Milka turned four last week. On the night before her birthday, I tucked her into bed and whispered, "Four years ago I was having a gallbladder attack I wrongly assumed was labor. I vomited from the pain, my water broke, and a few hours later: you were born! That's your birth story." Milka smiled and said, "Yay!"
Of course there's more to her story. There's the part where my friend Katherine brings me tacos and plays with Sammy while I moan, "I think I'm dying." There's the part where the doctor gives me morphine. There's the part where the epidural wears off, and I shout, "I FEEL EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING IS ON FIRE." Every birth story is beautiful.
I think about how much Milka's grown these past four years, and I think about how much I've grown, too. I remember being pregnant with her, worrying that I would not love her as much as I loved my son. I remember thinking, "TRY HARDER. TRY TO LOVE THAT TINY THING INSIDE OF YOU. GET SOME STARBURSTS, TOO. PULL OVER. THEY SELL STARBURSTS THERE."
What I remember most about her birth, besides the vomiting, is how much I loved her, how I didn't have to try. But that feeling of TRY HARDER TRY HARDER TRY HARDER has followed me these past four years, has pushed me and broken me and hurt me and, full disclosure, is still doing all those things. Anxiety starts small. But it grows and overwhelms, and even before you know you're struggling, you're struggling.
I've struggled with insomnia, irritability, anger, muscle tension, headaches, lightheadedness, and jaw clenching. You think jaw clenching wouldn't be that big of a deal, right? Wrong. It makes your whole face hurt. Friends are like, "Hey, how are you?" And you're like, "MY WHOLE FACE HURTS." I remember asking my doctor last summer, "Is there a possibility I have face cancer? Like, in the jaw?" And I remember her answering, "No. You're just clenching your jaw." God bless Ambien, Xanax, preschool, hammocks, everything Anne Lamott has ever written, and Caroline who made me Korean food just because she knew it would help. I have needed medication in the past, and I might need it again. But a friend who notices when I am overwhelmed and offers help? I always need that. It doesn't fix everything, and by no means is it an acceptable substitution for medicine, but it is damn helpful.
The main thing I have learned about myself in these past four years is this: I need help. The other thing I know is: I hate asking for help. There are people in my life who hear me say, "I'm struggling. I need help," and they respond by offering to watch my kids, to make me a meal, to do something/anything. My husband is one of those people. He sees me struggling, and he says, "Go. Go for a run. Go read in the hammock. Go write at a coffee shop. I'll take the kids to dinner. I'll fold the laundry." And it matters. It matters to be the one who offers, who doesn't wait to be asked. Because here's something else I've learned: telling someone who struggles with anxiety, "Hope you get some rest!" IS NOT HELPFUL. It's not. You want someone with two kids to get some rest? OFFER TO TAKE THEIR KIDS FOR AN AFTERNOON OR AN EVENING OR A WEEKEND OR A WEEK, ASSUMING YOU KNOW THEM WELL AND ARE NOT A PSYCHOPATH. When someone offers to help me with my kids, I think, "They get it. And they're not offering because it's easy for them but because they care about me."
Anxiety doesn't make sense. I repeat these truths to myself: My children are wonderful. My husband is wonderful. Everything is wonderful. And I tell myself: TRY HARDER. But here's the thing about anxiety: it doesn't care how perfect your children are. It doesn't care. It sees your perfect daughter, and it tells you, "You should have already planned her birthday party. You should have read to her more today. You should have listened to her story about a snail named Lemonade-y." It tells you, "You should have needed less. You should have done it all by yourself. You should have tried harder." But it's wrong. I've tried as hard as I could, and sometimes I still need help. And that's OK.
Happy birthday to my Milka. I'm trying, and I love you. That's all I've got.
