Pregnancy, Parentage and Prejudice

So, help me out here. When a girl gets pregnant and she is not married and the year is 1986 and everyone thinks it is a community mystery to solve who the father is....Is that an everywhere thing? An American thing? or just a Mormon thing? Even the baby's father thinks it's up for debate.

My first marriage, my husband and I argued almost every day about the father of my oldest child. It was so stressful. I knew he was the father but he didn't believe me. Do you want to know why? Because I didn't bleed when I lost my virginity.

That is a myth. Do you know that story about an intact hymen proving a girl is a virgin? LIES!!! Which, duh! I should have figured out on my own but I will forgive my naive ignorance. If there was an impenetrable barrier what would have happened with all of my super heavy periods from age 11 to 15 before I was raped? All that blood and guck would have been trapped inside me. I passed some huge clots! But guess what?! It is perpetuated by the medical community.

When I was 15 and pregnant my mom took me to the doctor for my first pelvic exam. Hooray! Not! He said that my hymen was still intact so I was technically still a virgin. My brain didn't know what to do with that. He also said that he had 3 couples ready to take my baby right now! I didn't realize until now how much that freaked me out! We never went back. He scared the shit out of me. And I knew that I had sex with my baby's father multiple times. So, how did it make sense that I was still a virgin. I had been sexually abused, raped and had sex with my boyfriend. It meant that it made sense that I didn't bleed when I had sex or even when I was raped.

So, I left my abusive husband at the tender age of 18. I ended up moving in with another man who I intended to marry. I usually refer to him as my second husband. It didn't work out. Two weeks after I left him I discovered that I was pregnant again. And again everyone thought they needed to solve the mystery of who the father was. All anyone needed to do was ask me and I would tell them. But I guess that wasn't as interesting.

1991 This lady that was a friend of my sister in law, grabbed my baby, pulled up his shirt and lowered his diaper to look at his lower back. Then she declared: "Nope. He's not Mexican. Mexican/American babies have a bruise on their lower back. My kids have it. I will show you." The worst part of this was that it proved to me that my brother and his wife doubted what I said about who the father of my child was. They had clearly been discussing it with this friend.

I will digress for a moment to discuss her proclamation. I have no idea about heritage that causes a discoloration on a child's lower back. Let's give her the benefit of the doubt and say it is a thing. But! It is not a Mexican/American thing. I will tell you why.

Mexican is not a color. There are Mexicans of every color and origin.

American is not a color. There are Americans of every color and origin.

Therefore you could put one Mexican and one American together and get any color or origin. So you would not be guaranteed any one specific outcome.

So, I married a Mexican and we had a 4th child. He adopted the other 3. We were a family. It is great. We combined his culture with our culture. Which is Mexican/American. Our children were exposed to English and Spanish. They went to Mexico for weddings, funerals and baptisms. They attended weddings, funerals and baptisms in the USA. They had aunts, uncles, and cousins in Mexico. They had aunts, uncles and cousins in the USA. They had abuelos(Mexican grandparents) and grandparents.

Let's talk color. I have 2 children with blue eyes, 1 child with chocolate brown eyes, and 1 child with hazel eyes. When they were little we had a game where we would hold all of our arms up side by side and compare skin color. They were all different. No 2 arms were the same color. I still am the fairest. Do you know what I have learned? That can happen in families where all of the children have the same exact biological parents! Fascinating! Right?

Maybe that is why my last husband is the keeper. He never doubted me. He knew that I was telling the truth. Beside that, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because he knew that he was their REAL father. Fatherhood is not about sperm. Yes, I love DNA. I think it is fascinating. But my children only have one real father. He's the one they call when they need advice or a babysitter. He is the one that made sure their needs were met. He is the one that did his best to make sure that they were happy and healthy. He is a Mexican. He was born in Mexico City. That is why my kids are all Mexican/American. His culture is their culture. His family is their family. It was a conscious decision that took a lot of time, thought, effort, money and sacrifice.

The American biodads never did that. They had the opportunity and they rejected it. I asked for help and they denied their parentage. So, if you ever think you know better than I do how Mexican my children are...think again.

