Perfection and Procrastination

When Brody was about 2 months old Kel called me from work and from what little I could decipher from his “word salad” (a term that we lovingly used to refer to patients who jumbled all of their words while deep in a psychotic episode OR after suffering a stroke), he had a headache, his face was numb, and he was laying of the floor of his shop at work. 

Knowing that he wasn't suffering from psychosis, I panicked.  I grabbed my tiny baby and tried to hold back the tears as my inexperienced, new mom fingers fumbled with the clips of his car seat.

I drove across town as fast as I dared only to find my tough as nails husband laying on the cold concrete in the dark of what would easily be described as a two car garage.

His ability to coherently communicate had not improved, half of his face appeared limp, and his arm on that same side was not functioning as it should. My fear deepened into a hard knot in my stomach as I recalled standing in a hospital room, only weeks before, looking down at Kel's sweet Grandpa Wayne who had suffered a stroke.  The face in my memory somehow seemed to meld into to the once strong, now drooping, face of the love of my life.  

I helped him into my car and started toward the hospital. He begged me to take him home and a for a moment I complied. A mile later filled with completely jumbled, incoherent sentences I turned around again.  We arrived in the ER and were taken to a room. Once there, with my tiny baby in tow, I realized that his diaper was soiled beyond his ability to tolerate it. As I looked down, still feeling waves of shock and panic, I realized that my diaper bag had not made the priority list while I scrambled to leave the house.  The defeat and fear seemed to simultaneously close in.  My baby was screaming. My husband was not even able to to put three meaningful words together. The breath felt heavy in my chest as I forced myself to suck oxygen into my lungs while bouncing and rocking my shrieking baby.

A sweet nurse entered our room, turned to me with a kind smile, and must have seen the despair in my eyes.  She asked what she could do for us and I hung my head as I told her the situation.  She checked Kel, gave me a compassionate glance and stepped out. 

Returning only minutes later with hands full. Diapers (in the correct size). Wipes. And, and adorable, cozy, fleece blanket. It melted me. What composure I had evaporated. Tears filled my eyes.

Four hours, a CAT scan, IV fluids, and multiple tests later, we walked out of the ER with a diagnosis of severe migraine and that cozy green dinosaur blanket.

It quickly became Bubba's favorite.

He spent most of his first year encompassed in its comforting green folds.

Rarely did we go anywhere without "dino blanky."

I became a steadfast part of our life, routine, and adventures.

One day as I browsed Walmart, I found the same exact fabric and felt impressed to purchase some just in case we ever needed to replace our beloved blanket.

The funny thing about "dino blanky" was that it is more than a functional, cute accessory.  It is a reminder of our blessings, of the things we have to be grateful for, of yet another miracle in our lives.
By the time Peanut was born, "dino blanky" was looking pretty rough and ended up finding a home at the bottom of our blanket basket, partially forgotten.

I'm sure you are all wondering what any of this has to do with perfection and procrastination.  Well, I'm finally getting there.

I began my Christmas preparations this fall and stumbled onto the fabric I had purchased months before. All of those emotions rushed over me like the crashing tide. I wanted to make Bubba a new Dino blanky that could become a fresh source of comfort for him and reminder of the tender mercies of my Heavenly Father to me.

I folded it and put it on my desk.  Over the next weeks and even months I busied myself with Christmas preparations while the fabric sat on the desk.  I shopped. I ordered gifts online.  I checked things off of my list of "to do's."  The weeks flew by........and the fabric sat on my desk.

After Thanksgiving I did finally take the fabric from it's place in our office and into Joann's to find a backing for my neglected project. I bought a second piece of thick, inviting fleece and returned to bag to my desk.  More days ticked by.  More days passed as I avoided the fluffy sack. More check marks filled my Christmas lists.  I did research ways to bind fleece blankets and found a self binding option that I thought would be the perfect way to transform this soft fabric into the meaningful gift I had envisioned. But- it intimidated me- so on the desk it continued to sit.

I've mentioned my perfectionism and my fear of failure and the perfect result of that combination is, you guessed it, procrastination!  I am the QUEEN of procrastination and it directly stems from my fear of failure.

