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elizabethedancer-blog · 8 years

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How the Nate Was Born

As with any birth, this one was a special one, and I wanted to write out our story to preserve every moment I can remember.

While my pregnancy with Nathan was nearly as textbook as you can get, the end was anything but! Starting at around 39 weeks, I began showing all the signs that delivery was fast approaching. I had several bouts of what’s called prodromal labor- “real” labor that actually stops and starts. Many evenings were filled with regular contractions that were a minute long, anywhere from 4-10 minutes apart, and would grow longer, stronger and closer together… until they’d stop a few hours after they began. One evening I had labor pattern contractions for SEVEN HOURS, and then… nothing. I also had what’s called a forebag of water rupture- just like I did with Victoria. Apparently, women can develop a small second amniotic sac that ruptures before their primary sac, which I had no clue was possible! I was so ecstatic when it broke around the 40-week mark- and spent the day waiting for contractions to start- only to be sent home from the hospital after checking in that evening being told my primary sac was still intact. Waiting for sweet Nathan to come was emotionally (and physically) exhausting- it was almost like being in labor for two weeks. We tried ALL the tricks to negotiate an early arrival, I walked so much my feet became swollen enough to warrant a “light activity” restriction between week 40 and 41- not quite bed rest, but close to it. It became clear to me that I just needed to wait for him to be ready, even if that meant waiting until my induction date. I had my heart set on a medication-free birth, but when you get to be 11 days past your due date, I was ready to get him out at nearly any cost!

Finally, at 41 weeks and 5 days, the day before my scheduled induction, I started having very mild contractions about 10 minutes apart around 10am. Since this was a near daily occurrence, I really didn’t think much of it- I’d gotten my hopes up so many times that I didn’t really believe I was in labor. I’d gone to the doctor’s office that morning and learned that I was between 4 and 5 centimeters dilated and 90% effaced, and that helped me welcome the contractions despite fully believing they’d eventually vanish- at least when labor DID start, I knew I wouldn’t have that far to go. By about 2pm, they were still coming every 5 minutes or so, and slowly growing longer, stronger and closer together. While they weren’t the strongest contractions I’d had, I started to finally accept that I was really in labor. I still had my doubts- I’d been burned so many times! We eventually called Rene home around 2:30 when they finally started getting stronger, and I knew this was the real deal. I hopped in the shower for a bit to see if that would slow them down, and when Rene got home 45 minutes later and they were only getting stronger, we settled in for what we thought would be the long haul. I called my doctor to let her know she could cancel my induction- I was in labor! While she originally had suggested I wait at home as long as possible before going to the hospital, she changed that advice and suggested we head there immediately- knowing that I didn’t have nearly as much work to do to be able to push this baby out!

