Surviving Infertility, Part Two

Part Two
If you haven't read Part One, click HERE 

I'm no longer embarrassed by my experiences 

because I endured...

I had no way of knowing the next six months were going to be far more than just an emotional roller coaster ride.  We'd already spent years trying to conceive a second child, and we were familiar with the ups and downs of the monthly hope and disappointment. It was difficult to talk about our struggles conceiving a second time because we had conceived a child. If I had dollar for every time someone threw us a platitude about already having a child and being lucky or not having a reason we couldn't have another one if we did once...well...I could've had those treatments in the US and not went through the subsequent Hell of the following months.

I've not shared the details of the remainder of this story with many people over the years.  They are painful and unpleasant and used to be embarrassing to a degree.  Infertility is a special kind of Hell that makes it difficult to separate head and heart.  No matter what I knew to be wrong in my head, my heart so desperately wanted to have another baby that I would've done almost anything Dr. X asked since he was promising us another baby.  I'm not the same person now as I was then.  I didn't think I could stand up for myself because it might upset the doctor or get in the way of getting pregnant somehow.  The me of now, of today, sometimes wants to shake the me from then.  And yet I still understand her, you know? I know the fears and insecurities she faced, and I know why she didn't speak up for herself.  I know she endured Hell only to be treated like a criminal later when she spoke up, and I know she learned from all of those experiences and is stronger for them. It may be thirteen years later, but maybe sharing these experiences will help even one person feel like they aren't alone. 

Onward and...downward...

It didn't take long to settle into the routine of waking early every morning, dragging our three-year-old out of bed, and heading to the doctor's office for a blood draw and an ultrasound.  Dr. X insisted that Americans and his regular patients be kept separate.  When we asked why he explained we received more attention since we had military insurance and his patients were generally all via social medicine.  He said his patients would be jealous and upset if they realized the difference, so all visits and treatments would keep Americans separate from his local patients.   The early morning hours weren't ideal, but they made it possible for Wes to attend many of the appointments.  The problem with keeping patients separate weren't apparent to us until it was time for our first attempts to conceive.

Dr. X told us it was finally time for our first insemination, but I still wasn't ovulating.  A shot to force ovulation and waiting for changes in the blood work and ultrasounds finally led to the first real chance at conception.  I say that tongue in cheek, really.  Why?  Because each month he was telling us the larger the follicles were, the better chance we had to conceive.  He would share the follicle growth with us every morning telling how wonderful it was when they would grow up to 40 mm and over.  (YES, I now know how bad those measurements are, but that comes later)  Ovulating 40 mm follicles is horrifically painful—at least it was for me. But ovulate I did, and despite the doctor's news that it was time, we weren't given an appointment for the insemination...

Wait.  What?  Yeah...

Returning back to his previous insistence that Americans and his regular patients be kept separate, he told us he couldn't give us an official appointment for the procedure because it had to be when all of his other patients were gone for the day.  And he couldn't say when that would be.  He said we had to wait for his phone call and then be ready to come right over to his office.  His office wasn't far from the base, but did I mention we didn't live on base?  No, we lived half an hour away in a small village, and we only had one car.  So my toddler and I would have to wait around base or nearby for a phone call telling us it was time.  Oh, and that phone call?  We didn't have a cell phone, so that was super fun.  Whether I was calling the office off and on through the day or he was calling Wes's work to leave a message, I never knew what to expect.  Inseminations were often done after seven or eight in the evening...sometimes later depending on the doctor's schedule that day.

We finally received the phone call telling us to come to his office.  I was excited by the prospect of pregnancy but terrified of the unknown.  When we arrived, Wes was sent off to make his deposit, and I was prepped for the procedure while we waited.  To our surprise, Dr. X said he had to put in an IV line for extra medication and "just in case" I had a reaction to anything.  When we asked what sort of medication, he said it was called buscopan—an anti-cramping medication to inhibit my uterus from pushing out the sperm after the procedure.  Despite my confusion as to why my uterus would push it out, I allowed the IV.  Why wouldn't I?  He said it was necessary.  Wes returned with his contribution, and right before the doctor took the sperm for washing, he put the medication into the port of my IV. About thirty seconds later I was nauseated and felt lousy.  The sperm wash cycle took five minutes  (We'll talk about that later too) and it was time to climb into the chair (as I came to think of it) for the  insemination procedure.  The IUI procedure itself should be fairly quick, simple, and painless.  Absolutely none of my procedures over the next six months were quick, simple, or painless.  My forward-facing uterus, a narrow cervical opening, and inept medical care made them progressively worse.

Another problem we faced with late evening procedures was the lack of nurse assistance for the Dr. X.  Out of more than a dozen IUIs, only a few times did we have a trained nurse to assist him.  As time went by his wife helped once, and towards the end ---> WES <--- assisted a couple of times out of dire necessity.  I'll let you think about that before explaining later.  Some of the worst experiences for both of us happened in those moments.