Mexican is not a color.

Muchness

My last post was not for the faint of heart. And I learned today that it was too much for one of my dear beloved friends. A friend that I was free and open with my thoughts and feelings because I thought she could handle anything. I found out she can't. I wept. I wept because I don't like triggering my friends. I wept because I want desperately to tell her everything.

I have had hours to analyze this. At first I was just all feelings. I couldn't even put words to all of the feelings. Now, I realize there is no one person that can handle all of me all of the time. Part of this came to me after I hugged my husband and said, "Tell me that I am not too much." He did as he was told. He hugged me and told me, "You're not too much." Then looked at me quizically. I realized in that moment that the reason that I am not too much is because I spread myself out among my friends. There are times when he wants me to be quiet or let him rest.

I was feeling that I was too much muchness for anyone to handle.

Then I told a friend on Facebook that I loved her. She thanked me for speaking up. She said that I give all of the quiet people afraid to speak, a voice. She said that someday she will tell me her story. That was exactly what I needed to hear and I didn't even know it. I told her I loved her even more.

I have decided that I am too much for any one friend or person to handle. And that's ok. I have LOTS of friends. I have LOTS of people who love me. So, if none of them can handle all of my blog posts and Facebook posts and YouTube videos.... That's ok.

I still have wonderful friends. And the one I started talking about in the beginning is one of my favorites. There is one person that can handle all of me. It's me! :D I am uniquely qualified. So, I will go forward in my wild, impetuous, uniqueness. I will expand and contract with the moon. I will continue with my muchness.

Photo by Vonecia Carswell on Unsplash

Joseph Smith: I am officially breaking up with you!

This is a tough post. I am not going to worry about sources or if I am repeating myself. I just need to get this out there.

As a little girl my dad was the ward mission leader. He would bring home the filmstrip of the First Vision. The shiny edited version of 1976. (you can find it on YouTube) I was hooked. That film was the foundation for all of my beliefs in Spirituality and Mormonism. I believed everything happened EXACTLY as it was portrayed in that film.

When I was 14 I had an uber spiritual experience at girl's camp. I literally felt like I was walking hand in hand with my savior. The message I felt was that I was going to do something with my life that was every bit as important as what Joseph Smith did with his life. I was in a zen space. When I got back to my cabin and every one else, I tried to share my experience. I scared everyone around me. I remember being very confused by that. My countenance seemed to frighten everyone around me. I felt so peaceful. Why did they feel fear? I didn't get it. My cabin mom sent me to the priesthood leaders. They didn't know what to do with me. They had a talk with me, acted like I was really weird and sent me back to my cabin.

The following year I didn't get to go to camp. I remember being very disappointed because that was the year of the 3 day hike. I didn't get to go because I was pregnant. You see, my boyfriend wanted to have sex. I was naked in his bed when I should have been at school. When he decided it was time for penetration I said no. He said, "It's too late." I wouldn't know for years that that was rape. Did you know a girl (or anyone for that matter) can say no at any point and it's not too late? Laying in bed naked is a lot different than having sex. You can disagree if you like but it's different.

It was a year of loss. After that I didn't see the point in saying no. I was ruined. I had been taught repeatedly at church that once I was no longer a virgin there was no going back. I was the Mia Maid president (leader of the 14/15 year old girls). I was a finalist in the Miss Teen Arizona pageant. I was looking forward to girls camp. Then I was pregnant. It was all over. I remember the day of the pageant. I hadn't showered or shaved in over a week. I was depressed. My laundry was all dirty. The pageant director called me frantic. "Where are you?" she asked. "I decided not to go." I replied. She didn't know what to say. The truth was I was terrified of winning and being a pregnant pageant queen.

