On My Mind

I hated that I had to struggle so much.

I hated that my body always seemed to be against me. Like when I was constantly sick as a kid, like how my parents rarely had health insurance with good coverage, like how even after I got my tonsils removed, I still got sick all the time.

I hated that my being sick a lot made me feel like the heaviest of burdens on my parents, and made me even more conscious of our financial situation. Like when there were serious illnesses that we couldn’t see a doctor about because we either didn’t have insurance, or the copay was too much to afford that week.

I hated that my body has never performed as it really, biologically should. Like when I developed ovarian cysts when I was 16, which turned into polycystic ovarian disease within six months, and then into polycystic ovarian cancer by the time I was 17.

I hated that I was alone when my cancer was diagnosed. I hate that it gave me the opportunity to hide it, because in the end, that’s how I could choose to keep it from everyone but my boyfriend. And why didn’t I tell them? Because I also hated the idea that they would baby me, spend money they didn’t have on me, and look at me with pity in their eyes.

I hated that my best option would have been a complete hysterectomy and oophorectomy, leaving me with no options for having my own family, while sending me into immediate-onset menopause. I hate that I had to make such a serious choice when I was still just a kid. I almost hate that I didn’t choose the surgery that would have likely cured me completely, but then I would have had to tell…

I hated that my body tricked me repeatedly, making me think that the cancer was gone, so I no longer had to hide it from my family. I felt like I could move on past that part of my life and feel free again, only to find out that it was back after only a handful of cancer-free months at the end of my junior year of high school.

I hated that I looked so sick sometimes, that I threw up so much, that I dropped so much weight and lost some of my hair.

I loved that I finally slimmed down enough to not look quite so… husky. But, then, I hate that people noticed so much. The whispers from the gossip’s mouths are something else that I hate. Even now, more than ten years later, their words drift through my mind at the oddest of times.

“Wow! She finally lost some weight. At least she doesn’t look like such a fat cow, now.”

“I still wouldn’t want to see her in those spandex shorts for volleyball, though. Gross.”

“Wonder why she finally got off her lazy ass and did it. Probably trying to get

attention or something.”

I loved not being sick during show week of the spring musical that year. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to work through chest and sinus congestion and a raw throat to get the notes and lines out.

I hated that instead of being sick, I ended up compromising my own immune system and physical health by making a single misstep during the first show, crushing my brachial and temporal vein and artery, severely bruising my tailbone, and almost breaking a couple bones in my elbow from the fall.

I loved that I kept going and ended up getting flowers from strangers and shouts of “Bravo” at curtain call. For once I felt special in a really good way. I felt like I was stepping out of my sister’s shadow. She could be Maria VonTrapp in the Sound of Music (even though she can’t act to save her life); I much preferred being Anita in West Side Story, bringing the house down every day and twice on Sunday.

I hated that the cancer recovery period the second time was so difficult. I hated that I ended up becoming dependent on Vicodin to get through the day. It may have started out with real pain, but who knows by the time it was over.

I loved that once I was clean, things seemed good. My senior year had arrived, my class load was a joke, and I felt the beginnings of some serious freedom coming to me.

I loved that I worked two jobs that were both perfect in their imperfection. Tummy Ache Candy Store where the only real food was 75 cent pickles that I lived on for months, and Mandarin House where the employee discount had me spending some serious paychecks to feed my Chinese food addiction (even though the entire staff hated me and the other white employees… we all got fired within 6 months of being hired).

I hated not being recognized for the talent and skill I had shown in the choral program at school.

I loved that I quit choir second semester.

I loved that when my teacher cornered me and made me tell him why I quit, I told him, “Because I’m not my sister, no matter how much you wish I was, and I’m tired of you acting disappointed when I don’t kiss your ass like she did.” I was pretty proud of that.

I hated when the cancer came back again right before the end of the school year, and I couldn’t be arsed to care about the stupid bullshit that seems to matter to every other senior in high school.

I hated that it was so persistent, that time. How it took months and months for my blood counts and hormone levels to even out again. How I had to keep up the special diet and light therapy and treatments until almost a year later. Sure, compared to people that get serious cancers, my problems seemed insignificant. But I was a kid, not quite an adult yet, even if I had been forced to grow up far too young. I was still just a kid, dealing with things far beyond my supposed maturity level, completely by myself, at a time when all I wanted was to be free.

I loved that I decided not to go to college as planned. I loved that I had gotten the audition scholarship in vocal performance that my sister had received for all four years before me, taking it away from her in her senior year at Saginaw Valley, proving that I was more talented than her. I loved, too (in that petty way that things happen between siblings), that even when I decided not to go, she never got that scholarship.

I loved that my other sister came with me when I decided to audition for American Idol. I loved that we bonded so much more in those couple weeks of road trips and giggling inside-jokes. I hated that I got shat on by a bird right before I went inside to sing. I loved that we got a picture of that moment, though. And I loved that we both laughed so hard about it.

