sighingmagnolia - Tumblr blog

[sighingmagnolia]

I'm pressed against myself again. Alone in my own inner cavern, throwing solutions against the wall and feeling pressure rise. I guess that's when writing makes sense the most these days-when there is no person but myself to solve my own woe. Explaining would be to fraught, and navigating another persons opinons to muddying. I need my blank space to understand my own challenge. And here it is.

I've changed. Physically and energetically, and I feel at odds with excepting those changes.

Physically. After birth my body has changed. The length of my vagina lips, my vagina minora, the shape and pressure in my belly button when I shift (hernia), the shape of my butt, the length of my breasts. The look of my hair. The wrinkles and sag of my face. And I haven't changed. my life long insecurities remain the same. And under the weight of these secondary changes, I'm gasping to feel aesthetically beautiful. I know. Stupid fucking beauty and everything that it means. I just don't want to catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection and think all the awful things I do about the way I look. Haggard. Masculine. Goofy. Awkward. Old. Dissheveled. Unattractive. Lacking glimmer or redeeming aesthetic quality. I feel that. I'm not sure if it matters or it doesn't matter, but damn do I feel it. Well I think it, and then I feel it. And honestly, I feel like my reaction is honest. Maybe when we add all those insecurities together, they are there for a reason. I've never been the most attractive girl in a group. And I'm smart enough to recognize that. And somehow that story still matters past puberty, and teenagerhood, and young adulthood, to me now. Partnered and with a child. And it's not for my Adam, I mean I think it's a 2 part thing 1. I know he is someone who doesn't find people who focus on beauty attractive 2. I don't feel attractive and I'm not sure that he finds my attractive anymore either. I don't think he finds me attractive-not because the way I look--but who I've become. (See energetic changes for reference.

Anyways--I thinking of doing something about the things I feel negative about the way I look. Like get more plastic surgery. I'm scared that I won't like the outcome, or have medical concerns. But the best outcome, is I think wow-I don't feel uncomfortable when I look at my face. I like the way I look again. I feel attractive. Here's the list and in order of plan: mole removal on face, 2 part surgery with otoplasty and forehead reduction with brow lift, nanobrows for eyebrow fullness. And I could more-I could get the corner of lips lifted, and filled, I could get botox, I could get extra skin from the top of my eyelids removed, I could change the shape of my eyes so they don't turn down. I could go to a plastic surgeon that has a superior understanding of facial symmetry and say "do your best". But honestly-I don't have the finances to transform into a swan. I have 5,500 from reselling, that will cover an otoplasty. Then I'll have to finance the rest. And if I pay it off in 12 months, I won't have any interest on it. I could do that. If I can convince Adam and others, that my financial scheme makes sense. And if I can convince myself that this make sense.

Not # 3, but automatic formatting is too clunky to mess with. Energetically. God, energetically. I feel like I'm a woman with no sex-drive, no zest, or goals, who is in the domestic daily groove. Everything that seemed appealing before, like trips away, exploring new landscapes, hitting a physical goal, all feels hard. I can read. I can list things. I can bead. I can write. I can stay in this warm cave of a home where it's safe. I went on a 10 mile hike yesterday, and 5 miles in I thought..I didn't sign up for this. I'm tired. I'd like to stop walking now. All this seeing the same flora and fauna in the alpine Eastern Sierras isn't worth this discomfort. Take me back to my smartphone so I can check my reddit plastic surgery feed. Just kidding, I didn't think that. But I felt low, and sad, as if I could be reactive--but wasn't going to because i have emotional control. Thank god I have that sometimes. I think that my inconsistent sleep (which has been more lately), breastfeeding, and learning to be a mom and a "wife", as well as sweet hormones. As well as being isolated without a community, YET. All these things stack up and I again feel like a hollow human (as said in previous posts).

I didn't know that I could feel bliss every day when I hold my child. When I look at Jesse and study his beautiful face, I am taken into a peaceful garden. Unless he is crying and throwing a tantrum, of course. Being a mom is bigger than I am, and I wish I was more prepared, capable, equipped, to give him everything he needs. He is everything to me. Words that I have seen written but never knew what they mean. He is my sun, that I rotate around. He has become my why, my reason. Love seems too small a word. He is breathing.

Thank you page. For the space.