I tend to allow my insecurities about my abilities to dictate my actions. Sometimes that means not trying at all, sometimes that means only putting in a partial effort, and sometimes, when the task is unavoidable or extremely important, it means putting it off until the very last second.

This project is a prime example, but is only one example out of trillions that occur for me on a yearly, monthly, weekly, daily, or hourly basis.

My time was running out.  Sunday afternoon (as in December 21st) I finally pulled out the fabric and trimmed of the salvage.  I had planned to work on it and hopefully finish it once the kids were asleep.

Enter round two of the stomach flu.  Brody started throwing up around 7pm, I started around 3 am and Kel joined the club just after 7am Monday morning.

Panic! We were supposed to leave for Idaho for Christmas on Tuesday evening.  I still had a long list of things to accomplish before we could leave and I could barely drag my aching body up the stairs (I actually made it up, but passed out at the top- so I'd say I was doing pretty well).

Minutes were disintegrating and a hallowing, dark sadness settled over me.  My explosive excitement for Christmas was being crushed and I had visions of a repeat of Thanksgiving (Bubba was in the ER thanks to round 1 of the stomach flu and we ate pizza for dinner). I was seriously struggling just to keep my vomiting toddler and husband alive and my healthy toddler healthy without passing out on our goldfish littered carpet.

Thank goodness for incredible mothers.  Grandma came to the rescue Monday evening.  She cared for the sick, cuddled the sad, and comforted the emotionally and physically exhausted.

By Tuesday I was still not on the top of my game, but I was functional and Mom wrestled and entertained the rug rats while I packed, wrapped gifts, and then had no other choice but to face the unavoidable.

I started working on Bubba's blanket knowing that my time was incredibly limited.  I was forced to challenge every aspect of my deep seeded perfectionism and at times it was excruciating.  The stretch of the fabric made cutting and  making the fabric exactly square nearly impossible.  The differing fabric weights added additional challenges.  Pinning took forever. My sewing machine decided to go on the fritz. I had to pick out multiple seems.  I was attempting to make mitered corners for the first time ever and they did not turn out perfect. . but they turned out.  With each hurdle, it took everything I had to not throw in the towel, to not just give up.  Bubba wouldn't have known either way.  Blanket or no blanket, he would have still had plenty of gifts and would be the same, happy little boy on Christmas morning, but I forced those feelings back.  With every step, I moved forward, I challenged the degrading voice in my head and I kept at it.  I knew that a large contributor to my anxiety about this project was escalated by my procrastination, which was largely due to my fear and anxiety. It's a vicious cycle and I continue to allow myself to get sucked in despite knowing the outcome.

I could have given up and had my mom finish it.  She would have.  Her version would undoubtedly have been more perfect than my finished project ended up, but it wouldn't have been perfect, because perfection doesn't really exist, as much as we like to try to convince ourselves that it does.

I finished my last seem, trimmed all of the stray threads, and held up this tiny piece of our little family's history.  The edges weren't all exactly 2 inches and the corners didn't lay perfectly flat but for a moment those flaws faded into the background and I could see the beauty and meaning that may be imperceptible to the naked eye, but were vividly apparent to a mommy who had experienced the memories that the fabric portrayed.

In that moment, I knew that my gentle, sensitive, two year old would love the dinosaurs (he had seen the fabric in the months it sat on the desk and had looked at me with his penetrating brown eyes and told me that the fabric was "beautiful" and that he "loved it"), and that it was a perfectly imperfect representation of life experience, memory, growth, change, and rich blessings.

Is it silly that a chuck of woven fibers with a goofy cartoon print could represent all of that while also being a source of insight and enlightenment? Maybe.  But, I can tell you about the ear to ear grin on my adorable son's face when he tore away the wrapping paper this morning and the total absence of any thought about the uneven edges or wavering stitching as I observed his joy.

I can't promise that my procrastination will drastically improve any time soon but I am getting better at accepting imperfections and challenging my perfectionism. It is HARD! Extremely hard! I had a similar experience just a day ago when thinking about this blog.  I let the thought that because others seemed to be better writers or more successful than I am that that meant that once again I'm a failure fading into the gray area or mediocrity. Broken record, I know; but that is how Satan gets us, by playing on our greatest weaknesses and repeating the assault, over and over and over and over again.

