When Self-Care Slips

These are my tells:

A glass of wine with dinner becomes two, becomes a bottle. I spend more and more time on social media. I eat until my stomach hurts, then I eat some more. I snap at the kids; I hear myself snap; I tell myself to stop; I don't stop.

I've been through this before. The difference is that now I recognize it happening. I pull myself out of the nosedive before I crash. This morning, as soon as P had the water boiled for his coffee, I put on my running shoes and went for a run. I check myself on social media: before I fall down the rabbit hole of reading about two more black men murdered by cops in the States, I shut it down (but do I also have an obligation to look? I have the luxury of not reading, of not being personally affected, of knowing that cops will keep me safe. This is a whole other post. I have to take care of myself, too.)

Tonight, I won't have even one glass of wine, because it opens a door I'm not able to shut right now. After the kids go to sleep, I might meditate. I might work on some poems. Even though I've lost my daily writing practice, I haven't lost the poems. They come out of me, the words a migraine pulse in my head. The only difference between now and two years ago is that now, I listen. I stop and I write those words down. So even though writing isn't a part of my daily routine, it is there. I won't ignore that part of myself any longer. I've got three poems on the go that I'm almost ready to send out. I'm waiting to hear back from three other publications, too. I keep at it, doggedly.

I see these patterns in myself, when I'm not taking care of me. I overdo it on other things. Sometimes it seems like an effort to feel something: that's the overeating. Eating until I'm uncomfortable, until I feel sick, until I have no choice but to feel my body. And sometimes it seems like an effort to numb out all of the overwhelm I feel every day, to check out. I've written about that before. It's the social media, primarily. But now that I'm a year postpartum and the baby doesn't nurse so much anymore, it's the drinking, too.

So here I am, clawing my way back before it goes too far. And if I'm being grateful as a way to self-care, then I am grateful that I now recognize when things are slipping. I'm grateful that I don't need someone else to point it out for me. I sometimes feel that I need someone to hold me accountable; something I loved about therapy is that it was hard for me to sit down across from my therapist week after week, complaining about the same thing and never making a change. I don't have that checkpoint anymore: I have to provide it for myself. And maybe being honest about it on the internet, and with my partner and with my friends, can be that check, too.  But mostly it's me. Nobody else is going to tell me to go for a run or sit down and meditate or write. I have to take care of myself first. It's the hardest lesson to learn, and I'm learning it still.

Coming Out of Survival Mode

On Sunday, P came home from what was supposed to be a month away from us. I must have been out of my mind when I said "Yeah, I can handle a month with the kids. This is a good plan!" In reality, I lasted approximately 8 days before texting him this message: "I don't know how I'll last another 3 weeks." Shortly after that S.O.S. he changed his flights and a month became 2 weeks.

But in those two weeks, and in the stressful, making-huge-life-decisions weeks preceding, I'd all but lost my hard-won new habits. The daily writing practice, the nightly meditation, the reduced social media time, the "I'm gonna learn to run!" resolve (in fairness to myself, I hurt my ankle)...all of that stopped. I was in crisis-survival mode. After we decided we needed to return to Dawson, to pack up and move once again across the country, away from the support system we'd built in the last 18 months, my brain had had enough. Comfort food, comfort interneting, all of the familiar escapes became large again.

And that's okay. As my dear friend reminded me one day: "It's not like you're shooting heroin. Go on Facebook!" Sometimes we just need to get through it, right?

But here I am, my partner downstairs with the kids (minus one who is playing with a basket of rocks on the bed behind me). I'm not working on any poems because that's a little much, but I'm blogging. And in the hour before dinner prep begins tonight, I'll go out for a walk, test out my ankle and hopefully get back to my learn to run program. And maybe just before the bedtime rush, I'll slip away to sit in quiet meditation for 10 minutes.

And I'll try to check myself each time I feel the urge to pop in to social media. I'll try to bring myself back into the present moment, the only thing that's real, the only thing that matters.

Outside my window it's beautiful: a few clouds high in the sky, the leaves swelling on the maple trees, sunlight and shadow patterning the lawns and spring gardens. This fills me up. It buoys me in the present.

Even though I've let the good things slide in the past month, those foundations are still there. The roots are still healthy. I just need to water them and revive the wilting leaves.

Gratitude

Last week, my creative slump came to an end. I was sitting in the rocking chair, watching the kids play, looking out at a peach coloured sunrise, and the beginnings of a poem crept into my mind. I jotted some things down and then waited impatiently for P to get up, have his first cup of coffee, and relieve me so I could run upstairs and write.

Ending a fallow period of writing is like, if you'll allow the adult comparison, having sex after a long dry spell. It is that basic, that animal, of a feeling. For me, at least. It's a few weeks of nothing and then suddenly: a rush, a flurry, the inspiration sweeping me along, words beating in my brain; the feeling that this is finally going to happen. The dash to the bedroom, to the desk, fumbling at the laptop, the pen lid, the button on a shirt. The pouring fourth across the page, across the screen. The high and then, the slow come-down.

Ah.  Relief. I expect the clouds to open in heavy rain, the birds singing from sheltered perches in the trees.

I am grateful. Let my heart fill with gratitude for this return of words. Of course I knew they'd come. I glow with my thanks. I carry it over into my day. Thank you, Muse, thank you, Inspiration, for visiting me again. I'm always here, listening, ready. Writing like this is like communion, it is natural and also sacred; sex and life and love. It doesn't always happen like that, the burst of inspiration, but when it does, it's magic.

