On losing my faith

I have been praying to God for many, many years. For many, many things. When the sadness started creeping in, I prayed for help and when it got worse, and after I started asking for help, I prayed that someone would help me. It didn’t happen. Everyone asked what I needed and then when I couldn’t answer what it was I needed, the question was lost in a sea of hustle and bustle. I prayed for peace in knowing my biological father left me. That he didn’t want me even after he knew me. That peace, well I thought it came until my brother killed himself in November and the peace, well it wasn’t there anymore. I prayed to be a patient mother, I’ve prayed to be a good wife. I’ve prayed for God to help me to stay on a path of kindness and peace. I’ve failed at all. And I’ve never heard his voice once.

This Easter Sunday as I walked out of the church who spoke of new beginnings, I lost my faith in God and in myself. I will never, ever be the same. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. And, she’s probably right. No one, especially in that moment, loved me.

Last year was wrought with tragedy. In August when my period which is never late, was late, I popped up with a positive pregnancy test. Afraid of the judgment and comments, I sat quietly on it, hoping to enjoy our vacation the following week. And when I walked down the beach with my tiny almost 2-year-old in hand, I felt that gush and knew, I knew there would be nothing to tell and so, I didn’t. And I wept in the arms of my partner, then bled alone in the bathroom. Leaving my baby at the beach. He was due April 24th. I find great sadness in that I will never meet him.

October stole my friend. My Santa. A father and kind man. Out of the blue, his life stolen from us. The sadness and inability to understand why shook me to the core. I think of him every day. I think of his family, every.single.day. And as I stood in that auditorium taking the photos of no Santa, I prayed for peace. It still hasn’t come. And when the children’s leader had the gall to say to someone, when I was waffling with the idea of doing Santa again, that they would do it with or without me, I knew my value in that ministry was nothing more than the help. And my passion and love for the event meant nothing, as long as she got what she wanted. There will be no more Santa photos from me. And that charity has fallen away from my heart.

November took my brother. I can’t even tell you how he took his life, only that the pain of losing him is immeasurable. That my anxiety and my own hustle and bustle kept me from knowing him. And that the great sadness, that I often fear threatens my own self, took him, without warning and without hope. I see his face in mine sometimes. I’ve spent hours looking through the photos. I write him knowing he’ll never read it. I worry, that I will never, ever see him again.

I watched my sister’s life destroyed in a web of lies and deceit. My beautiful and innocent niece’s life forever changed. I’ve watched so many lives just crumble. Trying to keep it in perspective, I’ve shut down my feelings of drowning, trying to thank “god” that it wasn’t worse. And then, it just got so much worse.

In six weeks I have moved from being a silent victim, to a rage-filled person. In one week, I let passive, nastiness get to me and I have called names and said things I never ever thought would come out of my mouth. And yesterday, when provoked with the threats of posting photos of my children and a snide “hi” followed by “do you have something to say to me” after not so pleasant eye contact, I flew off the handle and I pushed a person, at a church and followed it up with a nasty curse word, on Easter Sunday. And it was made very clear that I wasn’t wanted there and that my sin, unforgivable, as the ‘punishment” was handed out of me in the verbal lashing for a nasty mistake. The day was full of police, 911 calls and locked doors. And what I learned? The police can do nothing if a person drives by your house or shows up at your job. That people can post whatever they want on the internet; personal photos, texts. They can lie and delete and argue. They can do anything and it if is not a threat, only the person who lays hands is in trouble. Unfortunately in this incident, that was me. In a desperate attempt to get this person out of the spotlight, I put myself in a terrible position. And the people in the front of the building, rightfully so, screaming at me, sealed that I will never, in this lifetime, set foot in a church to worship and I will likely, never pray for anything again.

When this all started, I sat silently and watched the shit show twitter parade and read the forum posts filled with lies. I tried to hide the emotions when I found out this person had been inside my home, I tried to go about my life as though I wasn’t scared and angry and alone. It didn’t work. They stole the peace I felt inside that room, then stole the happy from my Disney trip. And when the therapist said it was okay not to hide, I stopped and when the tweet eerily resembled responses to my own posts, I let them have it. Replying to the nasty, passive tweets, exposing the truth on the forums. Because if they can say whatever they want online, why can’t I?

The thing I forgot was it isn’t that I can’t, it’s that I shouldn’t.

My moral compass is off track these days too.

I’ve sent messages to most of the people I knew were involved. One young man, who’d while working with him, had inappropriate comments with my daughter, and lied to me and others over and over, got an ear full. He’s never responded, except once, to tell me to calm down. And then quickly walked into a building, instead of sharing “his side” and when he continued to pursue my child, after I told him not to and after his employer did as well, he through a mutual friend, attempted to relay to her, that he was indeed “there for her” and “was around if he needed to talk”. He had recent trouble, and instead of owning his own mistakes, he blamed me too.

I am the monster here after all.

At the very least, three other people knew since summer and no one told. I’m truly and deeply worried about the generations taking over the world. I am thinking whoever is in charge forgot to pass out the manual on moral obligations. I think that when things are hard, it’s easier to lie and hide. It’s sad. I’m a truther as they say; look where it’s got me though? Maybe these people are onto something.

