Hourglass

The only way I can actually get my emotions out is through writing. For some reason saying things out loud seems temporary to me. I have to see my words. I wish I had the time to blog more, or even journal. But I have yet to master getting everything I need to do and take care of my daughter who is basically on me 24/7. Not that I mind, but sometimes I just need a break. And more than just time for a ten minute shower, which I do need and appreciate. I don't know though. I'll manage.

I dislike using Facebook or Twitter as an outlet for my emotions. But I have that need to just say something. I'm not in it for the likes or comments. I just need an outlet. Lately I've been feeling more and more trapped in my mind. I'm struggling with countless things and there seems no end in sight. I'm trying to figure out which way to go but I second guess myself at every turn. Nothing is certain yet I'm in need of much more solid ground.

I'm trying but I'm wearing thin.

Going Home

I am a glutton for self punishment. If I do something wrong I torture myself and treat myself as a criminal. Forgiveness? Not a possibility. I'll be brutally honest here. I conceived the greatest gift and blessing of my life during pre-marital make up sex and every part of me hated myself for it. I did everything wrong and I ruined every last ounce of self respect I had for myself. So in turn I walked away from the only place I felt at home, stopped doing the only thing that truly fulfills me, and isolated myself completely. Leaving Holy Cross and youth ministry killed me. If possible, it was worse than my whole St. Anne debacle. I did nothing wrong to warrant the childish Church politics and betrayal in that situation and although hurt and bitter, I was able to hold my head still up. This? I emotionally balled myself up in shame.

My daughter is my light in a very dark world. She saves me from myself every single day. And as much as I was punishing myself, I knew deep down that I could not afford to punish her for my mistakes. From my experience from St. Anne, I should have known that a Catholic church is simply not uniformly welcome everywhere. The celebration of Mass is constant, but there is a giant difference in being surrounded by a community and being a part of it. I needed Holy Cross, not just for my sake, but for hers as well.

This evening was the first time in eight months that I sat in the pews of Holy Cross, perhaps appropriately on Divine Mercy Sunday. And my daughter and I were literally welcomed with open arms.

Clock on the Wall

I don't live in a fairy tale. My thoughts certainly aren't bright and cheerful either, but here I stand. Throughout my life I have had to jump through many hoops and fight my way through endless obstacles. Sometimes I wonder if I'm better for it or just worn out and damaged because of it. Jury is still out.

I desire many things. One thing in particular keeps gnawing at my brain. As each day passes I begin to lose more and more hope, yet my desire grows stronger. I don't really know how to talk about it with anyone. The situation is so complicated and I just want to fast forward through all this hard part. And I keep wondering when and if I'll come across a time when something in my life just comes easy.

If retrospect, I'm not an impatient person. But I don't like waiting. Especially not now.

Baby is crying. Me time is officially over.

And that's okay.

Right before I gave my final push while delivering my daughter I said a Hail Mary out loud. My thought in that moment was more than me needing some divine intervention or a release from the pain of childbirth. I wanted Mary's strength and her selflessness. I wanted to tap into her perfect motherhood as I knew mine was about to truly begin. More than anything did I not want to fail. I never want to fail my daughter.

I should have everything right now and be at the top of the world, but I'm not. I just sit here with pieces of my life scattered on the ground and my hands too full to pick any of them up. My thoughts consume me, my fear runs me into the ground and my paranoia weakens my soul. I can't live this way but everything is beyond my control. I'm powerless. Constantly I need to be comforted and reassured but the peace ends as quickly as it begins. I'm trying so hard to remain standing but I can't take much more.

My promises bind me, and my love holds me still.

Minutes to Spare

Right now I feel like I need a day where I can catch up. A day where I can discuss my state of mind, and the absolute beautiful journey that is motherhood. I desire to go on and on about my perfect little baby girl and the happenings of our life together. I want to explain everything my heart feels and release all my emotions out here in front of me, open for anyone to read. But time is not on my side. For now, I just want to say this:

There was a moment when you came and laid down next to me on the floor and I stared into your eyes. Our daughter lay asleep in her crib, and we whispered to each other. A sudden fear swept me, and then was quickly consumed by a rush of unwavering love that I have quietly reserved for you. I heard our daughter sigh as I studied your face. If I had an ounce of artistic talent, I could close my eyes and draw you perfectly from memory. I didn't want to move. I just wanted to freeze time, staring at you forever and listening to Alexis breathe. I don't want to let us go.

God made me out a certain type of armor. This I'm sure.

Too Much, Too Soon? Not for me.

This morning Michael woke up and I watched him sleepily make his way to the closest. He rummaged through his clothes and found a pair of scrubs and walked into the bathroom. Mere seconds later he walked back out and made his way back to the closest. He had grabbed the wrong scrubs and he searched for the right ones. A couple minutes passed and he remained looking. He called my name and said he thought I told him I washed them.  I got up,  told him to move and found his gray scrubs in less than 15 seconds and handed them to him.

I've never considered myself to be a stereotypical woman. I hate being in a kitchen, I hate doing my hair, the idea of staying at home and raising kids and doing housework is a foreign place I wish not to travel.  I don't care about styles, I despise shopping and painting my nails is not my definition of a good time.  Yet even this morning's simple act of finding my fiance's scrubs made me feel like the type of woman a man may need.  The one he needs.

Despite my pregnancy and recent struggles that I'm not ready to talk about,  I am a very devout Catholic. My heart screams out my faith and is consumed by my love for Christ and His Bride the Church.  So being pregnant out of wedlock and cohabiting with my future husband tends to make me nauseated if I think too much on it. I however do not regret my child and I know that living with Michael is my only valid option due to finances.  And so here I find myself,  ready to give birth and living with the one person who truly has me completely.  It is nowhere near the life I envisioned.

Michael moving in hasn't overwhelmed me. If anything, it has calmed me down.  It has made me feel secure. Doing his laundry, picking up after him and my occasional cooking doesn't bother me. I'm in no way trying to play house, but I have easily transitioned into a role I'm comfortable with.  Although too early,  this wasn't a step that I wasn't ready to take.  Change is scary but I often think I handle it better than most.

Lately I feel alone in my transition. I feel more prepared for the life I'm living.  I don't feel trapped or like I've just settled. I am not unhappy.  But I'm afraid I'm alone in this.  I said earlier that I'm the type of woman Michael needs.  But life has told me that often people's needs don't match their wants.

One day at a time,  I suppose.

Write to Me

Although I very much risk the chance of repeating myself,  I love words. Especially the written word. I love getting notes and cards and letters. Writing something takes time and thought. It tends to be less sloppy than when we speak without fully understanding what we are saying.  I suppose like all things,  it is different for every person.  I, however, want to be written to and my best expression of myself is found if I take the time to write to you.

When I first became pregnant I bought a journal for my baby.  I wanted to give her a gift of my thoughts, feelings and all the happenings of my pregnancy with her.  It started off well but I slowly began avoiding writing. The thought always came up but I brushed it aside. I couldn't connect my feelings to my words. Or maybe yet, I didn't want to.  There was too much I felt like I couldn't say and too much I felt obliged to.  I didn't want to be fake, so I stopped writing.

My darling little girl will be here soon and I only have a third of a journal filled out. My desire to pick up the pen is burning but I feel as though I'm being blocked as well. I don't know what to make of this fear.

Perhaps one day,  I'll make a bit of sense.