I hated learning that the entire show is rigged, and that it doesn’t matter if you’re talented. I appreciated that I got to learn that lesson about the real world doing something that is really insignificant.

I hated that I did something so cruel and hurtful to my boyfriend. I hated realizing that I could be that bad of a person to someone who had been my everything. But I loved that the man I cheated on him with ended up being my husband, for better or worse. So, does it cancel out?

I hated that Joseph’s mom hated me before she had ever met me. I hated that she tried to break us up by telling him that I would give him an STD because of my cancer. I hated how ignorant she could be, to say the things she did without having any real knowledge of my history or my illness. I hated that he was dumb enough to almost believe her. I hated that I had to scream at the top of my lungs, “No! I do NOT have Human Papilloma Virus!” to which she replied, “Oh! So, you know what it is?!” as if she had found the smoking gun.

I hate that my in-laws are two-faced assholes, that only stopped treating me like utter shit when I popped out their grandchild/great-grandchild.

I hate that they’ve finally started acting like normal people, and treat me like a person that has views and knowledge on things. I hate that I can’t hate them anymore. That was more fun…

I love/hate that I have to have coffee. Every morning. It’s not as though I’ll die (or anyone else, for that matter) without it; not like it used to be when I was in the Navy, running on 3 hours of sleep every day. But I still need my coffee, otherwise the day feels wrong.

I loved that I joined the Navy. To be clear, I only loved it when I joined…

I hated that I was in the Navy. I hated being completely marginalized, being unappreciated and unacknowledged. I hated that I worked so hard, consistently went above and beyond, only to be overlooked for someone that spent their time kissing ass.

I loved that the people I trained cared. I loved that when I was in charge of things, they went smoothly. I loved that my junior sailors completely respected me because I was smart and experienced. I loved that they told me how good I was at teaching the specific tasks and information required.

I loved that I was one of the very best at my job. I loved that I was highly skilled enough to be respected by the retired members of our training staff. I loved the days at the range, the times I finally got things right, and earned expert qualifications on all my weapons.

I hated constantly being belittled for my weight. I hated that it seemed to make me feel like I was back in high school again. I hated that it made me do things that were extremely unhealthy just to make weight, and fail enough times that I almost got kicked out.

I hated responding to domestic disputes. I hated performing traffic stops, and scanning ID’s at the front gates. I hated being stuck at a spot all day with someone I didn’t like.

I don’t know how I felt about responding to my first active shooter. There is no hate there, I guess. I feel accomplished that I was able to perform the necessary tasks to make sure that people remained safe. I appreciated the training I had received and how it had prepared me as much as possible for a situation that can never truly be prepared for. I hated shooting a man. I hated feeling like his life was on my conscience, even if he had been a threat. I appreciated that he lived.

I hated that I felt like I couldn’t have my own life, because so much of it was taken up in my work.

I loved when my husband finally agreed to start trying for a baby. I loved how excited we both were about it.

I hated waiting. And trying. And failing. Month. After month. After month.

I loved finding out that I finally was pregnant, after two years of trying. Two years of stressing, and analyzing and tracking every aspect of my reproductive cycle and fertility. I loved telling Joseph that he would be a daddy.

I hated that I miscarried at 11 weeks. I hated how destroyed I felt. I hated how helpless I felt. I hated seeing the same things in my husband, the man who had been so reluctant to want it in the first place. I hated seeing what came out of my body the day after the second hospital visit, when it wasn’t 100% confirmed yet. I hated feeling so fractured and distraught. I hated being shattered.

I hated hearing people gossip about it at work. I hated hearing the amount of insensitivity and lack of caring people had about their coworkers.

“Are we even sure she was really pregnant? She just told us a couple weeks ago. There’s no way she really lost it. It’s probably all just bullshit to get attention. You know she’s gonna try to use this to get out of the next PRT” *(Physical Readiness Assessment- AKA the thing you do twice a year to show you’re not too fat and can run and do sit-ups and push-ups)*

I loved that there were still a few people that cared enough to try to help me through it. I loved that the person hearing those words stood up for me. I hated that she had to, though.

I hated feeling like maybe my body just can’t do this. Maybe I’m not meant to be a mommy. Maybe it’s supposed to be this way.

I hated praying every single day for God to bless us with a child.

I loved when that prayer was finally answered.

****

How could I not be grateful that she’s here and she’s mine, after it took us two years of trying and a miscarriage to get her? She is the most monumental of all the blessings I’ve ever been given. There are so many things that go through my head every day. I’m constantly thinking about what my daughter needs:

Is she getting enough protein?

Is she eating enough of her lunch?

Can I get away with giving her a can of ravioli for dinner tonight?

