The Hope Drug...Revisited

Almost two years ago I was in a pretty shitty place. I had just been *falsely* diagnosed with a horrible syndrome that pretty much devastated me. I was told that I would have to undergo multiple surgeries to address this issue. And although I have had multiple surgeries over the past three years (6 total), they were not for this false diagnosis. So imagine thinking I would have more surgery on top of the surgery I had already had. And imagine having already survived the death of a child (one that I held in my hands) and multiple painful "almosts." You'd be in a pretty shitty place too, no?

And yet, when I got even the slightest bit of good news, I had hope. Hope. That instinctual human romance with the "what could be."

And I remember writing this, on my parent's back porch on a summer night in 2013...

Hope. It's a very powerful thing. And one that I have had a love/hate relationship with over this past year. In the past hope was something ever-present. Something that waited beneath the surface and could be summoned at will.

After this past year I relegated hope to a different place- a deep, dark, tucked-away place. Because it was dangerous. This past year hope has been a drug with a deadly hangover. Hope was something that I  welcomed like an old friend but later banished like the deceiver it turned out to be. Hope was lethal and highly potent.

In recent months hope brought with it an aftertaste of grief, or fear, of anxiety. With hope came disappointment and heartbreak.

So now, as it surfaces again, I am wary of it.

Recently I received news that was, dare I say it, hopeful. With each word muttered another piece of that old friend hope began to sneak back into my heart, even as I resisted. Even now, as I acknowledge it's presence, I am hesitant and scared. Will it come back to bite me in the end? To allow myself to partake in the elixir of hope? Will I ultimately hate myself for it, regret it, beat myself up for "not learning my lesson?"

I don't know. But it's there...I can't deny that I have at least allowed it to sneak a ray of sunshine back into my heart. The iron door is cracked just a little and instead of straining to shut it immediately I am letting it hang open just the slightest...

Allowing myself to have some hope is like standing on a big cliff. A cliff I know well and have fallen off of before. Like a kid whose mother has repeatedly warned them to back away from that cliff, that it's too dangerous, it's too tempting. I want to see what's below, even for one fleeting instance. To remember what it's like to see possibility again. So I tempt the cliff like that mischievous child, even if I know I can fall.

If I fall I can heal the broken bones later. And I will curse myself for standing near the hope cliff once again, leaving myself vulnerable to the fall. But for now, just to look over and see the possibilities below is a temptation I cannot resist.

I had forgotten what a powerful drug hope can be. If it turns out that it was a bad trip, I can, in the words of a former President, tell myself "I didn't inhale."

Here I am, almost two years later. The good "news" I had received was that I did not actually have the horrible diagnosis that they told me I had. Instead I had something else, something more manageable. And then when that was fixed, I had something else, and the list goes on. Someday I hope to be brave enough to write the words out loud... the full story...the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. For now I just can't yet. I'm still "in" it. And maybe, someday, when I'm on the other side of all this, I can let it all go...

And so now I sit, a February evening in 2015, and I am the healthiest I have ever been...physically, mentally and emotionally. I have climbed the health hurdles, albeit six surgeries and a lifestyle change later, and I am finally ready to....hope....again.

Hope. I have felt it creep up for a while. I was like an aspiring fighter who had a taste of victory, choked at the worst time and then trained, slowly, for years, to get back into fighting shape. I'm Rocky at the top of the stairs in Philadelphia. And so there's reason to....hope.

But like I knew back in June 2013, Hope is a fickle lover. A dangerous game.

Yes, I am strong enough to hope. I can allow myself because after all of this, after falling and falling and falling, I know I can pick myself back up. That, I know.

And maybe the victory isn't in winning, in crossing that proverbial finish line. Maybe, just maybe, it's in the "getting back up" instead.

Maybe the formula isn't all hope. Maybe it's a little bit of hope...and a whole lotta courage. Maybe this time I'll "inhale." Even if I cough on Hope's harsh burn, ultimately, I'll still be able to breathe.


And now for a little humor...me...on dope, I mean, "Hope:"

Fact or Fiction: Middle-Schooler Addition

Most of you know I teach Middle School. 8th grade to be exact. And when I tell people that I usually get this face:

People act like I am volunteering at an Ebola Center in West Africa. Honestly. 

And it's true, Middle-schoolers, 8th graders to be exact, are a strange species. It takes a certain individual to not only educate these foreign beings but to actually like them. People cringe when they think of that age-group for various reasons, hormones being one of them, but I am also a strange being and so for some reason I "get" them. 

