or something really cool is happening.

The scale last night said 202.2. Up 3 lbs. And then I weighed myself this morning, 195.8. Really? 6+ lbs overnight? Whatever. I hate the scale.

But that’s not the cool part. No, the cool part came last week when I had another epiphany. (Or was it a continuation of the same epiphany?)

As fair warning, I will advise that you brace yourselves, this story might seem weird.

I was sitting at my kitchen table last week, early in the morning. The house was quiet. The street was quiet. The sun was starting to rise. I had just finished reading in 2 Corinthians (chapter 12) about Paul’s thorn in the flesh. The thing in his life (no one knows for sure what it was) that held him back. The thing that bothered him, frustrated him, pained him and forced him to depend on God’s strength, rather than his own. No matter how hard he tried, Paul just couldn’t shake his thorn.

I read the passage and felt the frustration welling up inside of me. I have always seen my issues with food as my thorn. I started journaling, raging at the unfairness of God. I don’t want this to be my thorn. Why would you give me this thorn and then give me such a strong desire to overcome it? God, I believe that you want me to take good care of the body you have given me, yet this thorn is keeping me from taking good care of myself. I don’t understand! I went on in this manner for some time. I was so frustrated with my failure, so frustrated with what seemed to be a hopeless situation. Nothing ever changes, God. Why would you give me the desire for change and then not give me the ability to change? Paul, PAUL, never overcame his thorn. How can you expect me to overcome mine?

And then (and this is where it gets weird), I heard a clear and distinct voice in my head. This isn’t your thorn, Jenny. Food isn’t your thorn. You have made it in to your thorn. You have chosen to live like it is your thorn. But food isn’t your thorn.

I felt like somebody dropped a ton of bricks on my head. My issues with food are sin. God does not make me sin. When I sin it is my choice. I am not the victim, I am the perpetrator. If my struggle with food is life-long, it is because of the choices that I make. Food is not my thorn.

We can go round and round picking about the theology of this whole experience, or debating if I should call the men in white coats, or suggesting that - since I am hearing voices - maybe I should get some more sleep, and all of those options seem safer to me than clinging to the promise that I heard and acting accordingly.

Change is scary. Letting go usually means that you will fall. Our tendency, as humans, is to cling - white knuckled - to the norm. But the norm is not working for me, so I’m going to cling to that voice in my head that tells me things can change.

So we went to the beach last weekend. Yes, I have adorable pictures of my child, and I’ll post them later, after I vent.

We went to the beach last weekend, and Andrew decided he was afraid of the water.

Not just afraid like he didn’t want to go in it. Afraid like he didn’t want to hear it. Or see it. Or be in it’s general vicinity in any way.

I don’t get it. Over Memorial Day Weekend, he and I played tag with the waves and now he has to be coaxed in to driving his trucks in the dunes?

Needless to say, this put a damper on our time at the beach.

On Saturday we managed to drag him kicking and screaming gently persuade him to come down and play in a stream where Grandpa helped him build a dam and, shocker!, he had a great time. But for the rest of the weekend we scrambled to find other things to do besides play at the beach.

The pinnacle came on Monday after my parents went home. The three of us were walking back to the car from one city park with the intention of driving to another city park. Andrew announced that he had to go to the bathroom, so we headed to the restrooms that border the beach. He got one look at the water (more than 300 yards away) and completely melted down because - the waves! There they were! And they were making noise! And they were going to get him! And we need to find another potty! And he really needs to go potty! After about 20 minutes clinging to me and sobbing he asked if we could just go home to Andrew’s house because everything here is too close to the water and he didn’t want to be that close to the water. We said no, we were on vacation and this was Mommy and Daddy’s vacation too and, while we didn’t have to go near the water, we were going to stay and find other fun things to do.

What kind of kid doesn’t want to stay at the beach?

ARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

And I know - I KNOW - I have to pick my battles and the kid has quirks and things will probably be fine the next time we go. And I know - I KNOW (so you don’t need to tell me, mom) - that I handled it beautifully and that I am so patient with him and that, in the long run, we will work together to figure out his fears. But that does not change the fact that he frustrates the hell out of me and since I can’t say that to him, I thought I would say it here.

(deep breath)

Do you know what else I know? He is exactly like me.

I’ve had this sitting in my drafts folder for a while, publishing it while I’m running seemed right.

Race details will be up as soon as I can formulate some thoughts.

******************************************************************************************************************

Our lives are a fairy tale, written by the hand of God. - Hans Christian Anderson

Every so often I question my motivation for keeping up with this blog. I try to make sense of the changes that have occurred between when I started and where I am now. I wonder if I should delete my cringe-worthy old posts, or if I should start over somewhere else, or if I should scrap the whole idea and rest easy, knowing that there is one less thing on my to-do list.

For those of you who don’t know, I started this blog anonymously. I was just beginning to unpack some of The Crazy that I had carried for much of my life and I needed a place to sort it out. I wrote assuming no one would read. It was nothing more than a diary, written for the purpose of separating the truth from the lies with no thought to an audience.

As time passed and the therapeutic effects of truth-telling gave me confidence, I decided that I wanted to share my story. I wanted people to know me and understand me. I swung from maintaining a carefully constructed persona to the queen of over-sharing. People found this place and I had to deal with the consequences of sharing my life on the internet. The fallout taught me to think twice before hitting publish and forced me to weigh my words. As messy as some things became, I can look back and see that this story, my story, continued throughout, evolving and reflecting the changes in me. And even in the mess, there was goodness and light to be found.

I continue to swing between extremes. At each, I try to make sense of this place, try to categorize it. At each extreme I cringe at the thought of letting this place be what it is, a story in process, unapologetically me.

(And, yes, I can see that even this post is an apology of sorts, or at the least an unnecessary explanation. I’m not that blind.)

I still fight the temptation to clean this site up, to delete the old posts and re-hide parts of my life. I was about to do it a while back when I got a comment on a post I had written in December 2006. I went back to read the post and I realized that, as much as I want to delete the past and put it behind me, I need those stories to remind me where I have been.

I try see the archives as monuments, rock cairns built along the road. I read those stories and I say, yes, I remember that. That was me.

