My Issues

Let's face it. I have issues.

You can ask my parents, siblings, husband, co-workers, friends, or even friends of friends. I do horrible at hiding it and even occasionally try to play them off as not that big of a deal... or even funny. But all I really do is make myself look more like a nut.

It all started as a kid. I'd like to blame my parents. They forced me to swallow the hugest pills ever that would make my hair grow. Why would they need to make my hair grow?? I present you with Exhibit A.

I think my mom enjoyed torturing me with horrible haircuts growing up. She must have liked the thought of all nicknames I would receive on the playground. Why else would she insist on cutting my hair to the shape of a bowl??

I can honestly say that I have major lapses of memory from my childhood all of which center around the haircut I had at the time. This photo: no recollection. Ages 8-13: nothing. I believe it is my brains way of protecting me from needing additional counseling.

However, the pills I cannot forget. Because of those horrible nights I cannot swallow pills larger than an Aleve. I've tried, but the pill always wins.

Then, there is my jaw. While dating, Jeremy invited a friend, Amanda, and me to a haunted forest his fraternity was putting on. We were almost out of the horrid thing when he just disappeared. Then, within a minute a man, rather a boy, jumps out with a chainsaw and chases us with what at that moment I could only assume was the intent to kill us. I go one way; my friend the other. And my jaw becomes dislocated. So now, when I go to the dentist I have to tell the story and then take breaks throughout the cleaning and inspecting so as to not wear out my jaw. One apparently never fully recovers from such injuries.

And, yes, somehow I still forgave him enough to marry him. What love I have!

Then, there is needles. I'm not really sure where this stems from. It could the fact that I do not get pleasure from pain like some of you crazies. Or it could be that I gave blood once and ended up passing out. Either way, to this day, my hand must be held when a shot is administered and I will likely have a panic attack followed by tears, and the realization that indeed I am 3.

So one can only imagine what happened two weeks ago when my issues came to a head: the moment in which it hit me that in just a few weeks Bradley must leave my body.

Ok, ok. I realize how dumb that must sound. And I can just picture you laughing at that at 7 months this thought just occurred to me. Of course he has to leave your body. What did you think would happen?? He'd just grow up and eventually take over your body?? And my answer to you is yes, yes I actually did.

For the past 7 months my mindset has been to survive. And because of my issues I have just casually ignored the inevitable. I concentrated on each day as if it were my last. Pushing forward for the better of my son.

Then, out of the blue reality hit. It was bad. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't see. I was dizzy. It was a panic attack.

I took deep breaths to calm myself down and then called Jeremy. "Maybe it's time you read something," was his response. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.

However, reading something takes time that I do not have. And I'm convinced that the whole mission of the female race is to torture each other with horrific "what-if" stories. So I did the next best thing. I called every childbirth educator within a 45 mile radius.

And no one returned my call. 

I wondered if it was the desperation in my voice. Or perhaps that apparently I should have already been in a class. Or that I may have let on that I needed to work through some issues.

So a week later, I called everyone again. This time, Jennifer called me back. Sweet, sweet Jennifer. I could tell that as I tearfully told her my story and hinted towards my issues (no need to overwhelm so early on) that she truly felt bad for me, and that she wanted to help. Hallelujah!

So two nights ago, we started our birthing classes. We talked through some of my fears and things that could trigger my anxiety. We talked through the medical aspect of birthing a human being (Hey- I didn't just stop breathing!) and how our bodies were made to adapt to such extreme pain and stretching. I sat and absorbed. Jeremy asked tons of questions and took notes. So between us I'm actually feeling a little better today. I haven't completely agreed to Bradley's grand exit, but I am a step closer.

We go back next week to work on breathing exercises, stretches, and positions. It should be interested. Rumor has it that one is actually called the Captain Morgan. I may just have to take my camera...