I was 15 and pregnant. That year I thought a lot about the Virgin Mary. She didn't plan on getting pregnant so young either. I felt like we were kindred spirits. She wasn't a ruined sinner like me but she knew what it was like to be pregnant before your body is ready. People told me many times that in the "old days" girls had babies at my age all the time. I felt sorry for all of those girls. My doctor told me that he had 3 couples that wanted my baby. Oh, and that I had chlamydia. Bonus! I got a baby AND an STD. All because I was a horrible girl who had sex with her boyfriend. He had dark hair and beautiful light blue eyes that you felt like you could float away in. But I really wish he would have listened when I said no.

In 1999 I read the Work and the Glory. Actually, I devoured it. I was living in a basement in Murray, Utah with my husband (not the boy who raped me) and four children. I read while I made pancakes and got the kids off to school. I rushed through my chores so I could get back to reading. I finished all of the volumes in a week. I remember reading about Joseph's secret marriages to married women and teenage girls. I remember stopping to sob in my bed. It felt like it ripped my soul. I daydreamed about going back in time and saving Emma. I daydreamed of going back in time and having a talk with Joseph so that he would be a better husband. My mind was not ready to acknowledge how bad he actually was.

I have always defended Joseph. I have hated Brigham Young. It was easy for me to believe he was the only bad guy. He did so many horrible things to so many innocent people. But Joseph. Not Joseph. When I learned that the Church of Christ taught that Joseph didn't practice polygamy I latched on to that. The Work and the Glory was a lie! I could believe that.

It is now 2019. 20 years later. I have read enough sources to know that Joseph Smith was not who I believed him to be. He was the kind of man who would marry a teenage girl and consummate it. He would coerce her by threatening that an angel would come down with a flaming sword and kill her family if she didn't comply. He was in his 30's when that happened. It was not a one time thing. He would send a man away on a mission and marry his wife while he was gone. He would marry the wives of men alive and well in his community. Joseph Smith was a sexual predator and a pedophile. Perhaps the reason the church doesn't like to prosecute pedophiles is because that would force them to look at the original prophet and evaluate his actions. It was not ok to have sex with teenagers in the 1800s.

The church makes everything edited and shiny. Most members don't know the ugliness that has been edited and polished away. Yes, prophets are human. So are pedophiles. Pedophiles aren't acceptable prophets.

I don't need a prophet. I can connect with my spirituality without a prophet and without a God. I do need to grieve though. I am hurt and sad. And angry. So sad that the person I believed to be Joseph Smith never existed. I loved him with all my heart. I wanted to be like him. The journey away from what I believed all my life is painful for me. Please be patient and kind.

I have a sacred grove in my mind. It is a place where I can meet with my ancestors, where I can be one with the Earth. It is my safe place. It is with me always. No one can enter without my permission.

Photo by Ales Krivec on Unsplash

Miracles Are Not Limited to the Righteous

Ok. So. Yesterday I sat down to record my story of mormonism and why I left the church. It ended with me sitting in my living room riled up asking, "How is it that I can go in a room and talk to myself and come out really upset?" This is the story of how that happened.

I want to preface this by saying that I don't believe in GOD. Specifically the old man sitting in outer space watching to see what I do with my genitals. Pervert! I am an Earth person. I am no more important to the planet than a whale out in the ocean. I am also just as important to the planet as one of the beautiful redwood trees in California (that I still haven't seen yet). I believe we are all connected by energy. Even the rocks and bugs. We all have energy. I believe in science. I don't have a religion. I don't want one. Don't try to convert me. Please. I am very vulnerable and defensive about spiritual things right now. Ok. Here is goes.

When I was a child about 6 years old I had Rheumatic Fever. Everyone thought I was going to die. My mom still laments how hard it was to keep me in bed. The doctor said I had to stay in bed. My grandparents brought me gifts and visited me at my bedside. The needles! To diagnose me they had to try 7 times before they drew blood. I must have been dehydrated. Anyway, I had the faith of a child. I told my Mom that if the missionaries gave me a blessing I would be healed. So, the missionaries gave me a blessing and I was healed. When we went to the doctor for the follow up he said that he must have misdiagnosed me. I don't believe that. I believe that I had Rheumatic Fever and was healed. I believe there is a scientific explanation. I don't know what it is. Perhaps I responded really well to antibiotics? Perhaps my positive energy and belief in combination with the antibiotics created what seemed to be a miracle. I don't know.