Earlier I mentioned the buscopan (anti-cramping medication) administered directly to the IV port.  It made me sick.  With each IUI the nausea was worse, so the doctor started handing me the medication and having me administer it into my port in small increments while he spent the five-ten minutes washing the sperm. (I don't think I've typed the word sperm in my entire life as many times as I have in this post.  My kids will have a cringe fest with this one.) After several IUIs I hit a wall with the medication.  And by wall I mean anaphylactic shock.  Suddenly I couldn't swallow anymore, I was having difficulty breathing, and when I looked down at my arms, they were covered in hives.  I pulled up my shirt to find I was covered in them.  I'm not going to lie, I was scared.  Wes called the doctor into the room who diagnosed an allergic reaction (duh) and ran steroids through the IV port to counteract.  After a few minutes I began breathing easier and the hives slowly went away.  Once I could swallow again, my heart rate slowed down, but the fear didn't go away.  I knew things weren't right in this office.  Doctor X, instead of acting concerned, announced gleefully that my reaction was exactly why IV lines were so necessary during the procedure.  Strangely enough, he also told us I was the first person to have a reaction to the medication.  So why he believed an IV line would ever be necessary is unknown. 

In America, having a medicinal allergy that leads to anaphylaxis means it's plastered all over your charts.  I've had quite a few surgeries, and I have to wear a bright red bracelet anytime I'm in the hospital that tells everyone I have a dangerous allergy.  Dr. X didn't even flag the chart in his office. How do I know?  He insisted on putting an IV line in the next month "just in case"...AND THEN TRIED TO GIVE ME THE SAME MEDICATION! Just as he was getting ready to give it to me, Wes asked him what it was.  When he said buscopan, we were both shocked.  He then proceeded to berate us for not reminding him sooner.  He told us he had too many patients to keep up with details like that, and if I didn't want to accidentally be given that medication, it was our job to remind him every time. He shamed us and made us feel stupid. What in the actual Hell? Later I would chastise myself for not speaking up and telling him it was his job to know these things.  But I didn't because I thought he held the key to getting pregnant.  I kept hoping things would get better...boy was I wrong.

Due to the length of this story, it was posted in three parts. 

Click HERE if you missed part one

Click HERE to continue on to parts three and four

The country and name of the doctor are intentionally kept anonymous.  The purpose of these posts isn't to spread negativity but to give others going through infertility the knowledge they aren't alone in their struggles.  Infertility sucks enough without people taking advantage, and my life was made so much better because a few women spoke up and shared their knowledge.  Feel free to reach out if you want or need to share your story.  

Email: jamieelizabeth77@yahoo.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jamieelizabeth77

Twitter: jamieelizabeth7
Snapchat: jamie77davis

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jamieelizabeth77/

Surviving Infertility

Secondary Infertility Sucks
And so do people who take advantage

After promising several people I would write a blog post about our infertility experiences, I went back and reread a statement I submitted as part of an investigation into the infertility treatment (I use that term loosely) we received while stationed overseas. I also found the website for the doctor's practice. Thirteen years have passed since we walked away from that nightmare, but seeing those pictures brought more heartache than reading the statement. However, in my inexhaustible search for the silver lining, I decided to look at them again and let those memories serve as something we survived, learned from, and can share with others who might feel alone in their struggles.  

What IS secondary infertility? The following definition sums up how we conceived our oldest child: "Secondary infertility is defined as the inability to become pregnant, or to carry a pregnancy to term, following the birth of one or more biological children. The birth of the first child does not involve any assisted reproductive technologies or fertility medications." Caleb was conceived after only 2 months of trying, and he likely would've been conceived in the first month had I not contracted a nasty case of the flu. My pregnancy was completely normal, and I gave birth three days before my due date on December 26th, 1998.  Despite eighteen and a half hours of labor, he refused to arrive on Christmas and made his appearance the day after.  We had absolutely no reason to believe we'd have trouble conceiving again.  In fact, in testament to my love of being pregnant and wanting more children, I was still laying on the delivery table with the doctor sewing me up from the episiotomy and told Wes I wanted to get pregnant again.  I know, crazy right?  We had every intention of having our children close together, while we were young, and then spending our adulthood raising them.  So we tried to get pregnant again before Caleb was even a month old.  On the eve of Caleb's 5th birthday, standing in front of our Christmas tree overseas, we finally acknowledged getting pregnant again wasn't part of God's plan for us.  It fractured a piece of my soul, but my body, heart, and mind were so tired.

I'm no longer embarrassed by my experiences...

I do NOT believe in measuring experiences.  I know my fellow support group members had their own experiences, and I know many of you have your own infertility experiences; no matter what those were...they took us all on a rollercoaster ride of emotion.  And it hurt because infertility sucks.

Rewind to the summer before...

Wes and I started the infertility process before we moved overseas, but infertility treatments in the US vs overseas are very different, as we came to see.  Starting the process meant taking Clomid to boost follicle production and realizing that infertility treatments were SO expensive.  In the course of moving overseas we stopped the Clomid after several months but resumed it once again during the duration of our overseas treatment.

