I was listening to a conversation from my work yesterday (every Monday morning, Beachbody holds a "National Wake Up Call" where you can listen in, learn tools of the trade, hear other people's stories, catch up on the latest company news...you get the drift.) and the coach they were interviewing this week said something that really caught me.
"Turn your 'mess' into a 'message.'"
I think it's kind of genius, myself.
But, here's the hard part. How do I got about doing that? Won't talking about my "mess" mean putting the difficult parts of my life right out there? Doesn't that mean I'd have to share some of the darker times in my life for others to see?
Umm, well, yes. I guess that's kind of the point, though, isn't it? None of us are perfect. Not even close to it. And who knows, someone someday might hear my story and realise there
is hope out there.
So, here goes nothing:
*****
Growing up, I was always very slender and athletic. If there was a tree to be climbed, I was generally climbing it; I preferred to run rather than walk anywhere; I rode my bike for hours, cruised on my skateboard, roller bladed all over the neighbourhood...you name it! And then came my college years where I suddenly found myself a competitive swimmer! I broke state records, trained for hours a day, cross trained rigorously and loved every second of it!
I became known around campus as one of those "crazy swimmers" that always had wet hair in class, with shoulders so broad that sleeves struggled and strained to cap them (I usually just gave up and wore a tank top), my "perfume" of choice was chlorine, I had shockingly bad tan lines, and spent post-workout classes trying to drink down vile protein shakes or cardboard power bars.
...and then came the Olympics talk.
My coach (a former Olympian himself) felt so confident in my abilities, we started seriously discussing training even harder for a six month period to qualify for the 2008 Olympic preliminaries. And then, just when I had really made the decision to go for it, I got sick.
OK, "sick" is the understatement of the century. I was fighting for my life. I lost over ten pounds of muscle in a few days, and continued to lose it at an alarming rate; I was in horrific, unimaginable pain, my muscles were literally bursting and desintigrating on a cellular level, my kidneys were failing...every single type of muscle in my body (skeletal, smooth and cardiac) was falling apart. I was told by a number of specialists that, at the rate my body was failing, I would only have a few weeks.Thankfully, that rate of degeneration slowed because...well, here I am, today!
I was stuck in bed for months. Some days I was so weak and
incapacitated that I couldn't even crawl down the hallway to the
bathroom without my mother's help. And no one, none of the specialists from some of the best hospitals in California could find an explanation. One thing I did know for certain, though: my swimming future was over.
Life throws us curve-balls all the time, doesn't it? But, that old saying is true: when one door closes, another opens. Fast-forward a few (crazy!) years again and I found myself married to a wonderful man and expecting our first child! It was quite a powerful moment the day that I realised if I hadn't developed my muscle disease, my life would have been very, very different...
We were so thrilled to be expecting our first daughter. We eagerly picked out a beautiful name, dutifully read "What To Expect When You're Expecting," chose out her "Coming Home Outfit," blissfully thought about what she would look like...and then came the headaches. Hideous, nausea-inducing migraines that left me reeling and feeling spent as soon as the aura glowed in my vision. The swelling was close behind. I suddenly found my feet swelling so dramatically that shoes were almost an impossibility, my fingers so swollen I spent twenty minutes to try and work my wedding ring off so I could wear it on a chain around my neck...even my nose swelled up! I was beyond miserable. I was in constant pain, aching from the terrible swelling, constantly fatigued, and there was no relief.
Then we had an terrifying early labour scare and I was put on bed rest. No improvement to my life there. Now I was bored AND miserable. And the swelling didn't stop. I made weekly trips to my obstetrician's office...then multiple times a week as they watched my migraines, monitored my swelling and documented my elevating blood pressure: preeclampsia, they said.
That's right about when I hit my first low point. Standing on the scale in the office (which is already had enough, right?) two days before a schedule induction, I received a comment from the medical assistant: "210 pounds. Oh my gosh! You've gotten HUGE! That's borderline obese for someone your height! What the heck happened to you?!" and then she oh! so thoughtfully brought me a stack of Weight Watchers magazines while I was having a non-stress test accompanied by a magnanimous "Here, you'll want these for after you have your baby."
I felt hopeless.
I struggled to fight back a wave of sobs and tears as I lay on the bed during the test, sinking into deeper and deeper unhappiness.
Thankfully, I went into labour only a few short hours later and had my daughter early the following morning, so I never had to see
her again. :)
Very few photos exist of me in those first postpartum days. I hid from the camera, cringing at pictures of myself, my self-esteem crumbling quickly and disappearing away. Who was this woman, I wondered, whenever I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Who was this woman? No one I knew, I thought. The Veronica I knew was strong, confident; she could run five miles easily, rock-climbing was an exhilarating past-time, making friends was effortless...this person, this stranger was a mess.
I disappeared far into that dark hole of postpartum depression, gasping and struggling for air; I was miserable. No, I was more than miserable. I was lost. I thought there was just no way I could recover, no way I would ever rediscover my "former self." I wondered how anyone could ever have more than one child when they were so desperately unhappy. And then, in the midst of all of this, we made the decision to move overseas so my husband could attend graduate school here in Austria. We sold off most of our belongings, packed up and saved a few of the favourites, moved out of our first apartment and bounced around between family members' homes while we prepared to leave.
And then some time around midnight between June 30th and July 1st, while staying at my brother-in-law's home, three and a half months after Little Bear was born, I felt suddenly nauseous, my sense of smell became alarmingly acute and the home pregnancy test came up positive
while I was taking it.
"This can
not be happening." I was such a disaster of emotions: angry, depressed, confused, in denial... Postpartum depression slid seamlessly into prenatal depression while I continued to struggle with my lack of self-esteem.
In mid-August, six weeks after we discovered I was pregnant, Papa L left for Europe on his own. My brother was getting married at the end of October and we couldn't afford for us to travel back and forth between the two countries so we determined that it was best for Papa L to go ahead of Little Bear and I, settle into the school year and our new home and wait for us to join him at the end of October so that I could celebrate my brother's wedding with the rest of my family. Those were ten long, difficult weeks spent in constant conflict and unhappiness with myself, my depression, my struggle to embrace this new little life inside of me, counting down the days until Papa L, Little Bear and I were together again....dark days I am grateful are behind me.
Finally the day came when Baby Tiger joined us: on Valentine's Day, no less. Poor boy. Just shy of eleven months after Little Bear was born. I became hopeful that, perhaps this time around my hormones would finally balance themselves and I could avoid plunging deeper into that dreaded postpartum depression. But, there it was, rearing its ugly head in no time. Even worse and more ugly than before. Somehow, thought, I had actually managed to
lose weight during my pregnancy, so that gave me a ray of hope.
I was determined to heal: physically, emotionally, psychologically...So, ten days after Little Bear was born, I started working out. Simple, low-impact routines that helped ease me back into a bit of fitness, boosting my moods with a bit of an endorphin rush...and slowly the weight started to come off.
*****
And here I am, today: a little over two years later, 60- pounds lighter through hard work, determination, consistency, regular workouts (thank goodness for programs with 30 minute routines!), a scoop of
Shakeology a day (take
that stubborn weight-loss-preventing hormones!!)..and now feeling better than I have in a long time, slowly feeling my self-confidence and self-esteem increasing, thanks in large part to this business I now work for. Change is possible. It's always possible. Sometimes you just need a little extra help, support and motivation along the way. Reach out. And please, if you know of anyone you think could possibly benefit from reading this, share it!
With that being said, the Award for Most Helpful and Supportive Person goes, of course, to my amazing husband. You're my rock, Papa L. I don't know where I would be without you.