Now is the real work of going back over that inspired piece, which is always a bit messy. There are parts of it that are downright cliched, but in editing I work them over to bring out the truth, the essence of what I was trying to say. Sometimes in those hurried inspired times, I resort to cliche as a sort of shorthand. It can be frustrating to try and root out the right words, but I'm learning to enjoy the revision as much as the initial burst of writing.

I'm looking down the nose of a week of solo parenting, and so my writing slips from a regular practice to something I have to try and fit in where I can. I feel like there are so many things I'm trying to "fit in where I can", and they all feel important to me. I've been trying to begin a regular yoga practice, even just 20 minutes a day, and I'm trying to meditate for 10 minutes after the kids go to bed. Plus keep up with the several books I usually have on the go, favourite blogs, this blog, and oh yeah, those three kids...it all feels like so much, but I guess another way to look at it is with gratitude. I'm grateful that I even have the freedom and luxury to be considering all of these things (writing! yoga! meditation!) in my life. Self-care has become such a huge priority these days, and having a partner who works from home and can help facilitate all of this is a real gift.



This post is a part of the What I'm Writing link-up.

Self-Care is (Still) Hard

This past weekend, a week into a ten day stint of solo parenting, I left all three kids with my parents while I walked to Wortley Village. I stopped in at the health food store, I made a quick trip to the library, I bought a tea and found a sunny bench in the church garden. And I found myself sipping my too-hot tea, burning my tongue, and reading the first few poems in my book without even really reading them. 

Because self-care is still really hard for me. I felt like this time was undeserved. I felt like I had to rush to get back to my parents' place. Like for sure the kids, Charlotte in particular, were all perishing without me. I was tense, just waiting for my phone to buzz with a message from my mom saying "you'd better come home".  

I had a similar experience a few weeks ago. I went to a yoga class one Sunday evening, leaving all three kids with P and my parents. So one adult per kid. It's a fair ratio! But through the entire class I just could not relax. I could not still my thoughts; instead, I spent the entire time picturing Charlotte screaming, tear stained face. I rushed out of the class when it was over, raced home and burst through the door to hear...nothing. No crying baby, no freaking out toddler. Maybe a little laughter, the sound of the t.v. Of course everyone was fine without me. 

So back to the church garden, and that sunny bench with my tea and book of poems. I stopped myself. I took a few slow, deep breaths. I closed my eyes, felt the warmth of the day. And reminded myself that everyone would be okay without me for awhile. In fact, they would be better without me.

We all know that in order to keep at the hard work of pouring ourselves into these little people day after day, we have to stop and fill ourselves up, too. No one seems to talk much about how hard it is, though. How making time for self-care often feels illicit. It is so difficult to just shut down that part of our brain that is constantly thinking about the next diaper change, the next snack time, the next melt-down, and just sink into the moment and take care of ourselves. 

I'm going to keep at it, though. I might continue the practice of checking in with myself, taking a few grounding breaths before I do whatever it is I'm doing. What about you? Do you struggle with self-care? Are you getting better at it? Or do you find yourself, like me, rushing through it so you can check that off your list, too? 

Writing, Life

The past week was an exciting one for me in terms of writing. I met with UWO's writer-in-residence, Tanis Rideout, to go over some of my recent poems. She was so warm and encouraging and gave me some really helpful pointers for tightening up my work; suggestions that seemed general at the outset ("get rid of everything you don't need!") but that just clicked for me. I've been reworking everything I've written recently with these things in mind, being ruthless, looking at my poems line by line rather than just as a whole. Questioning each word, what does it do for the poem, what tone does it set, is there a better way to say this? I love the way a little nudge like that can just open up a whole new way of seeing. I'm going to submit these revised poems to another round of literary magazines, hoping to find them a home.

Over the weekend, London had its 2nd annual Words Fest, a festival celebrating all things wordy. I was able to take in a reading on Saturday morning at Museum London. It was invigorating for me to be among other writers, and especially to hear some localish authors read from newly published works. My favourite was Carolyn Smart, reading from her new collection of poems: Careen. Her reading was powerful and I picked up the book, a dramatic rendering of the story of Bonnie and Clyde.  I'm most of the way through it already and I'm really loving it.

Through all of this it's become clear to me that I want to connect with other writers, poets, creatives. I desperately need to share that part of myself with others who get it: who get the process, the struggle, the thrill of a new idea. Who can look at something I've written and offer constructive criticism. I think there is a thriving writers community here in London. Later this month I'm going to try to attend a meeting of the London Writer's Society in hopes of finding a critique group, and some day...when I can be away from babies and stay awake past 8 pm, I'd like to attend one of the poetry open mics hosted by Poetry London.

I see it as being a long road, but I feel my feet are firmly planted upon it and if you're still reading this blog, you'll get to come along for the ride. I suppose I see this space as focusing mostly on my journey as a writer. If you came here strictly for the baby stuff, and you don't wish to follow along further, then thank you for coming this far, at least.

I think I've found my writing time, though. In making the best of being up at 5 am with the littles every day, I've started slipping away for an hour around 7, once P is awake and we've both had some caffeine, back up to the bedroom where I write for an hour. I've always loved mornings best, and of all the times I've tried out in the last couple of months, this feels the easiest. I think it's something I can maintain. And having that writing time in the morning makes it easier for me to be present and engaged with the kids the rest of the day, something I've been working on, too.

I started this blog lamenting the loss of myself in motherhood, but over the last 6 months I see myself reclaiming my identity as writer, a poet, and that is inextricably tied to my recovery from PPD. A year ago, I was merely surviving, dreading having a third child, totally overwhelmed and depressed. Today I see myself as being on the brink of thriving, and I am so deeply grateful for that!



One year ago, heading out of the Yukon.