The problem with being a perfectionist is that all you want is to be the best, amazing, envied at something, perfect, at even just one thing and even though you know deep down that it's impossible, something inside convinces you that if you were good enough, you could accomplish the impossible.

If only we could constantly see through an eternal lens rather than a temporal one. If only we could see the difference between the worlds definition of perfection and instead see our Fathers version of perfect.  He doesn't care how straight I can cut or sew a blanket. He doesn't care if hundreds of people think that I am a great writer.  He doesn't care if my hair looks flawless, what the measurement of the pull of gravity is on my body, or how many pinterest projects I have mastered.  I am perfect because he made my heart and soul. I am perfect because he placed the capacity for his perfect love to exist within me and because he gave me the opportunity to share it. . . and because he gave me those things, because he doesn't make mistakes, I have absolutely no reason to wait, no reason to procrastinate because that is one thing I will never fail at.

Fear and Failure

Can I just tell you how AMAZING this week has been!  It is mid December and we have consistently had gorgeous 50 plus degree days! Heaven I tell you, pure heaven.  I have been soaking up every second.

While this whole week has been unusually wonderful, today was breath taking.  I loaded up the kids and Bob and when I got to the trail head to unload, I was almost regretting my decision to wear a t shirt and wishing I had chosen a tank top- IN DECEMBER!! It was bliss.

As I started my jog, as usual, my mind kicked into overdrive and thoughts and ideas and insights flooded my brain faster than I could sort or organize them.  I actually love it. With a one year old and a two year old, having your own thoughts, private thoughts, are a rare novelty.  When I run, my babies sleep and my mind can finally think of something other than diapers to be changed, faces to be wiped, meals to be made, disasters to evade, and kisses to be given (don't get me wrong, I love every single one of those moments with my babies. I wouldn't change it for the world and I'm devastated to think of the days when it will end).  It's freedom. It's therapy. It's healing.

You would be amazed at the world problems (okay, maybe just the problems in my own little world) that can be solved in a 90 minute run.

It's during my runs that I often have my best ideas and frequently think of all the topics I would love to address here in this blog.  I can't count the number of blog posts that have been composed on my runs that never actually make it to the keyboard, but the process for me is still the same, whether the topics ever make it to print.

Today, my thoughts were overrun with some of my fears (Crazy right? Me worry? Ha!).  I have been thinking a lot about this blog and it's direction.  I have so many dreams and aspirations and have some confidence in some of what I would perceive as my talents; however, I am afraid. . . . completely and utterly afraid of failure.  I honestly always have been.  When I look back at nearly everything I have done, I can see some point in which my fear of failure has held me back.

As I listened to my feet hitting the pavement, pushing nearly 90 lbs of baby and stroller and packing a 10 lb weight vest, I felt discouraged that I wasn't faster.  That I didn't have any medals on my wall as proof of the thousands upon thousands of miles I have run in the past 12 years.  Nothing to show for it.  I tell people all the time that I am not competitive. I'm not. I'm not because I'm afraid to put everything I have into anything for fear that I will fail and that that will ultimately mean I am a failure. It is an overriding theme in my life.  I see other women around me doing amazing things.  Things I wish I could do.  Things I really think I could do.  But all too often I don't even try.  I let the fear win. I have always been mediocre.  Occasionally above average.

In some arenas, I think that it's okay.  In order to accomplish some of the things that I aspire to, I would have to make sacrifices.  Major sacrifices.  Sacrifices of time and at this moment, that time is too precious.  Those little noses to be wiped, hands to be held, scraped knees to be kissed are worth far more than the personal accolades I could be acquiring.

As with all things in this life, there is a balance to be struck. We have to continually challenge our fears, push them back, dig deep to find the confidence to prove them wrong while also knowing our own boundaries and appreciating that those boundaries will shift as our lives progress.

Today I decided, as a warm December breeze rejuvenated my spirit, that I don't have to settle for mediocre or just above average in everything.  Somethings, for now, yes, but not everything. I can be exceptional at a couple things but I have to challenge my fear of failure (something I'm not at all comfortable with or good at).  It's true, I might fail (and as much as I wish that wasn't one of my top 5 greatest fears, it is) but I owe it to myself to take a few risks, so I'm going to try.

