Choosing Marriage

I cringe every time I hear the words, “marriage is just a piece of paper” or hear marriage referred to as an antiquated contract. Sure, there are legal ramifications that only accompany a marital bond. There is also the religious institution of marriage that may lack validity to those who classify themselves as agnostic, atheist, or non-religious.  But, marriage is what you make it.  As I see it, marriage is ultimately about choosing someone to become your family. 

After more than ten years of marriage, I still become teary-eyed when I realize that Mike is my family because we chose to make it so. I was thoroughly committed to him for the six years preceding our wedding, but marriage is deeper than just commitment or monogamy.  For me, marriage has been a patient journey toward unconditional love and acceptance of my spouse and myself. 

Most other familial relationships exist because of birth and relation. As a result, there is likely already a foundational love of that family member before hardships are endured and flaws are recognized.  Marriage is a special exception to that. It is a unique opportunity to make a person your family, inclusive of every strength, every weakness, every perfection, and every flaw. It is vowing to a person that you have chosen them to be forever part of your lineage, regardless of the number of years married. Marriage is not always simple, nor is it always certain. When life is difficult and overshadows my marriage, it is not the paper certificate locked away in my fire safe that brings me solace. It is my husband, my chosen family, that brings me comfort. All legal, religious, and contractual implications could be removed from marriage and I would still choose Mike to be my family day after day. As long as marriage remains the path to making that so, I will continue to denounce the "marriage is just a piece of paper" argument. 

More Than My Anxiety

Crippling.

Overwhelming.

Frightening.

Consuming.

Suffocating.

Anxiety is all of these and more. I have struggled with anxiety since pre-adolescence, with it peaking when I turned 15. At that time, I was medicated for depression, which helped manage my anxiety, but by no means controlled it. For the seven subsequent years, I remained medicated, but anxiety always lurked over my shoulder. Whenever I felt the anxiety building, I would shrink inside of myself and make a mental note to avoid whatever situation had stirred it up. Just before I turned 22, I was sure that I had overcome both my depression and anxiety and I chose to discontinue my medication under doctor's supervision. That's when my real work began.

I abruptly realized that the anxiety I had blamed on erratic adolescent hormones was still very much present. Most frightening of all, I had not spent the effort developing coping mechanisms to recognize and quell it. I quickly succumbed to the fact that my anxiety was stronger than me. I resolved that I was weak. I was caught off guard by frequent panic attacks. I was enveloped in anxiety that holed me up inside of my house and inhibited my personal growth. But, I unhealthily suppressed my emotions, avoided reaching out for help, and forced myself to keep smiling.

Then, I became pregnant and my anxiety grew to ever-present heights. I was acutely aware that I was always one trigger away from a panic attack or searching for a giant rock to hide under. Yet, still, I was too stubborn and ashamed to admit my struggles and just kept smiling despite my inner turmoil. Just a few months after Danica was born, clouded by countless sleepless nights and surmounting anxieties, I shouted unspeakable words at my husband. After my emotional explosion, I sat in the silent shadows nursing my infant daughter and promised her that I would find a way to be better. I had hit my limit. I was at my mental rock bottom. The next morning, I bared my heart to my husband, which is something I should have done years sooner. I then began researching my anxiety with an open mind and enlisted the support of a trusted psychologist. 

In the years since then, I have taken a proactive attitude toward my anxiety and have come to respect it. It is an ongoing journey that requires continuous adaptation. But, I have learned:

1. Anxiety is not my weakness, nor does it define me. It is a characteristic of myself, in the same way that I have brown eyes and a tendency to giggle uncontrollably when I'm tickled. It is not shameful, it is just a trait that sometimes creates obstacles. 

2. Anxiety has allowed me to learn how to recognize my true triggers. It is not the sink full of dishes that will hurl me into a panic attack. It is the feelings of inadequacy I have been swallowing, coupled with feeling like I have a full plate with no outlet, sprinkled with the dozens of other tasks that also need to be completed. Recognizing the root cause allows me to be proactive and verbalize my struggle, which pulls me away from my anxiety spiral. 

3. Anxiety has helped me become a great organizer and multi-tasker. Frankly, making lists and staying organized helps me better control it. When my anxiety is better controlled, my head is clear enough to enlist the necessary coping mechanisms and support to prevent it from getting on top of me. 

4. My struggles have gifted me the intuition to see that my daughter's irritability is not pure defiance, it is anxiety. As a manager of my own anxiety, I hope to model techniques and impart my learned tools onto her. 