So, being an expert on all things "8th grader," let me dispel or confirm a couple stereotypes about Middle-Schoolers that exist out there to generate the above reaction.

1. They smell. Bad. Often of baked hormones mixed with B.O.

This is true. Fact. 

Middle Schoolers are dealing with a lot of "changes." Yes, we are speaking of the puberty kind. And many middle-schoolers become so used to their special "scent" that they are unaware of it. This is where deodorant comes in. Or not. Some kids have been wearing obnoxiously pungent deodorant since 4th or 5th grade because they want to smell nice for "the ladies." Yes, I am speaking of the males of this phylum. But some of them seem to conveniently forget about antiperspirant after gym class. This is bad. VERY bad. 

I have had many an afternoon class that contains said-males after gym class. For the love of all things holy and sacred it's bad. Bad enough that I have kept male deodorant in my drawers to secretly "hand off" to these poor souls. Wait...I'M the poor soul that has to smell this unique hormones-mixed-with-puberty-sweat, but I guess that's part of the job.

Nonetheless, it is important for every Middle School teacher to keep lysol spray close by for situations like these. Especially those where you have 14 year olds who either resemble a 10 year old because they haven't hit "the change" yet and don't even bathe unless their Mom tells them to, or you have 14 year olds who look like Lebron James just walked into your classroom and have looked this way since they were 7. You have to be prepared for everything.

2. They are "too cool" to listen to a teacher.

False. Myth.

Middle-Schoolers, even the ones that look like Lebron James, are actually insecure weirdos that are easily outwitted. And even when they throw curse words at you like they are Omar on the Wire or an aspiring cast member of "The Bad Girls Club," they also have no idea who they are yet and mostly just want people to like them.

In this case you have two options- either kill them with kindness or treat them like the babies they actually are inside that big bad Jordans-wearing body. 

You see, most Middle Schoolers who act "too cool" are weirded out by nice adults. When I smile and laugh at them when they tell me "no," I usually get this face:

It is the best adolescent-disarmament known to man. Throws em off real good. Then they will shut up and maybe even...learn. 

But sometimes you have to pull out the big guns and meet them at their level. These "I'm too cool to deal with you" kids need a little alpha-female in their life. And so that's when I give it to them. 

Usually they are pretty surprised that little Mrs. Cunha has this side to her. But let's be honest, you've all seen me pissed off.

3. They don't like to show affection.

FALSE.

This is where I tell you about the middle-school "side hug." The most annoying, awkward, yet endearing ritual that this tribe practices.

It begins with the movement that they want to hug you. As an adult, first you are repulsed. You then go through a quick survey in your mind: does this student shower? What is the intent of this "hug?" Do I get paid enough for this?

Then you allow it...because let's be honest, it's hard to stop a moving train and when middle-schoolers want a hug, they WANT A HUG. 

And so you open your arms to receive said hug. But you are confused. The middle-schooler is turning his or her body slightly and only offering one arm. They then take said arm and put it over one of yours and awkwardly squeeze. This is the side hug. It's weird.

They all do it. To each other, to teachers, to strangers, etc. One perk is that you don't have to get too close and risk exposing yourself to odors or even ebola. But the downside is you look like an idiot and then start feeling ashamed that you have adopted and acquiesced to this strange adolescent custom. 

It feels like a violation. A side-hug rape, if you will. You want to take a shower immediately and go so something really adult-like like balance your checkbook to assure yourself that you are still an adult and not "one of them."

4. They're weird and not likable.

False. 

Believe it or not, even in the "bad" middle schools, there are some really great kids. Kids who listen, show appreciation and respect and are actually insightful human beings. They can be funny, entertaining and witty.

When you come across one of the species who demonstrates these qualities it feels like this:

And those kids make it worth it. The rest can be handled with a little TLC. And by TLC I mean lysol and a little alpha-female. 

So I Turned 30...Plus 3.

Recently I turned 30. And by thirty I mean 33. And people asked, “do you feel different?” Of course my generic answer is always “nope, same old shit, different year.” But actually, when I truly sat back and thought about it…yes, yes I feel different.

I feel older. More like the stereotype of “adult” I had in my twenties (you know, when I was supposed to start feeling like an adult…but that’s funny).

So let me explain a couple things I have noticed about me, Bethany, at age 33.

