HAS SEX BECOME JUST ANOTHER CHORE YOU DON'T WANT TO DO?

“Let’s talk about sex baby, let’s talk about you and me, let’s talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be, let’s talk about sex.” -Salt-N-Pepa

Disclaimer: If you’re my mom or my dad or my mother in law or my father in law or any old person I look up to, promptly close the window on your screen and move along to Facebook or something.

I was in a self-help book club before we moved. It was glorious, full of intelligent, interesting, open-minded women eager to share their perspectives. There are certain requirements for a book club to be considered legitimate. One is books and the other is wine. I’m a rule follower, so naturally, our book club had both.

At around hour three, the wine bottles were usually empty and the subject matter had taken a surprising turn- to sex. This happened Every.Single.Time. We learned some interesting things about one another. I’m a classic oversharer. Especially when booze is involved. (You take that one bit of information to your graves girls. Y'all know which one I’m talking about.)

Anyway, this book club, coupled with the intimate stories told to a hairstylist, and tidbits from friends, have given me some insight about how much and what kind of sex everybody is having and how they feel about it.

From what I’m hearing, most of you just aren’t into it. Sex has become yet another chore, lifetimes away from the glory days of pre-wedded bliss.

Is this because the world is complicated and exhausting? Is it because your hormones are whack-a-doodle from the aforementioned exhausting life, coupled with pregnancy upon pregnancy? Is it because you feel like your hot factor has dramatically declined in the last half-decade or so? Is your marriage doomed?

The answer probably lies somewhere within all of those, except maybe the doomed marriage part (fingers crossed for you).

Most of us are gettin’ it on somewhere between 1-3 times per week, according to stats on The Google. But, realistically, word on the street (my street) puts it more at like 0-1 times per week. Zero times is a travesty, ladies. Sex is free, fun, and it’s healthy. And, it’s good for your marriage. It’s a win, win, win… win.

We don’t need to hold ourselves to the standards of a national average. Quality over quantity makes a difference. Five wham-bam-thank-you-mams in a week don’t count for much when it comes to emotional connection. Not every night is going to be filled with mind-blowing sex, but you gotta squeeze those in whenever you can. It’s a subjective necessity that varies for everyone. If once per week you’re having an intense session and everyone is satisfied, then don’t play the comparison game.

Let’s pick apart what’s going on for those of us that just aren’t feeling it. (These suggestions are predicated on the assumption that there aren’t additional emotional/ sexual issues to address for either party- we’ll address some of these in future blogs.)

If you feel like you’ve never recovered from the cray cray hormonal fest that is pregnancy and/or breastfeeding, you’re in good company. I’ve certainly been there. After 15 months of breastfeeding my second and third children, I had the energy levels and the libido of a cardboard box. Getting your hormones checked is a losing battle, because they fluctuate wildly depending on where you’re at in your cycle, so don’t waste any bucks there. First off, everyone needs to take Vitamin D3, Magnesium, B12, and iron (this one only if you’ve tested deficient). These vitamins are game changers for your energy levels and almost all of us are deficient (yes, even the healthy eaters).

Check out adaptogens, like ashwagandha and rhodiola. These aid stress regulation and hormonal regulation. While not an adaptogen, SAM-e helps with stress and depression. Read my article about Adrenal Fatigue. If it resonates with you, think about making the suggested changes.

Maca root powder, Evening Primrose, krill oil, and DIM are excellent supplements for regulating hormones in whatever direction needed. A lot of us (most of us) are estrogen dominant (read about this here) because of mass exposure in our environments. It’s important to avoid unnecessary exposure to estrogens- plastics, non-organic produce, soy, non-botanical cleaners, make-ups, and hair products, etc etc.

Cleaning up your diet, to support health and energy will do so much more than improve your libido. You’re worth it. Your family is worth it. Your marriage is so worth it.

