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

EMPATHY AND CARPE DIEM.

My youth was once a pleasurable state that I couldn’t imagine not having: firm butt cheeks, righteous displays of self-centeredness, cute boobs, unclaimed ownership to a world of messes that I didn’t make and had no responsibility to fix, smaller pores ... you get the point. Being young is a pinnacle of robust time, where the world seems to celebrate you or envy you, both are desirable. And, in retrospect, I fully enjoyed it all while completely wasting it. But that’s okay, I couldn’t have known then what I know now (cue Rod Stewart).

Life is becoming increasingly valuable to me. There is a word for this. I learned it a couple of years ago while sitting in a psychology class that I wouldn’t have given two shits about when I was a teenager. Generativity is “a need to nurture and guide younger people and contribute to the next generation.” This feeling extends to people outside of the immediate family, and according to this savvy guy Erikson, begins at about age forty.  

I think, for some, this growing obligation to the world at large stems from becoming a parent. There is a crazy amount of empathy that runs through our veins on any given day when we are doing normal mom stuff. We’ve already cried over long-division, had our first crushes dis us, been mortified over wetting the bed, or frustrated by an elusive pair of shoes that always disappears. Kid problems. How often do we check back in with the little person we once were, to help our own children navigate their current feelings? Everyday. Aaaand ... sometimes not at all.

The flip side of being a selfless, lifter-upper of dashed children’s hopes is when you are being an exhausted, overworked, time restrained, probation officer of children who, for the love of all things holy, cannot make decent choices on their own, and you slam the uncleared breakfast dishes into the sink like the Hulk and cry over your lost liberty as a human who once didn’t have to bend over backwards to make the world go round. Crazy as it sounds, in this outlandish moment, you may feel brief empathy for someone else entirely; the person who raised you. It's an angsty empathy, but nonetheless, you might come across the vague feeling that you once caused someone this much grief. In that moment, as you hover over the past, an understanding hits you in the face, and you call your mom and tell her you love her.

Generativity had me at 25 and pregnant. The thought of being a mom was like whoa, and the only thing to do was know more, and not a minute too soon because Haven came out of the womb asking questions. In her articulate, tiny voice, “Mommy, what’s rainbows doin’? What’s waterfalls doin’? What’s ladybugs doin’?..." Her way of asking me to explain the world. She relentlessly (and thankfully) made me the way that I am. The great pursuit of knowing things has led me to fall helplessly in love with the people of this world.  

I hope that the full force of my generativity will unfurl like a superpower when I hit forty. I have an insatiable appetite to learn all the things, and then tweak the recipe for knowledge into something palpable for a generation of humans who were just like me and couldn’t see the delicious world spread before them like a buffet of empowering ideas. (Really dedicated to this eating theme) I hope to serve some food for thought to starving minds. That sounds like a pretentious thing to say, but who cares. It feels like it might be a calling, and a really loud one. My family is making sacrifices to allow me to continue going to school. And, it’s time consuming and challenging as fuuuuuck. And, every step of the way I am envisioning how I will share what I have learned.

The biggest detractor in my quest to learn is that tangled trap, the inter-web, the time suck of all time sucks. I go to check a message on my phone and lo and behold there is a brief pause when the kids don’t need me.  Suddenly, I am filling that vacant moment in between servitude and support, scrolling through beautiful pictures of other people’s lives on the internet. And then damn! There is no time left to do that thing that you had hoped to do, that elusive “filling of the cup” that you keep reading about. Nope.  Someone has just barfed in the hallway, and there are no clean towels, and you just burned the pancakes. Go.

This last week I was graced with the presence of my brilliant Aunt Judy. She is a fifth grade teacher, whose class uses iPads for a majority of their work. She related the time we spend on media to a progression of stages:

Scrolling through pics on Instagram, trolling comments on Facebook, feasting your eyes on a lovely Pinterest, or getting riled up over a tweet; these are all step one- ‘input’. How many hours a day do I spend inputting an activity that is ultimately mindless?

Step two is to ‘process’- to critique or analyze what our eyes have glazed over looking at. If there isn’t anything to contemplate about step one, get out of there! It’s a trap! I kid, but seriously, keep this leisure activity to a minimum. Asking questions about the content we give our time to is vital.

And finally, there is step three- ‘output’: turning all that thinking into something, choosing a cause, a conversation, a manifestation original to your own self. Think Henry David Thoreau here, “The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.”  

As a mom, it’s superfluous to say there is just too much to do. The tiny blips of free time that we carve out for ourselves have got to be used to serve us. Back in 2009, just after I had birthed my third baby, I was engulfed by the social media of MySpace. I felt seen, finally. All this selfless, lonely motherhood stuff, could be acknowledged and commented on. I could express myself to people while wearing pajamas I had been comfortable in for three days straight, crusted breast milk down the front, and my hair a greasy mess, but who cares?! I was beautiful in that pic I just posted. But, I felt like shity-ass MySpace was stealing every little break I got. And, by the end of the year, I had erased it and bought a ukulele.

