KJM Photographic “Ft Langley Church Pews”

My guilt has overwhelmed me
   like a burden too heavy to bear.

My wounds fester and are loathsome
   because of my sinful folly.
I am bowed down and brought very low;
   all day long I go about mourning.
My back is filled with searing pain;
   there is no health in my body.
I am feeble and utterly crushed;
   I groan in anguish of heart.

All my longings lie open before you, O Lord;
   my sighing is not hidden from you.
My heart pounds, my strength fails me;
   even the light has gone from my eyes.
My friends and companions avoid me because
         of my wounds;
   my neighbours stay far away. 

O LORD, do not forsake me;
   be not far from me, O my God.
Come quickly to help me,
   O Lord my Saviour.

- Psalm 38: 4-11, 21-22

Honesty.

Raw Emotion.

Frustration. Anxiety. Depression. Anger. Grief.

Misunderstood.

Last night I had a brief chat with a fellow mom of children who have Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder.  We were chatting about Ann Voskamp’s blog post yesterday, about anxiety, and how real, honest, raw, negative feelings are often left out of our Facebook statuses, our Tweets, our super-spiritual and “inspirational” blog posts.

It made me think about how I think about bloggers. “If they were in my shoes, they certainly would not be that poetic, or take so many beautiful pictures.” They wouldn’t have time. And, seriously, how does ANYONE have time to take beautiful pictures, compose prolific prose, make bread from scratch AND homeschool SIX children?

I think as much as I like communicating this way (I never was good with oral words, and although I’m not great at written, I quite need to have some kind of outlet while up in my, well, turret), I feel inadequate if I’m not praising the Lord every minute. And when my fellow FASD mom said “everything gets all tied up neatly, morally” I so related. Like I should have the answers by the end of my post. I don’t. I can’t. And, if I think I do – it wouldn’t be RIGHT for you – or necessarily right for me tomorrow.

And, I know that feelings aren’t always TRUE, but they are what we HAVE to interpret our world with, it is how we go forward, our thinking is shaped, even if we have misunderstood and have to go back to re-interpret – we act on how we feel.

And King David felt like this often enough to write songs about it, I think it is okay for me to feel that way too. And not have everything wrapped up in a neat grosgrain ribbon with a twig of pussy willow tucked neatly inside.

So, today, I’m going to be honest.

I HATE being in bed all the time. I love my bed. I love spending as much time as I CAN in my bed, but being stuck here for the last 3+ months (with at least another 2 to go) I’m pretty miserable. I’m angry. I’m grieving the lack of control over my home, my children, even the state of my bathroom shower.

I cannot pick up my kids and give them twirls. I cannot enforce the rules (all I CAN do is yell from bed). Sometimes I cannot even allow them to be in bed with me because of my pain and their wiggles.

I cannot pull my own coffee. I cannot fix my own snacks. I don’t have a clue what is in the fridge or pantry.

There is a rat (or more) getting into our van. A plate of beautiful cookies from my son’s teacher was forgotten in the garage – we are NEVER going to get rid of the rats. And, Dear Husband has had to rip the van apart over and over again to clean/sanitize it. It makes me sick. His ENTIRE spine and neck are fused, his wrists are fused, his shoulders are fusing and he’s having to clean the van by himself. Dear Husband and Mother-In-Love extraordinaire have cleaned the garage (a few times) but they are STILL there, un-detained by even traps that have been set off (a rat took off with one). The rats who led us to a $1500 van repair in December. Fifteen hundred dollars we DO NOT HAVE.

I cannot pinch pennies from bed. I just watch all the credit cards draw ever nearer to their max. I grow resentful that we have to hire people to clean our house and care for our children and they cannot do it the way I do it. Nor should they, but I am overwhelmed with grief of not being a homemaker or a mommy right now.

Can you see my tears?

I’ve been focusing my public writing on the Divine entering into this pit of despair I feel. And, yes, it comes, but I struggle every single day (sometimes I never grab sight of the Divine).

