Symptomatic

When I was a little girl, before puberty, I dreamed of a wedding someday. As many little girls do, I went through periods of dreaming of marrying a prince. I dreamt of a movie-type romantic love.  I dreamt of being a mommy someday.  

When I hit puberty, I still had these dreams, but they were tainted with fear and worry. As many girls do, I suffered from self-esteem issues related to my appearance. I worried people thought I was ugly and fat. 

But, I also had added worries, and they haunted me for years. Well, they still haunt me sometimes. 

As most teens encounter, I began developing some acne. I felt so gross, because nothing seemed to help clear it up. I was sure people thought I was crazy hideous.

Next came a change on my arms. I started noticing the hair on my arms was darker and thicker than it once was. I thought maybe I was part man. It sounds stupid, but I had nightmares. I tried shaving my arms a couple times, but felt it worthless because it would just grow back, quickly, dark and coarse. I resigned to wearing long sleeves as much of the year as possible and just cry about it. I was certain I was a freak. And I was pretty convinced no one would ever think I was pretty.

And then toward my 20s, I started gaining weight. I wasn't really any less active in college than in high school. In fact, I would argue I was more so, walking campuses constantly, for example. But it didn't seem to help.

However, by the time the weight gain had started, I had met a new friend. His name was Jake. I thought he was pretty good looking. I had a crush on him I his from myself, or tried to ignore, for over a year. I met him in 2001, and the crush started a few months later when he caught a ride with his best friend and surprised me for my 18th birthday party, having traveled hours to get there. He wrote the sweetest, longest message in my birthday card (I still have it), and after, we emailed, talked on the phone for hours, wrote letters, and visited as much as possible. He would drive five hours to come see me for one night. He would kidnap me for a weekend. 

I just never imagined he could love me. I was too nerdy. Awkward, ugly.

But, in the fall of 2002, as I lay on my dorm room bed, he told me "I love you, Nicole." And I confessed that I had fallen in love with him, too.

It was surreal. There have been countless times since then where I have doubted him. Not necessarily his love, but his attraction to me, and whether or not I could believe if he said I looked great, or was beautiful, or sexy. And I would doubt whether or not he could just honestly love someone he wasn't really attracted to.

I love myself. I've gotten there, by the grace of God and support from family and friends. I do. But I still suffer from self-esteem issues. Especially from the symptoms of PCOS that I suffer. These things that haunted me since puberty, made me question if I was really a woman (or if maybe at birth my parents just decided to raise me as a girl). These things I didn't understand until college when I researched them more, and after college when I was diagnosed with PCOS after we began trying for a family. (Oh, I married Jake, in case you're new to my blog).

These symptoms cause me the most self-doubt and negative thoughts when  meeting new people for the first time. At job interviews. Around groups of kids. I still opt for long sleeves if the weather allows it. I try not to show my arms or full body in photos, if I can help it. Kids, as blunt as they are, sometimes ask me about my arms, or if I'm part werewolf. (Depending on the kid, sometimes I say yes, and they think that's so awesome.) I worry that one day my kids will get made fun of because their mom looks like a gorilla. Or is hairier than their dad.

I worry that the first things everyone notices about me when they see me in person is that my arms are hairy, my skin isn't clear, and I'm pudgy. I worry they are embarrassed to be seen with me. I hate it. But I am pretty good at hiding my dear and carrying on. 

Last night, I took this self-portrait for my August Moms group, because someone asked the pregnant mommas to show off. I was in a hurry and not paying a lot of attention, and uploaded it without "proofing" it to hide my flaws- those ugly symptomatic arms especially. In my caption, I apologized-ish for showing my gorilla-esque arms because they're unsightly and embarrassing.

And one momma replied she hadn't even noticed until I said something.

And this morning, she reminded me that there are some people who see me as beautiful, for whatever reason, or who don't see what I see in the symptoms that cause me so much self-doubt. She reminded me that my husband thinks I'm beautiful, and attractive, even if I don't see it. He even told me I was last night (or it may have been the night before). 

It reminded me that some people really like me for me.

On my blog, I sometimes wrote serious topics. I write for me, but also on behalf of the countless others who may relate but not be able to express.