It seemed as soon we decided to leave, things really started picking up. I was having to focus a little more through contractions, and started reciting the mantra, “My body opens, My mind quiets, My baby descends”. I could get through that mantra three or four times with each contraction, and it really helped me relax and let the waves and rushes of energy do what they were supposed to do. Rene hopped in the shower and gathered our things, and we were at the hospital around 5:30. By the time we were admitted, I was no longer able to talk through contractions and began really relying on Rene to coach me through contractions. That was an incredible experience- there’s nothing like your husband coaching you through childbirth, really. There would be moments when he would say just the exact right thing to help me relax and breathe and let this baby out, I’ve never felt so in tune with someone in quite the same way. He was amazing, I really, truly couldn’t have done it without him. We were transferred to a labor and delivery room around 6:30ish (I think, judging by what I’ve been told), and my mom showed up just shortly after. I was still just between 5 and 6 centimeters so we all felt like we had a couple of hours to go-and I knew the hardest part was nearly upon us. A few minutes after my mom’s arrival her presence became essential- I started going through transition and having both her comfort and Rene’s coaching helped me get through the worst of the contractions, I really needed both of them there. I had my heart set on a lot of hydro therapy, and wanted to get back in the shower as quickly as possible. I began to feel that I needed something else to continue- I was just NOT okay with bouncing on the ball and was experiencing a lot of back labor. Our sweet nurse Katilin suggested I labor on all fours for a while, and sure enough laboring in that position through just a few contractions was enough to optimally position Nathan and my back labor was greatly decreased. She said she’d be back to check on us in an hour, and I was finally able to get in the shower, and labored there with Rene spraying water on my back for maybe three contractions before I began to feel “pushy”. I knew I needed to get into a safer place to push, or at least to be able to distract myself from pushing. In my head I was guessing I was 8cm or so and felt like I needed help to get through the pushy feelings without actually pushing against my incompletely dilated cervix. My mom called the nurse back in, it was just 15 minutes or so after she’d said she’d check back in an hour. Katilin was amazing- and took my pushy feelings seriously rather than just brushing them off; I think she knew how close I was to delivery. She helped me get back on the bed, and I was trying my hardest to breathe through the pushy feelings, but after just a contraction or two I knew there was absolutely nothing I could do to keep this baby from coming out NOW. You hear it’s sort of like throwing up- there’s not really anything you can do to stop your body from doin’ what it’s gonna do. Things started happening, the charge nurse and a tech showed up and started prepping the room as quickly as they could, but not quickly enough to get things in place before my water broke. Talk about a GUSH, holy freakin’ heck. As soon as my water broke the pressure kicked up to 11 and everyone in the room knew there wasn’t any hope waiting for the doctor get there. I was complete and he was crowning. Another contraction later and I was delirious and frantic, any “rhythm” I’d developed was thrown out the window- I was completely and totally relying on Rene to help me even breathe at all. I focused on his face, on his words, and tried my hardest to not completely lose my mind. The nurse said he had a lot of dark hair and I couldn’t believe how close we were to meeting our son! I knew I couldn’t have much more to go, but never in my life did I think he’d come as quickly as he did. I’d read about/seen videos of how many contractions it takes to get the head out, and how babies often descend and rescind to help both mom and baby prepare for birth. The next contraction came and I felt his head POP out and then in that same contraction his entire body shot out. The nurse legitimately caught him, in all the birth videos I’d seen- I’d never seen one where the entire baby is birthed in one contraction. I couldn’t believe it! My baby was here- in front of me, I was kissing him and holding him and boy he was PISSED. Poor guy was not prepared for that either! I couldn’t believe how quickly everything happened- I was in labor and delivery for just about an hour and a half before he was born- which was exactly what I had hoped for and dreamed of, but definitely not what I was expecting when we left the house as early as we did. I expected transition and pushing to be a much longer event than it was- and I’m so grateful I didn’t wait at home any longer! I was so relieved and so proud of my team, I couldn’t believe we actually did it! It was such an incredible experience and everything I had hoped for. The doctor walked in and in my hormonal delirium somewhat sarcastically thanked him for all his hard work- that got a little chuckle by the staff there. This birth was so remarkably different in nearly every way from Victoria’s, and I’m so glad I got to experience it both ways- each as beautiful and magical as the other. While I knew I wanted an unmedicated birth experience from the beginning, I wasn’t really ever able to fully express “why”- I just knew I wanted this experience. Just like my first birth- it shaped me and molded me in ways I didn’t expect- and gave me this whole new appreciation and love for my husband. It was another one of those, “if we can do this together, we can do ANYTHING together”. Thank you so much to all my wonderful friends and family that supported me through words of wisdom and advice, gave me book suggestions and mantras and all sorts of tricks to deal with labor. While we ended up using almost NOTHING we had prepared, all that preparation gave me and my team the confidence we needed to know we could do it- and that proved to be invaluable! I couldn’t have done it all on my own, and I’m so grateful to everyone that made it possible! Now the real adventure begins!

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elizabethedancer-blog · 9 years

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my Journey so far

A couple of years ago, shortly after the birth of my daughter, I wrote out my “story”, largely for my own catharsis, but in part to share with those in my life (and on my social networking sites). However, because it was mostly written for myself, little time or effort was put into the readability of it, and I wanted to craft a slightly different, much shorter version. This is the story of a ragamuffin and a savior.

As a kid I was painfully shy, and because of that I wasn’t generally a well-liked person. I didn’t try hard to fit in, and because of that I didn’t. I wanted to fit in, but just didn’t know how. I had several painful experiences early in adolescence that really spoke to me that I just don’t belong.