Now that we’ve gotten the health stuff out of the way, let’s talk about the possibility of you just not feeling sexy enough to want to actually have sex. Your husband’s idea of sexy has more to do with your self-confidence, and his complete and utter love for you, than that extra 15 pounds you just can’t seem to shake. He doesn’t care. He’s not picking you apart the way that you do yourself. He wants you. Don’t deny yourselves that satisfaction and sense of connection because you want to keep your saddlebags under wraps.

Maybe things have gotten monotonous and the payoff isn’t feeling worth the effort involved. Good sex is a two-way street. It’s like that thing we always say to our kids - “bored people are boring.” Get off your back and have some fun, mix it up, dress it up. It might feel silly, but some sexy music and a pretty lil’ something can set the tone. I have a sexy time playlist on my phone. It helps take me out of my responsible, adult, list making head, and puts me in the mood. I’ll even listen to it during the day to rev myself up for the upcoming evening. I associate good times with those songs and enjoy thinking about that more than just when we’re in the moment.

If your husband still doesn’t seem to know what’s up with your body, nothing is going to change unless you share what you’ve learned with him. He doesn’t have a vagina, how is he supposed to know what to do with yours if you aren’t incredibly specific, down to the last detail? Everyone likes different stuff. You won’t hurt his feelings if you clue him into what works for you. Most men greatly appreciate the guidance. They love to see you satisfied. It makes them feel accomplished. (If your husband isn’t interested in anything more than his own needs, that’s a relationship issue that surely bleeds over into everything else, and most definitely requires intensive mending. Ditto if you’re not thinking about his needs.)

Guilt is another roadblock in allowing our partners to pleasure us. I used to make assumptions about what my husband did and didn’t want to do, or how he felt about spending time just on me. The truth is that he loves me and enjoys seeing me feel good. He thinks I’m worth the effort.

Some of us struggle with shame and embarrassment surrounding sex or nudity. It’s hard to talk openly and use all the anatomical words to describe what we want in the light of day. Some of us may not even be sure what we like or what works. There’s no magic bullet for removing programmed shame. It takes time and forced communication. The more you talk about it, the more you experiment on your own and together, the more desensitized you’ll become. Up until I was about 30, I struggled with discussing and learning my own preferences, relying upon various partners to teach me. Over time, through toeing the line of my comfort zone, it’s become a much easier and far more rewarding process.

If none of this seems applicable, and you’re just not into your guy, that sounds like a marriage problem, lack of sexual interest being a byproduct, probably accompanied by a host of other byproducts.

Assuming you’re in love with your husband, there are little changes that can make big differences.

Here are a few things that have proven helpful with maintaining intimacy in my marriage:

I go out of my way to really notice my husband, the way his arms flex as he’s making his breakfast, his cute lil’ butt walking around the house in his sweatpants (which I give a squeeze every chance I get). I pop into his office regularly to sneak more than a basic smooch and maybe pass a lil’ verbal foreplay his way. These things may sound silly, but they build tension and by day’s end we’re excited for more. It takes effort and mindfulness, but it’s minimal, reminds us of our pre-children selves, and it’s fun.

I know that we’re all spent by the time we’ve cleaned dinner dishes, herded a bunch of kids into the bath, gotten them to sleep, and then settled into the reprieve from parenting that is bedtime. I don’t think any of us are immune to that. Sex after a long day is like exercise, you have to motivate yourself to get started. Once you’ve done it, it’s almost never regrettable. Most of us have a laundry list of shit we need to do all day, every day, and often times sex just doesn’t make the cut. Wine on the couch sounds much more alluring. Making sex a priority can grow your relationship, and the extra strength it adds to our partnerships helps us handle the chaos of life and parenthood. It’s a fundamental part of marriage, a physical extension of the emotional connection that is imperative to a healthy, loving relationship. It’s not just about getting your husbands rocks off because men have “needs.” If you allow yourself to really be immersed in it and take the time to nurture that connection, so many aspects of your marriage and your self-image stand to benefit. If you’re not having sex, you’re roommates- you’ve removed an incredibly special and definitive piece of your marital relationship. Rewrite that list, move intimacy up several spots and see what happens, you’ll likely be pleasantly surprised.