In the summer of 2003 we were living overseas, and Wes was stationed at our first Air Force base. We were encouraged to seek infertility treatments while stationed because many of the costs were covered while overseas.  We were prime candidates, considering our history, and we went to meet Dr. X. 

Forgive the levity, but...

Do you ever meet someone and immediately feel like something is off? That little voice that tells you to stay away?  When we met Dr. X I immediately struggled with the fact that I knew couldn't trust him.  I talked myself through it because Wes and I were working so hard to come back from marital problems that nearly ended in divorce--because we were both stupid.  I talked myself through it because I rationalized my intuition as a leftover hang up from bad childhood trauma and a sincere abhorrence for male doctors.  I argued with myself that if I truly wanted another baby I'd set aside my own fears and do whatever I had to in order to get pregnant again.  I should've listened to that voice that said, "NO!"  However, when someone convinces you they can help you have a baby, you're willing to do almost anything.

Most American infertility experiences begin with discussing your prior history of conception, possible issues, and a plan of action with the doctor.  Preliminary tests and exams would be scheduled, and you'd leave with appointments and information to discuss before making final decisions.  This doctor wanted to immediately begin treating.  He wanted me to strip down, climb up in the chair, and get down to business. Oh, and the blood draw.  I have fabulous veins for drawing blood.  I'm pale, they stand out, and they're close to the surface.  I was fortunate enough to have someone working their first day on the job draw my blood, and she blew my veins to the point that I was black and blue for weeks afterward--no exaggeration. A few extra jabs later, she gave up, and the doctor came in to finish when she couldn't.  

Did you catch the part where I mentioned climb up in the chair? I'm completely aware that some cultures are far more open and less inhibited about nudity, but this girl isn't.  In this office, you were expected to walk behind a partition, strip from the waist down, walk out half naked, and climb up in an exam-type chair for a vaginal ultrasound—with the doctor sitting there the entire time. No level of modesty, no respect of privacy...nothing.  When I asked for at least a towel, he laughed at me and joked about how he has to keep towels around just for the Americans that are weird about wanting to be covered.  He SHAMED me for being uncomfortable--and laughed at me--but gave me the towel from a stack he kept in the exam room for the "Americans." 

His plan was to do blood work and a vaginal ultrasound every day beginning at day 10 of my cycle until I ovulated every month.  I always ovulated late, so that could often mean 2 weeks of daily visits having the ultrasound and blood drawn. Every month.  On top of that, I'd be taking Clomid, again (we'd already tried this in the states), to encourage egg development and ovulation.  Once I ovulated he intended to do IUIs (intrauterine inseminations) where they would take Wes's sperm and put it directly at the opening of my fallopian tubes.  After my exam and a quick check of Wes's sperm count, he was completely confident that we would conceive.  He explained my uterus was anteflexed (pointing towards my abdominal wall), but he didn't think that would keep us from getting pregnant with his help.  He gave us hope.

If we'd only known the truth...

READ ON TO PART TWO HERE
FIND PARTS THREE AND FOUR TOGETHER HERE

Due to the length of this story, it will be posted in three parts. 

The country and name of the doctor are intentionally kept anonymous.  The purpose of these posts isn't to spread negativity but to give others going through infertility the knowledge they aren't alone in their struggles.  Infertility sucks enough without people taking advantage, and my life was so much better because a few women spoke up and shared their knowledge.  Feel free to reach out if you want or need to share your story.  

Email: jamieelizabeth77@yahoo.com

Facebook: www.facebook.com/jamieelizabeth77

Twitter: jamieelizabeth7
Snapchat: jamie77davis

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jamieelizabeth77/

How NOT to Talk to Women

Originally posted two years ago on an old blog, I had to repost this one when it popped up in my Facebook memories today and made me laugh...

How NOT to Talk to Women

18.5 years of marriage warrants a few lessons learned, yes? My favorite color, how I don’t like cheese, my abhorrence for camping...random things. You might even believe 18.5 years brought an understanding, albeit small, of how NOT to talk to me. Let me explain.

Correct way: “Hey, would you mind throwing in a load of ______ for me?”

Incorrect way: “You planning to do laundry anytime soon?”

See the difference there? One expresses a need, asks in a non-condescending way, and isn't the least bit asinine. 

That brings us to the fodder for today’s lesson. Imagine, if you will, a three pound jar of rock sugar. This sugar is used exclusively for the over-priced loose leaf chai tea I order online (Seriously, it’s pretty fan-freaking-tastic). Imagine the jar, completely full, slipping from your grasp, catching the edge of the granite countertop, then slamming into your knee on the way down. Glass … EVERYWHERE … the precious rock sugar … EVERYWHERE … me standing in a pile of rock sugar littered with glass shards … me being sad. *sniff* 
Wes jumped up and said, “What happened? Are you okay?” THIS was an appropriate response. I would've later lavished him with praise had he JUST STOPPED RIGHT THERE!  But did he stop? No, he didn’t.