But, as I read them I also say, that was me. I am not the same person I was. I don’t have to be that person anymore. I don’t have to think her thoughts or act her ways. I can choose to be bound by her or I can choose to let her go. From the beginning I have talked about freedom, freedom from the lies I constructed, freedom from the habits that enslaved me, freedom from the regrets of my past. As I grow in my understanding of freedom as a choice, I believe that it is always offered, but too often we choose not to accept it. We choose slavery to the things we hate because, although hated, they are understood. Although hated, they contain elements of comfort and control, and we are content to hide behind the facade of peace.

Although we hate it, we continue in slavery because we believe we do not deserve anything better.

My heart aches when I read some of my old posts. It aches at the clumsy ways I tried to care for myself and at the half-hearted attempts I made at freedom. I look at the girl whose life is reflected there and I ache for her, trying to shine in the middle of the dark world she created.

I am not so naive to think that I have arrived - I still have to meet my own eyes in the mirror. But I feel like it is time to build another cairn, to raise a stone and say, “Look. Look what God has done here. Remember this place. Remember where you have come from. Remember where you are going. Remember that this is just another part of the story.”

I hope I look back on this essay in a couple of years and count it among the cringe-worthy posts of old. I hope that my life has changed so much that I ache for the girl I am now, the girl still clumsily caring for herself along the road to freedom, the girl who is still learning to shine.

There’s a danger in locker rooms, and it’s not just athlete’s foot.

A falsely intimate community is created by sweating next to a person for 45 minutes every morning and then changing next to that same person. Guards are let down. Trust is given too freely. Things that should stay hidden are revealed.

Last week my locker room buddy (I truthfully don’t know her name) dropped a bomb in the midst of our morning small talk, “This is the first time I’ve been a member of a gym in years. I forgot how obsessive I can get. I don’t think my family is very happy with me, but I can’t stop.”

“Yeah,” I laughed, “you should try distance running.”

And, standing there in the locker room, I told her everything - how tired I was, how much I miss my friends, how I felt trapped by my goals and intentions. I told her that I was counting the days to the marathon, not out of excitement but because then I could stop without feeling like a failure. I told her about how my knee hurts and how scared I am of being injured because, as much as I hate it sometimes, I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t run. I told her how I feel like running is just another addiction and how I tired I am of being addicted to things.

I told her things that I hadn’t told Justin, things that I hadn’t told my best friend, things that I hadn’t really told myself.

It scared the crap out of me.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t made any decisions yet. Finishing what I start is something vitally important to me, and I’m not sure that I am mentally strong enough to deal with failing to meet my goals. Sometimes feats of physical strength are easier than feats of mental strength.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I love to run. I love who I am as a runner. I don’t want to reinvent myself again. I’m hoping that this is just the pendulum swinging to the other extreme and if I can just hold on long enough it will settle in the middle and I can run, sanely.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I think I’ll keep my mouth shut in the locker room.

It’s too dangerous.

One of the more entertaining parts of my OCD occurs when I fixate on something that seems wrong when I know it should be right. When I had to inventory all the greeting cards at the bookstore one night, I became convinced that Dad was spelled wrong on some of the cards. I ended up staying at the store until 3am, trying to figure out which ones were right and which ones were wrong. At various times in my life, I become obsessed with clocks, making sure they are all set to the same time and completely freaking out when I came across a clock that differs from the ones that I thought were right. Even now, after medication and therapy, I can get myself pretty worked up if I think too hard about the clock issue.

The point? I get a little crazy when I believe there is a RIGHT answer and I can’t find it.

Enter, the scale.

The one at my house is utterly useless. It is at least 8 lbs off. I avoid standing on it as much as I can. The one at the doctor’s office? I know it should be right, but I’m not there very often, so I can’t be sure. The one at the gym? It balances at zero, but both Justin and I have noticed random unexplainable fluctuations. And the one at my weight loss meeting last night? Well, I stood on it three times in a row and got three different numbers.

(The middle number was 200.4, so that’s what is going on my graph. Yay for me!)

It’s enough to bring out The Crazy in anyone, and more than enough to drive me over the edge.

Using some of the coping skills developed over the years, I am trying to talk myself down from complete insanity. All the scales show change. It’s just a number. With the exception of the one at home, they are within 2-3lbs of each other and that could be explained by the clothes you are wearing or the time of day at which you weighed yourself.

I get it, and I’ll be okay.

I’m just going to go lie down and wait for my nervous twitch to stop.

“Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not through its growth but by washing away from it all that is not gold.” - Leo Tolstoy

I almost wrote this on Monday. Amid a flurry of self-doubt, self-pity and general hopelessness, I almost wrote what I was sure would be a post about how nothing I do is good enough, about how nothing ever changes and I should just give up my stupid dreams of a Jenny that is different than the one I have.

I almost wrote this last week. Amid frustration and fear, I almost wrote what I believed in the moment - that I am not strong enough, that I can’t keep trying, that I am tired and weary and overwhelmed by the sheer weight of everything.

I almost didn’t write this on Wednesday. After I lied to myself and allowed the scale to tell me that I am full of awesome and all my dreams will come true any minute.

I almost didn’t write this at all, because, as much as I let The Crazy out, it seems that there is always more and I’m fucking tired of looking at it.

I wrote this today because I know I have to get out of my own head.

I still can’t decide if freeing The Crazy is helpful or harmful. I know that seeing it written down often proves it to be utter nonsense. I know that, if I let people see what I am thinking, a dear friend will often respond with a well-timed comment or email, reminding me of the truth. I know that I can not allow myself to isolate as much as I do, that being alone provides a breeding ground for insanity. But in some ways, seeing it written down makes it more real. The tension between removing the power of the lie and giving it strength by legitimizing it with letters is too much.

The theme of this round is my proclivity to self-destruct, often as a precautionary measure, in hopes of retaining the illusion of control and warped perfection that I hold so dear. In a dark corner of my brain, there is something telling me that destruction, on my own terms, is preferable to even the potential of failure. I give a lot of lip service to the journey, but in my mind, it is still the destination that proves my value.

Yes, I am losing weight. Yes, I am different than I was one year ago, or five years ago. Yes, I have started habits that I believe will last a lifetime. Yes, all of that is certainly a precious gift that I can not take for granted. But the ugly parts of my heart are still ugly. I still don’t understand what to expect from myself. I know I talk a lot about weight loss and food plans and exercise; they are but small, manageable parts of a much bigger picture. I can set goals and attain them and that gives me the pats on the back I need to feel good about myself. But, in the middle of all that progress, I still worry that I am not making any real changes at the heart level.