This blog started as one of those aspirations. I thought maybe I could be an exceptional writer and I could change peoples lives and have thousands of people enthrallment by my prose.  Then I started to convince myself that no one would care. That I wasn't good enough. And I almost quit.

Today, I'm not quitting! Do I think that I'm amazing and that I'll be some famous blogger? Sadly, No. I do think that I may be able to make a difference to someone, even if it is just me.  I also am finding that I can be great at being who I am.  I am completely imperfect, but I am also beyond blessed.  I'm striving for balance and when I take a moment to look at my crazy little life, I'm truly living my dreams. My goals will come. Some will take time and patience and courage. . . .hope, and faith, but I will not give up.

"Fear knocked at the door,
Faith answered,
And no one was there."

Just A Worrier

Basically, all my life I overheard my Mom tell people "Oh, Melanie is just a worrier."  This was never said in a negative way or with any sort of judgment. It was always framed as a loving explanation of my individual character. So, I obviously believed that I was a worrier, after all, if my Mom said it, it had to be true. 

And I was. 

I knew that I worried, that I worried a lot, about all sorts of things, and I just rationalized that to some degree, I probably worried more than average because how else would I be referred to as "a worrier."  I never felt bad about that label. In fact, I just thought it was a healthy part of "my normal" (if that even makes sense). 

I remember as a young girl (probably for several years between 4 and 7) I could not sleep unless I had "Uni" (a stuffed unicorn- I just happened to be pretty obsessed with unicorns). Most of you are probably thinking that an attachment to something is relatively normal, however, for me, it was more that just an object of comfort.  There were nights that I know my mom spent hours looking for that silly white unicorn because I was sobbing and refused to go to be without it.  The reason I couldn't go to sleep without it? I was convinced that something terrible would happen if I did.  Something would happen to my mom or a million other terrifying things a child's mind could conjure.

While I just assumed that my fears were a normal part of being a worrier, my perception of my own worry and what that actually meant wouldn't even be challenged until I was well into adulthood.

Self discovery is a life long process and somehow I was completely oblivious to one key correlation that could have saved me literally years of pain, turmoil, and a battle to escape from the only way I had discovered how to cope (sort of).

Here's where things get a little personal (okay, a lot personal).  I beg, as I share my story, that each person who reads this will be compassionate.  I know that judgment is inevitable. I also know that of those reading this, some will not be surprised, some will be, and some will fall somewhere in between, but I have learned that hiding our struggles never helps anyone and it certainly did not help me when I was in the depths of it. So here is my dirty little secret (that is not dirty. I would not change my story because that would change who I am because of it).

As a senior in high school I was struggling.  There are a million reasons.  Millions of contributing factors.  I plan to share many of the "big ticket" events that I feel like led me to the place I was in later, but the key contributors to my struggle at that time were a perfect storm of worry, perfectionism, and lack of self esteem.  My world was about to be flipped upside down and I felt totally out of control.  The story is long and the details are even longer but one Sunday night after coming home from the farewell of one of my dear friends I made a choice that would dictate my next seven years.  In my search for something I could control, I completely relinquished what little control I had left. 

I had over eaten.

My stomach ached and as the perfect storm of things settled down on me, I made a choice.

I want to be perfectly clear that I take full responsibility for that choice.  It was a choice I never would have dreamed I would make, even in the moments before I made it.  I also want to be clear that, while there may be millions of reasons that I made that that choice, nothing and no one made me make it.

That Sunday night was when I entered my first major battle of a war I had been fighting my whole life.  My tactics were not good.  That battle was the first of countless other devastating fights I would wage over the next seven years and I was not prepared. 

How do you fight a war  you don't even understand?  I didn't do it very well.

I would battle varying forms of an Eating Disorder at varying degrees of severity for those next seven years. 

Putting those words in print is probably one of the scariest things I have ever done ( I will probably have some form of regret in the morning- fear that someone will no longer like me or that others will be disappointed because I'm not perfect enough, I'm broken, that they will try to use a label to define me, or that they will scrutinize every bite I take from now on, but in reality I have always been afraid of those things.  I will never be able to make everyone like me or make everyone happy and admitting my mistakes doesn't make me any less perfect than those who are continuing to hide theirs), but as terrifying as hitting the "post" button on this entry will be,  if it gives hope to one person, if it makes one person question their perception, if it can be a light to even one soul, then that is worth all the judgment and ridicule that may come my way.

