The Uncomfortable Monster

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
July 5, 2017

I live in this haze of memory and future fear, feeding the monster.

That is how anxiety works, it is the monster that lives inside of me. It scares me into two corners of past and future and get stuck there, unstuck from this present moment. The monster creates “to-do” lists and completion checks. Then it slides me into depression like the ocean waves hitting the sand it curls around me as I distantly get caught up in my own thoughts and worries. Everything becomes a reminder of the future – the things I should be doing- the mother, woman and human that I should be. It dictates my shame and tells me dreams don’t count unless they have financial value. Suddenly title, whether a book or job title, matter more and important things are only measured in currency. And I retreat into absence.

So I have been noticeably absent lately.

Absent from my writing, my goals or even my persistence. It is easy to do. I have been battling a case of seasonal anxiety. It is a lot like allergies. There is the mental fog, pressure, pushing against the brim of my nose until it itches. The uncomfortable itch of allergies pressing from my cheeks to the whites of my eyes. They begin to water. Something isn’t right. I desperately want to sneeze, to release. My nose begins to water, trying to drip in sync with the tears that slide down my face and brush a salty glaze onto the corner of my lips. I am in full bloom anxiety season. Medicine is my first instinct. It could unclog some of the pressure on my face, slowing down the need to sneeze (release) and the need to cry. But it puts me in a fog, a haze, like trying to see out of the front window of my car through a film of pollen disposed from the trees. Just like allergies, there is no magic solution for the pressure. In the midst of this anxiety season I am working harder on coping techniques. But pills, like coping techniques, only work when I take them everyday like a routine.

There are also bad coping techniques

Self pity fills my eyes with tears. I blame myself, then I blame others. They are too demanding, or distant or unable to give me the answer i want to hear. Or they are struggling their way through anxiety season as well. I look at the pages I just wrote. The only friend that listens completely to my words, and becomes them. I sneeze on the pages. First there was the itching, then the pressure that squeezed the brim of my nose. Look at the light. I have been told. So I stare right into the bright side and sneeze beautifully onto my blank journal page. I am finally able to fill my lungs with oxygen and see the entire portrait

Writing is my strongest weapon against the monster

I have always known I need to write. I call it a lot of things, my dream, my passion, my saving grace. It is the release of the words and thoughts that are swirling around my head like magnets on a refrigerator. When I write, I can organize, control and beautify them. My pen is my armor and my sword. Sometimes other people read and relate and I get high on that feeling, that connection. Sometimes I get high on my own words, like an artist who just painted a masterpiece.

So I just keep writing.

Easing my future, calming my past and keeping the anxiety monster under my bed.

** drawing by my amazing daughter. I asked for a cute little monster to personify my anxiety. She added the goat characteristics because “goats always look anxious”

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
June 15, 2017

The sweat. It is wet, hot, and a newfound uncomfortable that is becoming associated with running in the summer time sun. It tickles down my back, like a monster’s hot tongue, slowly licking between my shoulder blades, then on my forehead and pooling up to drip down my temples.

I keep running despite the discomfort

I imagine my legs could just give out at any second and press the souls of my shoes into the ground more firmly then I am used to as I steady my pace. The sun has been following closely behind me and occasionally reaches out touch my shoulders, burning them. I push up a hill, the dreaded incline. It is a test of how much heat my run can handle. The sun illuminates the path around me like a spotlight on my journey. Up the hill, in a small celebration of victory I steady my pace, once again feeling the pressure in my calves releasing and my mind resting. Through the pain and the heat, I can still feel that sense of peace.

And that is what keeps me going.

Continue reading The Uncomfortable Path

Uncomfortable

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
June 7, 2017

I lay in my hospital bed shortly after giving birth for the fourth time. A spot I knew too well. I struggle to find the right position that doesn’t rupture my still aching lower body, and upper body and tired brain. “Are you comfortable?” a nurse asks, after taking my temperature for the millionth time. “I think so.” I lie.

