Why I Believe in Early Pregnancy Announcements

I've been peeing on sticks like a crazy lady, and I finally got the two pink lines last weekend. I know what you are thinking- why are you sharing this pregnancy this early? Why would you announce a pregnancy that isn't past the first trimester, the first twelve weeks, I mean- at least wait until the ultrasound. I know the risks of announcing our bundle of joy this early- there is the chance that something could happen and I'd have to share my grief with the world. But, let's get real here- that's what I do. I believe in sharing my story, sharing it wholeheartedly, and being vulnerable. That's how I do life- so wouldn't that be how I do pregnancy?

We are early- possibly very very early. According to my estimates, I should be around 4-8 weeks. When I went to my PCM on Monday, they only did the simple pee test, so I have no clue how my hormones are going or exactly how far along I am. But- between the positive tests, nausea, constant peeing, fatigue, this weird stretching stuff- I feel confident that we are indeed brewing a baby- even if it is early. Morning sickness (or all day sickness, as we refer to it around here) has been in full force, and looking back, it's been around for at least two weeks.

At first, we held back. We told our parents and our siblings. We swore them to secrecy because "it was early" and anything could happen. But then, I began to feel deeply convicted that I needed to share about this baby, our baby- because it is exactly that- a baby. I mean, I claim to be "ProLife" and feel that the things that Planned Parenthood and abortion clinics are terrible, heinous acts because- "it" isn't just a blob of tissue- "it" is a baby. Yet, I hesitate to announce my own pregnancy to the world, because its "not quite enough of a baby yet". I decided in that moment that I was not going to spend my pregnancy in fear. For, God did not give me a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, love, and a sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7), and I do not want to make decisions out of fear. I am going to celebrate each moment, each hour, each day, each month, each year that I can with this precious child. Even if God only blesses me with him for a small time, I am going to rejoice in that small amount of time that I get to spend carrying this child. I believe that for all of eternity- I am going to be a mama to this baby. I will always carry this child in my heart- why can I not share him with the world?

1. I believe that life begins at the nanosecond of conception. As the cells multiply, my baby is growing and forming- but it has been a baby all along. A baby is a life, even when it is the size of a poppyseed or a pea. I will honor this life that God has blessed me with by celebrating it each and every step of the way. I believe that God already has given this baby a purpose in its very small life- part of that has been to bring me and T great joy! I want it to be said that from the very beginning, my child's life was worth celebrating.
2. Why should we wait to announce the pregnancy? If I truly believe that this baby is a baby, then why am I buying into the lie that the world tells me that it isn't a life until 12 weeks or 20 weeks?
3. We are so excited and want to share our joy with others. I feel like I have been waiting so so long to be able to be a mama- since I was a wee little girl. We also want to share with others so that they can join us in beginning to pray for this precious life, and the life of our little family. Pray for the baby grow and grow and grow! Pray for the morning sickness. Pray for our family as we prepare to move to a new base that is nine hours away in a few weeks. Pray for T as he deals with my hormones and my complaining. :)

While we are choosing to announce early, I do believe that it is a personal decision. There is no judgement on my part if you choose to wait until the end of the first trimester. Whether you announce at 4 weeks, 12 weeks, 20 weeks, or some other time- it is all about what YOU choose and how God leads you. As for us, I'm a terrible secret keeper combined with my adamant ProLife feelings, so we chose to announce early. I also knew that I wanted a village surrounding me in prayer, so that we could keep the anxieties down and I could be supported through this transition. We are so excited about the coming months ahead- no matter what God brings our way. Yes, the threat of miscarriage scares me sometimes, but I can rest in the fact that no matter what- I've got a God, a husband, and a village that will love and support me every step of the way.

And if not, he is still GOOD

But even if he doesn't, we want to make it clear to you, Your Majesty, that we will never serve your gods or worship the gold statue you have set up. 

-Daniel 3:18

This verse has been echoing through my mind the last few days. 
There's just so many things that I seem to be waiting for, and sometimes it feels like they are never going to come. It can be really really hard sometimes not to lose it. It can be really really hard sometimes to not give in and blame God. It can be really really hard sometimes to not turn to false idols, to not let my dreams and ideas and plans become these idols. I mean, sure- I'm not worshipping Buddha or Baal- but these things- these good things- can still become idols in my life if I keep building them up and letting them get in between me and God. 