Do I seriously have to cook Shepard’s pie again because it’s her favorite?

Am I putting her to bed at the right time?

Did I clear her room out of all the things she pretends to be scared of?

Did I pick the right bedtime stories?

Will she sleep all night?

Is she going to wake up at 1 AM, or 5 AM?

Will she go back to sleep easily, so she doesn’t feel too overwhelmed tomorrow?

Will she sleep any better if I get her a new bed?

Why can’t I teach her better than I have so far?

Why does she act like she doesn’t know her letters and numbers and shapes when I ask?

Am I doing this stuff right?

Will she always act like she hates me?

Will she ever understand how much I love her?

Will she ever see all the sacrifices I make for her?

Does she understand that the way daddy sometimes treats mommy isn’t how her future partner should treat her?

Will she understand that her parents both struggle with mental health issues?

Will she have mental health issues?

Will she be healthy, or constantly sick like I was?

Will she be happy?

Will I make too many mistakes and fuck her up beyond repair?

Will she ever forgive me for not being good enough for her?

Will she ever see that her mommy is only this strong because she never had another choice?

Will she have to be strong, too?

****

They say we only use 10% of our brains at any given time. There’s no way that’s true. Moms have been proving that fact wrong for generations. Moms have, at any given time, 867 different things going on in their heads. From what chores need to be done, to what to make for dinner; not only tonight, but for at least the next three days. We think about grocery lists, and what we should be doing to help our child learn and grow. We think about what we must be doing wrong, and how severely will it impact our child down the road. We think about what needs to be cleaned still. We think about every single other person in our lives before we think about ourselves. I wish I had access to more of my brain.

I wish I lived in the Harry Potter universe. Seriously, how much easier would it be to live your life if you could apparate to school and work to save on driving time and gas money? How much cleaner would it be to vanish a dirty diaper, instead of getting shit all over your hand when the wipe slips from your fingers? How much easier would sleep training be if you could just ward your child’s room so they have to stay in there, or in their bed, or hey- just spell the kid to sleep until it’s time to get up! Doing dishes? No problem, throw a cleaning spell their way. Making dinner? Boil the water or cook the potatoes with the swish and flick of a wand. Life is so much simpler in my fan fiction…

I wish I felt like I had respect in my every day life. I wish I didn’t feel so inconsequential to the people I support with my every action. People wonder why I work so hard to have good grades, why I strive for perfection in my school performance, why my GPA is as high as it is when I obviously have other things going on. It’s pretty simple. That’s the one thing no one can take from me. When my husband wakes up in a bad mood every day from Bipolar disorder and berates me for tiny, unimportant shit every single day, when he snaps at the slightest joke or provocation, when he comments about how these dishes need to be washed, or the bathroom needs to be cleaned, or the laundry needs to be done, or I need to stop being so severe when I discipline our daughter, or I need to be disciplining her more. When his episodes break me down to my lowest point, when he makes me feel like I can’t do anything right, when I feel like the worst mother alive, that’s the one thing he can’t take away from me. I am far too smart and determined to give up on what matters to me.

I know he doesn’t mean any of it. I know he isn’t like this all the time. I know there will be people that want to tell me he’s abusive and I should leave. But I also know that those people are wrong. He may be rude, and hurtful and far too quick to give up, but I also know he’s sick. So, for now, I wait until his meds kick in, and move on. The truth of it all is that we both knew that when we married each other, we wanted it to be forever. I still want that. We both grew up thinking that our parents didn’t really do it right, that some things were worth fighting for and talking through. I want what my grandparents had. I want to celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary, and our 60th and our 70th if we both live that long. I’m in for the long haul, no matter how much work it takes. When he breaks me down, he’s always there to help me pick up the pieces. When I feel like the world is breaking me, he’s there to tell me how strong I am and how much good I’m doing.

****

I hate that I feel like my life has been so full of struggling and disappointment.

I hate that even the good things, like my daughter and husband, bring with them such strong feelings of being trapped and unappreciated and not good enough.

I hate that I feel that way. It’s the ultimate guilt trip; how can you be mad at the two biggest blessings of your life?

I love that I am genuinely happier now than I ever have been in my life, that every bit of struggling seems to be worth it, that every low point was preparing me for something better.

I love that there are areas of my life where I feel truly accepted and valued for what I bring to the table.

I love that I have goals that seem like they are coming close to being within my reach. I love that I could really be a writer and support my family on it if I work hard enough. But I also love that I have a safety net. If writing doesn’t take off, my job as an assistant chef can easily be a career to support us.

I love that I haven’t let life completely break me. I love that all the hard work and strength I have has seen me through tough times enough to get me to the other side. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the Buddhists have it right, and the true problem is suffering to which the answer is an awakening. Maybe the question I should be asking myself is am I awake and enlightened? I think my answer might be yes.