That wasn't the only miraculous experience in my childhood. In the past people have used my childhood miracles as evidence that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints is THE one and only true church. I discovered that this is offensive to my sensibilities (thank you Jane Austen). A miracle is something that happens that is not readily explained. I experience miracles every day. The light switch still blows my mind. Especially because I have taken one apart and seen how simple it is. To me it is proof of the energy in the Earth. It is a miracle to me that someone figured out how to harness it. I don't really get how it works. I know I could learn how it works. But I may forget again. Maybe I have learned before! I prefer to embrace my every day miracle. Miracles are not only in the lives of good people or religious people and certainly not only in the lives of members of one particular religion. Miracles are things that happen to everyone. What makes it a miracle is the way we choose to see it.

I did experience a miracle as a child. It was beautiful and wonderful. I am grateful. I don't worship any deity. I own my spirituality and my beliefs. I claim my miracles. I claim my spirituality. I respect everyone else's right to do the same.

The 11th article of faith of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints states:
We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may.

I am learning to keep the good things I learned. That article of faith is something that I believe in. I guess I would edit it to read:
I claim the privilege to worship no one or anyone, according to the dictates of my own conscience, and allow all beings the same privilege, let them worship how, where or what they may.
This journey is deeply personal, joyful and painful, and a whole lot longer than I realized. Processing this may take a lifetime.

Here's a picture I took of my mom at the beach. This is what a miracle looks like to me. Isn't it beautiful? :)

Prehistoric (1960's)

Prehistoric in this context is before I was born on December 31, 1970. Before I was conceived sometime in February 1970 would definitely qualify. It is to describe the world I was born into.

My true core beliefs lean toward the woo woo. What is woo woo? Woo woo is stuff that makes the average person pause and ask if that is real or get defensive and state that it is not. The reason I explain this is because it will affect the way I explain things. I have also decided that it's not surprising for someone who was raised Mormon. Mormons believe in miracles. They believe in angels coming down to talk to people. They believe in receiving revelations from God. They believe in a lot of woo woo stuff. The difference between their woo woo and my woo woo is that Mormons believe in a hierarchy that can place rules on woo woo. I don't. I believe that we all get to make our own rules and believe whatever we want.

My parents are both products of the South. They both left the South before great progress was made. They both arrived in Arizona independent of each other in 1955. Arizona has been considered the wild west. There are a lot of things people don't know about the wild west. Yes. There is Tombstone and the famous stories of Wyatt Earp. There is also deep seeded racism. People are so taken away by desert sunsets and cowboys that they don't seem to notice it. I am old enough to remember that the only reason that Arizona has Martin Luther King day is because the Superbowl was boycotting Arizona and wouldn't come if they didn't accept the holiday. Another thing most people don't think about when they talk about the wild west is that is was largely settled by Mormon pioneers. When Brigham Young settled what is now Utah he sent settlers out in all directions. They originally planned to take over a lot more of what was Mexico and is now the Western United States than they succeeded in obtaining. Really, it was a total loss because there is no country of Deseret. They settled for the state of Utah in the United States of America. But that is another story. Because of that story, there are a LOT of Mormons in Arizona. Later I will have to add sources for all of this information but for now you get the memories of my studies. I don't think my parents were aware of much of this information before I was born.

Prehistoric mostly equals 1960's Phoenix, Arizona. Maryvale to be exact which is about an hour drive from the Arizona Mormon nucleus of Mesa.

Pre 1970's I don't believe my parents really knew anything about Mormons. They may have never even heard of them.