I cherish every comment my blog receives. If you wish to comment, but prefer anonymity, you may comment that way. If you need someone to talk to, but don't feel comfortable commenting here, you can reach me at Nicole.m.worthley[at]gmail[dot]com

Blessings!

It's not that I'm brave.

I've been told in the past that I'm a great writer, too good a writer, or brave for writing. 

My own husband, today, sent me this:

I laugh now as I read that he says "you know it."  Pfft. I would argue I'm your common, every day blogger, just typing it out as it comes.

I digress (big shock, I know).

I posted last time about the paradoxical feelings of being joyfully, miraculously pregnant while you have dear friends suffering a loss. 

I recieved this comment:

It was written by a dear friend, one I admire and respect, who inspires me to be a great, God-loving mommy to my own boys, both by her blog and in real life. When I read it, I smiled, feeling, honestly, a bit of self-esteem boost, knowing she was willing to publicly say such a thing to me. Especially because I don't see myself as brave.

On Facebook today, I saw this:

I was totally not expecting to see it. I had completely forgotten I had given permission for them to use that letter. It can be read on their blog here:

http://elegantmommysiouxfalls.blogspot.com/2013/09/to-my-angel-baby.html

A few friends, my husband, and I began discussing it. And the topic of "bravery in my blogging" came up. 

"I just feel like... I've been there, maybe you have, maybe you are, maybe you will be, but it won't be alone, because I've been there too. So don't be ashamed."

I write my life. I write about things I've either been through, am going through, or am passionate about. I have receive comments occasionally, not often, but I have thousands of views for the blog and sometimes hundreds of views on posts. I rarely look at my stars, because they just don't really matter. I'm not pleading for comments, though, admittedly, I love them.

But it's just not really about that. 

Today, I told my friends, that I just love when people are willing to openly tell me (via comment, email, or Facebook message, whichever is their comfort level)  that they relate to what I wrote about. I realized after I said it, it could come off a bit conceited, but that's not what I meant. I meant it in that "I just feel like... I've been there, maybe you have, maybe you are, maybe you will be, but it won't be alone, because I've been there too. So don't be ashamed." 

I mean it in that I believe it is important to know YOU are not alone.

I don't so much care about me. I know realistically I am not alone, but not everyone knows that. I've gotten comments before reflecting the sentiment that for the first time, after reading about my experience, they felt they weren't alone anymore.

That's what it's about when I blog intense subjects.

My friends pointed out that some of the things I write about are still a bit "taboo" to some social circles and media sites. Lots of people do not want to acknowledge them. 

I write about infertility and pregnancy loss a bit. Because I've been there. Because I KNOW others struggle and might not feel they have support or someone who understands.

But, sadly, most of the time, society and social media wants to brush these subjects under the table.

I'm here to say I think that is absolutely preposterous. There is NO reason that a woman (or a couple) should be made to feel ashamed for something they are already heartbroken about. 

So, I guess, if that makes me brave, so be it. 

If you are someone needing to reach out, feel free to comment below. It can be anonymously, or if you feel more comfortable, my email is nicole.m.worthley[at]gmail[dot]com

Peace to you all.

Conflicted

 

It is absolutely heart-wrenching to suffer with infertility. To try, to battle, to lose month after month, while friends and family around you bring new life into their families. It's crushing to hear people say "we weren't even trying!" or "we got pregnant the first try!" when you live, day in and day out, in the agony and turmoil that infertility brings.

I know. I've been there.

It's so incredibly hard to lose a baby. It takes your breath away. It makes your uterus ache with emptiness, and your arms ache with loneliness. The hot if a positive pregnancy test shattered and stomped on with the absence of the heartbeat that was once in your womb. The constant ticking of the clock that no longer brings you closer to the joyous birth of your miracle. 

I know. I've been there.

When I went through those dark journeys, I did so openly, not caring that there would be (and there were) judgements and ridicule, shame and condemnation, for choosing the level of openness that I did. I knew that if I held it inside, seemingly to hold it all together, my hope and my spirit would crumble quickly. (You can read about my journeys here on this blog.) 

I've been blessed now with four pregnancies, and the births of two sons.

And in this fourth pregnancy, I find myself on the opposite side of the some of the darkest of journeys motherhood, or the pursuit of motherhood, can bring.