The Crazy tells me that until I have finished changing my heart and clearing out all the ugliness, everything I do will be tainted by its remaining imperfection. It tells me that, to avoid the taint, I should sabotage all my efforts until I can be sure that my motives are pure and I hear the crescendo of the happily-ever-after music in the background. It tells me to willfully self-destruct rather than settle for anything less than my twisted version of Doing. It. Right.

My misguided notions of perfection and purity of heart are, to me, the single biggest boulder that block my path to change.

It’s crazy. I see that. I can’t even articulate it clearly because IT MAKES NO SENSE.

Except sometimes, in the dark and twisty corners of my mind, it does.

“The illusion which exalts us is dearer than ten thousand truths.” - Aleksandr Pushkin

In every friendship there is a point where you go from putting on a decent, moderately clean face to actually letting another person live life with you.

At dinner on Thursday night, Nick crossed that line. He emailed earlier in the day to ask what he could bring and I assured him that I had everything under control. Of course, I didn’t check the contents of our refrigerator when I made that statement and I didn’t even start getting food out until after he arrived. Only then did I realize that I was working with one chicken breast and less than half a jar of marinara sauce - thankfully I had a lot of pasta and garlic bread. Dinner was fine, if a bit carb-heavy, the boys shared the chicken and I pulled some other stuff out for myself.

Even though I’ve been friends with Nick for more than 10 years. Even though I know that he doesn’t care. Even though everyone left the table nourished and happy. Even though it was a fun night that included, but was not limited to, poop in the potty (!), good conversation, and Andrew turning Nick’s body in to a racetrack for his cars. Even with all these things, my inner Martha Stewart wanted to die.

So much of my self-worth is tied up in doing things right, having everything together and controlling even the casual circumstances so that I come out looking calm and self-assured. As a housewife, having company for dinner becomes my time to put on my best show. The battle between appearance and reality is a constant one and, as much as I want to be a person that is real, too often I focus on the appearance. It’s frustrating that I can’t just laugh about it. It’s frustrating to look back on this small, ridiculous situation and realize how much it bothers me. It’s frustrating that I even try to keep up the appearance with someone who I have known for so long and who reads this blog. Do I think that my facade is still standing?

I do. And try as I might, I can’t seem to let that go.

Maybe I should have purchased the new Waterdeep album before I finalized the song list for Wandering Away, because then I could have put THE PERFECT SONG on it.

Good, Good End
You can leave right now
You can ring a bell
You can tell ‘em you think I ain’t doin’ too well
But when I stood like you
I eventually fell
Go on and leave right now
Go on and ring your bell

I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me
We’re a strange old pair - me and eternity
It don’t make good sense
It ain’t easy to see
But I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me

It’s a long hard road
With a good, good end
And if I keep on walking past the crooked bend
I will meet my Maker
I will meet my Friend
Down a long hard road
With a good, good end

So you can leave right now
You can ring your bell
You can tell ‘em you think I ain’t doin’ too well
When I stood like you I eventually fell
Go and and leave right now
Go on and ring your bell

‘Cause I’m amazed by life
And it’s amazed by me
And it’s a long hard road
With a good, good end

I mentioned that 2007 was a year of amazing changes for me, I listed changes in habits and goals that have revolutionized my world, but, as amazing as those changes are, they are not the biggest changes. The biggest changes don’t happen in one year, nor do they happen because you wake up one morning and decide that things are going to be different, rather, they happen when the circumstances of life force them to happen. They happen in the midst of bitterness and resentment. They happen in tears and anger. They happen in the shining moments of joy, when you see past the shadows. They happen in failure, hurt and reconciliation. They happen in grief and loss. Always, they happen when you least expect them.

In January, 2002, I was hiding under my bed, afraid to leave the house, medicating myself with Ativan, Prozac and chocolate. I was seeing my therapist once a week, trying to figure out how to keep walking down a road filled with anxiety, depression, obsession and fear. I was unable to articulate my needs in any situation because I believed that my needs were fundamentally flawed. I believed that any need I felt was illegitimate and only there to be ignored, thus making me stronger. I had been hiding my needs for months and months, until I could hide them no longer. I contemplated getting in the car, leaving my life and starting over somewhere else. I contemplated suicide. Both of these options seemed better than the potential conflict inherent in sitting down, looking into someone’s eyes and saying, “This isn’t working for me. I need to make a change.”

Not everything has changed since 2002, I still push feelings of bitterness and anger down, I am still afraid to express my needs. I still hold things in too long, and they still explode out of me leaving a mess to be cleaned up by those who are slightly more capable of rational thought. Perfectionism would have me believe that this means I have not changed. That is a lie. Two months ago, the explosion happened again. It blindsided Justin and we are, again, in the process of cleaning up the mess. The details are not pertinent to this essay, it will suffice to say that we are making some changes. We are changing the priorities in our family, pulling back from some commitments and committing to live more of our life in the city where we live. All because I was able to articulate, albeit with much mess, that the status quo was not working for me and I needed to make a change.

As we continue the clean up, we talk honestly about how absolutely frustrated we are with each other, about how there are things we really wish we could change, about how bloody tired we are of causing and cleaning up messes. We talk about the sins that seem to beset us and wonder if God really knows what He is doing. We look back and marvel at the comparatively small mess of the last few months, wondering how big it would have been if January 2002 had never occurred. We recognize the change that happens when we aren’t looking for it and we are profoundly thankful that we believe the long, hard road has a good, good end.

In retrospect, I’m glad that I didn’t put that song on last year’s cd. It seems better suited for 2008.

I re-read last year’s resolution post as I tried to make sense of 2007. Instead of feeling discouraged, as I usually do when I think about the resolutions of the past, I was incredibly encouraged. I have made some amazing changes, and I think the most encouraging part was that they did not seem so amazing at the time. (That means that even the smallest habit can turn in to an amazing change.) Last year I was flirting with the idea of getting up at 6:00 AM to have some time to myself and work out. I tried it and found that six was not nearly early enough - Andrew almost always woke up within 15-20 minutes of my getting up and my morning time was shot - so I pushed the time back, to 5:30, but then the weather got nice and I needed time to run before Justin went to work, so it became 5:00, and then I wanted to go to the gym, so it became 4:30. And now I wake up a few minutes before my alarm goes off, groggy, but ready to go. I am dreading the week that Justin will be out of town and I will not be able to get up and go to the gym everyday.