Father:
I have learned a lot more compassion for my father in my life. I still have a lot of emotional triggers associated with him and I have embarrassing outbursts when those triggers get activated. I was always told that he was 4th of 6 children. I learned last year that he was actually 5th of 7 children. There was a brother who died as a baby that as far as I know didn't have a name. My fathers mother died when he was 6 years old. His dad did the best he knew how. The kids were split up between relatives. They were not very well off. They had an outhouse. They didn't worry about getting a birth certificate until it was required for something. He argued with his sister about what year he was born until the day she died. I guess that means he won. He says he was born in 1940. My father was a sickly child who spent much of his time sick in bed, sometimes in the hospital. He was sent to Arizona to live with relatives when he was 15 in hopes that the desert air would heal him. He did meet a good doctor who cured him from lead poisoning. Oh. I forgot. Those relatives were Mormon. My father was raised Southern Baptist. I have an idyllic image in my head. The family would all see each other each week at church and then have a pot luck. He grew up playing with cousins. I didn't have that. It sounds dreamy. The Mormon relatives had strict rules. As I have learned Mormon history I have learned that the religion was a lot more strict in the beginning and has adapted to society over time. He was not willing to follow those rules and ended up on the streets of Phoenix. So in one years' time he went from living in Florida to Arizona, from deathly ill to healthier, from having a home to homeless. He was good at finding mentors and opportunities. He worked for a man who owned a drapery company and hung draperies in fine hotels and homes in Phoenix. He managed to buy a brand new Corvette. When he proposed to my mom at the age of 21 he asked if she would rather have a ring or a house. She chose the house.

Mother:
My mother's parents met as preteens (in Kentucky or Iowa, I forget) and bonded over their abusive fathers. They grew up and got married. They waited to have children until they were in their late 20s. They were very progressive by the standards I was raised with. The story is that my grandma was pregnant with my mom. It was February in Chicago and she was varnishing the floor of their home. (I would love to ask her why.) I guess they didn't know better back then? It was 1940. My mom was born at only 5 months gestation. It is a miracle she grew up to be a mom! She had to stay in the hospital until she was 5 pounds. She lived in an incubator. My grandpa said that she was smaller than the palm of his hand when he was born. She was the center of their world until she was 5. On her 5th birthday she received a baby sister. She saw it as neglect and ran away from home. Fortunately she was found and was fine. Her family moved a lot. Her father changed jobs a lot. Her mom was strict. My mom was very smart. She spent a lot of her upbringing in California. When she was 13 she got a baby brother. When she was 15 her family moved to Arizona. She and my dad were in the same high school for a little while. She was smitten. He was tall with dark hair and blue eyes. He looked the part of her English dreamboat. (I don't see it. haha) She was a pettite irish redhead with freckles and he wasn't interested. (He was also 15. What did he know?) She graduated high school and joined the army at 18. She was a nurse. There wasn't really a choice back then. She met a man, fell in love, got married and had a baby. Back then that was grounds for discharge. She did manage to get an award before all that happened. The man she married didn't appreciate the gift he had received in my mom. He sent her to live with her parents while he was transferred. He was to send for her and my brother after he was settled. Instead he sent her a letter telling her he wanted a divorce. They never saw or heard from him again. That was 1961.

Since she had seen my dad last he had some health issues, almost died, lost his hair, and was told that he would never be able to have children. I am not sure how they reconnected. They will have to write that story. But when he learned she had a son he thought this was his chance to have a family. So, they married in January 1962 in Nogales, Mexico. I come from humble people. My grandma told them to go to Mexico to get married and she would have cake for them when they returned.

Oldest Brother:
My oldest brother was raised in a time when children were to be seen and not heard and not speak unless spoken to. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Big boys don't cry. He had mental health issues that I believe came from his biological father. I don't really know. He had a lot of energy and needed a lot of attention. I really think physical touch is his love language. My dad was not raised to express love from what I can tell. He knew how to express anger. He often expressed it on my brother. This brother was born a full 10 years before I was so my dad had 8 years to practice on him before I came along. I am told that he has always been a lot nicer to me than he was to my brothers or even my mom. It created an undercurrent of jealousy and resentment in the home. Being a little angel is a mixed message. It means...dad is nicer to you, dad doesn't hit you, mom and brothers are jealous of you, etc... I remember once being spanked with a rolled up newspaper. My brother scoffed when I cried. My mom couldn't look at me. That's when I started crying while looking in the mirror. I wasn't alone when I looked in the mirror. My brothers were spanked with a piece of lumber. Not a branch from a tree. It was an actual 2"x4" board that had been cut to size for disciplining unruly boys. This was not unique to my dad. My brother was also paddled by the principal at school. My mom knew something was wrong. She tried to put my brother in a special school but my dad pulled him out. The public schools didn't know what to do with my brother. He ended up in remedial classes and labeled as a problem child. He didn't have a low IQ or autism. Maybe ADHD. They were way off from what he needed. I don't know what he needed but my mom was sure they weren't doing it right. I didn't understand before but there were no resources for her back then. Her mom wouldn't let her move home with 2 small boys. There were no shelters. The police didn't care. She had no money of her own. She was doing the best she knew how. I realize now that she was always looking for help. She just never found it. I think that explains her religious search.