My son is too physical, too angry, his self-esteem is broken. He has attachment issues. He thinks he is stupid. My daughter objectifies herself by making herself beautiful – but doesn’t have the self-esteem necessary to assert herself – to not give into peer pressure. My fears for her, my anxiety over her because of my own failings in that realm, fill me with frustration and anger because I am at a loss as how to talk to her about it without becoming TOO passionate. Another daughter is so head strong that it’s all a matter of bribery with her. If she WANTS to do something, she does it beautifully (compulsively) but if it’s against what she wants – her impulsivity quickly turns into a violent rage. And the youngest – stubborn, refuses to potty train, hurts people for fun, knows she is cute.

My heart is pounding.

The worst of this? The hardest thing to admit?

As soon as the adoption papers were signed, I was CONTENT. I had my “forever family.” A couple days later I hurt my hip – somehow, even using precautions that should NOT have been necessary for TWO INFERTILE people with timing that SHOULD NOT have been able to produce a child – we became pregnant. I was content. Then I was sick, in physical pain and not able to take anti-inflammatories. I had given ALL of my baby stuff away. ALL OF IT. I was DONE. I wasn’t even going to foster babies anymore. I was ready to move on to the next stage of my life. Looking forward to the day all the kids were in school and I could start to use my brain again (instead of fighting for every clear thought).

I was shocked to learn I was pregnant. And then complications started piling up, and injuries – and I don’t UNDERSTAND why I am here in this mess. And I am excited about a new baby – but I am TERRIFIED of the birth, terrified of a Cesarean of a vaginal birth (with my torn pubic symphysis). I don’t know when I’ll be able to WALK after the baby is born. I don’t know if we’ll get financial help after the baby is born. I don’t know if I’ll need surgery for the symphysis or a hysterectomy or what. I’m scared. Terrified.

And how will I be a mother of FIVE children? I couldn’t maintain a household (or a budget) when it was just me, then I couldn’t when there was just Dear Husband and I. And now we will have FIVE children in a ONE income household. And do you know what the rents are in the Vancouver BC area? Any CLUE?!?

And only one of my diagnosed children receives any child disability benefits. And, of course, that child is the one with the least behavioural issues and is fairing WELL at school.

I cannot drive.

I cannot just run to Staples to pick up accordion files for starting this year’s bookkeeping OR organizing last years medical receipts (gluten-free means keeping track of how many loaves of GF bread and other GF foods are  purchased that the GF people in the house use – it doesn’t count that we have to keep the whole house GF of course). And, because we often use lettuce or apples instead of tortillas or crackers – it’s not like we get what it REALLY costs us as a tax break. I cannot grab a coffee with a friend. I tried to meander down the grocery aisles the other day with the nanny – it was “fun” but I suffered in pain for days after. And it was only for about 30 minutes.

And this snow (that I love to look at) is causing problems for help coming in, and it makes me want to cry. And I forgot to ask if someone could take my son to hockey today and he missed a game and a practice on Sunday because of the icy conditions (kind of ironic, I know). I can’t go out and play with the kids. I can’t walk them to school. Or pick them up. Or talk to their teachers. I’m OUT of the loop. Like I’m not really necessary. Like I’m really just a burden to everyone else. I want to BE and DO again.

SO, I really do FEEL. I am not Pollyanna (even if it’s Papa John’s favourite movie and I wish I was more Pollyanna-ish).

I am lonely up here in my turret. I want chocolate chip cookies. I want to go for a drive along the beach and browse a bookstore. I really want to go to Pottery Barn Kids and IKEA. Vacuum my bedroom. I feel the nesting urge – but sitting on the floor for 15 minutes going through a bin of “out grown/summer” clothes will have me on pain killers for the rest of the day, on my side, grumpy.

SO, how appropriate that as I finished this, ironic, maybe “just so happens” even though I titled this before I started writing – my iPod (the U2 one from years ago) just played “40.” Hmmm.

I know he will rescue. I know that this anger, fear, grief will not take hold of me forever. That there will be answers. That the mud will be washed off.

But for now, it hurts. Its lonely. And even dark chocolate and peppermint mochas and yellow tulips aren’t really making a difference.