[sighingmagnolia]

Blank space. How fucking novel. I want to run wild alone through the keys of this keyboard. And here I wait with a knotted stomach, tight neck, and dogs pacing at my feet awaiting their dinner. I don’t want to participate. In the dishes, and laundry, and house straightening. Not today. In this precious quiet as the baby sleeps in the next room. I want to stretch out my brain and connect with the unusual unrhythmed space in myself. Without all the yibba abba have to’s. 

But I pause and feel it. An emptiness resides inside-so blank of thought. So absent of plan, or opinion, or words. Just a big negative space. As if my insides were an eraser board who has been smudged clean. And all those creative meanderings, all those juices went dry. So I look around this space-this living room-and contemplate rearranging it. Just to feel something novel. 

Is there rest? Is there repair? How do they occur among the strewn toys and the clutter surfaces. Remnants of lunch on the ground. Or the pile of things to be listed and cleaned, organized, and bagged. Or the ticking clock of nap time, ever winding down.

This dissatisfaction gnawing for solution, yet a weight that hangs inside the walls of my veins. An equation, this life, with too many variables to juggle. That in the end I haphazardly manage just a few and meanwhile feel that I’m falling behind. And with that, my last shred of energy collapses.

This is today, this moment. Tomorrow another. So many colors-these days.

[sighingmagnolia]

Motherhood

This marks the end of a chapter. All of these days of selfish rumination while staring out a window, quietly sipping tea. Or luxuriating in the late morning hours in bed. Or having a desire to be wild and do so-immediately. All of it waits. It waits for bed times and nap times. It is scheduled with a babysitter. 

And in the ending, there is a beginning. The beginning of something new blossoming inside-an inner evolution with new colors and exotic blossoms. I am maturing at record speed. 

And so is Jesse, in a fit of exploration of all textures and object uses. Of his own body and the way gravity plays. In his face, evolving with every morning. With his ability to snuggle and be still, pressed and embracing me.

We are growing together. 

[sighingmagnolia]

Needed

It is hard to encapsulate feeling sensation into words. Sometimes it feels dangerous to do so, as if defining feelings give them a larger weight. Yet not saying anything germinates the feelings in my inner greenhouse.

So here I am, with feelings. A feeling that although transient, is here. I feel responsible for directing the care of Jesse and providing him what he needs and wants. I take care of the house and the cooking. I manage the dogs. And at the end of the day-or in the middle, I feel tired. I feel that I have repressed my own needs for the care of my family members.

I also feel guilty for having my own needs and feel that I need to ask permission or “exchange” for fulfilling them. For taking a nap or a shower. For finishing an exercise routine. For having desires for material objects. And wanting my own time.

In annunciating this, I know that I’m not an outlier. I’m sure Adam feels this way too. Then again it is easy to feel feelings of resentment over small things-jackets and trash and dishes left out on a once clean counter to be cleaned up by me. Dishes to be cleaned at night that go uncleaned. Time taken to recreate independently, while I stay at home. Being the only one that cooks.

The baby needs me now.

[sighingmagnolia]

Jesse Alejo

I’m marking of the days till my due date. My body is a heavy mass that I must rotate in bed before pushing myself up to stand. I feel sensations that I think could be contractions,pulsing in aches that froth than fizzle in a few hours. I don’t feel impatient with my body, but an excitement of meeting my baby. Every false start is a tease, that makes waiting seem more difficult. I’ve had 3 membrane sweeps, a somewhat painful endeavor, that yeilds nothing but false results. 

It if Father’s day and I am 40 weeks +5. I wake in the early AM with surging pain-a contraction strong and hard which rises and falls like a wave. I lay in bed and wait for more, but none come and I fall back asleep. I’m woken again by another surge, which sends me into a deep breath and moan. I look at the clock and begin to time my contractions. And then they come, closer together now and all the more recognizable. A fit of pain that clenches every muscle, unbearable, and then it is gone. I wake Adam and tell him that I think I’m in early labor, he says he’s excited and we should sleep. Yet the contractions come with urgency, closer together now-every 5 minutes or so. In a fit of a wave, I throw up. Adam readies our hospital bags and takes the dogs on a walk. I hunker down during contractions and try to remember tips from birthing class. The intensity envelopes me.