The next sentence went something like this, “You really shouldn’t use glass at all because you break things constantly.” 

Yep, that definitely negated the original two questions intimating concern and interest in my well-being. Gone. Nada. Zip. Open mouth, insert foot.
The next twenty minutes were spent explaining to this creature with the XY chromosomes why comforting someone does NOT, in fact, allow for statements of this nature. He made the mistake of asking the youngest child her opinion on the matter. THAT conversation went something like this:

Triumphantly, believing he will be victorious, he asks, “Katlyn, remember when you busted your eye open last year, and I came into school? Was I comforting?”

Katlyn, looking incredulous, says, “Um, NO! You told me that it looked like I was growing another eye, and that if we put a marble in it, I really would have a third eye.”

I’m afraid I was unable to contain my glee. I may have DID gloat a little. Fortunately, I think he’s cute, so I didn’t rub it in … too much.

Fast forward one week...

The Consequences For Lecturing Your Wife

Recall, if you will, the previous story involving the husband who wandered into the danger zone of How NOT To Talk To Women. To sum it up, broken jar, glass everywhere, precious rock sugar ruined, inability to drink wonderful chai… then husband with his foot in his mouth.

After the sad debacle in which I said goodbye to my rock sugar, and listened to my husband lecture me, I decided online therapy would heal my wounded soul. The sting from his unsympathetic judgment faded as I used his card to purchase the sugar along with more chai to make up the free shipping difference.

Thanks, Wesley … you should lecture me more often! I fancy some new shoes next!

"YOU Have A Tattoo?"

"YOU Have A Tattoo?"

Forget what you think you know about tattoos for just a minute...

"YOU have a tattoo?" I can't tell you how many times I've heard this question with an incredulous tone in the last fifteen years. Wait...FIFTEEN YEARS?  Yeah, that's right, I said FIFTEEN YEARS!  I had my first tattoo done when I was in my mid twenties.  Yeah, yeah, yeah...a lady never says how old she is.  I'm 39 and proud.  It's just a number.  Moving on...

I'm just going to put this out there...

The stigma of the lower back tattoo is narrow-minded.  For those who prefer to call it a tramp stamp, more power to you.  I've been married for TWENTY years to the same man I started dating at sixteen.  If that makes me a tramp, well... *shrugs*  My first tattoo was done for the same reason as my second tattoo.  FOR ME.  

Whoa.  Wait a minute. What did she say...

*GASP* For ME? I walked into the tattoo studio completely sober, aware of my surroundings, after contemplating what I wanted for months (two years on the second one). Then I sat down and talked with the artist who listened to me describe what I wanted and started drawing.  Right there.  While I spoke. I didn't put it on my lower back because it was a fad. I did it because it was there for ME.  It rarely showed, I wasn't having one done to prove a point, and I didn't care if anyone else ever saw it.  I. Did. It. For. Me.  I was 24 years old, a wife and mother, and I wanted one little thing that was purely for my own sense of self-expression and individuality.  It was vines, roses, and a blue butterfly that reminds me of Absolem (after he hatches from his cocoon) from Alice in Wonderland. I'm a Wonderland fiend, and it's very symbolic.  

Fast forward 15 years...

I spent about two years contemplating adding to my tattoo.  I have NEVER regretted my first tattoo, and I really wanted to add to it.  I've evolved a great deal over the last couple of years, and I really wanted to find an artistic way to express that.  Again...for ME.  I know all of the super conservatives may be thinking, "But what about Wes?  You're married!  What does HE think?"  I'll answer that for you right now.  He. Does. Not. Care.  He says it is MY body, that he doesn't have an opinion one way or the other, and that if it's really what I want, then that's for me to decide.   I realize that might be unpopular in some circles, but that's honestly what he said.  I'm not harming myself, I'm expressing myself in my own way.   

For those curious why I chose the tattoo I did...

I worked with a VERY talented artist here in Arkansas.  I spent an hour talking to her about what I wanted, showing her ideas, and explaining why it was important to me.  She took those thoughts and ran with them, and she created a beautiful piece of art...and...I. Love. It.  

Yeah, that's right, I love it...

I'm an avid reader. Although I work in the indie publishing industry, I've been passionate about books since I was a child. My aunt Julia worked at a library, and she always gave us books at Christmas.  Those books, along with Scholastic school flyers, fostered my passion for reading.  Books are not only my career, but they are also my passion...since childhood.  I chose the books I did based on their influence in my earlier years of reading. 

It wasn't impulsive, random, or chosen from a picture on the wall...

The lamp post represents Narnia and the lamp post that grew in the newly formed Narnia in the book The Magician's Nephew and The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.  The subsequent signs speak for themselves and all represent books that were the foundation of my passion.  It was SO hard to choose which signs to add, but I spent a lot of time thinking about what to add.  Yelicia added her artistic flair to it, and I'm so happy with the end result.  It feels like ME, and that's all that it's about.  After 21+ years of being a wife and mom, it's completely acceptable for me to have something that defines me, that brings me happiness, and that represents a journey that brought me to where I am today.