I battled that in most of my friendships until I started dating my first boyfriend. We were each other’s first real relationship, a 14 year old girl just coming out of what’s been called my “awkward stage”, and a 16 year old boy lacking much example of what a healthy romantic relationship looked like. It was great for the first couple years, but then it wasn’t. Four years and an awful break up (or rather, several awful breakups) later I was left questioning my worth and identity. This man had said he loved me for so long left my heart ravaged and bleeding. He would ask me to change myself constantly to fit his taste, and yet I was never “right”. I compensated with loud and angry words, burning tears, acts of service to make up for all the ways I failed him. In reality, we just didn’t know how to love each other. He didn’t know what boundaries were, and I didn’t know how to make them clear. I’m definitely not saying our demise or my insecurities were all his fault; that would be absurd. But I took those hurts and believed the lies behind them- “you’re not worthy of love, you’re not lovely, you’re not capable, you need to change to receive love”. I was used to finding my identity in what I was able to do- and suddenly I believed I was no longer able to do anything. I lost the Gospel.

We broke up (for the last time) half way through my first year of college. I was living in a dorm and hadn’t attempted to make any real friends, and was lonely. Sure, I was just 20 miles from home, but believing the lie of unloveliness will make a woman lonely wherever she is. I struggled through that year, and the next several years, trying to find my worth and identity in nearly everything other than the Truth. Sometimes it was how much I could make a stranger laugh. Sometimes it was how eccentric I could be. A lot of the time it was in how I loved people. Most of the time, in some fashion or another, I found my identity in my performance.

I met the love of my life, and found my identity in all the Truths he told me. While he has done so much to heal my heart, that task wasn’t meant to be his alone. I caused a lot of hurt in his own heart by indirectly asking him to be my savior, to tell me my value, to verify and dignify me. He’s incredibly remarkable, but he’s definitely not Jesus, and it took me a while to see that.

Living a performance-oriented lifestyle nearly killed me. I couldn’t be perfect, and I was a depressed and anxious wreck trying to achieve perfection. My mental health was plummeting, taking my grades and many relationships with them. Anything that was unlovely or less than perfect was hidden, known only by me; I hoarded my secrets and kept them close to my heart, making sure no one could see them, and so of course no one could heal them. There’s a phrase among many mental health professionals, “you’re only as sick as your secrets”, and I was very, very sick. But only on the inside! My reality became only what people knew, that which shamed me was kept buried deep below the crazy red hair and practiced smile. I lied about a lot, a lied about my mental health, about my attendance in school, my grades- even insignificant details of my day. I was so desperate to do it on my own, and to be everything that (I thought) was expected of me.

It all came crashing to a halt in late January of 2013. I was found out, my fears confirmed- I could not do it alone. I wasn’t everything I wanted to be. My shame consumed me, my brokenness exposed, the hurt that I had caused everyone close to me was all I could think about. And then the healing process. Running back to Jesus, finally exposing my shame and shortcomings, staring them right in the face and detaching them from my identity and worth. I started to understand the Gospel in a much truer sense. And I got “back on track”. I was back in school, at an incredible job at a mystical community in the middle of the desert, and living an authentic, transparent life. It was so hard, and I messed up a lot- I got used to saying things like, “oh, that’s not true, I’m actually having an awful day”, or correcting any other “white” (or rather “socially acceptable”) lies I told. I had to get used to being vulnerable, baring my soul and myself, and recognize that there are certain people that will not like that (or me), and that’s okay. I also had to get used to the fact that I do care a great deal about what people think about me, and I had to let go of the façade that I really don’t. I had to learn to be honest with myself about those things.

At the end of what I like to call my “sabbatical in the desert” (but was really a humbling humiliating forced relocation by my parents so they could effectively keep an eye on me), I moved back to North Texas to really study development and families and relationships. I was loving it, loving life, found an incredible church and couldn’t help but feel that life was right. I learned these incredibly hard truths, understood myself as a daughter of God and was starting to understand how The Gospel redeemed me- and more importantly expose the ways in which I need redeeming. And then September 17th. September 17th was the day I went to the doctor to learn the news that yes, I did have a tumor. I had been gaining weight, had changes in appetite, insane fatigue, and a million other easy-to-ignore, only slightly abnormal symptoms. My mother had a 7 pound tumor removed a few years prior to that fateful day, and I was fearful that I would soon find out similar information about my own lady parts. I was afraid it’d mean I wouldn’t be able to have children, like my friend Leah (who actually gave birth later down the road to a gorgeous baby girl). I was afraid I’d find out I had cancer, like my dear, sweet friend Kara, who passed away on her 22nd birthday. I was afraid that it’d mean my new awesome, amazing life would be over- and I had just gotten it back. I wasn’t ready to let go. In reality, I didn’t completely trust God to make it okay.