I'm about to get a wee bit personal here- and vulnerable- and I'm a little scared to write what I'm about to write and publish it on the internet. I SO so so don't want to hear lectures about how we aren't ready, or now is not the time, or about how I just need to be patient and give it some time. I know, I know...if I'm overwhelmed with our new puppy- I definitely shouldn't be wanting to add a baby to the mix. So please- I'm asking you- don't offer advice. I just want to sit down with a cup of tea and chat with you guys for a minute and let some thoughts out. Okay? Awesome. With the knowledge that we were going to be making a nine hour move five months after our wedding- T and I started discussing the idea of having a baby. I mean, it started innocent enough. We weren't going to be super-psycho-serious about it- we were just going to let things happen if they happened, if you know what I mean. Well a month later, a day late, and a negative test later- I was devastated. Sure- I "knew" that making babies wasn't that easy. I knew it could take some time. But suddenly- I really really wanted to be pregnant. I really really wanted a baby. Its become a bit of an obsession over the last four months. From ovulation testing, to other things that I'm not going to discuss on a public blog that my father reads (Hi Dad!), to obsessive peeing on a stick- I began to feel very very negative about myself. I mean, surely- if God had put this desire to be a mommy in my heart all of those years ago- wouldn't he make it easy? Why are we not getting pregnant? Why can't a stupid line show up on a test? Why do I feel the need to let the results of a test define my worth and value? I feel like everybody that I know is announcing a pregnancy. No lie- I had three announcements on my Facebook timeline last Saturday. I began to beat myself up internally. I began to believe awful, terrible lies about myself and about God. My innocent longing to be a mommy turned into an anger against God. What horrible thing had I done to deserve this? Does this mean that I'm going to be infertile? What if we can never have a baby? What if it's just me and T and our new puppy forever and ever? I began to fall into the shame spiral. I began to let the darkness engulf me. And--I might have wasted another pregnancy test that I knew was going to be negative because it was way, way, way too early for anything.

No, I don't have a cute little announcement at the end of this post about how the last four months have been insanely terrible but that some magical glitter sparkle baby dust flew into me and decided to form a baby. It hasn't yet. Like months 1, 2, and 3...I'm still waiting. But, when I came across this verse at the beginning of the post, it really made me began to think about how I'm made my ability (or lack thereof) to bear a child into an idol. Even if we don't get a positive this month- HE is still GOOD. Even if we don't get a positive this year- HE is still GOOD. Even if we never ever ever get a positive pregnancy test or are able to carry a child- HE IS STILL GOOD. I don't have to turn to false gods, I don't have to curse the name of God, I don't have to say that he is an evil evil god because he won't give me a child to carry in my womb. I can know that all things work together for good for those who love God and are called according to HIS purpose. I can know that God DOES have a plan for my life, and T's life, and our life together- and if it is his will, he can make any kind of miraculous act occur. Patience. Patience. Waiting. Waiting. This really really stinks. But, in the middle of the mess, I know that even if my plans don't come to fruition, even if it takes a long time, or never happens- he is still good and I will worship Him.

PCSing with an Anxiety Disorder: PreMoving Tips

Part of being married to the military means that every two or three years, our lives will drastically change and we will take part in what is called a PCS, or Permanent Change of Station. I go back and forth on a daily (maybe even hourly) basis on how I feel about this issue. T and I will be PCSing this August to Ohio- a place nine hours away, that until a week ago I had never been. As the date of our departure inched closer and closer, my anxiety went up and up and up. I mean, I already have a diagnosed anxiety disorder. I already have attachment and separation anxiety issues. I already have gone through a massive life change this year (getting married). AND NOW THIS? It's enough to cause a girl to lapse or relapse in recovery, it's enough to cause various different health issues due to stress/anxiety, and it's enough for me to want to just spend my days in bed, in bed, with the lights off, pretending that none of this is really happening. But, in recent weeks, T and I have made some conscious choices to try and make this move a little easier- hey, PCSing with a dependent is something that he's never done either. I thought that today might be a good day to share some of the steps that we've been taking to make this transition go more smoothly.