Unlike the majority of people who battle eating disorders, I walk a very narrow line.  I didn't lose or gain extreme amounts of weight, I didn't isolate myself, and most of all I never got to a point where I wanted it, to a point when I didn't want to give it up.

I can tell you that starting on that first Sunday evening, with each symptomatic moment, I hated it.  I never wanted to do it again.  I promised myself I wouldn't.  But then, I would give in. . . and I would hate myself even more for it. 

After two years of constant failure, while I was in my sophomore year at Utah State, I finally sought professional help.  I had gone to a panel discussion on campus about eating disorders put on by a residential treatment center and I listened to their clients tell their stories.  The one thing that jumps out at me was that one girl said she had been fighting her battle for 7 years and it hit me like a rock. At that point, I was two years in and I could not imagine how horrific it would be to live in that turmoil for 7.  I made an appointment with the counseling center that day.

I was given a psychologist who specialized in my particular issue and also attended a body image group weekly. 

I wish that that is where my recovery began.  Sadly, being the perfectionist I am, I was fantastic at being a patient.  I was commended on my group participation and did well in my individual sessions.  I completed all of my assignments and was able to abstain from engaging in symptoms for almost 3 months while receiving treatment.  The problem was that nothing about me changed.  I was just doing what I had always done- exactly what was asked of me. 

At the end of those three months, my therapist told me that she felt like I was in a great place and that I no longer needed to come in. Great.

I'm not sure how long I lasted, but it wasn't long.  That deepened my despair and hopelessness.  All I could hear was a constant "you can't do this" and "you are not strong enough" and despite the deep ache that consumed every bone in my frame screaming for it to be over, I couldn't do it.

I continued to fight, but completely on my own.  I never told another soul (which, in retrospect only fed the problem).  I would have days or weeks or even an occasional month or so when I would do well, but it was always short lived and the despair would return. 

Looking back, the saddest part to me is that on the outside, I think I looked perfectly happy.  I had friends, good grades, dates, and adventures. I was involved in school and clubs and activities. I didn't look sick.  I was surrounded by people yet absolutely, deeply alone.

I graduated.  Got married to an incredible man.  Started working in my dream job (as a recreational therapy tech at a behavioral health center, helping others when I couldn't even help myself). And the storm continued to rage.

Two more years past.

Then, luckily (I actually don't believe in luck, more in divine intervention but starting a sentence with "divine intervention" doesn't flow as well), after a seven year battle (a battle that I was not winning) I stumbled into the office of someone who could draw a connection that had always been blatantly clear but that I had never even considered on my own. 

I found myself sitting on a couch in front of a wrangler clad man (who had to have been at least my fathers age) with a beard that would have rivaled Lorenzo Snow and whom was only wearing socks (a pair of tattered cowboy boots were nestled at the side of his dark walnut desk). In that first session, he just wanted to know about me.  Not about what I ate or how. Not about my current "symptoms." Just about me.

That is where the revelation came. My worry was not "just worry." My worry was not just an elevated version of other peoples normal.  My worry had a name and if I had only know that name, I would have been far better equipped to go into battle.  I already knew how to fight. I had the tools, the knowledge. I had spent 4 years studying and 2 more helping others wage the same war I had been fighting my whole life but because my war had been mislabeled (and I was to naïve or blind or clueless to put it together) I was losing and losing miserably.

Anxiety. I was anxious? All this time? Really?  All those moments of regret and guilt. Could it all be caused by one emotion? An emotion I didn't even realize I was experiencing because I just thought I was a "worrier?"

Over the next month and a half, this crazy, wonderful psychologist would scribble out unidentifiable diagrams on his legal pad, usually while sitting cross legged in his wool socks on the floor, explaining how my anxiety related to my world.  We never talked about my symptoms.  He never asked. But the things that I learned about myself, about how I relate and react to the world around me, allowed me to see in a way I had never been able to see.  That in turn, allowed me to challenge my view of my world.  Once I could identify when I was feeling anxious, I could discover what was causing me to feel that way and then I could face the cause head on.  Once that happened, I didn't have to turn to a coping strategy that was an escape for feeling out of control.