When we arrive at the hospital, my cervix hasn’t dialated anymore than it was, which feels unbelievable to me after all the contractions. They admit me because of the frequency of my contractions, and I find my way into the tub in hopes of pain relief. But I am not relieved, not by hypnobabies tracks or warm water or touches. I throw up again. Contractions pull me over a new edge of pain, forcing me into the depths of something raw. I hum and moan to bear their weight. 

After a few hours, I ask for fentanyl. I had been told that it would give me 30 minutes of pain relief. I am tired and in low spirits. As I wait for the IV injection, I decide I also want an epidural. I do not know who I am trying to impress by grinning and bearing. I want this day to be remembered joyously-not full of pain or trauma. 

The epidural process is fast, and I feel immediate relief. I am instructed not to eat. I can see the contractions on the monitor, but my body is floating above it all. It is a damn miracle. I am smiling and making jokes. I’m optimistic about what’s to come. And boy do I feel relieved to be off of the rollercoaster of contraction. 

The IV drip beeps with an error message after about 45 mins, “line occluded”. The RN tries to reboot the machine to no evail. “Line occluded”. The OB-gyn enters to break my water. I have dilated to 6 cms now. 

The epidural has begun to wear off, I am freely moving my legs. My body continues it’s work of spasming and has progressed me to 10 cm. The OB arrives as it is time to push.

And then everything becomes a swirl of commotion and confusion. I am directed to push while holding my breath. My back spasms after uterine contractions, leaving little time to renew. The back pain out weighs the contraction, and the baby is progressing slowly down. 2 hours elapse, and I am empty of every emotion and all energy. Adam and the staff are cheering for me. Adam holds my body into a crunch to support my push. I feel unsure if there is an end. I’m told to feel the baby’s head, a wet rash of hair-but still he is so far away from me. I am told that I must push, and I must push now-with everything I have, the baby’s heart rate having dipped unbenounced to me. And I do, a storm that tears through me-an effort I pull from somewhere. A determination that evolves into a gutteral scream as the baby rips through me and into this world. I can not see him well, just a slippery purple brown haired baby, still connected to me. And I wait for his sound, his sound to echo through the room and into my blood. And I say, “why isn’t he he crying”, and the nurse says, “wait for it”. And he does, a cry that lights a flame. He is placed on my chest with blood and vernix. My body is in shock as I hold him, my eyes close in exhaustion. Adam close and cuddling. 

I am ripped to a 2nd degree and require lidocane and stitches. I can walk independently to the bathroom with slow methodical steps. The nurses push on my stomache in 15 minute intervals to remove remaining fluids, a sensation similiar to the pain of a contraction. I am weak, but I am full of energy. I study him, smell him, caress him, all night. I don’t sleep. He is like nothing I have experienced, I cannot believe he is mine. My son. His existence is a miracle and his body against mine a gift. He is everything.

[sighingmagnolia]

She grows.

Almost 4 months ago, this transformation began. And 10 months before that, another sort. This is a dance with steps I don’t know, yet some how I know the rhythm of this samba-innate to my being. I didn’t know I was capable, to pour so much love, attention, and patience into another- while placing my own whims and wants on a top shelf. I didn’t know that I was capable of showing up day after day, sleep a continuous deficit that keeps me forever wanting. I didn’t know this body could be everything, miraculously morphing and gaining strength yet built to feed, large swinging breasts that point where I need them to. I didn’t know that watching my baby grow would be like listening to a song, with continously new verses. Every day new sounds rise from his throat, squeaks and squeals at octaves I can’t match. He wiggles and grabs, and now today rolls. I am caught between being enamored  and delighted with his evident growth and mournful to say goodbye to the baby I once knew. Forever new, he is.  

Today I am tired, longing for a sensation to run through my body that is novel and loud. But some days I am joyful, soaking in the closeness of my soft baby boy as I tromp through a trail and call for Honey who is away chasing squirrels. Some days I feel empty and at the edge of tears, calling to a time when I felt complete with independence. Oh and some days, I look around- holding Jesse in my arms, the dogs laying near by, and my lover in the rocking chair, and think there is nothing more that I need. I am living the actualization of a dream.