-Angi

Side note: I really want to emphasize that so many women have varying degrees of psychological associations with sex and current experiences are colored by past experiences. It’s not always a drive issue and definitely not always as simple as I’m presenting in this blog if your sexual history and upbringing are complicated. There’s help out there, and it's more common than you think ❤️.

OVERWHELMED BY LIFE- Tackling the Never Ending "To Do" List of Motherhood.

You know that feeling when you haven’t vacuumed for a while and a piece of dried up dinner bit gets stuck to your sock, then you walk around with it for a long time, aware of the little lump it creates with each step, mildly annoyed, but not motivated enough to do anything about it?

That’s the place I’m in right now. There are lots of little figurative bits creating frustrations, but I struggle to find the energy to work on them. The sum of their parts has proven great enough to stymie me.

My daughter has had her pacifier for too long. We took it away for a week. It started out well enough and then promptly ended when she started waking at 1 am and screaming uncontrollably for 2 hours. Do I have the energy to fix that? Maybe if it were my only problem, but as it stands now, no.

My oldest son is noticeably neglected feeling, and it’s affecting other parts of his life. When can I fix that? In between the diaper changes, breakfast making, lunch making, and morning grooming, or do I tell him he can’t play with his friends after school because he has to hang out with his mommy instead? And, what do I do with the other two kids who will pitch inevitable fits because they’re not in the mix?

My husband is noticeably neglected. How to keep my eyes open past 8:30 pm, so that we can talk about something other than all the shit we need to work on?

My youngest son has started having tantrums and retreating to the stairwell closet when I refuse him a pre-dinner snack or a post-dinner dessert. We both know he’s not going to eat shit if I cave. And, he’s been telling me he wants a new mommy before he slams the door to the closet. This was the kid that liked me the most, as far as I could tell.

At all times, at least two out of three of my children do not like meat, beans, cheese, eggs, or rice. Wtf am I supposed to cook for these people??

I’ve had a big kid home sick from school for 3 of the last 4 weeks, thereby removing the bulk of my beloved, and entirely necessary for my sanity, toddler naptime respite, my only personal time. Can you say angst?

I’ve been allowing myself to derive too much of my self-worth from social media responses to this God-forsaken blog, and that’s a recipe for depression.

I’m tired.

I think I have to go back to work, and I  don’t wanna.

And like 10 other things.

Deep breath. And another. And another.

On adequate sleep, and maybe with one or two less kids, these things wouldn’t feel insurmountable. Getting laundry done, tidying the house, and making all the food for all the people seems like the only stuff that can make the list. How in the hell are we supposed to do that AND be good moms? No, really, I’m asking… how? Somebody tell me, please, cuz I’m at a loss. Being a housekeeper is a full-time job. I can’t not feed the children. They have to wear clothes. There’s nowhere to cut the fat from, cuz motherhood is notoriously fat-free.

I don’t want to just get by with “good enough.” I don’t want to have to choose between spending time with my son and cooking dinner. I don’t want to collapse into a chair and scroll through Instagram, instead of tackling the challenges in my life, because it’s the only thing that’s underwhelming and requires nothing of me.

Let’s talk about this. Let’s have a dialogue about how women are supposed to pull off the ever-growing, downright unrealistic, expectations of us as mothers, while also working out, eating well, and maintaining friendships. 

For me, for today, I’m just going to pick one thing and chip away at it, moment by moment, with quiet resolve, reminding myself that my childhood hero, Wonder Woman, was only as real as her invisible jet. Cuz that’s all I’ve got. The rest of the list can wait, neatly folded up and tucked into my back pocket, because it simply has to. I can’t be all things to all people, but I can be one thing in each moment, and through the powers of intention and mindfulness, I can do my damnedest to make those moments count for something.

-Angi

HYPNOBIRTHING - MY EXPERIENCE WITH PAIN FREE CHILD BIRTH.