1. Operation Find A Home: T took permissive TDY so that we could spend 10 days in Ohio searching for a place to live, exploring the city, and getting oriented with our new base. Honestly, I don't know how people do a PCS and wait until they get into town to find a home. That's a super important thing to me, as my home is my "safe place", the place I can retreat to when I feel overwhelmed. The idea of living in an extended stay hotel or on-base lodging for weeks didn't appeal to me or my anxiety. Luckily, I can report that after only a few apartment tours, we found a place to live. Yes, we wanted a house, but we couldn't find one in the area we were looking in for a price comparable to our BAH (basic allowance for housing)- everything was too expensive, if we were looking for something comparable to where we live now. For 18 months while we are at AFIT, I think we can handle the tiny spaces of a two bedroom apartment. We can make it work. Finding a home took a major stressor off of my shoulders.
2. Therapy Plans and Continuation of Care: I'm special. Since I see a therapist and a psychiatrist for mental health issues (i.e. anxiety), I am enrolled in the Exceptional Family Member Program (EFMP for short). Basically, this is just to ensure that the Air Force does not send us somewhere where I cannot receive adequate care. This has been a bit of a learning curve though- most resources out there for the EFMP program are for children with special needs or adults with severe special needs. There isn't much out there for "the girl that's just trying to get a therapy session before January". It doesn't help that we are changing Tricare regions, so I can't get ANY referrals until we actually move up to Ohio and I get reenrolled in the program up North. I've spent hours on the phone with various people (both at our losing and gaining bases) trying to get this figured out. As it is, I normally see a therapist every 1-2 weeks. The idea of going months without therapy is scary. I called both EFMP programs, both Tricares...and nobody had any answers for me except to wait it out. Well, I don't like taking no for an answer, so I kept calling various different places. I finally decided to call up the on-base mental health clinic and ask them what to do...and they figured out a way that since I'm technically in their system due to EFMP (they approved the move), they could bend some things around and I now have an appointment about a week after we move to see a psychologist. Hopefully, from there we can figure out a treatment plan so that I can ensure that I have a provider that will meet my needs and so that maybe I don't have to wait until January to see a psychiatrist to get meds either. Lesson of the day: Keep calling, don't take no for an answer, and if you ask super nicely- sometimes people can make things magically work. :)
3. Lists, Lists, and More Lists: I'm a to-do list person. On my desk, beside my computer, I currently have three pages, front and back of lists and phone numbers, and to-dos. I feel so much less stressed about everything that I have to get done when I have a place that says exactly what I have to get done. The goal isn't to get everything done on these lists today- just sometime before midAugust. :) Progress, not perfection. I do have a couple "dailies" that I'm trying to find a place to fit in my schedule each day- read a chapter of a book, yoga, and journal. This is for my personal sanity and stress relief, not necessarily to get anything done for the move.
4. Cook What You Have: We are currently playing a game called "what can we cook with what is in the fridge, freezer, and pantry?". It means we've had some adventurous meals (I made meatloaf the other night!), but it also means that we will use what we have up, save on grocery bills, and since the moving company won't move our food- it means we won't have to throw it away! Some of the things on our list for the next week or so include: burrito bowls, chicken with whole wheat pasta, chicken stirfry, Hamburger Helper, chicken and rice casserole, and english muffin pizzas! I'm also trying to use up our muffin mix stash that I have by baking muffins for us to grab for breakfast. Our main thing to use up is the meat that we have stored in the freezer- chicken is easy enough for me to cook with, but ground beef is hard for me to come up with ideas for. I mean...tacos...and tacos....and...I don't know. Leave ideas of yummy ground beef recipes in the comments below! :)
5. Capsule Closet: I've been reading online about this concept called a capsule closet for eons. While I was drawn to the idea, I always thought that I had too many different clothes, too many different styles to make it work. But, since changing sizes (yay recovery!), I've cleaned out and simplified my closet and dresser quite a bit. Since we are PCSing soon, I decided to go ahead and pack up most of my clothes (fall/winter and dressier items--all things that I will wear again and that do fit) and try this whole capsule closet thing out for the next month before we move, and for the time after we move until we get unpacked. Who knows...maybe I'll love it and stick with it. For now, it means less clothes and less laundry, so I'm all for that. Look for a post on this project in the coming days..I just have to find a time to write it. :) This whole capsule closet gives me so much less to be anxious about- getting started packing, simplifying, having clothes that fit and that I truly love, and less laundry! I hate laundry. T hates laundry. Thus, we have fifty-bazillion stacks around the house of clean and dirty clothes. 

So, that's what I'm doing to prep my brain for our upcoming move. Honestly, I think most of these tips could be useful for any move, or even just everyday life (hello, capsule closet). Now, it's time to get started on dinner- burrito bowls/tacos tonight. I think I'm going to have to run to the store and grab some Mexican cheese...I feel like my husband wouldn't think tacos were tacos without taco cheese. 