Divine intervention often strikes more than once and miracles began to happen.  I not only began to understand who I was but also what really mattered to me.  On a whim, I applied for another of my dream jobs as a Clinical Exercise Specialist for that same Residential Eating Disorder Treatment Center that had held the panel discussion I had attended nearly 5 years earlier.  Despite a hundred obstacles, I was offered the position and my amazing husband pushed me to pursue my dreams and we packed up our lives and moved to Logan. 

I believe that the timing had to be perfect.  Things had to happen on God's time, in his way, in order for my recovery to happen and I don't have a doubt in my mind that it was his hand that paved the way at precisely the right moment.

My psychologist encouraged me to take the position. My recovery was solidified at that moment. I knew within myself that I could not walk into that position and ask those girls to do something that I couldn't or wasn't willing to do.  It forced me remain in recovery because I couldn't lie to them.  I couldn't look them in the eye and expect them to recover if I wasn't willing to.  For the next two and a half years, every morning I made a choice.  That choice was to face my fears and anxieties without giving in to unhealthy coping mechanisms. 

It was not easy. It still is not easy.  It never will be easy. I will fight this war everyday for the rest of my life but at least now I know what I am fighting.  It has been five years since I engaged in self destructive eating behaviors and every moment, every hour, every day is a victory. 

We all have our demons in a very real way.  One of the few people who really knows each of us, knows our hearts, our strengths and our weaknesses is the person trying to set us up to fail.  He was our brother just as much as our Savior is and those who followed him were very likely our friends and loved ones. He is cunning and masterful, but he also has weakness and that is where we can win (and we CAN win!).

I had to learn to trust in my Heavenly Father. In His plan for me.  I do not believe that is was His plan for me to suffer through those tortuous seven years, but I do know that we have our trials to make us better, stronger, more compassionate, and more Christ-like people.  I would not trade those years because through that experience I have learned so many priceless things.  To rely on my Savior. To fall to my knees.  How if feels to feel hopeless AND that the stifling darkness DOES lift and the sun DOES shine again. I have learned how to love others who are facing similar struggles because I have been through it and I could give advice and hope that I could never have understood without going through it. 

I have a lot planned for this blog and I welcome your questions and suggestions.  If you can gain only one thing from my story, I pray that it is a message of hope.

My heart breaks for the time I wasted in misery.  For the path that one choice led me down; but the JOY, the breathtaking, soul shaking, love until it hurts JOY that I have in my life is worth every stumble and face plant in the mud and trudging, heavy, painful step forward that it took to get here.  Life is HARD. It is meant to be.  Whatever your challenge, that is your test and there is definitely something to be said about ENDURING to the end but don't let the enduring over shadow the beauty.

We are children of a Heavenly Father whose love is beyond what we could even comprehend (and if you are a parent, you have a tiny glimpse of what His love is like). His plan for you is beautiful but it is most likely not the plan you have envisioned for yourself.  Just have a little faith, and if you can't find that faith, then have a little hope.

Ready or Not

Hi, my name is Mel (hi Mel) and I have anxiety.  I HAVE anxiety.  I am anxious, but anxiety does not define me.  It is not who I am, at least not anymore (don't worry, I'll share all the gory details later) but it is a battle I wage every day, every hour, every minute, and most seconds (I have the occasional second when I forget what I was worrying about, but by the next second, I have started worrying about the fact that I forgot what I was worrying about and I'm instantly right back on track riding my anxiety freight train).

I had initially planned to start this blog by telling My Story.  I even started it.  It's sitting there in my unpublished drafts as we speak.  I think I started, deleted, reworded, re phrased, and reorganized that beginning a hundred times (only a slight exaggeration.....oh, by the way, Hi, my name is Mel and I am an exaggerator too. . .stick around long enough and you'll see) and since I just couldn't seem to get it right, I left it there.  Now, almost 6 months later, I have decided that I'll share My Story, but in a slightly different way.  In pieces, as I write. As I let you into my crazy world.  After all, isn't that usually the way we get to know someone? So why mess with a good thing?