1. Whereas before I had absolutely no regard for my nails, I now covet them like a middle-aged woman with a new set of press-on nails. All my life I’ve had fifth grade boy hands. Sure, that sounds incredibly ridiculous but it’s actually true. Go ahead- find the nearest fifth grader of the male gender near you and take a look at their hands- bingo, that’s what I was born with and they haunted me into my adult years. Pair that with a rather disgusting habit of biting my nails once they grew even a little bit and you’ve got your self a Grade-A Bethany Scissorhands but replace the scissors with elementary school stuff-those-sausages-into-mittens-its-cold-out porkers.

So, sometime in the fall I decided to get my nails done for a wedding. I figured, hey, I like this person enough to spend the $40 and I have to be seen carrying things for her. And instantly, I was hooked. Suddenly my adolescent popcorn-bag hands were now presentable and dare I say it….pretty?

So at age 33, for the first time, I upped my nail game. It was like a rite of passage into adulthood. Big girl hands.

2. Second, there’s this NPR thing. Yes, NPR…as in National Public Radio. Go on, laugh. Let it out. You know you want to. For about a year now I have listened, pretty much 24/7 365 to NPR on 88.1 WYPR. I even contributed when they did their pledge drive. They even sent me a bumper sticker that I REALLY wanted to put on my car but Mondo objected. There’s really no need to explain why this is an “adult” thing. I’ll let it speak for itself.

3.  I get up early. Like even when I don’t have to. Now THAT…that is an adult thing. When I was younger I would crave sleeping in until noon. Now if that happens I am either deathly ill or hungover beyond reason. In fact, nowadays instead of craving the long sleep-in mornings I crave a cup of coffee, my couch and HGTV. And on this same note, while I have always been a bedtime bear who goes to sleep fairly early I am taking going to sleep early to a whole new level. Like when the clock strikes 7:45 I am like “whoa! It’s getting late!” Cue the prune juice, walkers and early bird specials at Denny’s.

4. My new found obsession with Acupuncture and all things “chi” or how do they spell it, “qi.” I started going on a recommendation from a friend after she reported feeling generally more laid back and relaxed. I was skeptical but was soon hooked. Like guys, it works. It like, really works. Take your WORST PMS day, your muscles after the hardest workout, your mind spinning after an stressful day of work…well…there’s a needle for that. So, yes, in my ripe old age of 33 I am now a needle junkie. But the good kind…

5. Tea. I’ve started drinking tea. I NEVER…used to drink tea. Where this tea drinking came from is still a mystery but one day I found myself making TEA. Like hot tea. Not like sweet tea or iced tea…like my-grandmother-drinks-tea kind of tea. Heat up the kettle and let your bag “steep” kind of tea. How this happened is beyond me but this is most definitely an adult thing. You don’t see rebellious teenagers or sexy twenty-something’s sippin’ on that hot tea shit.

And as I write all these things I am starting to realize I am a real-life bonafide ADULT. And while that previously would’ve scared me into the nearest spray-tan salon or impulsive itty-bitty bikini purchase…I’m pretty okay with it. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get back to NPR…they’ve got a story on about social security. ;)

Bag Lady

Winter has set in and thus, so has my usual form of hibernation. You know the routine...any time the weather dips below 60 degrees I find any excuse in the book to stay inside...in sweats...or pajamas...and curl up next to whatever heat source I can find. I'm a Bunce and that's what we DO in winter. We hibernate. The part of me that likes...I dunno...doing stuff...shrivels up like a prune and crawls into the cracks in the radiator of the universe. And this is normal. I basically hide, like a hermit or the Unibomber, until April.

And this year's no different...but I have noticed myself taking it to an all new level of...bag lady.

While I do normally don sweats and layers in winter, this winter I have started to resemble the lady who pushes the grocery cart near the Safeway and if you get hear her she tells you to "go on 'bout your biznusss."

Let me paint this little picture for you. I have always liked collecting old sweatshirts and pajama pants, washed so that they're super soft and easy to sleep in. I had just previously had standards as to where and when I would wear said sweats and pajama pants. This year, not so much.

This year I have stepped up my game.

You see, last year my grandmother, yes I said grandmother, received a pair of sweatpants for Christmas. They were of the type you usually see grandmothers wear- tapered at the ankle, elastic waist with "room to move," and kind of a stonewashed look to them (if that makes any sense). Any hoot, they didn't fit her. And somehow, I ended up with them. And I wear them. A lot. Like every night when I get home from work. They're warm, they're comfy, and they're straight out of an episode of Full House.

So there's that.