Getting up early has become a habit, so it is no longer a big deal. As I was in the process of planning to get up early, I dreaded the change. I knew that I would never be able to do it. I knew that I would be tired all day and that the changes in schedule that must be made to accommodate the earlier rise would be too hard. I had written it off before I even started.

How many things do I write off as failures before I even start them?

I may have mentioned - a few hundred times - that I struggle to set attainable goals. I view success in terms of attained perfection, and when I fail to attain perfection I say “Fuck It!” and stop trying all together. Any perceived outcome that was less than perfection gave me the perfect excuse to not even try. It seems ridiculous - it is ridiculous - but it is such a habit that I had to have someone else point it out to me before I even realized I was doing it.

I talked last year about aims, general directions that I wanted my life to head. I still love that terminology, as it allows for bends in the road and successes that are a far cry from perfection. My aim last year was to do things that make me happy - not in a hedonistic way, or a gold star on the chart way, but in a meet my own eyes in the mirror every morning way. I can say, without reservation, that I meet my own eyes in the mirror everyday with a lot more confidence than I did last year, so I am going to count that as a success and continue the practice. I want to add to it though, I want to remember what I am proud of myself for. To accomplish this, I am dusting off my inner-nerd and creating some ridiculous excel sheets to track my progress in areas that I strive to improve. This includes food and exercise, of course, which are easy to track and quantify (and which you will probably hear more than you want to know about), as well as some more nebulous goals - like interrupting the endless flow of novels to read something in the non-fiction genre, or keeping my practice of quiet time, study and prayer going on the weekends. The trick here is in the perception, I am only two days in and my food column has marks in it showing that I went over my goal. My aim for this year is to see those marks in the context of the bigger picture. I need the data. The data is just a tool. It is neither judge nor jury. Without accurate data, I cannot get a clear picture of what I need to do or where I am succeeding.

As far as specific goals go, I am not going to list them all right now. Too often have I listed the top 50 things I want to change and then, failing to change all of them, counted myself as an unmitigated disaster. This year I am downsizing. I will mention a goal here and there throughout the year and then work on it until it becomes a habit. Since habits take almost a month to form, I will move slowly from one to another, trusting that even the smallest habits can lead to an amazing change.

My first two goals are fairly straightforward - Staying within my food limits for at least 4 days each week (and not going crazy the other days) and entering the data on my record sheet every day so that I will be able to accurately gauge my progress.

For more New Year’s inspiration, check out a few of the recent posts at The Everyday Athlete (this one and this other one rocked my world).

Last week I wrote about living in the land of Not Fine. While I am not ready to send out change of address cards just yet, some things have happened to lighten the load a bit.

I talked to some of the key players in the Big Issues game. We had friends over for dinner last Friday night and I brought The Crazy out in to the light. We talked about bitterness, resentment, fear and anger. We talked about growth and change, pushing through and moving on. We talked about patterns and habits, community and isolation. We talked about sin and grace and the finished work of Christ. We talked about how easy it is to talk about these things and how hard it is to live with them. We avoided writing down a 5-step plan to The Happy Place. We acknowledged that we may never have answers for all these questions.

Honestly confessing your thoughts and feelings to another person takes so much of the power away from those thoughts. I know this. I have felt the release before. Yet I am continually tucking my less than ideal thoughts back in my head, putting them away and hoping that they will somehow work themselves out before anyone finds out they exist. It never works. Sitting back there all alone, these thoughts gain power until they are controlling my whole mind. Their power multiplies and I am forced deeper in to isolation and despair. The power these thoughts possess is the power of a secret, the idea that there is something so bad in my head that I need to keep it hidden to be worthy of love, respect or friendship. By acknowledging the reality of these thoughts, I take their power away. I am able to look at them, shrug my shoulders and say, “Yep. There you are. So what?” I know this. I know this. I know this. It just takes me a long time to work up the courage to act on my knowledge.

I heard a quote the other day that went something like this, “Life wouldn’t be so hard if we didn’t expect it to be so easy.” Simple, right? It sounds like something you would see on a bumper sticker. But it is true. It is capital T True. Our expectations lie at the heart of many, if not most, of our problems - or at least at most of mine.

I have been listening to The Heart of Life by John Mayer a lot lately. It is not an amazing song, but something about the simple chorus, I know the heart of life is good has resonated with me. Yes, there are struggles. Yes, there is pain, fear, anger and hurt. Yes, circumstances are difficult and life is cruelly unfair sometimes. But there are good moments too. There is sweetness and love. There is beauty and peace. There is grace, forgiveness and hope.

I expect things to always be good, and am blindsided when my expectations are not met. I repeat this pattern again and again, and spend most of my time in a haze of disappointment and resentment. But, when I pull my head up out of the depression and look around, I realize that today, life is filled with good moments, and I will be thankful for that small gift.

I’m fine. It’s been my answer for everything lately. Sometimes, if I’m feeling verbose, I will throw in a few modifiers (see: I’ll be fine. Things will be okay. This is just a rough spot.) or, when I’m really crazy, I’ll shake it up a bit (Oh, umm, yeah. Well, things are not so great right now. I’m just working through some stuff. No. It’s nothing you can help with. No, really, I shouldn’t have even said anything.), but I always come back to Fine.

What is it about Fine that makes it such an acceptable answer? Is it just what we, as questioners, want to hear? In my world, Fine is code for, “Thanks for asking, but we both know you don’t want to get in to my head so I’ll spare us the embarrassment by bringing this conversation to a quick end.” I feast on Fine.

But, like most people, I’m not.

When you are in the middle of Not Fine, it is hard to sort out the whys and wherefores. Everything gets muddled together and you can no longer see the individual characteristics or circumstances that led you to this place. Maybe that is why we say we are Fine - we know that any other answer would bring forth such a confusing and convoluted string of nonsense that, not only would the listener run the risk of a head explosion, but there is no way you could get it back in to your own head with any sort of hope of resuming daily functionality. Maybe we are so afraid of what we might find when we explore Not Fine that we become content to keep it tucked away in our own brain, stewing and boiling, while we clench our fingers to their precarious hold of Fine.

Or maybe that’s just how it feels for me.