Don't make assumptions...

I am NOT ashamed or embarrassed to show my tattoo.  Although asked, I did not show it to anyone during our Thanksgiving trip.  Large tattoos are not pretty when they are healing, and I wasn't ready to show it then aside from providing the picture taken at the studio.  Ask me the next time you see me.  I might let you see it...if I'm in the right mood. *wink* Questions don't offend me.  I'm completely confident about my decision, and I'm happy to explain it.  All I ask is that you don't judge me based on your own preferences.  I'm happy with the decision I made.

For those curious...

Yes, it hurt. A lot. It's on my SPINE, after all.  But so does childbirth and seven abdominal surgeries.  This was a journey.  It took 3 sessions for a total of 7.5 hours to complete my tattoo.  Yelicia incorporated it with my first tattoo and she blended it so that it's cohesive and, in my opinion, so beautiful. It was worth the pain.

So basically....

It's ME.  It makes me happy.  I love it.  So if you don't understand, that's absolutely okay.  You don't have to.  

It's mine.  And I love it.

This was immediately after my tattoo was finished.  

Curious about my previous blogs?  Click here <---- !!!

Choosing Adoption after Infertility

On October 20, 2005 we stood before a judge in Wichita Falls, TX while he signed papers officially giving this little girl our last name. She was our baby long before this day, but that signature signified the end of a very long journey to complete our family. 

Prior to adoption we spent five years struggling with infertility.  Since we were overseas while Wes served in the Air Force, we did the bulk of our infertility treatments in a foreign country, with a crooked doctor.  He was a terrible man, that doctor.  But that is a subject for another blog post (Here, if you're curious) because this one is about a little girl who charged into our lives at full throttle and continues to keep us on our toes every day. 

Even though we lived across the Atlantic on the day she was born, we already knew she would be in our lives one day.  We knew the situation she was born into was not a good one. Call it intuition, call it a gut feeling, but we knew. This tiny girl came into the world at 29 weeks weighing only 2lbs and 2oz. She spent the first two months of her life in the NICU.  Preemies come into the world fighting, and so many of them retain that spunky, driven personality as they grow up.  Ours did.  

Although blessed to spend time with her a couple of times in the first year of her life, she didn't come to us until she was a year old.  From the moment we told Caleb he was going to have a little sister, he immediately accepted that she was part of our family.   He would draw pictures of his family and include her despite the fact she wasn't with us yet.  There was no transition necessary, no jealousy, no need to have it explained repeatedly.  He just accepted he didn't have a sister before but did now.  Children have such beautiful hearts.

I wish I could tell you we all adjusted that easily.  This tiny girl turned our household upside down, but from the very first moment I took her in my arms, she was MY baby...our baby. She was behind developmentally, as preemies often are. She had separation anxiety, and she would scream like a banshee if I left the room.  WOW could that girl scream.  But I took up yoga to keep my sanity, Wes learned to FINALLY change diapers (not so much with Caleb—okay, EVER), and we all adjusted slowly but surely.

We never hid Katlyn's adoption from her.  We celebrated it.  We told her how special she was, she completed our family, she was the answer to all of the prayers and the heartache we endured to complete our family. We told her we knew we were supposed to be a family of four—she was the answer to all of the whys and hows and longing. However, although we were open about the subject, we didn't share the origins and details behind her adoption with her until just recently. Not every story of adoption begins with beautiful sacrifice by people who just want better for their offspring.  Wes and I agreed early we'd never lie to her.  Because no matter what would happen later in life, we wanted her to know she could depend on us for honesty and support and answers where we could provide them. Reality is sometimes people are selfish and not everyone who CAN have children should...and frankly, sometimes they just plain suck.

I've spent the last nearly 18 years as a mother teaching my children that LOVE IS A CHOICE.  Every single day we wake up and choose to love.  It's not an accident, no special formula exists. I've told them time and again that being a parent isn't about who biologically creates you.  It's those who are there for you as you grow up.  The ones who take care of you when you're sick, hug you after the millionth tantrum, potty train you, teach you to ride a bike, help you learn morals, make you do your homework, provide for you, sacrifice for you...put you first.  Being a parent is setting aside selfish desires.  It's being there for your children SO much they can take you for granted.  Because at the end of the day, every child SHOULD be able to assume their parents will be there for them and love them...unconditionally.  

Being a parent is one of the hardest jobs in the world.  It's also one of the most rewarding.  Your children can simultaneously love you and hate you...revere you and despise you...want to be with you but detest being in your presence.  They will take you for granted, stomp on your heart, then put their arms around you and meld the pieces of your heart together once again. 

God blessed us with the opportunity to adopt after we'd given up on having more children.  And as we've told Katlyn a million times, where we thought His answer was no, it was really that we just needed to wait because His plan was a bit different.  