I waited anxiously waiting for the doctor to return after my examination, I knew something was wrong. “You’re pregnant” wasn’t at all what I was expecting, though. In my head, I went through all the reasons why that was simply impossible. I mean. I had taken a pregnancy test, just in case, and it was negative. You can’t have periods when you’re pregnant, you get waaaaay fatter than I was when you’re pregnant… I just. It didn’t make sense, and it definitely didn’t fit into my fantastic life. The doctor proceeded to give me the number of her favorite O.B, and called and scheduled an appointment for me in just a few days. Knowing exactly how long it’d been since the last possible date of conception meant this baby was coming and coming FAST. I drove home and fell apart. I called everyone I possibly could until finally my grandmother, of all people, answered. I fell apart some more, and was so thankful to have someone that loved me and loved Jesus and could completely empathize with me to listen to me fall apart. It was hard- not everyone understood, and not everyone believed me. Some of the people I called my best friends turned their backs, and I saw how costly transparency can be. Through the hurt I found freedom, and chose honesty and discomfort over shame and secrets, and some of those friendships have begun to be restored.

After a lot more falling apart, things started to come together. We decided to raise our baby ourselves, had everything we could possibly need given to us, my parents lived with me for nearly three weeks prior to delivery to help and hold my hand, and even strangers from our new church gathered around us with prayer and food and tears and essential oils and promised to walk through this journey with us.

And I understood. No matter what this life throws at me there is no way in heaven or hell I’m equipped to handle it all by myself. But because of what has already been done on my behalf, I never have to do anything. I am beautiful, worthy, immaculate, strong, and capable-because Jesus is, and because I am His.

I forget that often, all the time actually. I still try to exist on my own power, but I have a husband and dear friends that hold me accountable to my failings, that look me straight in the face and don’t let me pull the kind of crap that destroys lives. They know every failing of mine-and they absolutely love me- not in spite of my short comings, but because of them, and because of Him.

Exactly five weeks after we first found out about her existence, Rene and I were holding our sweet Victoria Riley. Our courageous victory (which is what her name means, for those of you I hadn’t boasted about it to. Isn’t it awesome?). She’s just one of many reminders in our life that The Great War has already been won. And here we are, years later. Raising this amazingly joyful child. Living this life together, loving our Jesus, repenting when we love ourselves more, laughing at our failures and exploring the grace we’ve been given, one adventure at a time.

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elizabethedancer-blog · 9 years

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Chicken Marbella Recipe

For everyone that keeps asking for this, I have delivered. This recipe is incredibly simple, fairly healthy, and definitely open for interpretation, so feel free to adjust and add your own flair.

What you’ll need:

2+lbs of chicken, depending on how much you want to make. I’ve mostly used frozen boneless/skinless breasts and thighs, but also really enjoyed some bone-in (skin-on) portions as well, and they probably have a better flavor.

Olive Oil

red wine vinegar

2 cups (total) of 3 (or more) different kinds of pitted or sliced olives. I typically use garlic stuffed, kalamata, and spanish olives.

1/2 cup capers/caper juice

1/4 cup dried plums (or prunes, however apparently that’s not as sexy as “dried plums”, because rarely can I find a packaged boldy labeled as “prunes”)

5-10 (depending on taste) whole garlic cloves

3 Tbl coconut sugar (optional)

dry white wine - I usually use sauvignon blanc, but really it’s just whatever I can find for less than 4 bucks.

1/2 cup sliced almonds

salt & pepper to taste

The most work you’ll do for this is finding everything at the store and opening all the containers. I usually do all the preparation the night before I plan to serve this, and let the chicken thaw/marinate in the fridge until an hour before I plan to serve. I’ve also put this together the morning of, and it’s okay, but the more time you can let this marinate the better.

Dump the frozen chicken meat in your pan, and drizzle your red wine vinegar and olive oil over the meat. I use enough chicken to fill a 9x13 pan, and that serves about 3-4 people, depending on the size of the people and sides I’m serving with it.