But, as I’m attempting to pick up the pieces from another instance of Not Fine finding its way out, I know that I need to at least try and sort it out.

Here are some of my attempts:

I am confronted at every turn with my proclivity to do the wrong thing. My struggles with food continue (I don’t even try to figure out a different way to word that anymore). I am grumpy and shy. I want to have a clear understanding of what areas of my life are my responsibility to change and what things are simply part of being human, so that I can long for change but understand that it may never come. I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as angst, or maybe an existential crisis. I’m calling it Not Fine.

The scant 9 hours of dreary daylight and constant 50 degree and rainy forecast is forcing me under my full-spectrum light in hopes of regaining sanity. This is my first winter in years without anti-depressants. I am fighting to stay off them (those side effects were killing me) but its hard to resist the guaranteed fix. I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as depression, or maybe Being A Seattle-ite. I’m calling it Not Fine.

The holidays are coming and I can already feel the pressure. People are rude and pushy, traffic is bad, stores are crowded. I want to hibernate and not come out until it is time to prune my roses. I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as stress, or maybe the downside of commercialized America. I’m calling it Not Fine.

Justin is working a lot. His company is booming and his department is busier than ever. He is assigned to two full-time projects. He may be traveling around Christmas time and he may have to skip his planned vacation. I am proud of him and thankful for this job security, but I am dreading the days that will go by without him seeing Andrew (the worst part is knowing how much he dreads it too). I am dealing with it all by reading a lot of books, not talking to people and sleeping way more than I should. I think this is what some refer to as pseudo-single-parenting, or maybe loneliness. I’m calling it Not Fine.

All of these things, and more, place me in Not Fine. But they don’t begin to touch the big issues. The big issues - bitterness, stubbornness, an unforgiving heart, criticism, neediness, anger, fear and anxiety - those are the ones that keep me from writing and using this place as an outlet for my thoughts, those are the ones that isolate me from my friends and my community, those are the ones that, if left unchecked, seem like they could keep me in Not Fine indefinitely.

But what do you do with those big issues? What do you do when those big issues weave their way through your heart and your mind and ingratiate themselves in every little issue you face? What do you do when those big issues make you blind to the truth about your circumstances and your life?

What do you do when you can see those big issues but you can’t see past them?

So, since you asked, I’m not fine. And, for those of you problem solvers out there, I have no idea what I am going to do about it, although writing this may have helped.

I guess I’ll go read my book.

I have had a rough couple of weeks. I got my hands on some candy and found that my willpower was not as strong as I hoped it would be. I tried to cut some corners and found that I do not exist outside the laws of cause and effect. I am confronted, in many different situations, with my unwillingness to trust those who have my best interests at heart, my deep seeded rebellion and an almost unreasonable desire to do things my own way.

I despise authority, whether it be a piece of paper that tells me what to eat or a decision that is made for the greater good.

These are unfortunate realizations, but, although I wish things were different, it is good to have an accurate picture of where I stand.

I so want to sit down and write about a success in the food department. But I am not there yet. I have had more successful days than not, but I have yet to have a week where I meet my nutritional goals every day.

I want to write about overcoming the blues and kicking some Seattle-cold-wet-rainy-depression-inducing ass. But I am not doing that. Lately I feel like my grip on clear, balanced thinking is tenuous at best.

I want to write about how much I love going to the gym. But I am tired. And 4:30 is just plain early. And I’m not about to give up, but it is white-knuckled determination that keeps me going, not endorphin-fueled excitement.

There are so many things that I wish I could write about, but I can’t. So I am doing what all creative people do when they have a block, I am engaging in trivial tasks to keep one side of my brain operating while the other side sorts through the muddle and tries to make sense of it all. I am scouring cookbooks, creating my Shelfari page, making new playlists on itunes, reading, decorating and cleaning.

For those of you who worry when I am not writing much - don’t. It’s okay. I am okay. I just need to pull back and find that elusive reset button.

I decided to start taking Andrew to the toddler time at the library on Tuesdays. I thought it would be a good way to pass some time this winter and a fine opportunity for him to practice sitting on a carpet square with other children without freaking out.

Apparently he did not get the memo.

I know, I know. (And trust me, the fact that I know is what makes this all so frustrating.) I have to parent the child I have. I am a better parent when I know my child and plan accordingly. My expectations of him need to be based on his past behavior, not what other kids his age are doing. I should not be surprised when he screams and runs and can’t be consoled when another child comes within three feet of him.

But I am surprised. I am disappointed. I am embarrassed. I am resentful. I am cross and short-tempered. Every. Single. Time.

There’s not much more to say. If I were hearing someone else tell this story about their child, I would give the appropriate advice: Try again. Don’t give up. Look at all the progress he’s made in other social situations. He’ll get there. Try again. Try again. Try again.

And I will.

But right now. I am just plain frustrated.

With him and with my reaction to him.

My ten-year reunion is tonight.

As stated previously, I’m not going.

But because I still apparently care way too much about what these people think of me, I wrote this for the little book they make:

After graduating from the University of Washington with a Political Science degree, I worked at a number of jobs including First Grade Teacher, Paralegal and Bookkeeper. For almost three years now I have worked as a homemaker and stay-at-home-mom and find the duties and dress code much more to my liking - although the hours are horrible. Recently, I started working from home as a freelance copy-editor for a small marketing firm based in Portland. The income from that job helps fund my ever-growing flower, running gear, and cookbook collection. I have been married to Justin for seven years and we have one son, Andrew, who will be three in January.

I feel like a sellout.

The emotional roller-coaster. It’s such a cliche, it has almost lost all meaning.

I went over to Jen’s on Tuesday night and she asked me if I was doing as well as I said I was. It’s a fair question. Accurate portrayal is damn-near impossible on a blog. I can focus on the small victories and keep the positive energy level flowing or I can get caught up in the mess of the lows and forget all of the progress that I have made. Or, I could post approximately every half-hour, examining the highs and lows in excruciating detail as they come - and making everyone crazy in the process.

The point that I’m trying to make is that the roller-coaster exists, for me and for everyone else. I am trying to find a way to experience the lows without living in them for days, to see them as events that happen as opposed to events that define. I’m not very good at this yet.