And we wouldn't change it for the world.

Happy adoption day, Katlyn.  Thank you for completing our family. We love you unconditionally, we love you forever, and you are our baby girl now and always.

If you've NEVER been ANXIOUS, don't read this!!!

Habits are Hard to Break

I literally deleted the first sentence four times.  I was going to try and be funny, you know, to deflect.  Instead, I'll leave you with this and move on...

No, but seriously...

It's been a crazy whirlwind the last few weeks.  Lots of change, lots of adjustments, and a lot of stretching that ever-growing comfort zone.  Surprisingly enough, the most uncomfortable stretch I'm struggling with currently isn't about my job or my family...it's how I see myself...my self-worth. 

*GASP*

Before you shake your head in disbelief, let me just preempt your arguments.  So what if I'm outgoing and active online?  So what if I have a quirky sense of humor, love to laugh, and act goofy more times than not?  All of those things are true, no doubt.  But that doesn't change that many of us have insecurities and negative habits where our self-worth is concerned.  I've previously mentioned body image (HERE if you're curious) and being introverted (HERE if you're further curious) and even my constant need to apologize for over clarifying (HERE if you have the same problem habit).

One of my favorite books (and it's a decent movie) is The Secret Life of Bees.  The book follows a teenage girl as she leaves home to search for answers and fill the holes in her life...in her heart. Lily feels that she is unlovable. There's far more to it than just the little bit I'm hinting at here.  The cast is a powerhouse team of beautiful women during the Civil Rights era.  It's a story...or a journey really...of heartache, searching, and ultimately love and acceptance. I never get tired of re-reading it or even watching the movie. In fact, I think I'm about due again.  I suggest the ebook because you're going to highlight. Just saying.

I'm going to get kind of serious here, so beware...you've been warned.

"Lily feels that she is unlovable." <--- Did you read that up there? The first time I watched the movie, the moment she admits that wrecked me.  Why?  Because I've spent the majority of my life feeling unlovable.  I'm already rolling my eyes right now because this is the point where everyone wants to argue with someone when they say something like that.  Don't do it.  Just stop where you are and realize there's another message to this blog post.  YES, I've been married for 20 years, yes I have two children, and yes I have family that loves me.  But we all have pasts.  The older we get, the more mistakes we make in life.  It's a part of human nature.  Somewhere early on a tiny seed of self-doubt began to grow, and then the belief that I was inherently not enough blossomed. I had a knack for choosing the wrong people to trust, and it chipped away at my confidence and security to the point that I built a wall I kept firmly between me and the rest of the world.

For a long time I had the tendency to gravitate towards people with super outgoing, magnetic personalities that had so many friends there was always a disposable rotation of them.  I could comfortably be my introverted self and watch, listen, and go along with whatever they wanted.  Because I was just okay being included in their presence and that they seemingly wanted me around.  *I'm gagging at myself a little here*  I mean, seriously, how gross is that? The last time a friendship like that went badly, I realized (after a lengthy heartbroken period) that the fact remained the "friendship" meant far more to me than it did to the other individual.  I completely removed myself from any chances of getting to know someone to the point that I'd get attached...for years. I really and truly thought something was wrong with ME. Another point that solidified that was when someone I worked with awhile ago mistook my sincerity and desire to be a good coworker as some needy desire to be friends.  And this person actually said something along the lines, "I think the problem here is that you just want us to be good friends." OhMyGosh.  WHAT?!?!?! That was SUCH a humiliating moment for me because I wasn't even thinking along those lines, and it made me feel like people must see me as some gross, needy person.  Ugh.  I was hurt for a long time about that until I realized the problem was with that person, not me. Aside from my inability to choose wisely, I'm starting to see more that I'm not some terribly flawed individual. I'm ME.  And why does that have to be wrong?

As for that wall I retreated behind, wow has God been removing bricks for the last couple of years. Recently, I followed a link from a tweet that caught my attention. I started reading an article and stumbled onto a name that someone previously mentioned.  I hadn't dug into Brené Brown's work much yet, but this article made me stop and pay attention.  This quote absolutely whacked me upside my thick skull, "... a pervasive sense of shame makes many of us—particularly in America—feel unworthy of human connection. Why the shame? Because in this perfectionistic culture, most of us believe we’re “not good enough . . . not thin enough, rich enough, beautiful enough, smart enough, promoted enough” to be worthy of love. So we can’t afford to let our guard down, become vulnerable, because letting others see us as we really are would mean we’d be rejected out of hand. Better to avoid emotional risk, avoid vulnerability, and numb ourselves to any pain we can’t escape. "  I might've cried when I read that.  Because it resonated.  Hard.

We all struggle in some form or another in life.  And my knee-jerk reaction to hide behind a wall of self-protection might keep me from feeling the vulnerability that Brené Brown described is normal but not the best solution.

This amazing quote came across my path, and it aptly describes human nature far better than I can.