[sighingmagnolia]

It’s full blown summer. The hummingbirds lap away the contents of the bird feeders, a buffet on their highway. Summer traps us indoors with its 100 degree heat, the swamp cooler running 24 hours a day-yet still sweat trickles between us.

Us, you and me. Jesse, my baby, is my kangaroo companion. Sleeping in days only by smelling and touching my skin. His weight, over 13lbs, is felt in my back and neck, as I walk the house to bounce and soothe him. He is an endurance sport, with day to night care. Diaper changes every 2 hours, sleeping for 2 hours at a time, before waking sometimes with a guttural cry-others slowly waking with sweet drippy smiles. 

He studies every inch of my face as I do his, his expressions and mannerisms evolving daily. He demands all of my physical attention, learning slowly how to exsist independent of me-one growing minute at a time. And in the same way, I’m not certain how to exsist without him. When the opportunity comes to do alone, I am drawn to stay longer with him comfortably in my arms-watching him.

I didn’t know what it was to be a mother, and in all the ways the concept is still foreign to me. I feel pulled to the fantasy of freedom-back to the days where I walked without any ties-where every opportunity was a possibility. A road so familiar, trod for years. I spend daylight hours doing mental twister, scheming ideas with-in these walls. Ideas to add layers, to invigorate fantasy. Every actual doing is a cumbersome multi-stage act, between 2 dogs and a baby-every adventure is an event that seems to end in Jesse screaming, Bodhi limping, and Adam and I seemingly exhausted by the effort of it all. 

I know that this is change. With the moans of growing pains. The shifting of identity and priority. And with Adam taking a permanent position here in Bishop, it’s a new lifestyle. No longer shifting with the windscape, but connected and committed to this land. 

All of these changes I’ve chosen, but now that I’m in this foreign reality..I’m yet to know myself here. Community member. Resident. Mother. Words that feel big and bold, that I have never been. 

And so I toss all of this around, so in-love, but so absolutely unsure of how to proceed.

[sighingmagnolia]

38 weeks pregnant with him

It’s 3pm now, dogs laying nearby as the wind chime sounds. I’m pregnant as I’ve ever been, almost 38 weeks now. Days have there own kind of rhythm,slow, in this waiting. Waiting for the page to turn, and with this next chapter I’ll be holding my son. His warm body and coos, studying every inch of his skin, the anatomy of his features. And dreaming new things, not star lite novelty for me to lap, but about knowing the evolution of him. To embrace my own becoming as a mother. 

But for now, I wait quietly. Bracing my back when standing, with every ping and pang that draws through my organs, settles into my pelvis, runs to my aching feet. Not dreaming much these days, in the absence of sleep-turning and turning-worrying about every detail of possibility. Not motivated much either, energy a lapping tide that is usually out. I am exsisting, without expectation of daily experience, but all the while every body cue is megnaphoned to my data searching brain. Will today be his birthday? The day that my life is transformed? Am I ready, physically, mentally, emotionally, for his presence “outside”?

How could I possibly know? I am the green nieve astronaut headed to space. I’ve got my breast pump, my bassinet, onsies, and seen lots of photos of babies. I’ve even held quite a few. In this way, I feel quietly confident in my natural ability to use prior knowledge to think on my feet. But goddamnit, I know I’m in for a wild ride. 

But for now, I nap, take baths, scroll baby forums, check my blood pressure, and wait, like a dog at a window. 

[sighingmagnolia]

I’ve arrived at a stop sign that reads “Wake Up.” That sign, so hard to miss is an invitation to a new pair of glasses. I inspect this familiar form, my own body, a constellation of freckles dot my abdomen, my nipples large and textured, my tattoo somehow mine but someone else’s imperfect creation, all odd realizations through this glass. I inspect the history of my motions, and can’t help but wonder if they are mine. Is it me in there, or am I playing a script? Reading and following directions, and intuitively acting my part.

I’ve had these moments before, they are so irreverently and rawly chronologically on this blog and between journal pages. This theme: I am underappreciated, I am lost, I am misunderstood, I am unloved or easily forgotten, I am unactualized in my talents, and I am never satisfied. The fluidity of those statements rolling from my fingertips in 30 seconds both feels like a realization and familiar-like a baby blanket in a memento box. 

