pretty much handled, and the little loose ends are being dealt with. As a person who stuggles with anxiety I was more than prepared to turn into a Bridezilla, and I do suppose there is still time, but as of now it looks like everything will go down smoothly and without a hitch. I have yet to write my vows, though. I should probably get on that. But as far as I know, neither has the Fiance, so I'm not worried. He's not a words guy, anyway, so the fun part will be figuring out how to say what I want to him in as few words as possible. But, yes, friends will start arriving this week and then the celebration begins! COVID-19 be damned! Shout out to my future Family-In-Law, y'all better heal up quickly! You have a wedding to attend! Sound the drums and build the fire! Let the jouyous news be spread across the land!

TTFN Anxious Housewife

PS. Rally the witches. We're hexing the jerk who stole my bike this weekend.

Coffee Art - Coffee Heart

Today, I am sitting at a table outside at a cafe in Delft, right next to the Oude Kerk. My waiter comes and asks if I'd like anything, and I answer in broken Dutch. In my head, my accent is so bad it pains these people into dropping to what they might consider broken English, just to accomadate me. The truth is, their "broken" English is better than my Dutch most days. I'm sitting under a large umbrella, but I'm not nearly as covered as I ought to be and the longer I sit here in the sun, the more likely I am to walk away from here with a serious sunburn, because, of course, I neglected to put on sunblock before I came out here. At least I had enough sense to put on my big floppy hat before I left (shout out to the future MIL for the best hat a girl could ask for).

My coffee comes, and theres a delicately poured heart in the foam. It's probably the most basic of latte art, but that most certainly does not make it easy. Even on my good days of pouring at home, I can't promise you it's always going to look like anything, let alone a heart. But that's what makes it so impressive when people can pour other designs. Once, a long time ago, when I visited France as a kid, I remember getting a coffee with a bunny in the foam. That was super cool. The fiance once attempted a turtle for me (someone knows the way to my heart). It was cute, but you had to use your imagination, you know, like when you're cloud watching. I thouroughly enjoyed it though, and that's what counts. It's those little details that a person like me consider a grand gesture of love and appreciation.

I once had a yoga instructor tell me during my teacher training, "how you do one thing is how you do everything." At the time I can remember being largely offended by that. I don't know why. Maybe it's because at that time I was devoting a lot of my time and energy to things that weren't for me, and that made me feel like I was neglecting my responsibilities. Looking back on it now, though, I absolutely was, and I was just afraid to admit it to myself. I was absolutely neglecting my responsibility to take care of myself, first and foremost. Because I was spread so thin, and not taking the time I needed to understand and process my feelings in a constructive way, I hustled my way into a full on burnout depression.

Now, let's be real, depression and anxiety are things I have struggled with most of my life, I just haven't always had all the words to describe that. But the depression that I'm talking about here is one that has plagued me for most of my adult life, at this point. I spent so much of my younger years trying to live up to people's expectations of me, doing anything and everything I think I am meant to be doing, instead of just doing things that make me happy, and doing them with my whole heart. I'm a recovering people pleaser. I'm constantly seeking approval from everyone but myself, and as a result, I lost sight of my own ambitions and dreams and desires.

That's part of why I've been writing again. I like words. Moreso, I think I like language. It's not concrete. It has limitless meaning based on a number of variables. It's fluid. It's ever-changing, like water. Like the emotions we use it to articulate. One of my favorite things about language is that some words don't translate across them. Some words are just a feeling, and that can't be put into words. It makes sense to me.

So now I've had my coffee and I'm still sitting at the cafe, still thinking about how silly I must have sounded asking for a cappucino in Dutch. And who knows? Maybe the waiter is thinking he sounded so silly switching to English.

Probably not.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife

Welcome!

Hello Readers! My name's Caty, and I'm not technically a "housewife" just yet, but I am basically a kept woman, and I do have anxiety and depression. More on that later. For now, I'm just going to bore you with a bunch of random facts about myself while I get used to this new platform. I'm almost 30, living abroad with my fiance. We're officially tying the knot in October (finally!), in the beautiful Scotland!

I've always been a writer in some capacity. I wrote my first poems in middle school. It was a bunch of emotional, "no one understands me" kind of anxty mess, but I loved writing it and it got me through some pretty dark times in my childhood. You know what I mean. We've all been through it. We've all been through something. Right? Of course. Anyway, I got more into writing when I was in high school. I wrote my first short story, and published my first poem when I was in 10th grade, and I credit that to some amazing English teachers who put up with my stubborn ass with the patience of saints. Thanks. If you're reading this, you know who you are. I also joined the high school newspaper staff for the Regit. Funny story, it actually took me until well into my senior year to realize that was just "tiger," our school mascot, spelled backwards. Yeah. We were that kind of cool.

In college the first time, I started taking lots of creative writing classes. It was in those classes where I began writing my first novel, Secrets of the Wood. That's still not finished, and I don't quite know if it ever will be, but the story is still, and will always be, a big part of me. Sometimes I fantasize about going back to it, and I still might, but for now, that particular story remains unfinished. Also in college the first time I jumped back into journalism by again joining the newspaper staff. Eventually, in my last semester there I would become Editor in Chief, but if I'm honest, I didn't really do that job justice, as I was going through yet another really dark time in my life. But that story's for another day.

This latest go around at the whole college thing was actually quite successful. I acheived my Bachelor's of Arts in English Literature, with a heavy focus on Creative Writing. WITH Honors! Suck on that, high school self! And I didn't even mention that it was basically my grandmother's dying wish that I complete my college education. I felt really awesome to be able to give that to her, even if it was after she passed.

Technically, I have finished one book. My college thesis. It's called Out of Water, and I may or may not publish it for the masses in the future. For now, I'm enjoying my European dream life and planning my dream wedding to the human of my dreams.

I think that'll do for now. If you read this far, congratulations!! You get a cookie. Not from me. From your own kitchen. Go get a cookie.

TTFN

Anxious Housewife