So, I'm not your typical, average, run of the mill Generalized Anxiety Disorder lunatic (I've never really been good at fitting into a mold).  I love public speaking, most would probably describe me as social, I don't avoid people or places or things (usually), instead, my anxiety evolves.  I've always worried about what others think of me, on and off I've thought I may be dying of some crazy thing (I openly admitted to being a lunatic and I have been diagnosed with some pretty bizarre stuff in my short life span), I've always worried that something might happen to my mom, and I'm pretty much terrified of death (even though I know what I know about dying).  I, however, never gave illness or germs a second thought until I had kids.  I grew up in a home where the ten second rule extended into "if it's not green, growing something, you can still identify it, and it didn't land directly in a pile of poo, then it's probably still good enough to eat."  Disgusting, I know, but that is just how we rolled.  I then married a man who, as most of the good ones often are, was totally opposite.  This is a man who would not eat of sandwich I had prepared if the bread had touched the counter top (who makes a sandwich on a plate, I mean come on!) and would not drink out of a cup from a restaurant without a straw because then his mouth would have to touch the actual glass.  Eating something that had fallen on the floor was a sin second only to murder or using his toothbrush.

Enter our first child. A healthy 4lb 15oz baby boy.  I caught a little bit of the germaphobe bug when the nurses cautioned us to be "careful" with him for the first few weeks.  I forced people to use hand sanitizer in our general vicinity and went through my share of the antibacterial hand wipes (nothing to crazy). Now, enter child number two. A "late pre-term" 6lb 6oz baby girl. . . .in November.  We received a speech similar to what we had gotten with baby number one and I had stocked up on my trusty sanitizers.  Thanks to my super fun post pregnancy hormone roller coaster, winter, and an abnormally awful cold and flu season, I LOST MY FREAKING MIND!!! I was probably borderline committable (I'm pretty sure my husband would have happily signed me away if he hadn't been lacking the goods to feed said infant).  Lets talk about, oh maybe, 5 MONTHS of extreme terror that my baby girl was going to catch the flu and DIE!!!! I cried. I sobbed every night.  I asked for blessings. I PRAYED. I barely left my house.  It really was kind of a nightmare.

Now that my sanity (well, what little I normally possess) has returned, I continue to have a lingering fear of disease when it comes to my children. Once Ty made it to the 6 month mark and we were frolicking in the wonders of summer, I let up a little and the worry (at least that one) ebbed a little until there was an outbreak of hand, foot, and mouth in our ward.  That eased after a couple weeks and things have been pretty germ-freak free until several weeks ago when the Enterovirus 68 fiasco that kicked the anxiety scale up a couple of notches (though still in the manageable range). 

It just couldn't stop there now could it?  As I type this, I have to remind myself to breath and for those of you who are not anxious people, you may be sitting there thinking that I'm crazy or rolling your eyes, but I'm hoping a few of you out there can relate.  I'm hoping I'm not alone. . . because it's hard to feel crazy and alone sometimes.  Ebola.  It's here.  Two nights ago, as I was innocently scrolling through my Facebook feed (don't judge me) I saw the headline.  I read the CNN article. I googled it (never a good idea, and actually I usually have a rule to never google anything health related. . .but I succumbed to the fear).  I eventually landed on the CDC website. I couldn't breath for several moments, my heart pounded, the fear rose tight in my chest, and I wanted to cry.  I spent the next several hours reading everything I could find about the virus and felt some relief in knowing that it is not extremely easily spread as it is not airborne and requires contact with bodily fluids.  Even with that information, with the reassurance of the CDC that it will be contained, I can't quite shake the fear.  Just tonight I learned that Primary Children's Medical Center was evacuated due to a possible Ebola patient. 

I guessing if anyone is indeed still reading this, you are wondering where this is going and if there is even a point to this rambling psychotic woman.  I guess my point is I'm SCARED and I'm hoping I'm not the only one, but I'm also hoping for a little hope, a little light, something that says that I'm not totally off my rocker for feeling a little fear.  In my situation, it's hard sometimes to know where the line between rational, normal worry ends, and irrational fear begins.