We are NOT islands unto ourselves, and human nature craves the connection of others...the acceptance...feeling a part of something.  And when we feel as though others we value pull away or keep us at arm's length, it fuels that self-doubt.  It's yet another reason why it is so important to choose wisely when looking for our tribe.  I hope to find my tribe someday.  That safe place where I feel like it's okay to just relax and be me without second-guessing when they will get annoyed with me and pull away.

Fast forward a couple of weeks...

Second serious warning (no seriously, I'm going to be super honest here)...

A very dear friend sent me a link to a video recently, and on further inspection I found an entire article on the subject.  We've all heard about anxiety, but I NEVER classified myself as having anxiety.  I've known people with very debilitating anxiety, and I DO NOT struggle with that.  I function quite well, go about my business, and do what needs to be done without issue. But this article was about high-functioning anxiety.  Wait.  What?  Yeah, high-functioning anxiety . It's a thing.  I'll tell you right now that NOT EVERY SINGLE THING in the article or video were me.  But many were.  My mouth kind of hung open.  I watched it a second time.  I read the article.  I nodded.  I shook my head a few times in disagreement too.  The opening lines to the article go like this:

High-functioning anxiety looks like…Achievement. Busyness. Perfectionism.

HUH?  That's a bad thing?  No, it's not.  *She argues in disbelief* But then it goes on further down:

High-functioning anxiety sounds like…You’re not good enough. You’re a bad friend. You’re not good at your job. You’re wasting time. You’re a waste of time. Your boyfriend doesn’t love you. You’re so needy. What are you doing with yourself? Why would you say that? What if they hate it? Why can’t you have your shit together? You’re going to get anxious and because you’re going to get anxious, you’re going to mess everything up. You’re a fraud. Just good at faking it. You’re letting everybody down. No one here likes you.

All the while, it appears perfectly calm. (<--- Oh snap. *sigh* Okay, I'm listening now.)

Are you curious about the rest?  Read the full article right HERE. Needless to say, the more I read, the more I realized that even if I didn't possess all of the qualities, there were enough similarities to stop and pay attention.  It's not worth going into which ones I resonated with and which ones I didn't.  The important thing is that by the end of the article I wasn't sure if I felt sad, relieved, enlightened, empowered...all of the above? The fact that someone else understood what I meant blew my mind. The friend who sent it to me got it.  The woman writing the article got it. I found myself at a consultation for a new tattoo today talking about anxiety with the tattoo artists, and they GOT IT. In fact, they brought it up first! These two lovely, talented women were sitting there talking about many of the same things from the article.  

So what's the point in all of this? It all clicked for me.  I found a connection in my anxiousness, my self-doubt, my desire to protect myself from vulnerability, my busy mind and need to stay in motion...

I HAVE to find a place of self-acceptance.  I HAVE to stop putting myself under a microscope and seeking flaws.  It sounds easier than it truly is.  And I know I won't wake up tomorrow feeling magically better.  Even this week I've struggled with people I care about pulling back from me and feeling as though there was just something inherently wrong with me that pushed people away. That I was just "too much" for anyone but my own immediate family. (No seriously, please don't do that arguing thing. It just makes me uncomfortable, and this honesty stuff is hard enough. No one said self-doubt makes sense.)  Vulnerability is SO hard, yet it's necessary in order to find that elusive TRIBE our hearts seek. Yet behind the anxiousness and doubt, I have this strong sense that it must surely be worth it.  Because there's a special place in life for people who love you unconditionally without the ties of being related...just that they love you for you, in spite of you, because of YOU. 

And I'll get there. I'm trying. And as frightening as it is to post this, to be so open and vulnerable, I know that others must surely feel the same.  And what if posting it means even one other person feels less alone? If two ladies I meet for the first time are talking about the very things I read in an article--less than 24 hrs after reading it--that's not an accident.  And maybe I'm SUPPOSED to share. Okay God, I'm listening.

*Deep breath*

And YOURSELF.  Love yourself just as hard.  Because you matter.

And So She Jumped...

Why the ellipses?  First of all, I really dig them.  I feel like it means I'm not quite finished.  Some people get into the semicolon—I like ellipses...

A couple of years go I was this quiet introvert attempting to go through life as unseen as possible.  I've mentioned my comfort zone many times, and I will continue to do so.  Because it's relevant...

I'm sure it's no surprise that I love books. (I didn't get the title #bookpusher just randomly, you know). I'll always be ready to recommend my favorites.  I downloaded a book by an indie author, and I was swept away—then I downloaded more.  I reached out to thank her for such great stories, and like social media tends to do, it led to more...*shrugs* I found out she would be traveling through my area a couple of summers ago, threw together a small meet and greet, and had the chance to meet her in person...