10 Months Sober, or Wearing the Scarlet Letter

Ten months sober, I must admit- just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it.
Ten months older, I won't give in- now that I'm clean I'm never gonna risk it.
- Taylor Swift, "Clean" 

A year ago, I was another girl. A year ago, I was a completely different person. I was a depressed, miserable, mentally unstable, skeletal, shadow of myself. A year ago, I wrote the following in my journal:

Running. I am running hard and fast into the cold, hard ground. My face is slamming against the pavement. I am so frustrated. Here I am, sitting at twenty three years old, a college degree under my belt, and I’m unemployed and will most likely be underemployed for my entire life. My light is going dim. I am so depressed right now. My motivation is lacking. I find it hard to conceive complete sentences and coherent thoughts. The days run into each other like a freight train flying fast down the tracks. I am frustrated. This is not how I imagined my life to be. I always imagined I’d be happy. I’d be either employed or married with children. I always imagined my life to be so much different than this. It does not seem fair that mental illness has stolen so much from me.

I wish I could say that things got better in August. They didn't. The descent into darkness was not as a slow, seeping drop of syrup, dripping down the bottle. No, the decent was a spiral of doom, a black hole, a tornadic even with enough force to hold me in, so that even though my nose was against the glass and I could see what was outside...I could not escape. August turned into September, and the storm seemed to get darker and darker, stronger and stronger. That's where this post really begins.

Ten months ago, shit hit the fan. Pardon my language, but there is no other way that I can think of to adequately describe it. I had told my therapist that I was self harming, but nobody really knew the point it had reached. At a doctor's appointment, wounds were discovered, people freaked out, and my mom and dietitian were called- something had to be done. I was to be shipped off to rehab again- in hopes that this time would be the time that everything magically got better. I remember sitting with my mom and her crying and begging me to "please make this work" that it was "rehab or the psych ward" and that "we could lose everything". Honestly, in the darkness of that long night of waiting, I just wanted to die. But, I knew I had to fight this- I didn't want to cause any more pain to my family than I already had. So, I agreed to not self harm until I got to treatment. This was huge. At this point, it had been almost two years since I'd gone more than a day or two without harming. It was incredibly frustrating. I just wanted to feel something. I wanted to numb all of these emotions within the confines of my brain and quiet the noise for five minutes. But, I lasted until the Sunday that I admitted to treatment, if only because of the threat of locking me up in a psych ward. And then treatment went south, and I begged my parents to just let me come home. It was a terrible, awful feeling. On the phone, I made all sorts of agreements- agreements to eat, to not purge, to not harm myself, to be better. Honestly, I didn't believe myself as I agreed to most of the conditions for me returning home. I just didn't think it was possible. But, I was desperate to do anything to get out of that place and return home- I would agree to anything. When I got home, everything from before changed. Yes, a part of me still wanted to die. A part of me still wanted to continue the slow painful suicidal actions of before. The day I left treatment was September 17, 2014.

I met T on September 27, 2014- honestly, it was probably not the wisest decision I've ever made. My therapist was begging me to get off of online dating. My parents were not terribly happy with it. It was honestly just another one of those bipolar/borderline "let me feel something" spells- until I met T. Things didn't change overnight, but they did change quickly. I suddenly had a reason for living, a reason for fighting. So the "no self harm" thing continued. Eventually, by the grace of God and the love of my wonderful husband, I was able to quit purging. As I look back to my life a year ago, I realize just how different things are, and it amazes me that God could take the brokenness of my life a year ago and change it into something this beautiful. As T and I were driving to therapy today, the song at the beginning of this post began to play. Since the CD was released, I loved "Clean". I loved the words. And I loved the truth and vulnerability contained in the line "Ten months sober, I must admit- just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it." There is so much truth in that statement. There are some days that I miss my old destructive coping mechanisms. They sneak into my brain and they taunt me- telling me terrible, horrible lies. As I sat in the car today, I realized that it's been TEN MONTHS since I last self harmed. Ten months since I picked up a sharp object with the intent of harming myself, in the name of "feeling something". I'm really proud of myself for this feat. It's a huge thing. 