Thursday was a rough day. Actually, Wednesday night was a rough night and it kind of carried over. Here’s what happened on Thursday though, Andrew was having One Of Those Days where life is not good unless he is sitting on my lap in front of the television, juice in one hand and animal crackers in the other. And I get that. I really do. But I needed to go to the store, we had our preschool playdate, home for a nap and then dinner at a friend’s house. So we had to get moving at some point. I won’t go in to the gory details, but, as I was celebrating the small victory of making it out of the store without buying any candy, I forgot to keep my guard up concerning Andrew’s request for “The Quaker Man Granola Bars”. So, when he asked for them I grabbed the chocolate chip instead of the oatmeal raisin ones (Andrew has no preference between the flavors) and we headed gaily off to a disastrous playdate. As I brought my screaming child home and got him settled for a nap, I thought about those granola bars. And then I ate them. All. And then I ate some more stuff. To top it off, instead of gardening during Andrew’s nap, I laid on the couch and watched TV for two hours. And that really sucks, because it’s not even reading.

But here is where I have a choice. I can feel really bad about this (which I do) and I can give hope the finger and spend the next few weeks writing about how sad I am and how much I suck and reliving all the times I have tried and failed to stick to a diet in the past, or I can trust that the downhill motion of my mental train will slow (eventually) and that things will even out and then turn around and head up again.

I choose the latter. The leader of my weight loss group always says, “Do the right thing and the heart will follow.” That works for me.

So right now I feel a little bit glum and my jeans are pinching in that horrible, bloated way.

But that is alright. It has to be. Because when I got up this morning I actually felt like running and so, when my watch beeped after the first 90-second interval, I kept going (for a little while) and it felt good.

Please keep your seatbelt fastened until the ride comes to a complete stop.

Why is it that everything seems fine in the light of day?

Why am I so affected by light and darkness?

I am giddy at the thought of travel. Bright lights, big city, child-free, reconnecting. A break. Vacation. I can’t sleep.

I can’t sleep. The images flash in my mind. Planes hitting the towers. The recordings of phone calls home.

What would you say? If you only had one phone call to Andrew. I love you, little buggy. I shouldn’t have taken this trip. I should have been there for you. I should never leave you. What if something happens to you when I’m not there. What if you are trying to say something and your caregivers don’t understand you? What if you want to play a special game or snuggle in just the right way and I am not there for you? Who will take care of you the way I do?

Never leave? Are you insane? The little boy is fine. You are a textbook co-dependent. You know better. Isn’t your God bigger than this? You need this trip. You need to breathe. You need to remember what it is like to enjoy your husband. It is not wrong to take a trip. It’s not wrong.

It is wrong. You are his mother. He needs you. He will be sad when you are gone. You are choosing your own comfort and convenience over his well being. You are selfish. You will be punished for your selfishness. What goes around comes around, you know.

You are insane. You are utterly daft. Shake your fist at this so-called Fate and get on that damn plane.

I can’t sleep. I want to go. I am afraid to go. I can’t wait to be there. I can’t wait to get home.

It’s going to be great.

It’s going to be terrible.

You need to go on this trip.

Justin would rather go to the ocean. You should take Andrew to the ocean.

You said you would go. You have tickets and plans. You said you would go. What will people say if you don’t go?

You can’t go. Something awful is going to happen.

You will have a great time.

Something is going to happen.

You will have a great time.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

The nursing thing still bothers me, two years in. Every time Andrew gets sick, or someone comments on how big he is, or I see a mother nursing her baby, I hear it. If he had been breastfed, he would have a better immune system. If he had been breastfed, he would have more lean muscle mass. That could have been you, but for your choices. My three biggest fears about having another baby are that I will bleed again, that I won’t be able to nurse and that the baby will disrupt the good thing that Andrew and I have going. I resented Andrew for so long, I don’t want to resent another baby. And Andrew and I do have a good thing going. I love that kid past the point of safety, more than I have ever loved anyone or anything – except maybe myself – and it scares me. But, when I realize the potential that I have, the potential to love other people the way I love Andrew, it blows my mind. Imagine a life where your heart was overflowing with love for all the people around you. Imagine the possibility of only wanting the best things for everyone that you loved. Imagine the relationships that could be formed if we weren’t so intent on protecting our hearts. Maybe you live this way, I know that I don’t. I believe that other people have found this capacity to love in different ways, and I would never say that you have to have a child to live this way, but, for me, that is what it took.

So, what do I know now? I know that I am not finished or fixed, although I expected to be. I am working on forgiveness, of others yes, but mostly of myself. I am working on proper perspective. I know that some of the things that happened were not at all my fault, and that some were. I know that most of the things that were my fault occurred because I was too proud to ask for help, and so I am working on telling people that I can’t meet all their needs. I know that, no matter how much I obsess over something, I will never be able to go back and change the past, and I am learning that maybe I should just let it be.

For years the possibility of panic defined my life. I would not stay home alone after dark. I would not go check on a noise that I heard, preferring to cower in bed and nag Justin to take care of it. I would not go unaccompanied to the small town where The School is located. I would tell mountains and mountains of lies about why I was afraid of conflict, or why I wasn’t teaching anymore, or why I spent so much time at my parents house now that I had a house of my own. But, slowly, those things are changing. I stayed alone for a week while Justin was away on business – and I liked it! I enter that small town carefully now, still on guard to make sure that I see anyone from The School before they see me, but I enter. Instead of having spider dreams, I usually dream that I am having a spider dream. I wake up, ask Justin if that was real, turn over and go back to sleep.

I wanted to close this story with some sort of happy ending, pretty bows and all. But I can’t. I still struggle. Sure, the medication helps to keep me numb most of the time but, occasionally, my fears and anxieties get the better of me and I end up crying or hiding and I’m not convinced that numbness is my desired state of being anyways. I am working on my issues with food, but it is still a minute-by-minute battle in my mind, and one that I often lose. I drag my feet about having another child because the thought of going through that again makes me nauseous. I drag my feet about what I am going to do with myself once our kids are in school because the thought of going through that again makes me nauseous. And so I am here. I am still learning. I am twenty-seven years old.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

The fatigue and influx of postpartum hormones combine with the inherent Crazy to form a dangerous combination. I am angry all the time. I am angry at myself, at Andrew. I push him away, passing him off to whoever is there so that I don’t have to be with him. I don’t want him around. I don’t like to hold him. I don’t like to feed him. I get up with him at night and we sit in the rocking chair together, both of us screaming. Justin tries to help but I am angry with his suggestions. I know how things should be. I have known for years how things were going to be once I had a baby. And if they aren’t that way then I just need to work harder to fix the situation. If you were a better mother, the right kind of mother, you wouldn’t feel this way. If you took care of your baby the right way then he wouldn’t be screaming right now. This is all your fault, the gestational diabetes, the pitocin, the epidural, the pain medication, the birth control pills, all of these could have been prevented if you were a better mother. Without all of these things you would be able to nurse Andrew and the screaming would stop. Andrew’s wails and the voices in my head beat me down. I am defeated. I am a bad mother. I can not do this. Something is wrong with me. I wanted this but I don’t want it anymore. I don’t care what happens just get that kid away from me and, for God’s sake make the screaming stop.

