Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies…

And the final "Draft" that I found today. After this, posts will be real time...

June 3 2010 | Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies…

I think but I don’t want to admit it, nor do I want it confirmed, that I’m not the person I supposed myself to be. If you ask me, I think I haven’t complained…too much. But now, my fear is that I must be complaining all the time.

It’s relative, I suppose. I am – unhappy – the majority of minutes in each hour. Not depressed per se, not lackluster, not morose, distraught, confused, dismayed. I am…unhappy. As in “not happy”. So if I am unhappy 46 minutes out of 60, and I talk to you for 5, and I spend less then 2.1/2 of those minutes bitching, I think to a degree I’m not really telling you how I feel. Because the amount of time I am unhappy is completely disproportionate to the time I spend expressing it. So if we were weighting averages….

I haven’t blogged.
I don’t call you.
I don’t complain.
Not because I’m noble. Not because I’m a martyr. Not because I think you don’t care.
But because when I do try and talk about it, I get shut down.
Or dismissed.


I came home from a perfect lovely dinner party in tears tonight. Not because anything went wrong, or because I think I’m incapable of engendering affection, or that I felt maligned. Not for any of the reasons that being pregnant, or sensitive, or even insecure would allow for.

Moreso because someone said something – casually – tritely – innocently. And it threw me. I talked to my husband, trying to articulate the feelings. Then I went to bed at 5am. Not “over” what was said, but because it took me about that much time to watch tv, to sort out my feelings, and to just sit for a bit and think.

And here’s I guess what was bothering me. And I had to think, really think about who reads this BEFORE I wrote it, and the one person who overlaps, I trust would not share this.

I got today – in the mail – a handicapped placard. Albeit temporary. But still. It expires in November. I joked about it gleefully, I laugh at my own joy in it. Where to go? What to do? Perhaps I’ll go to Kohls, to Market Basket, to a Red Sox game. Anyplace where I can park with relish and wild abandonment.

And my friends laughed with me. We traded silly anecdotes about parking – the how, the where. And one said, quite innocently, that she had mentioned it to her husband – way back when, when I first applied, and he replied something along the lines of “You’re kidding me, are you kidding me??”

What does that MEAN, exactly?

Because in her retelling, and in my knowing her husband, I’m not certain it was “You're kidding, s it that dangerous?” And I suspect it’s more along the lines of “You’re kidding, bit of a drama queen much?” But maybe not. And I’ll never know because I can’t ask her about it, because she, like so many, instead chooses to…and I’m not sure this is accurate either, “comfort me?” when I discuss anything about this.

So you know what, I don’t say anything.

Because if I say “Im big”
I get “Oh I was huge pregnant”

If I say “my feet hurt”
I get, ‘Oh I had sciatica”

If I say “It’s hard to walk”
I get “Oh but aren’t you lucky to be standing, weren’t you in the hospital with Ellie at this time before?”

Yes. Yes you are right. Yes, thank you for the reminder that I should not complain. That I should be grateful. That you’ve been here too. Thank you. Because our pregnancies, our lives, are so similar.

I haven’t spoken to you, to anyone, not because I am brave, but because I am pathetic. And angry. And its unproductive. But in anger, and sadness, and frustration, I am going to here. Because really, if I never say it outloud, I’ll miss the chance to express it.

For starters, to answer that specific comment:
Yes. Yes I applied for a handicapped placard. Why? Because someone placed a stitch in my cervix at 13 weeks so I wouldn’t spontaneously funnel. Because they thought my pregnancy was fucking dangerous. It continues to be. I can’t go to the pool, sit in a tub, crouch in the bath with my child. I can’t walk too far because the weight of TWINS puts pressure on it. I can’t have sex, have an orgasm, have a decent shit, for fear of tearing, rupturing, dislodging it. I have a fucking STITCH in my fucking CERVIX because someone in their infinite wisdom decided that there was the chance I could deliver two fucking babies early and they’d die. So yes, I have a stitch, which renders me somewhat immobile. So yuck it the fuck up with your husband about why I have a handicap placard. That a doctor signed for. That the state agreed with. Because THEY know it’s dangerous for me to walk around, but I guess you don’t.

Why am I so angry? Oh shit, I don't know. Because I am tired of trying to convince people that it's dangerous and high risk while at the same time trying to express that it's being expertly managed and I'm doing fantastic.

I said this before. It's like living in an area with landminds.

Am I good? Well, a bomb didn't go off today. That doesn't mean that one won't go off tomorrow.

One friend said - and I can't figure out if she was trying to comfort me, distract me, or just shut me the fuck up..."Oh all pregnancies feel like you are living over a landmine. All mothers worry that something could happen every day"
To be fair that is true.
But worring about premature labor when you have no history, no symptoms, no cause, no history... is significantly less realistic then worrying about it when you ARE at risk for it. Double risk.