Then there's my "slippers." You see, I use this term loosely. If by slippers you mean slip on fake ankle uggs that are on their fourth year, then yes, I wear slippers. Mind you, those slippers are often (always) paired with the fluffy socks that come in many different colors and styles that you can get in a bunch at WalMart for three for a dollar.

Are you starting to get a mental picture yet? Let me elaborate. In an effort to wear a perfect hybrid of warmth, comfort and UGLY, I also have found myself wearing the top to Mondo's long john's from when he was in high school that he used to go snowboarding in. How I stumbled upon this article of clothing is beyond me but somehow, as if some stroke of fate, it found it's way onto my body and thus, in my lounge-wear repertoire.

So, so far we have my grandmother's sweats, four-year old "slippers" paired with fluffy multi-colored striped socks and a drab grey top to an old pair of mens long johns. Got it? Because I am about to blow your mind.

Now for the grand finale of Bag Lady. The Robe.

My Mom has always worn a long fleece robe for as long as I can remember. And you know that saying, "girls always turn into their Mothers?" Well gosh darn it, it's true!

I too, have a long fleece robe. In fact, my Mom bought it for me. It's baby pink. PINK. I don't even like pink. But this robe? It was MADE to be the icing to my lounge-wear cake. It's long, it's fluffy, it's not flattering (especially when I'm bra-less...hello mosquito bites!) and it's UGLY. But it wraps my butterfly up in a perfect little ugly cocoon of glory.

And yes, all of this is embarrassing. And it is evidence that I have reached an all-time low. I also realize I am playing with fire in a marriage where I expect my other half to still think I'm "pretty." Because there is NOTHING pretty about this outfit. Add to it the fact that I recently cut off my hair and sometimes resemble a Hanson brother if it's not styled properly, I am truly risking wife abandonment, and it'd be warranted.

But the real risk is TRULY being mistaken for a Bag Lady. Because I realized one morning, very early, while I was walking Snoop, that I had somehow ended up OUTSIDE...in PUBLIC...in this outfit. I must've REALLY needed coffee because I hadn't even put on a coat or real shoes. Instead I was parading around my block in the outfit. All I needed was a shopping cart filled with miscellaneous items, a rolled up blanket and hunched shoulders.

Upon re-entry into the "safe zone" ( also known as my house) I sat down and had a Come to Jesus moment.

"Bethany...look at yourself. Look what you're wearing. The only thing missing is hair rollers and a cigarette. You've been wearing this outfit at home for three days. How have we sunk this low?"

There's really no explanation. No excuse. It's cold dammit. And my ugly lounge-wear is comfortable. Soft as a baby's bottom. It may have soy sauce stains and Benjamin hair all over it but it's COLD. And I am getting OLD. I mean for God's sake, there's a POLAR VORTEX out there, people! Right? Oh that was a while ago? Even so! It happened!

I digress. And submit myself to bag lady status for at least another 2 or 3 months. So if you'll excuse me, I need to go change. Into my lounge wear. And walk the dog.

Life Was My Writer's Block

You’ve probably noticed I’ve been….gone. I haven’t been writing. The blame is all mine for this crumbling of the texture of The Pecking Hen. I went through some shit. Some real shit. And when I was finally able to pull my head out of my ass long enough, I started to live again. It was a relief.

And, while I really never stopped following her on social media throughout the years, I started to become inspired by someone of an unexpected origin. 

Ali Arnone is an…acquaintance?...from college. We ran in the same circle but probably said two words to each other over those crazy years- most likely while vying to get the attention of the bartender at CVP (Justinian!) to order another drink. We knew OF each other. And frankly, it was a damn shame. Because as adults, we have both seen, through our blogs, that we are very similar in a lot of ways. And while I don’t claim to be a blogger of Ali’s echelon, (she’s gotten shout outs and posts on some big blog sites and has a huge reader base), we started to realize we had a kind of blogger/reader/woman kinship kind of thing going on as we would correspond about each other’s writing, etc. We could’ve been fast buddies if we could’ve just stepped out of that convoluted crowd we ran in for one minute to see each other for the similar beings we were! Now, as a real bonafide "adult" (please stifle your laughter), I have grown to consider Ali a friend and someone who I admire for her wit, wisdom and not to mention she's downright stunning. 

As you’ve probably guessed, Ali has a blog. A pretty amazing, honest, funny and frankly, damn good blog. And as the years have progressed and we both entered our…[insert whisper here]… ahem… thirties, she wrote more and more. As opposed to letting life get in the way of her writing, she did the opposite. She wrote more. And I have been hooked.