I spend a lot of time with some dear friends who care for Andrew and for me. My parents and Justin have hurried conversations and scramble to make plans so that they can help me more during the day. They are worried. I can see it in their eyes. And I resent them for it. I am failing. They are right. But I am also embarrassed. I am supposed to be able to do this. This is what I wanted. This was supposed to make me happy. But there are still moments when I am alone and Andrew is screaming. During these moments I hold him as close as possible and think about holding his feet and smashing his head in to the wall. I just want the screaming to stop. He is screaming at me. His cries give witness to the voices in my head. You are not good enough. You are not doing this right. You are not a good mother. You are not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

Andrew is six weeks old and it is time for his check-up. The pediatrician comes in to the room, takes one look at me and says, “You have that look about you. Is everything okay?” For once I take words at face value and I am not offended. I tell him everything. We talk for over 45 minutes before he even starts to examine Andrew. I find out that Andrew has acid reflux, which is apparently very common in newborns. He has heartburn which gets worse after he eats and when he is laying flat. He is crying because he is in pain. He is not sleeping because he is in pain. I had never considered that there was something wrong with him, at least not anything that could be fixed. We leave with a prescription for baby Zantac and a follow-up appointment in a couple of weeks.

I am six weeks post delivery and it is time for my check-up. Justin goes with me and I tell my doctor everything. She puts me back on anti-depressants and signs the papers for my mom to take time off of work to help me. We talk about the birth control pills and she tells me I did the right thing. We talk about the responsibility to nourish a child and the different ways that a mother can do that. I appreciate her words but I still do not believe her. She is not a mother. She does not know how I feel. Yeah, she can say that, but you can bet that she would nurse a baby if she had one. She has to say that, you don’t have enough milk to feed him. She has to tell you that formula is okay.

I pull my head up out of the sand a bit and find that there are women who know exactly how I feel, women who I trust and respect. I talk with them and the weight lifts a bit. They assure me that, if I let myself, I will bond with Andrew. They remind me that the Creator of my body also created modern medicine and formula to keep me and my baby safe and healthy. They are right, but I forget sometimes.

Months pass. Andrew sleeps and eats and grows. I meet other mothers whose children have acid reflux and we share horror stories and I can laugh again. I still pass Andrew off whenever I can, but I miss him too. I go away for four days when he is 7 months old and the missing him becomes real. I call all the time just to talk with him. I am hungry for news and stories. I have a blast on my trip, but I want to go home. The tension between being a mother and being an individual grows stronger. The voices come at me from all sides. If you were a good mother you wouldn’t want to leave your child. If you don’t take time for yourself you will go crazy. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you have to go. If you go, you will miss something and the tenuous bond you have will weaken. I went. I came back. I realized that, without even knowing it, this kid had my heart. We had bonded. I am twenty-six years old.

You can read this story from the beginning here.

Where does The Crazy come from? Is it something that you are born with or something that you learn? Does everyone have it, although it only shows in those of us who are not so good at hiding it? What happens when we can not hide it anymore?

It is April 2004. I have stopped taking anti-depressants. My temp job is almost over. The company is closing, I was there to fill holes and finish projects. There is a dinner scheduled for everyone in the office. My period is late. I think nothing of it, I’ve never been regular. After lunch I have a stomach ache, a horrible stomach ache. I am sick. I am bleeding, a lot. These are not normal circumstances. My doctor tells me it is probably a very early term miscarriage. I know that. I have had one other one. In January of that same year, right about the time Grandma had her stroke. We didn’t tell anyone at the time; it seems so insignificant compared to my grandma, lying partially paralyzed in a hospital bed. But in my head I begin to panic. It took my parents years and years to get pregnant with me. I want a baby so much. And now this is happening again. I panic. I blame myself. The voices in my head have a field day. If you weighed less you would be able to sustain a pregnancy. If you had less stress, better nutrition, if you were better, stronger, right, and good. Then you would be able to sustain a pregnancy. I am obsessed with getting pregnant. I read books and do research.

By the first part of June I know that I am pregnant again, and although I expect to start bleeding at any time it never happens. My due date is February 11th, a year to the day after my Grandma died. I panic at the thought of my baby being born on that day. My mom goes on and on about the circle of life or some such crap and I want to throw up. I will have none of it. I want the two days to be separate, a day to mourn and a day for joy. I get my wish, but not in the way I expected. My food demons come calling during pregnancy and I am diagnosed with gestational diabetes. I know that I have to watch what I eat, but I continue to numb myself with sugar. I feel guilty, knowing that I am hurting my baby, choosing my comfort over health. I eat more when I am worried. I am put on bed rest for the last six weeks before Andrew is born. Bed rest is great for the first day. After that I pass the time by knitting lopsided baby hats and watching Dawson’s Creek in its entirety. It does not take six weeks to finish Dawson’s Creek. I am bored. I eat. My body is so confused from years of abuse that I cannot tell when my body is actually hungry. I still can’t. With two weeks to go before my due date I go to a doctor’s appointment with a horrible headache, I am seeing spots and am dizzy even when lying down. My blood pressure is continuing its climb and my doctor says that it is time to intervene. I am to go to the hospital and be induced. I am twenty-five years old.