I'm not just sayting to you "Holy cow, I worry"
I'm saying to you, in all seriousness "I live with fear and worry daily. And it's taxing. To me, to my family. On all of us. I'm managing but it's both a surreal state of being, and stressful."
So when someone replies "Oh yeah, I felt that way too" I find it difficult to hear it as empathy. It feels...dismissive.

I have also heard:
“oh but you are at least standing up”
Yes. I am. I am standing. Barely. I get up each day and have breakfast. I panic that I am late because I can’t run up and down stairs for the myriad things you get last minute taking a child out. I twinge as I boost her into her car seat. “is today the day?” Is today the day I did too much? Will my actions today lead to premature labor?” I drive to her school and park way UP the ramp. Father then any mother and child before or after me. Because I need to be close to the door. People think it’s because I’m pregnant. That’s not why. Pregnant you can walk.So not only do I block cars but I'm humiliated. Because not everyone knows "my history" So instead I just look like a hypochondriac who feels she needs special access because my husband managed to do what every OTHER husband also managed to do. Knock up his wife.


I have thought, but only attempted saying outloud once:
"I hate that Doug and I can't go for a walk / that I cant take Ellie for a walk / that I can't walk to the park"
Because generally the response is: "Oh I was so tired every night. Even if you weren't supposed to take it easy, you probably wouldn't want to go for a walk."
And again. Ok., I get it. You were pregnant and so am I. Same.
Yet again, I feel shut down. I want to express to you how sad I feel around this loss. The loss of freedom, or choice. My inability to parent the way I want to. That my weekends stretch before me because even a festival, a park, a zoo is out of the question. I am trading a year of my life, a year, for these children. It is a high price.

I have gained weight. I am big. I say "OMG, you should SEE me, I am so SO BIG!
I am.
But you reply:
“Oh no you’re not. You aren’t fat…”
Did I say I was fat? Did you hear me say fat? I’m big. BIG. Measuring 34 weeks at 26. I’m big. And saying I’m not? Shuts me down. So I’m a XL and I’m not big? Really? Because I feel big. My hips are dislocated. I have psd. I can’t open my legs. I need help getting up from peeing. I have no strength and almost 50 lbs on a 62 inch frame. I hurt all the time. ALL the time. I have shooting pains in the soles of my feet. I cannot walk upstairs properly. I believe my belly button has herniated. I put 45lbs on a 5’2” frame in under 5 months with no exercise, no walks, no stretching, no strength. So if I’m not big and this is all so so normal what that tells me is, I'm a whiner. Because for me, again, I'm amazed. And it's shocking. Because therea re two TWO people inside me. And occasionally, just occasionally, I want to marvel at it outloud. Because really, I have never seen anyone - god's truth - in person that got this big. At THIS gestational age. So I mention it to you and you say "No, you aren't that big" Ok. Color me sheepish and embarrased then. For being an attention seeker. I must be a fucking whiner. I must be a complete narcissist. Because apparently everyone ELSE gets this big at 25 weeks and I missed it. My noting it is just me seeking attention. I’m not big at ALL. Oh. Ok. I’ll just suck it up then. Sorry I mentioned it. Besides you are right. I saw all of you when you were pregnant and you know what, I remember you at 25 weeks. You weren’t big either.

“oh you’ll lose weight once you have the babies. You won’t have time to eat.”
Ah. Ok. So I eat a lot then. That’s how I gained all this weight. Just a big ol eatin machine. I didn’t eat all this on, in fact. To be fair, I can barely eat. Heartburn. Nausea.Oh you had that too? Right. I forget.


And my ass itching? That’s common too. Because of the weekly progesterone shots. The shots? What are they for? To keep my cervix from opening. Do they hurt? Meh. Scale of 1-10? 3 maybe. Hurt? No. Burn? Painful? Itching? Yes. I should sit in the tub? Can’t.

Listen, this isn’t me being bitter about not getting attention.
This is me wondering why, when I GOT pregnant, and you offered to help, why you won’t allow me to discuss my fears or concerns or even share in my astonishment. Because the OTHER fact is, I never have been this pregnant before. I never stood UP with the first one. I was in the hospital this time last time. I never bought maternity clothes, thought about streollers, rooms, gender, space idssues, carseats, designed a room, had a shower. I never wore a harness, or had heartburn. I didn't even gain a lot of weight. I never did any of this. It IS all new. As are twins.

Im glad you are here to keep me in check.
I need to realize that there’s totally nothing unique about being high risk and carrying twins. Please don't allow me to marvel at the fact that I am…enormous. Because two people are, in fact, living inside me. And I have a whole team of people who think it’s…amazing. And dangerous. And discussable.


But not you, friend. You won’t allow me to talk about it.
I have no fucking idea why so I can only assume it’s because I’m a huge fucking boring whiner.I’m a fucking rampant narcissist.
So really, why bother.
I’ll just sit here and shut up and not call, not connect, not blog, not talk at all.

So I’ll just sit quietly until it passes.
And then we can resume our artificial conversations that are meaningless.

I just can’t wait.
Thanks for “being there” for me.