Bless My Heart

the improvement of a southern girl


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Substitutions for Happiness

I am 6.5 months post-surgery. I’ve disappeared for a while, mainly because I hate feeling like I’m being self-centered when I post a lot. Which, I know, is ironic seeing as I have a blog dedicated to my musings. It is what it is.

My body is healed, as far as the surgery is concerned. This is a completely new body, however, and we are still trying to get to know one another. In replacement for my entire reproductive system, I now have a sticky little circular patch on my lower abdomen at all times. It doesn’t seem like an even trade.

To be honest, things aren’t going as well as I would have hoped. I would like to be recovered wholly and completely and it’s just not happening.

I’m not really sure how to fix it.

So I substitute. I substitute for the happiness that I can’t seem to find.

I curse. A lot. 
I leave town. Always hoping that the next town over has something that I’m missing out on. It usually doesn’t. New towns are distractions. Substitutes. 
I eat. 
And then I keep eating. 
I drink. 
And then I keep drinking. 
I smoke (sorry, Mom). Nicotine gives a relaxing sensation over your entire body that is not achieved by previous two things. It works so efficiently that it is easy to ignore the smell. I quit, and then I get completely stressed over something and go right back. 
I seek approval from others. But this doesn’t matter much because I never believe anything good that is ever said about me. 
I plan vacations constantly. Always wondering where the next escape will be. 
I search on realtor.com daily for the next house. Because maybe my house is my problem?

But what IS my problem? THE PROBLEM IS THAT I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE PROBLEM IS!

I have THE best husband in the world. He works hard and he loves me fiercely. I have no void there.

I have two beautiful girls that have brilliant little minds and who love me completely.

I have, probably, one of THE best jobs as a music educator in Northeast Louisiana.

I have a nice house and a nice car and a nice golden retriever to go along with it all.

But still, I substitute for my happiness. I am trying to fill a void that was not there last year. Never so intense and with me as my constant companion as it is now.

I have a slow song that I have on my running playlist. It’s been around for quite sometime but never gets old to me. A desperate song that speaks so much of how I feel. A feeling of not being enough. A feeling of not being what I should be. I have severe insecurities that stem simply from the fact that I KNOW I am not living the life that I am meant for. I am bigger than what I am. Maybe I am unhappy simply because I have succumbed to my own weaknesses and shortcomings way to often? I feel defeated by my own self.

I am not whining. I am not calling out for help. I am just stating facts. Almost every gritty post that I have made has been answered by someone privately that was going through something similar. I am honest, and people benefit from honesty… whether they like it or not 😉

“That I Would Be Good”

that I would be good even if I did nothing
that I would be good even if I got the thumbs down
that I would be good if I got and stayed sick
that I would be good even if I gained ten poundsthat I would be fine even if I went bankrupt
that I would be good if I lost my hair and my youth
that I would be great if I was no longer queen
that I would be grand if I was not all knowingthat I would be loved even when I numb myself
that I would be good even when I am overwhelmed
that I would be loved even when I was fuming
that I would be good even if I was clingy

that I would be good even if I lost sanity
that I would be good
whether with or without you

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The low place

It came to me today. The low place that I hadn’t quite reached yet.

It surprised me, because I thought I was past it. I thought I had accepted it. Then, a friend posted a picture of her new baby boy on Facebook. She has two little girls, like me, and was recently blessed with a son.

It covered me like a blanket, my grief. The pictures of the children I still wanted swirl around in my mind. We had names for them. The son, Michael Jonah, or the next beautiful girl, Stella Mae. We tried so, so hard for them. I would like to think that we are good parents. I would like to think that we have given Abby and Savannah a complete and loving life so far in their short lives. It took three months to get pregnant with Abby and only one for Savannah. Jerod held a baby on Christmas and looked at me with a longing smile and by the end of January I was pregnant with our youngest. I thought for sure I would have no problem having more. We waiting a little longer for the 3rd because Savannah was such a handful. It makes me wonder now if it would have mattered. I wonder if we should have stair-stepped them out and dealt with the stress of 3 young babies. At least then, I would have them all.

I feel incomplete.

We stopped trying in 2010 when I was diagnosed with melanoma. We didn’t resume until I was sure I wouldn’t have to undergo cancer treatments. We tried. Months and months. A positive test. So many dreams. So exciting. A miscarriage. So heartbreaking. A cyst. A surgery. Healing. Hope. Try again. Another cyst. Another surgery. All my chances are gone.

And now I am not whole.

I don’t know where to go from here. I feel like I am mourning a dream. I’m not 34 until the 27th of this month. Both of my sisters got pregnant for the first time in their late 30’s. Unwed teenagers get pregnant with unwanted children every day. Why is this my path? It’s frustrating and maddening and ultimately just sad. I’m sad.

Do I need a new hobby? Do I need a new puppy? Do I need to finally go get my horse ranch? Do I delve into fitness and become a triathlete?  I have a void that I must fill.

I don’t want to be told to “be thankful that I have my two children”.

I don’t want to be told that “it’s God’s will”.

I don’t want to be told anything, really. I just need to speak my grief, so that I don’t have to hold it inside anymore.

 

***edited to say that once I posted this, I felt guilty. I don’t want special attention and I know that I am not the only one that has gone through this. I write through my grief with my blog. I don’t like talking about it. I write, and I feel better.