Middle Child:
My parents were really surprised when less than a year after marriage my mom turned out pregnant! I guess doctors don't know everything. My dad had legally adopted my oldest brother and changed his full name. Now he was expecting another child. It was also a boy. He was the chosen one. Like Isaac of the old testament. He would carry on the family name. My dad would one day be rich and this son would carry his legacy into the future like the Rockafellers. That's the way it seemed to me. The problem was that my dad thought he was lazy. Dad beat up my oldest brother, and sometimes the middle child. My oldest brother beat up the middle child. The thing about the middle child is that he had the soul of a flower child. He was born a romantic. He embodied the spirit of the 60's. Peace and love. Imagine by John Lennon is what I imagine as his soul song. He loved my mom. Everyone loved my mom but you could see he loved my mom. He was my safe place sometimes. I could go and sleep in his bed snuggled with him and feel safe. He was 7 years older than me. We both wet the bed. That seems funny to me now. He was an average child in most respects. Dad had really high expectations for him.

Sometime in the 1960's my dad became a long haul truck driver. The way my mom describes it was like the best of times and the worst of times. While he was away she would have freedom but never enough money. When he was home they would fight. She tells great stories of waiting for the boys to be asleep and then drinking Boone's Farm Apple Wine with her girlfriends to unwind. There were some good memories with my dad too. They would watch Star Trek while eating popcorn and drinking beer. The pictures of my mom look like idyllic 1960s. She wanted to be an actress and I know she could have been in the right circumstances. She did plays and went to college when she could. In a lot of ways she was a normal housewife experiencing the same things that a lot of women in our neighborhood were going through.

It is not my intent to portray anyone as a bad person. All of the people in my story are humans doing the best they knew how with the situations and experiences that life presented them with.

In the beginning...

I was Mormon before my memories begin. Except for one random memory of a memory. I remember remembering my mom giving me a bath in the kitchen sink. That's why I need to record my memories. I don't seem to keep them forever! 

My parents found the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints when I was 2 years old. I do remember when we were sealed for time and all eternity. So, you could say that my memories begin with a beautiful ceremony. I do love ceremony.

Mormons believe that when they are sealed in the temple by the proper authority and the participants keep their covenants until they die, relationships continue after this life. We can all be together again in heaven. Isn't that appealing? There are a lot of conditions and contradictions but that basic belief is what keeps people coming and getting baptized. The belief of being together forever in a mansion in heaven.

In Mesa, Arizona is a representation of Solomon's temple. It is one of the older temples in the Mormon Church. It has always been a special place for me. It is on acres of green grass. Every spring we would go sit on the lawn and watch a theatrical reenactment of the life and resurrection of Jesus Christ. But the most special day in that temple happened when I was 3. Almost as soon as we entered the building I was swooped away by a chorus of angels. All of the people who work in the temple dress all in white from their shoes to their underwear and the bows in their hair. It seemed to me that they all had white hair too. That lent to the angelic atmosphere. I don't remember how many workers were dedicated to my care but I felt like the center of their world. They took me into a room with toys and dressed me all in white like them. There wasn't time to get bored before they took me to see my family. They were all dressed in white too. My mom, my dad, my two brothers. They all knelt around a beautiful marble altar with a velvet cushion. I was the only one that sat on top. Everyone smiled. Everyone was happy.