And when the haze of confusion and grief and soul-searching was lifted, I started to wonder where my writing voice had gone? Why had I allowed myself to stop writing?

So I reached out to Ali. I knew she would have the right words for me, and I was right. Below, you will find her brilliant words that struck my heart and gave me my gumption back.

So, thank you, Ali, for making the Hen get her “peck,” back;)

Q. Dear AA,

Life has kicked me in the ass and I have lost my blog voice! What can a blog-girl do to get her swag back on the keyboard?

Sincerely,

Life Was My Writer’s Block

A. 

Dear Life Was My Writer’s Block,

I’m so glad you wrote.  Our friendship is an interesting one; as we went to college together and frequented the same bars and parties but never really ‘hung out,’ if that makes sense.  But alas, social media has been used for good and the very thing you’re having trouble getting back into – BLOGGING – is the very reason we still stay in touch and have a bond ten years later.  We both have blogs and for the past year or so we've been following each other’s musings and exchanging emails to discuss posts, books we've read and just talkin’ shop.  If that doesn't show you the power of writing, I don’t know what will.

That said, I understand you’re in a writing rut.  This happens.  But I’m here to give a jump-start to that dead battery of yours, in an effort to give you just the right amount of juice you need to get going again.  Why?  Because writing is therapeutic.  And who doesn't need a little therapy?

For lack of a better term, you've had some shit luck.  You've gone through a terrible ordeal; one that no person and woman should have to endure in their lifetime.  As a result, you did what most people in your shoes would do and probably SHOULD do, which is vanish a bit.  You said peace out to Facebook, a move I admire and quite frankly do not have the gumption to pull off, and you stopped writing on Pecking Hen.  You mentioned to me that your blog and your writing had become “morose” and I don’t think that’s the kind of person you are or want to be.  I know you as a fun, free-spirited, kind and positive person.  But as I said…the shit luck.  It’ll certainly change a person and their demeanor.

But here’s why I think you need to start writing again.  I think you need to write because it will help.  Help others who have been in your shoes, help those who HAVEN’T been in your shoes to understand you better, and most importantly… help YOU.  Help you to move on and start fresh and crawl out of the rut.  Write because we need real women who deal with real-life experiences and don’t claim to shoot glitter out of their pores and live their lives in this gross and unattainable perfection.  Write for a support system.  Write because life – even the dirty, nasty, crappy parts – can be funny.   Write because you have a great job and husband and friends and family and dogs and a myriad of other things that inspire you.  DON’T write because you’re trying to forget and ignore the trials and tribulations of the past few years, but because you want to heal and grow from them.

Write because you’re good at it.

Write because I said so. J

Best of luck,

Your friend & fellow writer AA

You can read Ali’s musings on her blog at http://alia15.tumblr.com

Someone Else's Words...

Sometimes I don't know what to write to "update" people on how I feel. So, on this occasion, I will let someone else's words do it for me, even if the situation isn't identical, the emotions are:

"It's hard to write about grief at four years out. Hard to know what to write here.

I want to tell you that you will never forget your baby.

I want to tell you that you will find a way to move on, grow about the pain.

I want to be the beacon of hope ahead of you, the woman with the life that has not collapsed around the dark matter of the dying star; that I was not sucked in and lost, heavy as the universe and destroyed in a hopeless inward swirling soup of moulten grief.

I want to tell you that you won't forget, that cosmic clutter and home grown atoms seared themselves into your soul and cannot be unwritten.

It feels wrong to write of present grief here. It feels wrong to write of recovery. It feels wrong to be either - healed or unhealed.

I missed my slot here last month. Almost missed it this month.

Grief hauled at me, made me unreliable. I chose to fail to prove that grief had me in its grip and prove that I had outrun it. But the truth is I couldn't feel it. I was numb. No words came. To write badly is the ultimate betrayal of my boy.

I'm held back and pushed forward by grief, by loss, by the bundle of boy in the paper flat pictures, the boy I grew quite perfectly who couldn't live without tube and wire.

You might imagine that pulled in all directions is unfathomable pain but it seems to bring nothing but inertia and dulled senses.

You don't need me, I told myself, because I am both then and now and neither is helpful. At four years out grief absorbed is of no more use than grief worn smeared upon my person and slathered, unwelcome, on every interaction.

Do you want to know that grief is just as painful 4 years on? Do you want to know that 4 years on I cry most often because his loss is so familiar that somedays I do not think of him at all?

Do you want to know you will forget? Do you want to know you never will?

That is my apology. Grief is endless and full of ends. Grief is circular, linear, long and short, impossible and easy, ever present and constantly receeding.