That is what this blog is about. Being able to confront fears.  Talking about it.  Not being afraid to share those fears and feelings and hoping your not alone.  We were not put here to face our battles alone and I want other out there to know, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

This is Me

I am both excited and terrified to start this journey of self disclosure.  Anxiety has been the major player and putting my story into print is in and of itself the definition of challenging my greatest fears.  The over riding motivator for doing this is a sincere hope that my struggle may make a difference for someone else. What will follow are some of the most intimate details of who I am and the expereinces that have shaped me. It may take some time for me to formulate my story so I'm asking for some patience.

I wanted to at least get things rolling so here is a post I wrote in our family blog some time ago.  It seems to fit better here and is a message that I felt was an appropriate way to begin this saga, in a way, as evidence of progress.

Oringinally titled Realization:
     January 10, 2013

As I stood in front of the mirror yesterday, I had a realization.  I have always been incredibly insecure about my body and how I look. I have NEVER thought of myself as thin and or beautiful and will regularly try on 15 items of clothing before settling on something that I can tolerate walking out the door in (often sweat pants, basketball shorts, a t shirt, or a baggy sweatshirt.)  I have the tendency in many areas of my life to be a perfectionist, and sadly, many times, if I can't achieve my desired level of perfection I have to make it appear that I didn't try at all (better to not look like I actually tried and failed- stupid, I know) hence the affore mentioned clothing choices.

Having a baby has had an interesting impact on my self perception. While my silhouette is far from what it was and I have been hard pressed to find a single item of my old clothing that fits comfortably or appropriately, gazing at my reflection in the mirror less than 24 hours ago, I found a deep appreciation for this body.  I have always been able to feel tremendous gratitude for its abilities and for the strength of the frame that Heavenly Father provided to house my spirit. After a multitude of health issues, that gratitude has multiplied; but yesterday, the experience was different. As my adorable little son sat chewing on my hair brush, I felt a peace, an overwhelming tenderness for the gift that this body was able to give me.  I could (and probably will at times) obsess about those 6 pounds that still linger on on my least favorite areas, but for the first time ever I could see that those changes said something important about me.  I am a MOM, a mommy who loves her little boy beyond the bounds of what the word love could ever convey. I get up everyday and do my best to ensure that he is happy and healthy, that he feels safe, and that he never has to know what true hunger feels like.  He doesn't care about those 6lbs.  He doesn't care what I wear, or how I look, what number is on the tag in my jeans, or what the a scale would try to tell me about who I am.  No matter what, that sweet little face looks up at his mommy and grins.  When he is sad, his chubby little arms reach out to his momma and it's my chest that he snuggles his little head into.

A few days ago, Kel and I were talking about finances and income and how our lives have changed since we became a one income household.  Without really thinking, I said something like "back when I got a paycheck and made a difference in the world. . . "  Looking back at that moment now, I realize how off base that comment was.  Yes, I used to hopefully "make a difference" in the lives of the clients I worked with; however, the most important thing I can do in this world is make a difference in the little life that I helped create.  What I look like, what I weigh, how my clothes fit, mean nothing in comparison to the person that I am in the life of both of my men (one little one). That reflection is only a tiny outward expression of the life I have lived, and while I'm grateful for every scar and imperfection, they do not define me.

Does that mean the I will stop working out, taking a shower everyday, wearing make up (okay, lets be honest, I rarely do that but I likely won't stop all together), thinking about what I eat, changing my clothes multiply times before going out, that I will never look in the mirror and dislike the appearance of the person staring back- probably not. What it has changed, is how I feel inside.  I can finally see a beauty in myself that I couldn't detect before.  Qualities that I want to cultivate and nurture and, less worry about those external factors that before seemed to define me in a way that I couldn't escape. I put all of this out there because I hope that YOU, someone I love and care about,  can realize what a mirror or a scale or a pant size could never tell you. . . that  you are BEAUTIFUL and important in ways you may never be able to fully grasp.  If you are a mom, a sister, a wife, a daughter, an aunt, a grandmother (this applies to the the men reading this too: husbands, fathers, brothers, etc.) take a few minutes to let go of the guilt and perceived expectations and capture a glimmer of the way those that love you, see you. If you can't do that, try to imagine how your Father in Heaven sees you- His love is endless and forgiving and unconditional and is in no way impacted by what is reflected in a piece of fragile glass. If you can't do either of those things- call me and I will tell you how much I love and admire you and how beautiful you are too me.