So many people could have prevented the sheer amount of heartache this has been. A single, albeit difficult, conversation could have prevented a good majority of this. It could have stopped it before it started.

And what do I want? I just wanted an apology and the opportunity to say, “you hurt me. You could’ve stopped this.” Instead I get radio silence and a brutal, passive online attack. And I attacked back, with force. I’m not proud of that. It’s one of those things I will likely beat myself up for, for years.

Yesterday I deleted some 4000 tweets. My entire Twitter history and I am waffling with the idea of permanently deleting my Instagram. Logging into and thinking that this person is knowingly, and legally posting photos of my children, for some reason, makes me physically ill. I know in my logical brain that they are not hurting them but that they have these photos makes me sick. Physically sick. The worst part of it is I don’t know who to trust anyway. When this person was removed as a follower, they still managed to view everything I was posting on my then private account. I don’t know how or through whom but they saw. Making fun of our service night, something I’ve been doing for years… something I’d only posted on my private Instagram. I know I need to go completely offline but, the unfortunately reality of my mental illness, is that I built most of my friendships online, and I am not sure that if without them, I will make it out of this as an intact, sane person. 6 weeks and I am desperately missing being able to log in and see their lives. Or know how the cancer treatment is going or how the kids are growing, without a series of text messages. And my phone, with each vibration, I want to throw it out the window. It’s been sitting in the window. I have been turning it off. The catalyst to that? The awesome Happy Easter from the “father” who walked away from me. Ain’t that the shits.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I just don’t. I got out of the car yesterday and headed towards the baseball field. My legs couldn’t carry me and I sobbed between the box offices at the field I spend so many happy lacrosse hours at. I just wanted to sit in the dug out and imagine my sons playing. The truth is, I couldn’t see the future. I am still struggling to see it. When the police officer I had called showed up at my steps last night and asked if I needed him to take me to the crisis center, my heart screamed yes but my head and mouth said no, because I’m so afraid that I’ll go in and they’ll never, ever let me back out. Words like “unlovable” and “monster” seeped out of my mouth yesterday. Phrases like “this is all my fault” and “I am afraid of myself”. The sad is scary. And the silence after the prayers is so unsettling, that I am done.

I have been seeing a therapist for about a month now. She had blue hair; a clock and fawn tattooed on her arm. She gives me permissions I can’t give myself. And despite being made fun of for having this mental defect, and this sad, I think therapy is important and needed. I wish other people would try it. Maybe they’d see they are not the victim but the creator and while their heartache isn’t discountable, these feeling were created in choices.

I just don’t think praying anything away works. And if there is a God, he cannot hear me. And I am done asking for his help. And please, for the love of everything, stop saying you’re praying for me.

 

 

 

 

Hi! I'm Gail, the voice behind Mimicking Motherhood. I started blogging after the birth of my 2nd child as a way to connect with far away family. Things have definitely changed since then. Now, mama to five, this is a place to help connect with other mothers, who feel like me.I love to make and write all while trying to figure out how to be myself in the world of anxiety and depression. Glad you stopped by.

In the house of boys, we needed a doll

Devlynn outgrew her American Girl dolls many years ago. Although they still live her, complete with accessories, she doesn’t, at 17, play with them anymore. They, however, hold a very special place in her heart and I know, being that she is my daughter, she is holding onto them because she is worried the memories will fade. Those memories stick around if there is something physical to remind you.

Drew briefly loved a Bitty Baby he affectionately named, Drew Too. I couldn’t tell you where Drew Too is now. He fell quickly out of love with him as we discovered Bey Blades.

Now I have Dexter. He is a feeler and a nurturer by nature and because I have been making these soft dolls for the past few months, I have been frequenting doll boards on Facebook. He’d noticed, over my shoulder a boy doll. American Girl’s new boy doll, Logan to be exact.

Logan is 115.00. One-Hundred-Fifteen. From my experience, with Drew’s Bitty Baby I wasn’t going there. Not that I don’t think the AG dolls are worth it. I do. We own several. I myself have a Josephina whom I love and adore. She is clearly built better than some of the big box store dolls but having experienced the sticker shock of a badly wanted baby disappearing into who knows what, I wasn’t ready to fork over those dollars.

But you can’t buy a boy doll at the big box stores. Seriously. You can buy a girl doll and re-wig it. But the wig, I have found is often as much as the doll and I might as well of put that much towards Logan. So I bought a rooted doll and I cut. Slowly and not till after hoping a hairdresser would save me. No one signed up. Not that I blame them.

Let me tell you, it takes a little bit of bravery to make the first few cuts. I used sharp scissors, a small pair like for embroidery after I cut a large chunk of the length off. I cut up instead of against like you would think to cut. It made the actual cuts less blunt and blend better. I got to photo number two before getting some advice from someone who actually cuts hair and ended up with the last photo on the bottom right. I also removed the “makeup” from the cheeks and lips and trimmed the eyelashes by about half. A quick gray tee shirt and khaki pants, we’ll buy some sneakers (although I am hoping to find some Jordans) and I will make a beanie but overall, I think we landed a boy doll. We’ve named him Mateo. He looks like a Mateo to me. The doll was originally Samantha and we’d considered calling him Sam but he just doesn’t look like a Sam to me.