Nothing can prepare you for the moment when the person you love discovers your wounds and your scars for the first time. The most horrible, most awful moment in my relationship with T happened when he ran his hand across my leg and found those horrible awful marks, still not completely healed. Having to answer the quiet question of "what happened, honey?" totally gutted me. I felt so teeny tiny at the moment. The first time, I answered something like "I don't really want to talk about it" and he didn't press it. But the next time, he patiently prodded me on to explain this chapter of my story. For the most part, a majority of the scars have faded or blend into my skin. But, there is one section that I fear never will- the section where I carved the word "fat" into my thigh. The scars from these terrible letters haunt me every time I get dressed, every time I see my leg, every time my shorts go up to high, every time I'm lying in bed with my husband and his hand brushes across it. I can't wear a bathing suit without showing the world my scars- literally. They have faded somewhat, but I fear that they will never be completely gone. How will I explain this to my future daughters? 

If you are struggling with self harm, please reach out. There is so much more to life than spending your days and nights punishing yourself. It is not worth it- and please, learn from my mistakes so that you don't have scars of your own someday. I don't want you to have that awful experience of explaining to your husband that there was a time when you used to hurt yourself, when you used to carve terrible awful words into your thigh because you believed that you deserved to carry that scarlet letter. You don't have to carry that scarlet letter. Jesus came down and because a man and walked on this Earth and died on the cross so that you didn't have to bear that scarlet letter. He bears it for you. Please reach for healing today? Please reach out for help? Please know that you are not alone in this darkness- Jesus is standing there with open arms, just waiting to embrace you and love you as you are- as messed up and shitty as you might feel that you are. You are never too broken for Him. He redeems. His job is making broken things beautiful. Don't bear your scarlet letter alone.

"hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that"

I feel like any time a racial issue comes up in the news (i.e. Ferguson, Baltimore, Charleston), people are quick to bring up the issue of removing confederate flags from all aspects of society. With the events that unfolded in Charleston this week (where a horrible, despicable act was committed against people because of their race--a racist act, a hate crime, a terrorist attack--I'm not here to argue and bicker about what you want to call it), people began calling for the confederate flag that is flown at the South Carolina state house to be taken down. I get it. I do. You think it will make everything better and not encourage the racism even more if we just try to stuff it away in a box in the back of the hypothetical closet and pretend like it never happened...but here's the thing: IT DID. And the civil war was not just about race, regardless of what you are reading in your common core history books these days.

Here's the thing: I have no problem with them flying the confederate flag at the South Carolina statehouse, for one reason and one reason alone--it's at a confederate memorial at the statehouse. It's not South Carolina still trying to cling onto the confederacy and dreams of secession. It's about remembering the men that gave their lives to fight for freedom- even if they were on the "wrong side". Not every white man in the South owned slaves. Many of the boys and men that fought in the Civil War fought because they thought that they were fighting for states' rights, for pursuit of "life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness". They were fighting for their independence. Many of them fought because it was "the thing to do". Was slavery wrong? YES. A million times yes. Is slavery today still wrong? YES. A million times yes. But, we cannot go back and erase the past. We cannot purge the events of the civil war from our country's history. We cannot continue to go down the path of political correctness, affirmative action, and pretending like our actions today can somehow erase what was done all of those years ago.

This is my great-great grandfather. He was one of the last surviving civil war/ confederate veterans alive- he lived until the ripe old age of 109 (technically, that's all fairly debatable and it's a huge controversy in Florida, where he has a memorial at a courthouse or something- census records indicate he might have been five at the time of the civil war, but for the sake of argument- he was super old). When I see the confederate battle flag, I think of this man. Obviously, he died WAY WAY WAY before I was born, and he did have a bit of hatred of Yankees- but that was it. There's nothing in the history of Uncle Bill that indicated that he hated "the black man"- just that he really really wished he had shot the Yankees when they were crossing some bridge and he had the change. Do I know the whole story? No. I don't claim to. There could be more to the story than I know- but to me- the confederate flag represents a memorial, a remembrance of this man- not a symbol of hatred. Uncle Bill fought for freedom and independence and states' rights. And hey- sixty something years after his death- he's the great-great grandpa to my youngest brother. Can't you see the resemblance? :)

Yes- at the same time that I have a great-great grandfather that fought for the Confederacy, I also have a little brother that is black. I have a little brother who has grown up in Alabama and had to hear endless, relentless jokes about "fried chicken, koolaid, and watermelon". At a young age, my baby brother associated the confederate flag as being a symbol of people that hate him, of people that think he has no worth or value, simply because of the color of his skin. Here in Alabama, racism is alive and well. 

Here's the thing: We can't afford to forget what happened- from either point of view.  