In a couple of days, I could play three chords and sing along. Proud singer and song-writer, these are the lyrics to that first jam:

Screw you MySpace

I can play the uke

And still have time

For the Bo and Duke

Practice when they’re sleeping

And early in the morn

Not much time for Mama

When the babes are born

Screw you MySpace

I can play the Uke

And still have time for the Bo and Duke.

I have continued playing this song like an anthem when I need courage to pursue the things I love.  Our lives are worth leading. We are doing a favor to future people, by cultivating our passions. Only then will we have the ability to set little fires under the tiny asses of future generations.

-Emily

CONQUERING THE FEAR OF LOSING CONTROL.

In order to reach a more diverse range of individuals as a therapist, facilitating healing- emotionally, physically, and spiritually, earlier this year I made the decision to work towards my 200 hour Yoga Teacher Training Certification. In one of the first blogs I wrote for Mindful+Mama, I discussed a few of my insecurities about this endeavor. After facing my reservations, I felt ecstatic about my future journey.

My husband, who has been extremely supportive of my venture, encouraged me to complete my training in India. Immediately, I explored all of my options and found what I believe to be the place I am destined to have this learning experience.

I try not to have expectations, good or bad, but find myself fantasizing about all of the amazing possibilities. Picture Eat, Pray, Love, morphed into my version- Eat, Pray, Yoga, minus the divorce and the love affair with pizza.  As I get closer to my impending departure, my fantasies are turning into nightmares, and I sense that familiar feeling creeping in- FEAR.

F-E-A-R, even spelling it out feels scary. I’m starting to imagine everything that could go wrong, all of my shortcomings, and all of the breakdowns I assume I’ll have as I miss my family. I have never been alone, never has there been a time when I’ve been without my people for more than a day. I can get over the feelings of anxiety about leading my first yoga class or failing a few times before I get it right, but I cannot seem to shake this FEAR of leaving my family.

It comforts me to know that we will all be in India. My husband and children will be with his family, eight hours from my training retreat. It will be an extensive three week course, from 6:30 am to 7:30 pm, six days per week. Communication will be limited and brief, and I won’t have the physical presence of love that my children and husband provide in times of need.

I have absolute trust in my husband, but I won’t be around to control, err, I mean take care of my children. I continue to imagine every possible disaster, things beyond my control, me not there to rescue them. I know it sounds heady and irrational, but it’s so real in the moment, and leaves me entertaining the idea of quitting altogether, not wanting to face my FEAR, dressing avoidance up in socially acceptable clothes.

I know I’m not the only mama that feels this way. So many women don’t want to leave their children, because of anxiety about a lack of control, FEAR of the what ifs. The truth that we all know to be, but have difficulty remembering in the moment, is that whatever is bound to happen will, whether we are present or not. Our mind tells us to use our rational thoughts, but our emotions sing a different, scarier tune. In times when FEAR feels like it is paralyzing me, I fall back on the following:

1. The saying F.E.A.R. can have two meanings- Face Everything and Run or Face Everything and Rise. I always want to choose the latter, not allowing FEAR to stop me from my potential, my destiny. I don’t want to look back and think of what could have been, because I am too caught up in the what ifs.

2. Your Intention- My intention is to grow, in turn helping others to become healthier, even though being away from my family is part of the deal. The more fulfilled you are, the more effective you are. Like my friend and Mindful+Mama co- blogger, Emily, stated in her post “Road Trip Part One,”                                

       “I promised not to waste the gift that my family was giving to me with this trip. My family invested in me, and I returned to them a more complete person, ready to resolve disputes, slice apples, hose off muddy feet, and be loved by my favorite people in the world.”

3. FEAR is a natural response- FEAR is biological and emotional. FEAR has helped us to survive as a species and is a normal human feeling. Lean into the discomfort, as Brené Brown says. If you try to push down your FEAR and not face it, inevitability it will control you. Grant yourself grace, allowing the sensation of FEAR and the discomfort that goes alongside it. I saw a quote the other day, and it said, “Sometimes the FEAR won’t go away, so you will have to do it afraid.”

4. Stop being a control freak- I think every mom can relate to this one. We tell our husbands to give the kids a bath and proceed to dole out a verbal step-by-step guide. Or, we complain that they don’t take the lead with the children enough, then badger them and kill future willingness to try anything-ever-again. Letting go of control, whether we are with them or without them, serves everyone well. We need to have faith that things will go well, knowing we cannot control every outcome, good or bad, for our families. The only things we truly have power over are our reactions to the occurrences in our lives.

I have faced my FEARS before and risen each time. I will let go and lean into my discomfort, into my destiny, journeying towards my life’s purpose.

-Nayantara

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