My ear was starting to go numb, I should've hung up but kept telling myself it would just be another minute... until 20 more had passed. By the time a human came on, I was invested, and walking away empty-handed wasn't an option. My endgame was to cut financial corners, see how to lower the monthly premium on my health insurance plan. The only suggestion they offered was to nix my maternity coverage. My intuition said “bad idea,” but my mouth said “yes.” I did it. One month later, I was pregnant. Go figure.

At my first doctor visit, the receptionist told me it would be $400 per month to see the doctor, and then whatever the hospital costs were. If you have a healthy, uncomplicated birth, you're looking at ten thousand dollars, easy. Okay, cool, so maybe if I sell the baby on the black market, I can still afford to live after that.

I sat in the examination room awaiting the doctor, alone and naked beneath the thin gown, trying to steady the split back by sitting on it. Feeling more vulnerable than ever, like I was playing a part in someone else’s life, it was the first time I’d felt ashamed of my unplanned, illegitimate pregnancy. I chose to dress and leave before he even came to the room. Something felt off, and in that moment I honored my intuition.

Driving back to work, I could feel the tears forming a veil over my eyes, brain buzzing about how to pull this off. I could do it, maybe, but I was a self-employed hairstylist, I'd have to save money for maternity leave, I'd have to save money for the birth, and I'd have to pray that I could work until the day I delivered, returning four weeks later... if I wanted to have any clients left.

The entire thing sounded preposterous and centered around way too many “what ifs.” Amidst the tears, the word home birth floated in. I knew nothing about it. I'd entertained the idea, in years past, whenever I thought about a future family, but not really. Like, it had been a very fleeting notion that I'd never actually have pursued. My visions of it were Victorian in nature- a woman in a long white gown, damp with sweat, writhing around on a four-poster bed. Yet, in this moment, it offered total relief. I knew that it was my answer.

I got back to work and started Googling, calling the first midwife, the only midwife, I found. She sounded nice enough and said she could take me on. We met at my house the next evening, she arrived looking predictably granola- long gray braids with an apropos hippie name I’ve since forgotten, everything I’d pictured a midwife to be. She informed us that she had seven other women due the same week as we were. We shot each other WTF glances, and I questioned the almost certain probability that she would be unavailable during my labor. Her solution: my now husband, then boyfriend, would “just” birth the baby. Hell. No.

Once again crushed and despairing, we were at a loss. Sean had friends who'd done a homebirth, so he called their midwife. We’d had such a runaround, by this point I was five months along. It didn’t seem likely that she’d have space for us, but she agreed to meet, and by the grace of God, was willing to birth our son. Oh yeah, and she’s amazing, the perfect combination of free spiritedness, warmth, knowledge, and professionalism. And, we were the only ones due that time of the month.

She sat with me for an hour at every prenatal appointment, in her cozy office, adorned more like your grandmother’s special spare bedroom, made just for you, than an exam room. She answered questions and told me exactly what was going on with my pregnancy at each stage. She has a calm, maternal presence and a slow, reassuring voice. I felt safe.

I spent almost all of my spare time watching women have water births on YouTube, taking cues from each video. They're all devastatingly beautiful to witness, empowering. I wasn't afraid to birth at all, any shame I’d felt had passed. I was overwrought with excitement about personally witnessing the capacity of my own body, and of course, to meet the tiny human growing inside of me.

I had something called irritable uterus when pregnant. I’d get Braxton Hicks, to the tune of 30 per hour, from month five on. By the time I'm in labor, I don't know it until I'm dilated to 6cm. We called my midwife after realizing my water had broken and, two hours later, Sage arrived.

I wasn't as serene as all of the ethereal, European women in the videos I'd obsessed over, quietly catching their own babies beneath the water. It definitely wasn't a silent birth, as my father and sister remind me anytime the topic arises (they sat on the front porch waiting), but I also assumed it was going to last 10 hours, so I wasn't psychologically managing the pain. The water of the birthing pool brought immense relief, my body rolling weightlessly through each contraction. Birth was an experience I looked upon with awe, excited to try it again someday with my now first-hand knowledge of my own body and process.

It was no surprise that my second son’s labor was speedy as well, so it was peaceful, and the atmosphere more relaxed, but there was still pain, and there was still plenty of noise (again, per my father and sister, who waited in the next room).