He’s wonderful and he will serve his purpose. My 13-year-old, he’d kill me for sharing this, loves him more than my 5-year-old. I like that. My 13 year is a nurturer too. That too would embarrass him but it makes me very, very proud. I wonder, though, why is it in 2017 that I had to CREATE a boy. And that 2017 is the first year that American Girl thought to create a boy. I mean, I get it. American GIRL but while I do have a house of ball throwing boys, I do have boys who love babies and want to take care of people. Why not teach them through play? Why not give them a doll that looks like them too? I can’t help but think that if my son walked in with a little boy doll, he’d get far less looks than if he had a girl baby. Sad as that is. There should be no side eyes at all, but let’s face it, society is a judgey bunch and we’re just trying to wade through the judgment without ruining our children.

I am currently on the hunt for another doll, hopefully, used, to create another “boy” only this time, we will call him transgender because those kids are looking for dolls like them too. Luckily the internet is full of awesomeness and I don’t think my hunt will take long. And I am looking forward to creating some memories for other kids. And maybe learning how to make tiny Jordans. Hey, goals. Right?

Edited to add: Walmart does indeed carry a boy. Two actually and they’re pretty handsome. Apparently at one point Target did too but I haven’t been able to find him.

 

Hi! I'm Gail, the voice behind Mimicking Motherhood. I started blogging after the birth of my 2nd child as a way to connect with far away family. Things have definitely changed since then. Now, mama to five, this is a place to help connect with other mothers, who feel like me.I love to make and write all while trying to figure out how to be myself in the world of anxiety and depression. Glad you stopped by.

The things you miss when your child has a speech delay

Dexter’s birth was a difficult one. The hardest of all five children. A very long (for me) labor and all in my back. When he finally came into the world, I was overjoyed. His tiny face that reminded me of my brother and sweet little disposition. Long and skinny, he wasn’t a “Gerber” baby but he was so cute and perfect to me.

Dexter walked early and had mad motor skills. He started to talk like what I thought a normal child would but then, it just stopped. And his lack of language made him frustrated and angry. He was so, very, angry all the time. And when got pregnant with his brother that just fueled his frustration fire. We sought help for him a little before he was 3. I probably waited too long. But there is that fear with an angry, speech delayed child and I admit, I just hoped and prayed one day he’d wake up and be “normal”.

What I missed was that he was and is normal. His own normal. Our development journey is an easier one, luckily. He is not autistic and likely will catch up with his peers. I’m forever grateful for that. And while I know that Autism is not the worst thing ever, I am grateful he will not have that very difficult journey.

Dixon will be three in August. His vocabulary has recently exploded. He’s funny and makes jokes. You can actually have a conversation with him. He can tell you what he needs. It’s a beautiful thing.

This week we were in the kitchen making supper. Dixon asked and answered questions. When he said, “oh mama you’re mean”, I made a sad face and he quickly replied, “just kidding”. For a moment I felt a mourning for those conversations I missed having with Dexter. And I missed them because of his speech delay. I missed singing songs with him in tiny form and while I get to talk about the moon and stars now, I will never have those funny conversations with my new talker, whose body size matches his mastery level. His tiny body never sat on the counter and named the letters. As a matter of fact, at almost five, Dexter is still struggling with things Dixon is nailing quickly. It’s  a difficult thing not to compare. A difficult thing not to feel guilty about.

We’ve added special instruction to his therapies. We’re hoping by the time this preschool year completes, he will be closer to being on track with his developmental delays. I’m worried about kindergarten, to say the least, but feel like holding him back a year isn’t the best thing for him. Although the days when he screams at me, “I don’t want to go to school!!!”, I second think my decision. Hee hee.

We’ve begun meeting with the schools and I don’t think I’ve asked so many “W” questions to a child in my life. We’re working through pronoun confusion and I am wishing I paid more attention in school. Maybe through his educating, I will re-educate. Except for math, because let’s face it, I don’t get it. You really don’t realize how important the basics are till you have a child who doesn’t quite get it.

I am trying not to mourn what I missed with him. Tiny 2-year-old chatter. I’m trying to take in my 4-year-old’s curiosity about the moon and art and fairy tales. He may always march to his own beat, and that’s okay. He might always have an angry fire and I will have to help him learn how to use that for the greater good; for knocking down the right walls, instead of the wrong ones. I will always have a little sadness he wasn’t given a “normal” that is a societal normal and that’s okay. But I can’t let it shape him or me.

 

 

Hi! I'm Gail, the voice behind Mimicking Motherhood. I started blogging after the birth of my 2nd child as a way to connect with far away family. Things have definitely changed since then. Now, mama to five, this is a place to help connect with other mothers, who feel like me.I love to make and write all while trying to figure out how to be myself in the world of anxiety and depression. Glad you stopped by.