Andrew is born amidst last-minute epidurals and a blur of activity. I am a little worse for wear. I spend a lot of time with the doctors while Justin and my mom hang out with Andrew. The hospital feels surreal. I set myself up for a fall with my expectations. This little alien that the nurses hand me is not what I expected. I look at him in wonder – a boy! I did not know if we were having a boy or a girl, but I kind of assumed it would be a girl. I mean, I’m a girl, my mom is a girl, my grandma is a girl, my cousins are girls, of course my baby would be a girl. I did not say that I wanted a girl. I just knew the baby would be a girl. So having this boy is a little much for my sleep deprived brain and doped up body to handle. I am tired. I want to sleep. The hospital is loud and uncomfortable. I am traumatized by the experience of birth. I try to nurse, it doesn’t feel right but the lactation consultant tells me not to worry, that Andrew is getting everything he needs and that everything will work out. I believe her. Andrew is crying. It is the middle of the night. We have been up for the better part of 72 hours at this point. I try to hold Andrew and I nearly drop him, my arms are so tired. Justin reaches over to take him and trips over nothing, stumbling around the room with a newborn. He is shaken and goes to ask the nurse for help. She agrees to take care of Andrew for a couple of hours until it is time to nurse again. We fall instantly asleep, relieved that a professional is on the job.

When the nurse brings him back to us, he is sleeping happily. She explains that he was hungry, that sometimes newborns need more than their mothers can give at first and that after feeding him a little bit from the bottle, he calmed down and fell right asleep. She thinks nothing of it, just another baby on another night, believes that she is reassuring us. She does not realize what I do with her words, what I twist them to say. Couldn’t you see that he was hungry? You are not taking good care of him. You did not feed him. You have one job here and you were unable to do it. Your baby was hungry and you could not feed him. You can not feed your baby. You are not good enough. You cannot do this.

I am home and nursing still doesn’t feel right. Andrew has jaundice and we have to take him to the doctor for some blood tests. I talk to the pediatrician about our feeding problems and they suggest that I continue to supplement with a bottle until we figure out nursing. We make appointments with the lactation consultant, a wonderful woman who encourages me to keep trying, giving me this bit of information, “Sometimes when women have lots of drugs during delivery, pitocin, pain medications and epidurals, it can slow down milk production. Just give it more time.” She thinks nothing of it, just more worried parents on another afternoon, believes that she is reassuring us. She does not realize what I do with her words, what I twist them to say. You are not feeding your baby. The choices that you made have created this situation. If you had been better, stronger, right, good, this would not be happening. You chose your own comfort over the well-being of your baby. Your baby is hungry and you can not feed him. It is your fault. You cannot feed your baby. You have one job here and you are unable to do it. You are not good enough. You cannot do this.

Andrew is a fussy baby. He eats for a few minutes and then screams, aching his back, inconsolable. He doesn’t sleep well, usually only about 45 minutes at a time. Justin and I are zombies, and like every other new parent, we believe that we are the only ones to feel this way. Justin’s two weeks off fly by. Toward the end of his time off I am producing more milk, enough that even though Andrew is still supplementing with a bottle he is eating exclusively breast milk. This is what I want for him. I feel like I am caring for my baby, like I am doing something right. Nursing him is extremely important to me and we are making headway with the lactation consultant. It is Saturday morning, almost two weeks after Andrew was born. We have bundled him up and taken him for his first walk in the stroller. He is unimpressed. We are elated. My body is starting to feel normal again. I am no longer scared to move. Justin’s parents are coming over to help with some housework and visit with Andrew, my mom will be here later. The grandparents are loopy around him. I notice that I have started bleeding again and decide to lie down for a while. The bleeding continues and I call my doctor’s office. They close in 30 minutes and advise me to go to the hospital if the bleeding continues. It does. We leave Andrew with my mom and head up to the hospital. The ER is crowded and they are unconcerned about a new mom who is bleeding a little more than normal. A male doctor examines me with little sympathy and I try to protect my mind from this invasion. He tells me that everything is fine and sends me home with instructions to return if the bleeding worsens.

We drive home and I try to nurse again. Milk is everywhere except Andrew’s stomach. He wants the ease of the bottle. I am annoyed and agree that my mom can feed him. I stand up and feel a rush down my legs. Blood. Lots of blood. I get in to the bathroom and there is blood everywhere. I try to get clean but there is too much. We leave the mess for my mom to clean up and speed back to the hospital. The admitting nurse takes notice of us this time. My pants are soaked with blood. People rush to get me hooked up to IVs. I see a different doctor this time. A woman. She is gentle and kind and says, “I have worked in a lot of emergency rooms and this is an impressive amount of blood.” For some reason this makes me feel better. I am not over-reacting. I am not melodramatic (this time). We spend 10 hours in the emergency room while they try to figure out what is going on. I have lost a lot of blood but my counts are staying relatively close to normal. Ultrasounds and more examinations and lots of observation and they can’t really decide what is happening. They to send me home with a prescription for birth control pills, assuming that they will stop the bleeding and then force me to have a normal period. It is close to midnight. My mom stays overnight and takes care of Andrew for the rest of the day while I sleep. I wake up and try to nurse again on Sunday evening. He is adamantly opposed to this idea. Twenty-four hours of exclusive bottle feeding has taken its toll. I let him have the bottle for that night and resolve to regroup and start again the next day.

The week progresses and nursing does not get any easier. It seems like I have less milk than before and I have to start using formula again. Andrew is still screaming every time I feed him and I am beyond frustrated. I call a friend who worked as a labor and delivery nurse and ask her for some help. We talk for a while and she mentions that birth control pills can decrease milk supply. I am shocked. This is the first I have heard about that possibility. I recognize that the first priority over the weekend was to stop the bleeding, but I wish someone would have told me of this possible side effect. I call the doctor’s office to ask what my options are and she says that I can try to stop the pills, but that, if I stop them, I might start bleeding again. I am terrified of bleeding again. I keep on the pills. I am working like a crazy woman to increase my milk supply and nothing is helping, fenugreek, pumping all the time, water, warm compresses … I am obsessing about my inability to nurse Andrew. The voices get louder. You are doing it again. You are choosing your comfort above the well-being of your child. But I am scared. Justin is back at work. What if I start bleeding when I am home alone with Andrew? Good mothers nurse their children. Didn’t you read the books, the websites, the message boards? Breast milk is best. Your body was created to do this and, because of your selfish choices, it is not working. I become convinced that all of Andrew’s crying and discomfort is due to the formula. I try harder, doing everything that anyone suggests to increase my milk supply, but there is not enough. He is not gaining weight like he should. He is still not latching on. He loves the bottle.

I am failing at something I am supposed to be good at. Again.