By the time I was pregnant with my daughter, my beloved midwife had retired. We didn't trust anyone else and our finances dictated a hospital birth. The idea of not having water to labor in during a drug-free birth left me very uneasy, as did having to drive to the hospital while potentially in transition. I spent the pregnancy being anxious about the pain and envisioning pushing my baby out in the backseat of a Volvo. Do I cover the entire car in plastic? Do I just stay home and do it on my own? I pity all of my clients, friends, and family during those nine months. Uncertainty consumed me and no one escaped talk of my what ifs. I bought drop cloths and constructed my own home birth kit, complete with medical grade gloves, clamps, and scissors I’d finagled from nurse clients. I'd become delusional, and my husband was ready to commit me if he had to sit through another talk about all of the possible outcomes, especially the one where he played doctor.

During my doomsday planning, a friend sent me a book called “Hypnobirthing" (see link below article). God bless her. If I'd been a first-time mom, I'd have read it cover to cover and practiced all of the exercises. Instead, I did the bullet point version. It outlines how to have a pain free labor. I'll be honest, I didn't completely buy into it, but this whole no water to birth in thing had me desperate enough to give it a try.

The fundamentals are:

-Keep your jaw relaxed, with your teeth separated.

-Lay on your left side, don't make fists, and breath slowly.

-As you exhale, envision the breath moving your baby down the birth canal.

-Maintaining a relaxed body is imperative, as is slow steady breathing, like in yoga. The goal is to get yourself into an almost meditative state.

-Change your verbiage. Instead of pain, substitute “sensations.” Sometimes certain words signal reactions in the body. We’re conditioned by the personal definitions of our vocabularies.

When labor "sensations" started, I was likely at six centimeters. I scurried about the house cleaning and getting my boys ready, waiting for my dad to arrive so we could head to the hospital. Every minute I'd have to stop, get on all fours, contract, and then get up and continue about my business. There was definite pain, and I wasn't yet using any of the hypnobirthing techniques.

At some point, I dismissed myself to the car, having made peace with going to the hospital and telling myself we’d make it there in time. No doomsday prepping. No Dexter style drop cloths, just a towel and a pillow. I laid in the back, on my left side, and slowed my breath, relaxing every muscle, concentrating most on my jaw and hands. Immediately, the discomfort vanished. The tightening sensation of the contractions was present, but with focus, I managed them silently and painlessly. Soon, we were off, with ocean sounds playing and me, eyes closed, quietly breathing my daughter down the birth canal, channeling one of the tribal women I'd read about, leaned against a wall, preparing to push my baby out and head back to the fields to toil, child strapped to my body. Reminding myself what a basic fact of life birthing is and has been, for all of time, minimized not only the process but also the pain. We’ve blown the birthing process into epic proportions, thus increasing our fear factor. Most of our mothers birthed without epidurals and lived to tell about it.

Once at the hospital, we parked and ran, knowing she was almost ready. My husband’s face read like a book, prompting the nurse to check me immediately. Eight centimeters in and maintaining my side lying position, I continued to breathe and stay loose. Still no distress and no sound. When I hit nine, minutes later, my body forced pushing, willfully contracting for me, and I felt pain. I found myself gesturing my hands downward with each contraction, whispering the word "down" as if that act alone would bring her to me. They hurriedly wheeled us from triage to a birthing room, and within minutes, without any voluntary pushing, I felt the immense release and relief that only childbirth can offer, as nine months of weight and waiting slid out of my body, and precious Indigo was placed upon my chest. There aren't adequate words to express the array of emotions accompanying that moment. I can only muster joy, pride, liberation, relief, excitement, accomplishment, and unconditional love.