This time, I've been the one to openly confess that, despite years of infertility battles, we conceived without trying. 

I feel like I should be over the top overwhelmed with pure joy in this miracle that we never imagined would come naturally. And yet... 

I've been conflicted, openly, from the beginning, mostly regarding the timing of this new miracle.

However, there's more to it.

This time, I'm the one with the baby growing inside of me, while multiple friends that I love so dearly, struggle through the darkness of infertility, miscarriage, or the sheer longing to be a mother but the inability to be one due to various other life circumstances.

When I was going through the battles and the loss, as I said, the pregnancy announcements and births were quite a paradox. There was the incredible joy I felt for those I care for, but also the sharp stabbing pain in my own heart and hope. Jealousy, anger, despair- they are miserable and lonely emotions. You feel ashamed beyond description to feel the negative side while also the joy for them. You find yourself either distancing or trying to overcompensate by being extra interested. Not always, but sometimes. I've done both to various extremes. 

You try so hard to discount your negative feelings, because you think they shouldn't be there.

I say, embrace them. Explore them enough so you can understand them. Then, pick up the pieces of your broken heart, and try to heal. Somehow.

I don't have the magic answer. For me, it was being surrounded by support. Love. Empathy and encouragement. Understanding. Compassion. Prayer. Blogging.

It may take years, but I believe you can heal.

But, I digress.

I'm learning about the other side, as I said. I'm now the one who, God willing, will be delivering a baby in April. I have multiple friends due to welcome new life into their families around the same time.

But, I also have a few friends who were supposed to join. That's what their pregnancy tests confirmed. That's the joy they've embraced so fully, dreamed about, and maybe even shared with the world. And suddenly, as happened to me, the dream was shattered. They've empty wombs and broken hearts. And, no matter how much I portray I understand, I'm now a living, breathing reminder that they lost their child.

I am sure it was so with the previous pregnancies, though I cannot say with the certainty that I can this time around.

And, while I'm reveling in my miracle, my heart breaks for my beloved friends. Perhaps they need to distance themselves from me because just the sound of my name brings them to tears. Or, perhaps they've reached out for my comforting ear and empathy.

Either way, I cry. When I cannot sleep, and I feel the early flutters of this life I side me, I often find myself praying for these amazing women. Tears well up in my eyes, and my throat constricts with intense sorrow. 

I feel ashamed. I feel embarrassed. I want to withhold my joy and be private about this miracle. I want to take back my pregnancy announcement so we can be as we once were.

But I can't.

 It kills me inside every time I want to share, but feel incredibly rude in doing so. But, I know also that it's no good for friendships to deny my joy either. It seems the unselfish thing to do, but it doesn't necessarily mean its the right approach. 

It isn't my "fault" that I am pregnant, just as it isn't their "fault" that they no longer are. One of my dear friends said that to me recently, while we discussed how her loss and my sustained (this far) pregnancy affected us. 

But then, what can I do? I don't want to be the salt in the wounds that have not healed. 

I pray for them, knowing that I cannot heal them on my own, but that my God can. And, I pray it happens sooner than later. I pray they can embrace their sorrow, and hope for the joy that will come again someday.

And I miss them. 

I'm not sure I've made a concise point, but I'm hoping that my thoughts, which help me process, reach those out there that need it.

Love to you all.

Note: while I cherish all blog comments, I understand sometimes it is scary to put your feelings out there. You are able to respond anonymously, but if you are wanting someone to talk to, feel free to send me an email at Nicole.m.worthley[at]gmail[dot]com

Points are Overrated

Points are overrated right? Sometimes? Like... A pointy edge of your fingernail that catches and snags a sweater, or... Uh...

Yeah. Well, some are.

So, straight up, I wanted to blog. But, I don't really have anything that I would seem to be meaningful to write about. But, my sister and I have been slowly working through the seasons of HouseM.D. and the episode we just started is about a chick who blogs pretty much everything, which sparked my interest in writing.

I miss Wendell. Lots and lots.

Last blog I wrote was an important one. And the one before it. Read that if you'd like.  I think I'm finally fully grasping the reality of it, and now starting to practically prepare. Well, as much as one can this early. 