Dump your olives, capers, plums, and garlic over and around the chicken. I love olives, so I usually use quite a bit, I’ll eyeball two or more cups (total, not each) of the different olives. If I’m using garlic stuffed olives, I usually forgo any additional garlic, but if you’re going to add it now is the time. When I make mine, I also use a little juice from each of the olives as well as the capers, totaling around 1/2 a cup. Most recipes call for exclusively caper juice, but this is my recipe so it’s my rules.

Cover that gloriously delicious junk and stick it in the fridge to thaw and marinate. Forget about it, if you can, until about an hour before you plan to gorge yourself.

Preheat your oven to 350°. Add your almonds, and sprinkle the coconut sugar over the chicken. If you don’t have coconut sugar, you can use brown sugar, but it ain’t the same, let me tell ya.

Right before you pop it in, add your white wine, being careful to not pour over the chicken, but just adding it to the sides. Now, let me caveat this: I don’t typically use the wine. Since I thaw my chicken while it marinates, there’s so much water and juices already in the pan that I never need more. However, if you’re using fresh chicken, this step would be essential. Sometimes, if I really want to add the wine, I’ll drain the chicken juices out with a baster so as to not disturb each perfectly placed olive, but I find that the wine doesn’t really change the flavor that much.

Cook that business for 45 minutes to an hour. The cooking time primarily depends on how thick your chicken is and whether or not you have skin and bones. I like mine pretty roasty and caramelized on top (thank you coconut sugar), so my boneless/skinless breasts cook for closer to an hour.

and ENJOY. I love to make this for others, as it’s fairly exotic and different, and tastes like you slaved away all day, rather than dumped a bunch of chaos on some chicken and left it to mingle all by its lonesome. I usually serve it with rice or quinoa and a salad, but roasted potatoes also pair really well.

Let me know what you think and if you have any questions!

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elizabethedancer-blog · 10 years

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Ghosts

Lately my heart has just been breaking over the friendships that have been lost or forgotten in my life, but at the same time I can’t help but rejoice in the unity I find with Jesus in that place of rejection. But dang, it’s still so hard.

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elizabethedancer-blog · 11 years

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My Story

My story. A true, excruciatingly long, no-holds-barred account of the deeply important things I’ve experienced that make me the person I am. Buckle up.

As with any person that’s lived more than a decade, life is messy. I feel the most effective way to tell my story would be chronologically, so, I’ll start from the beginning. (That’s right. My LIFE story) When I was young, I was painfully, PAINFULLY shy. I had one best friend, and a handful of other friends. I went to pre-school and church with the same people, all of whom I’d known since birth, so “meeting people” wasn’t something I was good at, or even liked. My mom will tell stories of secretly watching me at recess in first grade, and I wouldn’t go play with other kids. She would just see me waking around by myself. What she couldn’t see, or hear, was that I was talking to God. At age 6, my relationship with God was more important to me than playing with other kids. And I was happy! Because of this, obviously, I was weird. I didn’t “fit in” with other girls. Which, I think is a sentiment most girls have, strangely enough. It’s not that I didn’t WANT to fit in, or I that I hated people, in my mind there was just nothing to be done, and that was okay. It had never occurred to me that if I changed my behavior, then I could fit in.

Until several years later. It was my best friend’s 13th birthday party. THERE WAS THIS BOY. Yes, capitalization is necessary, at least it is when you’re 13. All the girls loved this boy. Or, at least had a crush on him, except for me. No particular reason, just wasn’t my thing. And that really bugged everyone else, I guess. Until at this party I find out that he liked ME. The one girl that’s not interested. I went from “No, I don’t like him” (on the outside of popular opinion) to “Well I GUESS if he LIKES me I’d go out with him” (just what all the other girls thought). The whole party everyone was asking me questions about him, things I’d want to do with him, or with anyone, just a bunch of stuff 13 year old girls talk about. But I just couldn’t believe he liked ME. We hardly talked. I didn’t know him that well. I wasn’t even interested in him. I had this thing in me that I just knew he couldn’t like me, I wasn’t that special. I look at my best friend and ask her, “Hey, is this for real? You guys aren’t all just making this up?”, but no! They promised they weren’t. Until about twenty seconds later when they revealed that’s exactly what they were doing. I was crushed. My best friend, the one person that I’d trusted no matter what, looked me in the eye and lied to me, in front of all these other people, just to fit in with some other girls. They couldn’t get past the fact that I didn’t like this guy, and they had to convince me that I did. And when I finally did what they wanted, I was one of them. This was my first experience in “change something about yourself and you’ll be accepted.”