It wasn’t my most beautiful birth, because almost nothing can top the serenity of your own home, but it was by far the most empowering. I was able to witness, first hand, my own ability to dictate how I experience physical sensations. It's been a lesson that has influenced every aspect of my life. The brain has such immense power over the body. What we believe can alter our realities. This isn't something to take lightly. Natural childbirth may not be for everyone, it requires optimal health of mother and child, outside support, and faith in your own capacity, along with belief in the body’s ability to do what it was made for. Contextually, not everyone is in a place to work with that. A healthy baby is the desired outcome of any birth, no matter how it ultimately transpires. But, the knowledge that you have power over your reactions, even physically, is information to carry with you, no matter the situation. We always have more control and strength than we give ourselves credit for.

-Angi

THE LOOSE ENDS- Surrendering to Motherhood on a Wednesday Night.

I collapse into the smooth black leather Eames chair, the epitome of cool and comfort, bent plywood crafted into a squishy seat. I think this thing is so amazing, one of my kids shares a middle name with it. I can feel my body giving way to relaxation, as if bedtime granted voiceless permission. I notice the sensation of my breath for the first time all day, finally hearing my own thoughts, ginger chamomile tea in one hand and “You are a Badass” by Jen Sincero in the other. Heh, am I? Yeah... no, absolutely not. I've been trying to get through this thing for an unjustifiable amount of time, just like the other six books that are scattered throughout the house, adorning toilet lids, kitchen counter tops, pantry shelves, and nightstand drawers. They're everywhere, just in case the rare moment arises where I can indulge enough to open one.

And then it begins. I should've known my solution would crash and burn after two days of short lived successes. She’s crying. My muscles tense back up immediately, cortisol coursing through my veins.  It escalates quickly into shrill screams, “I waaaaant Mommmyyyyyyyyyyyy.” I decide I'm going to wait it out. I need this moment, and if I go upstairs, it's going to end with a toddler sleeping on my face, me in bed way too early, without any time to decompress from the constant parenting that just transpired all.day.long. I'll wake up exhausted, without any reserves to repeat the loop, patience lacking, quality parenting nonexistent.

My usual reaction to the onset of the tears is deep breathing and quiet acceptance, and sometimes she eventually succumbs to slumber. Otherwise, I kiss my husband goodnight, peacefully surrendering to motherhood, and make my way to bed without much complaint, not giving emotional energy to the sleepless night that lies ahead, reminding myself that this too shall pass. But, once or twice per year, I lose my shit.

Tonight is going to fall into that category. Sean is in his office, door closed, doing his buddy podcast. I've got the living room to myself, to act as irrational as I'd like, to be foul mouthed and full of lunacy. She's been screaming for 30 minutes now. It's clear that no one will be succumbing to anything tonight. I can feel the tension mounting, pity party assembling.

“What the f#%*k!” “Go to f#%*ing sleep!” “You're almost two years old!” I don't know who I'm yelling at, what I'm expecting from this solo, indulgent teenage-esque rant. Feeling ridiculous and completely aware of my absurdity, I continue, nonetheless. “Can’t I just get one kid that actually f#%*ing sleeps, just one!” I throw my hands up in the air, observing from the outside in, curious enough as to how far I'm going to take it, to allow more. “Eight years I've been dealing with this shit.” I halfway expect her to telepathically respond with silence. Foolishness, it doesn't happen.

Eight years of not sleeping for at least four of the seven nights per week. I'm starting to look haggard. Grey hairs and crows feet arrived with the third baby, seemingly overnight. My body broke its aging threshold after the second child, skin thinning as soon as he exited the birth canal. In my defense, all of my kids have sucked at sleeping, for the first three years of their lives, and as soon as I get one kinda doing their thing, I find myself knocked up again. I’m not cut out for co sleeping, except for the fact that I'm such a light sleeper, no one will dare get rolled over on, fall out of bed, or take a blanket to the face. But, I co sleep anyway, because I breastfeed long term, don't have consistent enough energy to sleep train well (due to said poor sleepers), and wallow in a guilty conscience.

It’s not all bad. The first 20 minutes are glorious, rife with snuggles and smooshy, pliable baby flesh… and then you want to sleep. Toddler co sleeping years are of a different breed. They still want to be on your person, simultaneously taking up all the prime real estate on the bed with the rest of their bodies, limbs strewn about, and there you are clinging to the edge, with a knee in your eye socket and toes in your mouth, wondering how you're going to survive 10 hours of this, because it's only 7 pm.