We can't forget the boys and men that fought for independence and freedom. Our nation was founded on some of these very same principles. The leaders of the confederacy felt like the federal government was infringing on their states' rights- much like we do today when a Supreme Court issues a ruling that declares a state law limiting abortions or banning gay marriage "unconstitutional". There is a times and a place for remembering the sacrifices that they made- some with the ultimate cost of their lives- thus, I am not against flying a confederate flag at a memorial marker or cemetery. 

We also shouldn't hide the "dirty" parts of our past and stick them in a basket in the back of the closet. We have to learn from our past so that we do not continue to make the same mistakes in the future. Racism is a horrible monster that has attacked America in various ways, shapes, and forms. Slavery, segregation, and now we are separate because we are trying so so hard to forget that all of that happened. We are trying so so hard to ensure that nobody is ever offended, that everyone is given an equal opportunity- even if it means we give certain, less qualified people a leg up so that we can meet our racial quotas. (Please note: I'm not against giving everyone a fair and equal shot- I just don't think people should be discriminated against of ANY race) The civil war was an important part of our nation's history, and it would do us well to not forget that. We CAN'T erase the things that our ancestors have done, but we can act differently today. Taking down all of the confederate flags, pretending that everything has always been awesome, and pretending that some people are "owed" more because of the travesties against their ancestors is NOT the answer. The Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote these words:

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction ... The chain reaction of evil - hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars - must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.

The solution to the problem of racism is not suppression and hiding and forgetting- that just multiplies the resentment and bitterness and hate. Confederate flags didn't cause the Charleston shooting- hate did. We don't fix racism by giving people a reason to be racist. We fix the problem one person at a time, by showing love to ALL of our brothers and sisters. We love them like Christ loves us, his bride, the church. We love them. We love them. We love them. We can't fix racism by adding more hate to the equation- that is why I love the response that some of the relatives from the Charleston shooting told to the accused murderer- they told him that they forgave him, they encouraged him to repent and come to Christ- they didn't try to damn his soul- they loved him. Let us follow in their example. Rather than doing silly, meaningless things like take down flags from courthouses, why don't we watch our words? Why don't we be extra careful that we aren't saying something that degrades another human being, another child of God? Why don't we reach out and be a light to our communities. If someone needs food, give them food. If someone is thirsty, let them drink. If someone needs shelter or a family or a home, let us give them that. Let us be the very hands and feet of Jesus, a light shining in the darkness, a city on a hill, for darkness does not drive out darkness- love does.

I Never Thought I'd Be a Military Wife

I never thought I'd marry someone in the military. I mean, it just wasn't something I'd ever really thought of. I've had family members serve in various branches of service, my dad was in the air force for a few years, but in all honesty...it wasn't in my plans. It wasn't a part of my picture perfect, color coded, Excel spreadsheet. While my ideas of where I'd live and where I'd start a family varied throughout the years (at one point, I was highly interested in big cities like Atlanta or New York City- because obviously if I was the star broadway actress that I wanted to be in fifth grade, that would be how things went down), when I actually "grew up", I imagined a life and starting a family in my hometown (something I would have NEVER considered in high school- I wanted to get far, far away from there). I imagined a life where we'd have dinner with my parents once a week, and go to church with my family, and go to baseball and football games for my youngest brother. I imagined my kids going to the same elementary school that I did, having the same preschool teachers as my brothers. Keeping things the same seemed safe and comforting. I mean, why would I really want to move away from all of this? If we did move out of the tricounty area, it would obviously be somewhere still in the South, and we'd live there until our kids finished school at least- no moving. While I'd be a stay at home mom, my husband would work a nice, safe, typical, 9-5 job. We'd have weekends together, go to church together. It would all be...comfortable.

But, alas, things changed when I met T. It was September 2014 and we met online and I knew he was in the air force, so I knew that his service would be a part of our relationship. He worked weird hours, but it was fine, because it was still during the day. It was normal, right? We could make this work. And then- things quickly changed. About a week after we started dating, he informed me that he had applied for graduate school and if accepted, he'd be moving to Ohio in August 2015. I was shocked. I mean, how could we do this long distance? I knew he was the one that God had prepared for me, but I was so confused and scared about being in a long distance relationship. Three weeks later, we were engaged to be married, with the intent of being married sometime between January and March- so that we would have been married approximately six months before everything was thrown upside down and we relocated. In January, he learned he had been accepted into AFIT and we would be moving. It was also in January when he went back to working nights. The way his current position works is that he works 3 months days/3 months nights. I hated it when we were dating, but eventually I was able to somewhat adjust my sleep schedule, so I at least go to see him. :) He went back to days in March around the time we got married, and we are still waiting to hear if he will go back to nights in July (it would be hard, since he'd be starting outprocessing stuff at that point). In addition to his crazy schedule, he is literally always on call. Leave is pretty much the only time we are "safe" for him to not get called in. It's only happened a few times, but it really stinks when you are in the middle of a fun date day on a day your husband is off, and he gets a call telling him that they need him to report for duty. Granted, its always been just a little paperwork thing, and he comes home a few hours later, but it stinks to know that you can't go more than a certain distance away without leave.