 I am in Cece’s bed. Again. She never wants to sleep all night, alone, or with her brother. I am too tired to train her, so it goes like this: she cries. I wake up. I glance at Josh’s loud snores, and I go to her room trying not to wake Jackson up as I crawl out of bed. He has been barreling out of his room lately just as we are about to go to bed. I spin another round of wondering if we will ever be the kind of family with normal sleeping arrangements, again. I cuddle next to Cece, calming her crying. She looks at me, “where Papa go?” she asks, drifting back to sleep. I kiss her squishy soft little cheek and try my best to ease my body into the mattress, between pillows and blankets. I pull a block from under my leg and set it under the bed. So often we end up scattered, like our various throw pillows, with at least one toddler awkwardly lying near my feet wondering what is going on beyond our closed eyes to get us here. Somehow, I am perfectly aligned with the direction of the bed and Cece curled right under my chin and we are breathing in sync. The air outside is unsettled as thunder rumbles a soft roar in the distance and the rain taps melodically against the window. I pull her even closer in a soft embrace, imagining the rain is feeding her growth like the outdoor garden we just planted. If I can just hold her long enough, I can stop it, or slow it down, or just enjoy it. My back is always sore from the many nights of sleeping where ever would calm a crying toddler. But yet, in this moment, the soft tap of rain is echoing her breathing. Her hair tickles my nose as it gently sways from the ceiling fan and her little golden curls move in a slow bounce, a contrast to the way they bounce about due to her awake constant motion. In this passing moment of a thunderstorm causing us to sleep too late, I am the most comfortable that I have been in a while.

Continue reading Uncomfortable

The Fourth One

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
April 10, 2017

Most days I wonder if I have completely abandoned all those parenting books after I had my fourth kid and went on with making my own up as I go. 

I crawl into bed, my body is exhausted and I am hoping to convince my brain to do the same. It is considerably early for me (midnight) but since the world isn’t designed for people like me, I vow every night to go to bed early and set an alarm for 7 A.M. I press my eyes closed in hopes of not starting my week off with the disappointment that sleeping in has given me lately. The word lazy floats around in my head as give myself a mental pep talk on the pro list of getting up early. (Number one- toddlers are still asleep. And I forget the rest). Cece is sleeping in the middle of our bed. Her forehead is matted with wet curls. Why do babies sweat so much in their sleep? Layla would wake up drenched in sweat and I would worry, the way mothers do with their first-born. I move a piece of hair that is stuck to her cheek in a combination of drool and sweat and kiss her squishy skin, not minding the sweat/drool puddle that leaked onto the top of my lip. She reacts by burrowing into me, my security blanket. There is always a little part of me that is happy she is there- until I wake up at 4 am with a foot resting on my nose as she unknowingly flops her way along the middle of the bed leaving Josh and I to rest uneasily on the far edges of our queen size bed. I think about all the articles and books I read when the girls were little. Don’t let them sleep with you. The words taunt me as I make a case for my side of the argument, the one that goes just like this: I have four kids. Oh, and her bed is still in the garage waiting a mattress purchase and another room reorganization and the assembly process. So she sleeps with us some nights and with Jackson on the other nights as we reinvent the idea of what it is to be normal.

Continue reading The Fourth One

Order In Chaos

Cassidy.Marie.Rose
April 2, 2017

I crave the satisfaction of being able to check something off of my to do list. Anything. I am bouncing around the house trying to pick up the scatter of clutter that easily accumulates with each passing minute, while never quite rejoicing in the victory of having an entire room clean. There is still one thing left to do that leads to another and another. I cleaned the babies’ room, but the mess of clothes is still sitting on the dresser; I cleaned the kitchen but there is still a rack of dishes to dry and put away. I sit in my room, trying to get into writing mode. My headphones are in tact, cancelling out the chaos that is my husband and my children trying to navigate a world I am absent from, even if for just an hour. My headphones block the after school chatter, the toddlers demanding to watch TV, Josh taking over the kitchen and I am hiding from the chaos. All of it – centered on our disorganized family in our disorganized little life. What is it like to have four kids? Complete fucking chaos, all the time. My corner of our house, my room, is a complete cluster of clothes that I keep putting off organizing – just like everything else.

Continue reading Order In Chaos