“Motherf#%*er!” “I can't believe this, I'm going to have to go to bed right now!” “Damnit, I just want to sleeeeeeep tonight.” “Whyyyy? What have I done to deserve this??”

We dismantled her crib three nights ago. I had a hairbrained idea that if we put her in the boys’ room, she'd fall asleep without crying for 45 minutes. My husband thought ill of it and via silent protest, just never took the crib apart. So, after weeks of waiting, I got out the hex wrench and started doing it myself, refusing his help, and assuming it would take 10-12 minutes, as I do for all projects. “We could take that wall out and realllly open up this space, in like 10 minutes.” “I'm going to paint the downstairs bathroom black, just give me like 10 minutes.” “Let's put reclaimed wood planks on the island in the kitchen. Should run us about 10 minutes.” I exaggerate of course, but not by much.

An hour and a half later, the very cute but very janky crib, crafted from pseudo lumber, has split in two spots. It's 8:30 pm, and we’re waiting for the wood glue to dry. My husband and I have had a shouting match over my idiocy and his selfishness. Things are going great. At 9:30 the circus is over, everyone is in their respective beds, and not a tear has been shed, other than by me. I go to sleep, silently triumphant, feeling justified for my transgressions, because it worked. The next night, it worked again. That catches us up to tonight and me aimlessly cussing at the coffee table like a drunken sailor, ten rums in, and looking to brawl.

I'm not going to tie this one up with a pretty bow. It won't be coming full circle with a parenting lesson at the end.

I make my way up the stairs, looking longingly over my shoulder at the empty chair, seat still taking the shape of my body, abandoned tea on the side table, and relinquish whatever badassery I thought I was going to pull off tonight. Cuz, she wants her mommy. I pull her from the crib, the crying ends so instantaneously, it's as if a switch has been flipped. All that remains are the sporadic heaves and huffs as her body recovers from the complete giving over of itself to a tantrum, not unsimilar to that of her mother’s tantrum moments earlier, both of us wrought with desperation, to different ends.

Her body pressed against mine, arms wrapped around me, I feel my resentment melting, the sweet smell of her hair infiltrating my nostrils, softening me further. We make our way to the bed, and she nestles on top of me, her position of choice since infancy. I gently rub her tiny back and fumble with a ringlet, caving to the moment, softly whispering “it's okay baby, Mommy’s here,” over and over again until she falls asleep.

-Angi

LIVING UNDER A FALLING SKY- The toll of social anxiety.

It hit me like an anvil, without warning. I was a typical 15 year old, in the midst of enjoying football games and sleepovers, and playing on the JV soccer team. My high school years are both foggy and painfully sharp. Every hour of every school day was spent with my heart racing, one cheek to the desk at all times, in an effort to cool the heat radiating from within, alternating cheeks, depending upon who was sitting on either side of me, head down, in hopes of going unnoticed.

The fear of being called upon was more than enough to incite the blood flow. And then, when it actually would happen, the reaction was so extreme, everyone had to look, trying to reason how someone could turn that red without an implosion. It was so physically painful, by the end of the school day, my body was exhausted and my head throbbing, all I could muster was sleep. The stress my body and mind endured is now incomprehensible to me.  

Erythrophobia, also known as a “fear of blushing,” not to be mistaken with social anxiety, this is an actual extreme social phobia. The fear is self perpetuating- the more one anticipates blushing, the more it will manifest. Eventually, the relation of time between thought and physiological response becomes non existent. Every minute of each day, year after year, it occurred in all situations involving any other human who would witness the rush of blood and inherent shame that traveled together, like old war buddies.

For years, it seemed the only logical answer was to never leave the safety of home. Or to die. Literally, two options. Then there is the rare and extremely irrational option that I elected- get knocked up and have a cute baby, so everyone will look at said baby instead of me. A distraction, a diversion- yes, that’s the answer. Never mind the stares and whispers I’d have to endure as a pregnant teen. This logic suggests just how desperate the situation was for me. Depression and anxiety had robbed me of clear thought processes and a level head. And, so it was, the answer to all my worries- Cassidy, born on the fourth of February, 1997, the second semester of my senior year.  