Something significant that stood out to me the more I learned about her was she had reinvented herself.  She set goals, she met them, set new ones...you see where this is going.  She didn't let being uncomfortable deter her from doing things in life.  That was exactly what I'd always done, and I was pretty tired of myself. Rather than seeing life as full of adventures and possibilities, I felt like I had to keep my comfort zone sweater tightly clasped around me.  I wanted to keep people at a distance because I'd been hurt and thought it was the only way to protect myself.  Here's where the real transformation took place... (<--- just love those)

As much as I never liked calling attention to myself, I have always loved supporting, praising, and watching others be successful from behind the scenes.  I was a teacher's assistant in high school for three years, and my last job before my oldest was born was working as a personal assistant for a business owner where we lived at the time. I'd never worked in social media, but despite my hesitance I really felt like I could do it. Well, I hoped I could...

Something amazing happened in the process of the new adventure.  I started to grow as an individual.  I started doing things I would've never even considered previously.  Readers trips where I had to *gulp* talk in front of everyone?  No way, that's crazy.  They would think I was stupid. Managing an ever-growing group of people and having to be "on" personality-wise all of the time?  Not possible. I'd sound stupid.  No one would tolerate me. THOSE are the thoughts I had.  But here's the REAL magic.  The more I got to know readers, the more I realized a common theme...people just want to be seen.  No matter their personalities, no matter their backgrounds, people should ALL be made to feel like they are seen...heard...accepted...

I've always believed one of the cruelest things you can do to someone is to ignore them.  I'm not talking about bullies or really awful people.  Let's face it, they exist.  But even when someone is being mildly unpleasant, many times they just feel unseen and unheard.  What does it take to share a smile, a kind word, or just a bit of encouragement?  And the more I worked towards TRYING to make others feel seen and heard and valuable, the more blessed I was by getting to know some truly wonderful people...and they changed me.  I'm not saying I'm no longer introverted.  I truly am—it's an inherent part of me.  But suddenly I wasn't nearly as afraid to speak up and reach out. I didn't feel nearly as scared about being seen.  And for the first time in a long time I allowed myself to make actual friends outside of the SUPER tiny comfort zone I'd maintained...

So fast forward to recent events.  Once again I felt led to let someone know they were seen and mattered. I reached out to someone to simply thank them for a post that touched me, resonated with me.  And it led to conversations and a world of new possibilities.  It was totally unplanned and unexpected, but now I was really in a place of needing to make a decision.  Could I adequately give enough of myself being split between my job managing the author's social media while trying to learn so many things with my new position?  The scope of things I'm learning is so much bigger, and I had to make a decision.  Do I stay safe in my comfort zone sweater...or do I jump in with both feet...

The idea of leaving the groups was gut-wrenching.  Early on the author and I decided to change the name to include the word community because we wanted it to be just that—a community where people could safely come together and feel a part of something.  And all of the readers made it possible to be just that—a community. I'm not leaving just a job, I'm leaving a piece of my heart behind with all of you. I'm going to leave all of the author related groups.  Now before you think that's a terrible thing, understand there's no way a transition can take place if I stay.  It's not because I have to leave or don't want to be here anymore. It wouldn't be fair for me to be in the background because lines would be blurred, and it would be natural for people to default to me for answers. I still have every intention of sharing in your excitement and love of books. I'm not leaving this industry, I'm just moving on to bigger things...

So I jumped...

P.S. I am pretty much on every relevant social media platform (see all the links below).  I'm not leaving social media.  I would GLADLY welcome any of you on my friends list—so feel free to request me and comment, message, etc. I have, and will continue, to enjoy your messages and posts.  You can still ask me for book recommendations. I love it. You can also follow me on this blog where I'll be posting about my new adventures and my regular life-y stuff.  (And obviously making up words like life-y) Please keep in touch as that's the only way to ease the bittersweet feeling of leaving. Come be excited with me because there's so much more to come...

Update one year later...

I'm torn between, "It's only been a year?" and "Wow, it's already been a year?" The decision to jump was the best possible choice I could've made. It led to bigger and better things, some truly amazing people, and opportunities to learn things I'd wanted to learn for a long time. One of the best parts is so many people kept in touch, so it's not like I truly left anyone behind.

Being self-employed is a special kind of challenge, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.  But that is a different blog post and one I wrote already. (HERE if you're curious) *wink* I thought I was leaving for one purpose and ended up going a completely different direction in the best way possible. 

If I've learned anything, it's not to stay too comfortable for too long. Comfort zones often equal complacency and growing stagnant. So get out there and take some chances, learn new things, and remember it's okay to be afraid as long as fear doesn't stop you from trying new things.

I'd love to know about things you've done despite being nervous or afraid. Feel free to reach out and share your experiences. New adventures are the best when you share them!

Meanwhile, I can't wait to see what happens a year from now...

Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/Jamieelizabeth77

Blog: http://stretchingthecomfortzone.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/jamieelizabeth7

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jamieelizabeth77

Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/jamieelizabeth7/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/11968352-jamie-davis
Snapchat: jamie77davis

P.P.S.  If you're curious about the authors I'm working with now, send me a message!  I'd love to share with you!