At work, they know I'm pregnant, so they are now working with me to keep me safe and not alone with the most agressive or violent kids. It feels a little embarrassing, but I know it's a blessing.

Pancakes are awesome. We need to go grocery shopping (real soon), but fortunately pancakes exist. Yesterday, my sister and I decided on apple cinnamon pancakes for lunch. Today, we had coconut pancakes for lunch. Yumm-o!

I've become an exceptionally enticing jungle-gym to the boys. I swear, 94% of my day is spent with them climbing on top of me.  But, tonight, both boys have special dates and I will get to sit on the couch ALL BY MYSELF. Yay!

Spencer has recently decided he is a nudist. More often than not, he walks out of the room and returns without a diaper on. It's... special. We suggest the potty chair, but he still has a meltdown when he gets on it. Any suggestions? I would love for him to be out of diapers come April.

Speaking of the potty chair, one of Collin's favorite activities is to push the potty chair around the house like its a walking toy. It cracks me up every time.

We have been convincing Spencer Baby Boo's name is Rochibo. Haha. Because its hilarious. And it is short for Rosita Chiquita Bonita (Chihuahua) from Lady and the Tramp.

Everyone keeps telling me that hope we have a girl. I would love it... but at the same time I am not sure I'm "mom to a girl" material. Not that it's up to me regardless. I still think its a boy. But we don't really have any boy names we agree on or love, so... 

I told my sister the other night that I think I'll take this third baby as an opportunity to flex my creativity (you know, because I'm out of paint) and name it something like Jiminixty Boogita. Or Cougar Banjo. OrChartreuse  Zimbabwe. Boing-Boing Lulu.  Or  Vulcan Pirate. Or Christmas Bogart. Or Prairie Echo. Or Thor! God of Thunder! 

(Insert political statement here.)

Haha. But really, the Syria thing is a lose-lose either way. No bueno.

I got a letter in the mail from my 22-year-BFF. It was the most wonderful surprise. I have been totally slacking on any and all handwritten correspondence. To the point where my handwriting is starting to look unusual. It's sloppy.. by my standards. I was writing on my calendar the other day and was kind if appalled by it. In general, I think my handwriting is pretty nice. 

Man, sometimes pointless babbling feels good. It's almost like therapy.

Kind of like sneaking into the Barnes & Noble bathroom the other night for the specific purpose of taking a stupid duck-face selfie with my coffee and posting it to Instagram (I am @goghgreen) be cause my sister didn't think I really would.

Complete with feminine products dispenser and mostly finished Starbucks.

Seriously, why do people do photos like this? The duck face is bad enough, but the butt-out and sassy pose and the "oh look I have an iPhone" reflection? Guess what, iPhone users, you can make the lens switch so you don't even need the mirror! And everyone wise, turn your phone around, for crying out loud. Oh, and why post multiple duck face selfies a week? Or a day? I could go on and on about this topic, but I'll stop.. 

I much prefer the folder of 534 Spenk Selfies on my phone.

Especially the ones his dad got involved in, for example:

I apologize if you read this hoping due any quality content.

And to close, courtesy of my sister.., "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..."

Happy First Birthday, Ollie.

Oh, my sweet baby boy, how this year has flown by. You waited so long to meet us, and it seemed like the thirteen days between your due date and your birth day drug on forever.

And somehow with your birth, time sped up again. You could hold your head up for minutes at a time, the day after you were born. You scooted, sat, crawled, and walked early. You were smiling early.  You try so hard to be so big and brave, to do as much as you can. This year has sped by.

At 2:11am on September 1, 2012, you entered the world. 

You arrived without a complaint. You barely squeaked when they knocked your heels. The first days of your life were so calm. You barely cried for five minutes total the entire hospital stay, and to this day, remain the happiest baby (overall, though you are perfecting the art of a great dramatic cry) I have ever met.

I was nervous I would be able to love you as much as I love your older brother, but never once has it been an issue. In fact, I think I love you each even more than I ever imagined. 

 Spencer calls you his best friend, you know. You two make me laugh so hard I cry, and my heart just overflows with love. 

Happy Birthday, Collin Liam. Never doubt how much you are loved.

You bring your entire family such joy.

-Mommy