5. Anxiety has reinforced the value of introspection and stress management. Prioritizing time for my own solitude is an invaluable gift. Keeping my daily stresses managed through talking about my feelings, deep breathing, and exercise has been a life changer. Rather than allowing my emotions to explode, I can digest the stress and effectively work my way through it.

Sometimes it still feels inescapable, but my anxiety has proven that I have the wherewithal to move beyond it. Perhaps my anxiety has been a gift that has just taken time and patience to unwrap.

In the Blink of an Eye

As Danica and Addy twirled in front of me and declared themselves a rock band named D ‘n’ A, Addy asked me, “Mama, why did you just squeeze your eyes closed?” A short while later, as Danica gushed about her plans to someday visit Yew Nork, I squeezed my eyes closed again. A few days passed, and as I heard both girls belly laughing from another room, I caught myself tightly closing my eyes once again. 

This eye-closing phenomenon isn’t from my pesky dry eyes.  It is something that happens each time a tiny, but beautiful, memory is created. It is equal parts squeezing back my tears and trying my hardest to seal a moment into the depths of my memory. Those depths are the banks I will draw upon for my lifetime. For those fractions of a second, the world shrinks to just us. The stack of dirty dishes disappears. The toys scattered throughout the room no longer matter. The deadlines and schedules and daily routines cease to exist for those milliseconds. And in place of those mundane symptoms of parenting, all that is left are the fantastical slices that matter.   

Decades from now, when Mike and I sit alone in a quiet home, I want to squeeze my eyes closed and relish in the memories of belly laughs, mispronounced words, and my sweethearts loving life in ways only a child can appreciate. When fast paces and busy routines turn into unrecognizable calm and solitude, I hope I will have squeezed enough of the precious memories into that reflective keepsake part of my brain. In those later years, I don’t want my pride to come from my bank account, the size of my home, or a stellar work attendance record. I want to know in my heart that I spent my life enjoying the sprinkles of time of that mean the most.  

 

The Forgotten Thank You's

It is no secret that motherhood bounds with love and selflessness. But the extent of those extraordinary characteristics was not fully fathomable to me until having children of my own. So, to my mom, here are just a few of the thousands of forgotten thank you's:

Thank you for not fearing the what-if's and choosing to give me life.

Thank you for nursing me longer than you planned to.

Thank you for letting me sleep in your bed far longer than you ever expected.

Thank you for listening when I told you how much I despised bowling school.

Thank you for understanding that I didn't really mean it all the times I told you you looked ugly when you were getting ready to go out with Daddy. The truth is, I thought you looked beautiful but I knew I would miss you while you were away.

Thank you for not making me wear the pink jeans.

Thank you for taking the time to help me find the pants that weren't bouncy.

Thank you for not laughing when I came home with my "fabulous" haircut.

Thank you for immediately taking me to the salon to fix said fabulous haircut.

Thank you for always telling me I was beautiful, even when I didn't believe you and just rolled my eyes.

Thank you for the cake when I got my first period.

Thank you for letting me make my own mistakes.  

Thank you for trusting me when I said my headaches were getting worse.

Thank you for getting me the help I needed to work through my depression.

Thank you for tolerating the side effects of my anti-depressants.

Thank you for taking action when I spiraled to my darkest place yet.

Thank you for teaching me to trust my instincts, and more importantly, trust my body. 

Thank you for your excitement when I decided I was ready to be married.

Thank you for being an important part of my daughters' lives.  

Thank you for your patience, your kindness, your laughter. 

Thank you for letting me vent when I need to.

Thank you for teaching me the therapeutic effect of the word "fuck".

Thank you for always making me feel beautiful and special and smart. 

Above all, thank you for always making sure I know just how much you love me.

Happy Mom's Day...I love you. 

The Quilt

After we brought Danica home from the hospital in July 2008, she quickly began outgrowing her clothes. Every time she outgrew an outfit, I would tuck it away in a bin in my closet. We had no solid plans for another child, but I was too emotionally tied to part with them. Danica has always done everything with gusto, including growth spurts, so one bin quickly became four. My hoarding saving worked in our favor, because we eventually had a second daughter that was born in May 2012.  Yet still, as Addy outgrew each outfit, I returned them to the bins instead of donating them. There were not underlying plans for another child, but I was still unable to part with them. As time stretched on, I donated some items and passed some along to friends and family, but the bulk of my daughters' clothes sat in bins in my over-crowded closet.

Over time, I started to realize that those clothes symbolized my what-if's. What if I'm not done having babies? What if we decide that three is our number? Or maybe four? What if we have a surprise pregnancy? I certainly wouldn't want to have parted with all of these clothes! My mind was littered with justifications. Eventually, my logic set in and I realized that those clothes were not my attempts at frugality "just in case", but me holding onto the possibility of another baby. Another pregnancy. Another Akers child. Another chance to see the wondrous ways Mike's DNA mingles with mine.