I was reading an article the other day that was complaining about how military members and their dependents got all sorts of "free" stuff- healthcare (which, I should add- it's required that any full time buisness offer healthcare. Yes, ours is free. But, I can tell you that there is a reason it is free- its a huge hassle, there are multi-week waits to get into see a doctor, EVERYTHING has to be preapproved unless you are dying, and most non-on base doctors that accept Tricare are terrible), the commissary (yes, it's tax free, but I promise that it's not always cheaper), on base rec facilities and work out rooms (okay, that is a pretty nice perk- but I've never used them, so I have nothing to complain about). In response to these complaints from the Washington Post and others, this blog wrote:

Service members, retirees and their families, the tone says, are acting like privileged brats for expecting, accepting and clinging to the benefits which encourage them to stay military or even to join in the first place. In fact, the tone says, it is a waste of tax payer money to meet military personnel needs or even give nice-to-haves in exchange for keeping them around. Service members are overpaid, coddled low-skill workers who should not be given compensation for the inconveniences of military life, but who should still be expected to do their jobs anyway. It’s a tone that says if you had to join the military to make it through life you are, logically, a substandard American worker and you do not warrant compensation in excess or even equal to the civilian market. Civilians are people who have choices and didn’t take the easy out of Uncle Sam. Military are people who are living off the tax payer.

Okay...I get it, we are living off of the tax payer.  But isn't that the point? Aren't presidents and governors and senators and other political people living off of the tax payer? I don't view it like I view Medicaid/Medicare (even though most doctors and pharmacies do!)- how I view it is like this: Service members put their lives on the line every day. They are in control of nothing- a commander can tell you that you are moving to this squadron or this job and all of your hours will change. You can get deployed with very little notice. You have to move every few years. Military members and their dependents give up a lot of things- some have to sacrifice more, due to their assignments. Not all service members are uneducated- to be an officer, you have to have a college degree (I think...don't quote me on this). My husband was enlisted, then he decided to go to the Academy. That's a prep school year, and four years of college-at a service academy. With his degree, he could be doing well in the corporate world (not to say that we aren't doing well, but you know what I mean- it wasn't like he joined the air force because it would be easy and he didn't want to flip burgers). It took hard work and perseverance to get to where he is today. I don't think that any rational person would look at his accomplishments and say that he was a "substandard American worker" or a "overpaid, coddled low-skill worker". I don't think he took the easy way out, I don't think we took the easy way out. The way I see it, not only does he work a high stress job, we also get to PCS (move) every two or three years. This means that our kids will most likely go to at least four to six different schools. This means we will be moving and selling and renting all the time (until he retires, of course). This means that our kids won't be able to grow up down the road from either set of their grandparents. This means that I get to find a new therapist every two years (which is normally a minimum set of time for me to actually get used to one).

So yes, Washington Post writers- you are paying for my "healthcare" and my kids schooling (if we go to DOD schools). Yes, you are funding a commissary and workout facilities. Yes, you are paying for various services to be provided to us on base for free or minimal cost. But really, what would you do without us? What would you do without brave men and women fighting for your freedom to write that article and to say those statements? You get to stay in your comfy little house in your comfortable community while other men and women leave their families for months on end to keep you safe. Sure, you don't have a guaranteed job- but, if you want one...who knows...the military might offer someone was "substandard" and "low skilled" as you a guaranteed job- if you are willing to sacrifice for it.

Sorry for this whiney-MILSO post. I generally try to avoid stuff life this, but today it just bottled up. I don't want to move. I like our house now that it's all prettyfied. I like our town. I like being close to my family. I don't like the idea of having to keep my house super clean so that it can be ready for a showing at any given time. I don't like the idea of moving 9 hours away to a place I've never been. But, I'm doing these hard things anyways. I'm packing up our stuff. I'm researching places to rent. I'm doing everything my mind is telling me that it doesn't want to do- because I love my husband and I promised on our wedding day that I'd "follow and support [him] wherever God…or the United States Air Force…calls [him] to go." The sacrifices that this military wife life requires are worth it, because it keeps our freedoms, our children's freedoms, and our children's children's freedoms alive.