And these types of experiences have abundantly colored my life. In a lot of groups of friends, I never really felt like an “insider”. And I’ve also had a lot of experiences where I wasn’t really accepted until I changed something, I became more outgoing, I did a certain activity, joined a certain group… I never really noticed it, it never really even occurred to me until a year ago, but there’s more relationships than not in my life where I felt more left out than I did included. It did something fantastic to my heart though- I was always one for second chances. No matter what someone did, I’d always forgive them. And still do. No matter what happens in a relationship or friendship, no one could ever do something to me that would make me just turn my back on them. A lot of those little things trained me for that, I think. I digress!

So. There’s this BOY. (for real, this time) We started dating when I was 14, and stopped a couple years later. And we had a really good relationship, just grew apart/fell out of love. Typical high school relationship. I learned a lot, had my first break up, we (sort of) managed to stay friends, it was all good. A year later, we ended up back together. “We matured, grew up, now we’ll be PERFECT together!” That’s what we both said. We just needed time apart, to do our own thing. We had both grown up a lot in that year that we were apart. But we both still expected each other to be the kids we had been when we first started dating. And neither of us were. Needless to say, it was BAD. Neither of us really liked the other person-we liked the person we had made up in our heads. The idealized version we’d created from reminiscing about all the good times. He didn’t like things that had changed, my “new-found sense of identity” that most adolescents emerge with. I wore funky hippie clothes and stopped straightening my hair and wasn’t afraid to be loud and boisterous and laugh at life. And I don’t think it’s that he didn’t like those things (or maybe he didn’t), it’s just not who he was looking for in me. And he told me. There were tons of seemingly harmless comments, “you’re really wearing THAT”, “Why don’t you straighten your hair like you used to, I liked it better that way”, shushing my laughs out in public… a lot of things that I had loved about myself, he didn’t. And he told me so. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t mean any harm by it, but that was sort of the icing on the cake of the lie that people aren’t going to like you, or even love you, unless you hide the less agreeable things about yourself. Obviously, we broke up, fairly quickly, and I left all that in the past. It was a poorly executed break up, but once it was finally all over I was ready to just be ME for a while.

And I met this GUY. This guy that had also just been through a break up (with the girl that is now his AMAZING wife, oddly enough). We were in similar places in our life, and became best friends FAST. We didn’t have to do the whole “I’m lonely and hate being single” thing because all of a sudden we had a new buddy to do everything with. And we did EVERYTHING together. We saw each other more days than not. And our relationship was so SAFE. We didn’t have to worry about getting heartbroken with each other, because we didn’t give each other our hearts. And that platonic love kept me from dealing with the hurt from my past relationship. He was a GREAT distraction from the wounds I still held on to (even if I didn’t realize it at the time). I left my ex-boyfriend, and with him I left all that junk, right? Well, not so much.

I started having sleepless nights. I would wake up from a nap in a cold sweat, heart racing so fast it hurt, can’t catch my breath. I had days where I didn’t feel like getting out of bed, and days where I DIDN’T get out of bed… I’d wake up, watch Netflix, and go to sleep twenty hours later. It wasn’t until after reading a post on Facebook from a friend about his depression, and what that looked like in his life, that I realized it wasn’t just stress from school- I was showing symptoms of depression and anxiety. So I diagnosed myself and went on with my life.

Shortly after, I fell in love with the most adventurous boy I’d ever met. It was a new semester, a new relationship, a new job, a new START. At least I wanted it to be. I had so much fun doing so many crazy things with my new awesome boyfriend that I was once again able to distract myself from those lies I believed. Until eventually, my depression just really tanked. People started noticing (or at least started noticing I was no longer around). I slept all the time. Never went to class (although few knew that). In fact, very few even knew about my depression. It was this unsavory thing that I didn’t want anyone to know about, because then they wouldn’t love me, right? Then I wouldn’t be the happy-go-lucky, fun, adventurous person everyone knew, right? That’s what I believed, without really realizing it. But I couldn’t hide it forever. My parents started to notice, and we finally went to the doc. YEP! Doc gave the official diagnosis along with: get into therapy, here’s some meds, come see me in four weeks. So I got on the medication, and that WONDERFULLY cured my symptoms! I loved life again, I found my calling again, I was EXCITED again! I just had a chemical imbalance that needed medical correction, and now that was fixed! I didn’t need to go to counseling! Or that’s what I thought.