For many reasons, two is definitely our number. But, I still have a hard time accepting what that truly means. I will never again feel the tiny flutters of a baby in my womb. I will never again rest a hand on my swollen belly and whisper promises to my unborn child. I will never again notice waves of contractions and wonder if "this is it". I will never again experience the exhilarating surrealism of labor. I will never again sing Happy Birthday to my brand new baby as she lies on my chest and takes her first breaths. I will never again feel the pride and awe of my daughter latching to nurse for the first time. I am beyond toothless grins and first words. There will be no more three a.m. breastfeedings and strange popcorn smelling diaper blow-outs. No more chubby legs crawling towards an unsuspecting doggy. No more cautious first steps and sing-song babblings. I love babies. I most especially love my babies. I thought, or maybe hoped, that I would feel an overwhelming sense of being done having children. But that's not the case, and I have finally realized it may never be. I may never be without that ache of longing. Having our babies was the first time my heart felt it's fullest. It is when my love for each of them, my husband, and myself grew to capacities I never knew existed. Why wouldn't I want to experience that over and over?

To help me commemorate those indescribable months of growing and meeting my children, I decided to keep each of the outfits that hold my most cherished memories and pass along the rest. Instead of keeping them in a bin for decades, though, I decided to piece them into a quilt. A quilt just the right size for snuggling with my once upon a babies. I know many people far more experienced than me that could have completed it more quickly and beautifully than I did. But this project was therapeutic for me and I alone needed to complete it. I shed many tears and a few too many expletives. I mastered my seam ripper and spent many hours with my once-feared sewing machine. But, I did it. I finished the quilt and I look forward to our years to come with a fresh perspective. I don't want to spend all my energy pondering the what-if's. Instead, I want to spend my time enjoying the children I have and seeing the amazing people they are growing into. They still have a lot of life and love to teach me about.

When Threesomes Work

My marriage is a threesome and I wouldn't have it any other way. Our elusive third wheel is not some seductive temptress or charming, studly man. Instead, our third wheel is bipolar disorder. My husband was diagnosed almost two years ago, but the impact of bipolar has been with us since the start of our relationship. 

Those with bipolar have an emotional brilliance unlike anyone else. The emotionality that most of us require years to experience, can be lived and learned from in the course of a month during a rapid cycle. It is like learning a life changing lesson on 16x fast forward in the midst of a misunderstanding world. Because it is a different path, it sometimes feels wrong and oftentimes feels lonely.

If you Google "bipolar marriage statistics" you will be slapped in the face with gloom. It is estimated that 90% of bipolar marriages end in divorce. It is thought to be one of the most difficult challenges in a relationship. Books, articles, websites, and mental health experts all spout the immense hardships of remaining with a bipolar spouse. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible to find a positive outlook on the topic. Welcome to a fresh perspective:

Loving a bipolar spouse is like an elevator ride in a high rise, blindfolded. No matter where you start from, the ground feels stable. You know your surroundings and you feel safe. When you hear the doors close, you know you are going for a ride. Many times, that ride becomes a plummet. Your stomach drops and you know you are heading downward. You have no idea how far down or how long the ride will take. You might reach for the emergency stop, but it's not in the same location for every ride. You both keep reaching, and one of you will find it eventually. When you do find it, your ride may idle for a bit. Take this as a chance to catch your breath. You are still safe. 

Each time you go for this ride, you will acquire new tools to help you navigate. When you use your tools to return to your stable place, revel in it. This is the plateau. Take this time to thoroughly communicate with your spouse. Use this opportunity to build up your arsenal of mutual love, compassion, and understanding. Make this your home base and agree to always return here. 

Sometimes, when you hop back on that elevator, your ride soars high. It is usually a take-your-breath-away kind of ride. You are still blindfolded, but the building anticipation is infectious. When you reach the top and the doors open, peel off your blindfold and enjoy the view together. This isn't a solo ride. Look around, hand in hand, and soak in the experience. Just remember to return back to your home base together. 

You know that new love giddiness and playfulness that happens at the start of a relationship, when the level of attraction and connectedness is so intense? We experience that again every time we return to a plateau. Every time. It is pure bliss to experience that with the love of your life repeatedly. The peaks, the valleys, and the beautiful plateaus make us who we are. We don't get stuck in the mundane, because life carries us elsewhere before we have a chance to get bored. Bipolar will never define our marriage, but it will always be the third wheel reminding us that some statistics can fuck off.