So fighting the compulsive urge to indulge myself in the same script, I sit here. I sit here with those thoughts heavy, my heart an aching piece, and wonder why. Why those thoughts marinate so easily with a little water? Only require a bit of convincing for germination? And how does feeling like the dejected, worthless one sing to me? Fill me up with that syrupy loathing swirl to rot. And of course, give me energy to run.

Because that’s alway the next logical step to unshackle my self-imposed victimhood, is to fantasize about running. About the freedom that lies on the otherside, full of long days of painting and clay, and belly dancing in a tribe, and sun and sand, and meditating naked in my peaceful cottage. Or atleast that’s the fantasy today. Fantasies are light and life, and an energetic cornacopia to call forth greater hope.

Not to be self-loathing here, self-loathing about my own self-loathing...what a quip! Because life can hurt in so many damn ugly ways, and give you feedback that you are all the above things and more. It’s the readiness to believe them that bothers me, and to get stuck in that muck without urge to swim.

Maybe I’ll blame my parents, or my childhood, or every ex-boyfriend, or my current boyfriend. Maybe I’ll blame circumstance, that it’s just not “my time”, or time for me to “learn a lesson”. Maybe I’ll blame my hormones, or my sleep cycle, or my diet. Maybe I’ll blame the universal energy that zings through my being.

Or maybe I’ll just call it what it is, a habit. A pattern that has grown routine, that somehow I already know the beginning/middle/end of the moment. A habit that has *served* a deep part of me that required that sort of validation-for a story I keep telling myself.

Okay, so we call it what it is. That’s probably a fruitful step. To put this habit in the light and inspect its nether regions, a body part that you’ve looked over but never truly seen. 

Then, what? Acceptance? Modification? I’m not certain.

I’m contented for now with realization.

[sighingmagnolia]

It was the epitome of the feeling for me. Insecurity. He feels uninvested in me, and why should he be? I’m no tumbling act of words-just a girl in a mumu, aging, with frizzy hair, and a faded tattoo. Lumbering. I’m not this sleek sexy articulate thing. I don’t have quick words on my tongue. But she does, and he’s pulled into the vortex of her energy. Quick words and smiles, tit for tat, and energetic agreements. I feel sick, rejected. I feel like the subtleties of the scene, aren’t too subtle. 

It feels familiar, all of the not belonging. There doesn’t seem like there is a comfortable place to be. There’s no relief. I’m a outsider looking in, at what was supposed to be solid and clear. I feel needy-needy of love, safety, assurance. And rejected. Feeling flood my body, and uncomfortable onslaught.

And now, the feeling lingers- a humming chord once struck. Rings, a sensation. Where do I belong as I am? Without labels, ugly words to describe? I feel fucked up, fucked up because how can I expect people to love me if I feel like this? Or ask them too?

I try to grasp for the relief-the silver lining in this experience. Maybe I can carve more space to be who I am, without trying to please. Maybe I can be more cognizant of what qualities I seek for in others that facilitate trust.  

[sighingmagnolia]

Sometimes I think I know the beginning and end of things. Like life is a continuously repeating story, and I, I’m tortured by the familiar story lines. In some twisted way, I feel that I’m fated for failure. As if failure is my blood type, and there is no changing what you are. You may plan as if you will succeed, but the jokes on you honey, all of that doing is just wasted motion. I understand like most stories-these are just thoughts. That weigh on my body-that torture my mind. That sound so familiar due to their decade to decade continuous tale-that it is easy to feel that the story is in me.

[sighingmagnolia]

I get you.

There’s something about that, that tears at me.

And I wonder, then breath.

But can’t help to pause, cuz,

you were my friend, and my kindest teacher,

you were my lover, 

And I pause here. TO not get caught in some distance atmosphere,

another reality-painted with highlights,

glowing bright,

that is only a remnant,

a sliver-of what really was,

but it was nice to see you

As this year has gone by,

and hear you apologize.

To laugh with you,

cuddle Bodhi,

and share the twisting turns of our lives.

And to know you. TO read you. TO hear you.

The familiarity plays sweetly and warms,

Love as I said,

has never left.

But does not ensure the future for us.

Glad to know you, you sweet man.

[sighingmagnolia]

I’m not sure what I’m even crying about.

Is it money, or is it time, or is it pride, or is it the mistakes I’ve made, is it the tension, or the stress endured?