It was a lonely place, and social anxiety wasn’t yet the overused, common household term that it is today. Teenage depression was thought of as grunge era angst, trendy and fabricated. Flannel and sadness, for looks.  

I was semi comfortable in my skin when outdoors, free from the confines of my classroom/ pseudo jail cell. I lived for those few hours in the day I spent alone in my room, where I was safe from the endless pairs of eyes and the possibility that they may glance in my direction.   

Time passed and the nightmare of high school faded. Teenage love, that promised a lifetime of thrills, gave way to heartbreak and addiction. The hopes and dreams I didn’t know I had all came to life for me one day, hinged on a unheard of, brand new pharmaceutical entity, advertised and gobbled up by people looking for an escape from the angst that is anxiety. Paxil was fresh on the market. Until this point, how to give a voice to my struggles eluded me. But there he was, that red faced, sweaty, shaking little cartoon, hiding behind furniture, while the voice over asked viewers questions that shook my soul.

“Do you feel like everyone is looking at you when you walk into a room?”

“Do you search for the nearest exit?”

“Does the thought of speaking in public make you contemplate suicide?”

“Does your heart feel as though it may fall out of your ass?”

Undeniably, yes. How was it possible? All this time, I’d never spoken to anyone of what I’d experienced, and there he was, an animated oval, bouncing on the TV screen, spilling my innermost secrets, during the prime time viewing hour.  This was my answer. This was my new faith. This little pill would put to death every monster I’d been running from for the last six years. I was 21 now, armed with a prescription for synthetic confidence, and nothing was going to get in my way.

I could pen a generic autobiography about the life of a single mother party animal from this point. I will spare you the details of my parenting failures and just tell you that my daughter has grown to be an amazing young woman, in spite of my selfishness (thanks Gram and Pop). I will tell you I relied solely on a medication that I knew little about and consequently became indifferent to the poor choices I made. The only regrets I have are in relation to those I hurt.

I’ve been free of any anti anxiety/anti depressants for eight years. The withdrawals from an SSRI are a nightmare in and of itself, which speaks to how much of a mind altering effect they can have. I empathize with people who truly need them to function, but useage doesn’t come without a price. I can say discontinuing my daily dose, after nine years, was like waking up from a state of semi consciousness. I do okay without medication. I initiate friendships, I do lunch dates, preferably on a patio, and as of this last year, I let my clients face the mirror while styling their hair, so they could actually see me during our conversations. I’ll probably never opt to speak in public, but I’m okay with the that.   

I was recently chatting with my sister and teenage niece, while the kids played on the living room floor. The topic of feeling anxious in front of an audience came up, as she regularly sings on stage. I decided to briefly share my experience with her. For the first time ever, I told someone, face to face, that I had a very real, life altering, fear of blushing. Of course, the mere thought of it brought the fire. She chuckled nervously. I forced myself to sit through the discomfort and face the shame that once upended my life, aside from a quick glance in the mirror to see what I’d really been hiding from all this time.

To my surprise, it was just me, I was still me. Blood vessels inflamed, but still me.

We continued our conversation, and what once would’ve sent me into a tailspin, was just a fleeting moment. The shame of feeling ashamed was gone.  

I’ll never understand why I got stuck and fixated on the fear of a flushed face. I could do some more mental laps, lose more sleep, and probably never produce a solid conclusion. Or, maybe I’ll wave goodbye to the fear that once determined how I perceived myself, let it slip away in that rear view mirror and just be proud of the girl who’s had to figure out how to face the world.

With my cranium and sense of self intact, I walked out the door a little bit taller that day.  The sun shone bright, and for the first time in years, the warmth of my cheeks was a sensation I welcomed. My face was hot as it bared the sun, but I was no longer dodging fragmented pieces of a falling sky.

-Shelley