That's the end of the memory. I wish that was my family life all day, every day. The tranquility and happiness in that room on that day, when everyone was smiling. 

That wasn't real life at all.

But it does help explain why the temple has always been special to me. It was better than Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny all rolled into one. Day dreaming of living in paradise with everyone I love, happy all the time, having everything I want and need.  And when you go in the temple, everyone is on their best behavior. No raised voices. Sometimes you run into old friends. The decor in the temple is finer than anything we ever had in our own home. It really did feel like a slice of heaven. 

Ignorance really is bliss...If you want to maintain your ignorance you probably want to stop reading my blog posts. I am getting ready to share some very uncomfortable truths.

 

The BEST part of having Dysautonomia is...the Facebook groups

When I was diagnosed with Dysautonomia I couldn't wrap my head around it. The doctor had to repeat it 3 times, spell it and write it on a piece of paper. Then he told me to go home and google it.

I am not going to lie. I had a lot of judgement about him after that visit. I did google it. I watched YouTube which made it seem like nearly everyone with Dysautonomia was a teenager. But still I enjoyed watching their videos about how they dealt with it. I didn't have a guidance counselor to help me out.

Then I found Facebook groups. Dysautonomia is super organized on Facebook. It's awesome. One of the Facebook groups is just for writers. One is for musicians. I belong to both because I am both. I was so involved in the beginning. Then I got distracted by new diagnoses. But now I am back. Kinda.

I have an affinity for words. That's why I write blog posts. Reading 500 pages in one day used to be normal for me. Dysautonomia has taken that from me. I am hoping temporarily. It now takes me a couple years to get through a 200 page book. I listen to audible but lately I have a low tolerance for that too. If I find an article that I find interesting I skim it for the parts that I REALLY want to read. If a facebook post is too long I can only read the beginning. Writing hurts my hands. I often misspell words. Spelling used to be easy. Nothing is easy anymore.

But I am still here and I still enjoy words. They are beautiful.

Surviving Suicidal Ideation

On the morning of Monday, September 25, 2018 I was awoken earlier than usual by horrible painful depression. This wasn't your ordinary "I am sad today" depression. This wasn't even the clinical depression that lasts a long time. This was a "this hurts too bad to live through" depression.

I live in the basement of my daughters house. My daughter, her husband and her 4 children live upstairs. I live in the basement with my husband and cat. It is a nice arrangement. We have our own kitchen, bathroom, living area, guest room and office. There are boxes around because after 4 years I still haven't finished unpacking and I have trouble keeping up with the activities of daily living so I have piles of clutter on every available table top. But it is a nice home, a comfortable home.

On this morning. I was crying from the emotional turmoil. No one else was awake and I didn't want anyone around. So, I tried to keep my wailing at a minimum. The point is that I live in a house with 7 other people and a cat. All of whom would be very unhappy if I took my life. They would prefer that I wake them up. One of my pet peeves is waking people up. I don't like to bother them and make them grumpy. I had to wake my children to go to school for years. Two of them really didn't like it. I don't do it anymore.

There are others outside of my house that don't want me to die. They would want me to call them and wake them up.

When I feel the "I want to leave the planet" kind of pain that I had that morning, I won't reach out to anyone. I don't want to share that pain with anyone. It is too much. It hurts too bad.

Fortunately the intensity decreased after a couple of hours. Then everyone woke up. I was no longer alone in my pain. Ending my life no longer felt like an option. But the depression didn't go away.

The next day I started a 50 day challenge that I had signed up for.
These are the rules:
1. Have an intention
2. Each day I ask my GUHP (god, universe, higher power) to give me one thing to do that day to help me with my intention
3. I would be in a messenger group with others doing the same thing for accountability.
Up until it actually started, I didn't know what my intention would be.

My intention was: to stay on the planet.

The timing was perfect.

I didn't keep my struggle private. I talked to friends and family. I received an outpouring of love and lots of phone numbers.