The previous two semesters at school my grades were shot. I mean just pure rubbish. I KNEW that, but ignored it. If people found out something bad about me, they wouldn’t love me, right? BUT my super cool boyfriend was transferring schools, I found this amazing program I was interested in at the same school, and so I applied. And behold! I was accepted. How? I had no clue. I wasn’t going to question it. It WORKED. A few weeks later- “We got a hold of your updated transcripts, you don’t have the grades to be here, so we’re withdrawing your admission from the university.”

What.was.I.going.to.do.

If I told my parents I’d been kicked out I’d have to tell them that I got such bad grades and then I’d have to tell them WHY I got such bad grades and then I’d have to tell them I’d been lying about all the things I’d told them about school and lies and lies and lies and denial denial denial.

I couldn’t tell them that day. I couldn’t even face my boyfriend Rene. I was so ashamed. I’d been caught, I’d been found out, and they don’t want me here. No one will want me if they know what I’ve done. So I didn’t tell them. Not that day, not the next… a month went by (Mind, you, I’m living in my apartment in Denton, telling everyone about what’s going on in my classes, my teachers, etc. etc.) three months went by, and then we had Christmas break.

YES. I went a whole semester pretending I was enrolled in a university when I really wasn’t. And I lied to everyone, EVERYONE about it. My boyfriend, that I saw more or less daily, didn’t even know. And he is quite a smart man, he’s an engineering major for crying out loud. I am a FANTASTIC liar.

I went back to school in January, Rene had a pretty, new house that I got to play house in for a couple weeks, but eventually some financial questions needed answering on my parents part, and I couldn’t figure out how to lie my way out of this one. My mom eventually (after going round and round with me for a while on the phone) came straight out and asked me, “Are you even IN school?” I thought back to that 13th birthday party, to how it felt when my best friend lied to my face, EVEN THOUGH she knew that she was about to tell me the truth… and I couldn’t do that to my mom.

So I told the truth. I was so scared. I was this horrible person that had hurt everyone that I cared about and betrayed all these people and I was such a fraud and a failure and I was going to lose my boyfriend and my parents would never trust me again and I was going to be all alone. But I was done with the lies. I couldn’t do it anymore.

Right then I heard God tell me, almost audibly, that everything was going to be okay. And it’s not just that I heard it, but I believed it. I knew everything would be okay. I had no idea how. But I knew it would. (Spoiler alert- it was). How? Because he makes everything beautiful. So, the next morning my parents were in Denton, that afternoon we packed up my apartment, and by that evening we were on the road back to El Paso. (a 10 hour drive). Rene’s response floored me; he forgave me. He was obviously angry and hurt and confused and a million other things. But when we said goodbye, it was only an “I’ll miss you”, and not a “how could you do this to me I’m never speaking to you again” thing, which would have been a totally logical, normal, response. But I have the best husband ever (oops, another spoiler) who forgives because he knows he was forgiven first. (Granted, at the time, I still fully believed he’d decide I’m crazy and break up with me. He probably thought that too, after realizing I lied to his face daily for like a quarter of our relationship. But he stuck it out, that crazy guy.)

And I’m back in El Paso. The land that no matter how hard you try to escape, you always come back to. Or at least most people do. And I HATED being one of those people. I liked playing house in Denton. But I knew I had to get healthy. I knew this pathological lying thing was a gross disfigurement of who I was that had to end. I wanted to just be bipolar. Or have some other problem to blame. I didn’t want to be at fault. I was so scared. But I knew something had to be done.