Or because I feel that I’m trapped in this endless countdown pandemonium. To stop playing this game and, 

I have a headache.

I’m too energized to sleep.

 But this is supposed to be medicine. This writing thing.

Which has now become this long slogging joyless endeavor.

With every fucking droning soap note

That will never be read.

I feel empty. Hard to feel and touch, enjoy reality.

[sighingmagnolia]

My senses attacked, my heart-my hope just a dribble. How can I explain so you can understand. My body a seized entity of pain, a thing to ignore but in the same breathe with. My friend, an ally on this open plane.

At what can I make of you, will I trust you only for you to betray me? There’s a child here that wonders the same thing. All these unmended paths that make me feel broken. How do I walk through this with you? You with your bright eyes and lovely words, you with an expression of devotion that’s hard for me to grasp. I can’t help but to say, who am I to deserve someone like you? Oh so logically, I know that I do. But then a feeling creeps up and in, I stare at my hands and pick at my nails. Wondering, sometimes, if I trust too soon without knowing and that I should defend my own heart. And sometimes, feeling overwhelmed with how kind you are to me, so patient, so unreactive-a terrain that I don’t know how to navigate. All the compassion, leaves me wondering why I deserve it. Not knowing where to place it, and sometimes feeling that it could be just temporary.

I don’t want this navigation to effect you, or affect your feelings towards me. I’d prefer these insecurities to exsist behind the scenes, but it all feels too transparent. As if I’m waiting for him to say, now I see you for who really are and I’m not interested anymore. And then this fantasma of an experience, will be validation that I’m too broken and don’t deserve someone so- resilent, positive, intelligent, mature, hilarious, beautiful. 

I’d like to walk through this-that bit of imposter syndrome and arrive in acceptance safely. I like this to be an opportunity for healing of past experiences, and validation of what I truly deserve. He tells me he’s devoted and in this, and I melt like a baby being snuggled-enveloped in safe warmth. I do not want to put on a show to keep him-I want to feel safe as I am. 

[sighingmagnolia]

A day folds in on itself,

a sweet beckoning of dark,

and dreams call.mysterious.,

body waits for a reaching heavy,

a wave to kiss eyelids.

[sighingmagnolia]

I want to see you care, can you give that to me? Through thoughtful words, and poem. To say, that all those days spent together accumulated to something in your chest that you want to wrap words around.

Please help me believe that I meant something to you. Maybe for my ego, or to put salve on these places-once angry, which have dissolved to pain..gave way into loss. 

I know I’m backpedaling here, as I often do. Suddenly missing you, a surge of emotion that calls me to wonder and today to act. You tell me you haven’t moved on from me, that you have lost your lover and your best friend. And I cried then, words to encapsulate the loss of you to me.

As tears rise, I’m left remembering the familiary and comfort of you. And I want to smell you, hug you, know your order. I want to lay in bed with you and have you hold me till I fall asleep. I want to visit you in the shop and hear what your scheming. I want you to pick a documentary. For us to go on a long ride.

I’m called back to the present, with a new man. Adam, who I’m experiencing. A ride of fresh realities and new navigations. More of a strong personality, in a way I feel the need to prove who I am to him. I felt mixed feelings about his aggression the other day, during out first fight at 3 months. How he felt that the way I was talking to him with my elbows on his knees was my own form of aggression. How defensive and argumentative, I felt I was the one bringing the conversation back to the purpose of connection. The focus of love. I’m not saying that I was right in making him feel like he was my patient, if I had. That I didn’t trust him. It just scared me to think that confrontations could be aggressive. Such a shift from other experiences I’ve had.

[sighingmagnolia]

How do I explain, how I felt about you. Feel about you still.

I know that it doesn’t matter now-time has moved on. Both of us have.

I just wish that transitions were more kind, less ebb more flow.

It’s surprising how it doesn’t hurt to think about you anymore.

That black coffee stain in my chest that I was wearing, missing you. Missing you. And to think it all now, sends me in a spin of emotions. Catching in my throat. Wishing that you were laying next to me, ready to talk about nothing and everything. Familiar and kind. Sweet and ready. Damn, did I love you. Love you, still. 

Not that those feelings change reality, how I had a difficult time trusting you and how in that tension you stopped loving me. 

Fuck.

Just a memory now.