What I Wish You Knew: Anxiety

I skipped church again last Sunday. And the Sunday before that. And the Sunday before that. To be honest, I haven't attended a service in months. I wish you knew that I hate this. I wish you understood how much I hate this, how much I really, really hate the control anxiety has over my life. I wish you understood how crippling anxiety really is. I want so badly to be “better”- to be able to go places and do things. But, I get so anxious that it literally pains me to sit still. My hands and legs won’t stop shaking. Sitting still, as is expected by an adult in church, is excruciating- both physically and mentally. When I do make it to church, I have to leave. This is extremely embarrassing.

Why do I struggle so much at church? Many reasons- the amount of people, the unknown, the fear of judgement, the fear of God, the fear that a pastor is once again going to call anxiety a sin and make me feel like a bad person. All of this makes walking through the church doors extremely difficult and sitting through services seems impossible. I feel hopeless. I want to go to church- it’s the “good Christian girl” thing to do- but I cannot make myself do it. I was reading a blog the other day that was talking about how churches could be more inclusive to children, teens, and adults with special needs. I think these paragraphs explain quite perfectly why I don't going out trying new churches every Sunday in hopes that I'll find one, and why I'm not looking forward to that process once we move to Ohio. If you are a ministry leader, I encourage you to think of these things:

Signage is an important component of any review of ministry environments. Are directions clear and simple? Do they avoid “insider lingo?” For example, a visitor to my church wouldn’t know that our large group children’s ministry is “Upstreet” or that “Circle of Friends” is our special needs ministry.
As someone with ADD and a history of anxiety/depression, I wish I could impress how simple and effective it is to clearly communicate traffic patterns, church campus and parking entrances and parking directions with signage–even mapped on websites. I’ve had this discussion with many friends and was relieved to learn I wasn’t alone but surprised that churches generally know about the issues but fail to address.
I’ve visited churches and left before reaching the parking lot if the traffic was overly stimulating and the parking lot was confusing and poorly marked. I’ve turned around in a parking lot if I couldn’t find the correct entrance after parking and leaving my car. Imagine having a panic attack with a car of family, forcing yourself to go in while wanting to cry in the bathroom–avoidable with clear signs and a good map on a website. I’ve prioritized visiting churches over others because their websites and info provided clear campus maps for first-timers. I’ve found I’m not the only one–and I’m a committed, life-long church attendee who prioritizes the community component. I couldn’t imagine being new to the church experience–it almost wouldn’t be worth attending church in person.

I wish you understood that my anxiety is out of my control right now and I can’t help it. I’m trying my hardest, but it’s not always enough. I'm taking my meds, I'm going to therapy, I'm practicing my DBT and stress tolerance skills. But sometimes, it is just too much. I want you to know that some days I can't get out of bed in the morning. Some days, I just lie in bed for hours, thinking of all of the things that I have to do that day, thinking of all of the people I might have to encounter, thinking of the places that I might have to go. I know- I used to be okay with large groups. They weren’t my favorite, but I could handle them. I wish you understood that my anxiety comes in phases. I can do things one day and not be able to do it the next.

I wish you could see and understand that this is not how I want to live. It’s not always a choice. I did not choose this illness, this disease. My body is forcing me to act this way. My brain doesn't function right. There's a chemical imbalance. I don’t know how to fix it. It’s really scary sometimes. I wish you could understand how physically uncomfortable my anxiety is. If you see me twitching or moving or having trouble sitting still, offer me grace. If you see me walk out of service, try not be be distracted or draw attention to me. Please, don't judge me. I'm trying. I'm trying.

I wish you understood that anxiety isn’t a joke or a laughing matter. Panic disorder and social anxiety are scary and hard- they definitely aren’t something to joke about. They are painful and sometimes they make you feel like you are going to die or that dying would be better. It is hard to live this way. I would never choose to live this path, but it’s the path I’ve been given- so I’m trying to accept it. It is serious and it’s my life right now. I’m struggling to accept it- but I am surviving. Please don't make this any more difficult by making jokes at my expense- or at the expense of ANYONE that has an anxiety disorder, not everyone verbalizes their anxieties- some people keep it hidden for years and years. And please, please, please...if you are a pastor of some sort- never ever ever make an anxiety joke from the pulpit. That's the number one way to get me to walk out of church and never come back.