So I finally got into counseling. And I finally started uncovering the CAUSES behind my depression and anxiety, instead of just treating the SYPMTOMS. I was finally ACCOUNTABLE to someone, and it felt so good. To have someone that I just dumped on, that listened to everything, and that didn’t reject me for all the dirty things in my life. And you know what, NO ONE DID. Sure, people were confused. Hurt, even, that I hadn’t opened up with them prior to all this. But not once did someone say, wow, you’re a really horrible person I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. I even bonded with a few of my friends over our total brokenness. I finally took all that junk to The Throne (sorry for the Christianese, but I love that term). I had believed the lie of “no one will love YOU” so much, that I let my worthlessness keep me from my God. At one point in all of my recovery, my pastor’s wife replied to the “I’m not worthy” statement with, “Of COURSE you’re not worthy. But He IS.”. And I finally started to get it. None of us are worthy. We don’t have to be, we’re not expected to be, we never WILL be. It’s not a question of whether or not we’re worthy before him, but the fact that he is worthy of our worship, of our entirety. We’ve been restored, we don’t have to be worthy. I finally started to understand in my heart of hearts the thing I’d helped dozens of others understand. I finally accepted The Gospel as more than just general truth that I knew and believed, but as my personal truth. That no matter what I do, I’m still imperfect. I’m still a dirty mess. But through Jesus, I’m pure. All those horrible things I did, all the horrible things any one has done, were taken from us, bought with a price, and thrown away farther than we can imagine. All we have to do is acknowledge and accept that fact. So I gave it all away, the guilt, the lies, the shame, the self-doubt, everything… and I traded it for joy. For humility. It’s SO humbling (as in, humiliating) to tell people that you lied to them for four months. But it’s so dang freeing. I understand the old, worn-out saying, “The truth will set you free” as the most redeeming, awe-inspiring fact of life. It’s amazing what unabashed joy and light heartedness comes from the truth, from being loved and knowing it. I could sing about it, for days even. My words don’t hardly do it justice. But, I digress from my story.

So, I’m on a new track. I’m away from Rene, but we’re doin’ swell, familiar with the long distance from his year in NYC. I’m back in college, and making straight A’s. I work at Responsive Learning, and had the most incredible job I could fathom (which I’d love you to ask me about, should you be interested). Things are just GOOD. I got back into UNT, officially and permanently.

The only thing that I wasn’t really doing was working out regularly, and I’d noticed my health start to slip a little bit. I was gaining weight, which was reasonable since I had such a newly-sedentary life style. I started eating really healthy, taking vitamins, drinking tons of water, trying to do other things to counteract the weight gain, but nothing really worked. Sometime in early august, my mom and I decided we better take a pregnancy test. I SERIOUSLY doubted I was pregnant, because, I was living away from Rene, and had been since January, (since which we had decided to start honoring each other and cease any physical intimacy until we got married (which obviously wasn’t SUPER hard to stick to since we were 600 miles away more often than not)) so if I was pregnant, I’d have to be well into my third trimester, and I was not third trimester “showing”. I mean yeah, I’d gained some weight, but not THAT much. So I took the test, it was negative, mom and dad did a happy dance and I went on with my life.

Come September, I could tell something in my body was NOT right. Things were starting to hurt, I was starting to feel little flutters of Victoria, and I got into the doc that week. I went in thinking there was some kind of 8 lb tumor (like my mom had my freshman year of high school) pushing my organs around. And well, “tumor” wasn’t quite the right word. Baby.

I had a baby inside of me. And had for the past 8 months. I was pregnant.

And not only was I pregnant… I was 8 months pregnant. I had 1 month till my due date, which meant that sucker could push its way out at any given moment.

WHAT. THE. BEEF.

All these things I’d recently learned were being put to the test. Relying and trusting God to be my savior had never had such a literal connotation in my life before. But, as always, he worked everything out so sweetly and beautifully. No matter what we do in this life, He washes away the dirt and grime. Sure, we have many battles to fight, but he has preemptively won the War. He IS victorious. And so are we, through Him.

Exactly five weeks after we first found out about her existence, Rene and I were holding our sweet Victoria Riley. Our courageous victory (which is what her name means, for those of you I hadn’t boasted about it to. Isn’t it awesome?). We’d won so many battles together in the last year, and she was the sweetness that came from all that. Rene and I had learned so much, but all those hard battles had prepared us for her. And here we are. Raising this amazing child. Living this life together, loving our Jesus, laughing at all our failures, and exploring the grace we’ve been given, one adventure at a time.

Also. Many many many many thanks to all of my friends and family that have stuck it out with me through all the craziness of the past several years. Ya’ll know who you are- the ones that have always and faithfully been there for me, and for Rene. The ones that will always be there. You carried us through this. I love ya’ll. So dang much. Thank you.

BONUS (like anyone needs MORE) a post from in the thick of my depression:

http://elizabethedancer.tumblr.com/post/19630059252/march-20th-2012

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