I'm sorry I wasn't here."

Quoted from http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2014/8/17/sorry.html

Balance

Wow it's been a MINUTE! I have been a very bad blog girl. But here I am, ready to post again. It took me a while to want to post. Last you heard from me I was still stuck in the "whirlwind." Well guess what? I was stupid to think that whirlwind would stop. Why did I think that eventually everything would return to "normal?" Apparently that's not how it works. Things are always changing and one is continually trying to adjust. There are good days and there are bad days but for the most part you start to accept that you are just along for the ride and you better buckle up.

So how would I go about trying to fill you all in on these past months (year?). It'd be impossible and tedious. So, I will sum things up with a theme of sorts that describes what my focus has been. BALANCE. I have spent these past long months trying to balance myself physically, emotionally and socially.

Let's start with the first- physically. Apparently I inherited some not-so-desirable genes from my rents. And those genes have gotten in the way of some goals of mine- namely motherhood. And in these past few months I have been on a fun adventure of trying to navigate said genetics- a nightmare scavenger hunt if you will. Once the culprits were properly identified I then had to figure out how to change my diet and lifestyle to counterbalance (there's that word again) those suckers. First it was surgery- but you knew about that. And not just once, mind you, but multiple surgeries over the course of two years that have left me with the knowledge that could rival even the best MDs out there. 6 total. Yeah, I am best friends with demerol and the surgery nurses at GBMC.

But then there was the wake up call in the form of my endocrine system. I won't bore you with details but let's just sum that up by saying my shizz is effffeeeedddd up. Basically I had to go to Nutrition boot camp where I learned that carbs are the enemy and exercise was my most lethal weapon. And I stepped up to the plate. For months I barely touched a carb. And it showed as I started to shrink. I liked this. Sure, I missed pizza and fries and even regular coffee creamer but my waist size was so much more rewarding. Then I was told I had to find BALANCE. yep, there it is again. I had to find a way to tango with carbs in a healthy way.

Oh and have I mentioned the medicine? I was on a new regimen that, on occasion, would rock my intestinal world. Plans canceled last minute, etc. The pills themselves smell horrible and I felt like my life was now ruled by oblong-shaped assholes.

So I worked closer and closer to that elusive concept- balance, with my diet and exercise. I also discovered the cathartic benefits of my new love, kickboxing. LOVE. And love what it did to my arms.

And just when I thought I was walking steadily on that tightrope, balanced perfectly, I was told I had lost too much weight. WHAT?!?!! For a woman in her thirties is that even possible!?!?! Apparently, yes, yes it is. Because once you lose too much weight your body thinks you are living in late 1990s Somalia and your body stops behaving as it should. It, ahem, stops functioning like a lady, if you're picking up what I'm putting down. The exact opposite of what I needed to happen. Well shit.

"You'll need to gain 5 to 7 pounds," I was told. Then we can go from there. What!??!! Right in the middle of August with a pool-party bachelorette looming in the not-too-far future? You be talking crazy, doc. But she was right, I was too thin and I needed to admit it.

So there was the conundrum. How do I gain 5 pounds without giving up kickboxing (will NOT do) and becoming a regular at Five Guys (tempting)? And gain it all while still on the meds (albeit half-dose) and finding that "balance" with carbs and sugar? UGH. This "balancing act" is harder than I thought.

Now you must be thinking, "hey Bethany, why don't you STFU? You have to gain weight? Boo hoo!" And you'd be warranted.

But you must understand what is riding on this elusive game of balance: my ability to become a Mom. This has been an uphill battle since 2012 and I have suffered many a battle wound to prove how sensitive the situation is. Multiple losses. Six surgeries. Medications, tears, inability to feel comfortable in social situations, grief, etc. And this might not even be the answer. I could easily finally find that place of physical balance and still, something ELSE could be wrong.

But I am not one to give up. No matter what it takes. And if balance is indeed the key to success, I will continue to try to find it, even if I moan and complain that whole time. Believe me, I am aware of the other good things in my life- but this complex situation is sometimes enough to knock the wind out of me. Out of anyone for that matter.

And that's just the physical side of it. I haven't even gone into the emotional and social balancing act I am also constantly participating in.

But this is my challenge and that's what I am dealing with. There are worse things, yes, but a girl's gotta vent. And the whole point was an update, yes?

So there ya have it folks. At least one part of it. And at least I am back, blogging. Let's see if I can now weave in the blogging with everything else I am currently balancing;)