My GUHP changed to support me. It had been the Earth. It became the Stargate. I later realized that change was to support my journey. The Earth wanted me to stay on the planet. The Stargate gave me a choice. I could stay or go. It is always important that I have freedom of choice. Rules suffocate my spirituality.

I want to be well NOW!!!

My word this year is ACCEPTANCE.

That doesn't mean that I am not fighting for my life. It means that I am striving to accept the process even though it doesn't work as fast as I would like.

On January 17, 2017 I went to the Emergency Department with tachycardia and fatigue. I wanted a pill that would fix my problem so I could go to work the next day. Guess what. That pill doesn't exist. I spent the next 8 months looking for diagnoses and cures before I accepted that I couldn't return to work.

I have securities licenses. What that means is that I worked very hard to become a Registered Representative that can trade stocks, bonds, mutual funds and other financial securities in the USA. It took months of study to get those licenses and I enjoyed my job. There is a condition that comes with those licenses. If they are not held by a broker they will expire and I will have to take the tests again if I want them back. The Securities and Exchange Commission will allow 2 years without a broker before they expire. Those 2 years are up at the end of 2019. So, I am hoping to find health and return to work this year.

Some doctors are better than others. There is an amazing Emergency doctor that I encountered during my process. He told me that there is probably a chronic illness that I have that hasn't been diagnosed. I have so many diagnoses already. I have very few answers. My body doesn't like modern medicine. It is rejecting drug after drug.

I have been eating a whole food plant based diet with no animal products, oil, sugar or processed foods for over a month now. I am avoiding GMOs and flour. I make all of my food because I have so many rules. I would be salt free but because of Dysautonomia, I can't do that. I want to be well already. I woke up today at 1:50am in so much pain. My body hurts so bad. In November I went on 30 minute walks almost every day. I haven't been well enough to do that since Thanksgiving.

Here is a list of my diagnoses:
Sarcoidosis
Type 2 Diabetes - treated by an insulin pump
Dysautonomia
Fibromyalgia
Gastroparesis
High Blood Pressure
Tachycardia
Fatty Liver
Irritable Bowel Syndrome
Acid Reflux
Asthma
Chronic Dehydration - treated by twice weekly fluid infusions
Migraines
Cluster Headaches
Sleep Apnea
Teeth Grinding
Chronic Fatigue
Small Fiber Neuropathy
PTSD - anxiety/depression

I may have forgotten something.

I am not giving up. This post is probably more to remind me of that as well as to keep my promise to myself to track my monthly progress.

My taste buds are changing. I am a VERY picky eater. I told myself that I have to eat all the foods, even if I don't like something, I am going to try it. I have noticed that it is getting easier. The healthier foods are beginning to taste better to me.

I am working my way through the How Not to Die Cookbook from front to back. It is teaching me how to cook differently.

This past Monday I saw a new Gastroenterologist who told me that he wants me to go on a diet of lean meats and diabetic protein shakes. I didn't like that. He wants to see me again in 3 months. I told him that I am going to stick to my plan and in 3 months we will see if I am better, worse or about the same.

On Thursday I saw my pulmonologist. She said that my lungs are beautiful. There is no sign of Sarcoidosis in my lungs. That was confusing because I don't feel any better. It is good news though. She said that I still have Sarcoidosis. There was proof in my 24 hour urine last August. My calcium was very high. She said that I do not process calcium or vitamin D properly. She told me to avoid supplements for those nutrients and stay away from calcium rich foods that are not vegetables. She says that I need some calcium so it is good to get it from vegetables That sounds like support for my new lifestyle. :D In other words....No dairy. I am already doing that. I have recently seen kidney stones on my abdominal CTs. That is evidence that I don't process calcium correctly. Fortunately they aren't large enough to cause pain. She also told me to start avoiding so many CTs. They may do more harm than good. She is a good doctor (in my humble opinion). I don't have to see her again unless I feel like I need to. We did not schedule a follow up. Yay! One less doctor.

5'9" tall

199.6 pounds (down 11.4 pounds)

42.25" waist around navel (down 2.75")