Robbed of Personal Power - Beyond Your Story

I talk a lot about your story up until now and how you should not let it define you.

We all have had people in our past who have taken away our personal power. It might have been parents, kids at school that made fun of us or people who have abused us in some way.

In the words of The Bloggess, depression lies!

 I've been right in all these places. I've been told I was fat, even though I was beautiful. There was a man who told me that he loved me, then choked me until I blacked out. There was a man who, when he saw me walking around the college campus without him, told me that I was fat and that he was embarrassed to call me his girlfriend to his coworkers. Girls, so insecure with themselves while in my presence, that they systematically tore at my self esteem over years until by age 17, I didn't think that I was worthy of even drawing breath, anymore.

A picture of me at 17 - suicidal and believing I was horribly fat, ugly
and not worthy of drawing breath, anymore.

There are so many things that float around in our heads from these situations in our lives. They come back to us as we are driving down the road. They replay to us as phantasms behind our closed eyelids in the shower or before we drift off to sleep. These are horrible stories that we repeat in our heads and they hold us back in our lives.

"Oh, I can't do that because my family was . . . "

"I don't deserve to be happy because I'm too fat, too intimidating with my intelligence, too ugly, too . . . " any number of things.

All of these things that you tell yourself in your head, no matter who told you that? They were wrong.

A conversation my local grocery store with a cashier led me to make the statement, "I don't know why people are so mean to each other."

In my younger years, I was (to borrow a phrase from TRAPT) "a little piece of heaven raising hell." I was beautiful. With a dancers' build and modeling contracts, I still didn't think I was worth a damn. And because I let my past define me, I was angry. So angry. I watched this TED talk, recently, and I really know how this woman felt.

For years, I was so hurt. It started with my heart being broken by a good friend / high school romance and it built from there. But I never really allowed myself to feel the pain from that betrayal. I didn't see the outside influences on him. His parents, etc. Only my own pain.

I still had to go to school. I still had to care about getting good grades and getting into college. I had to pretend to care about so many things when, really, all I could think about was the fact that I felt I had lost the one and only person who had understood me and that I was alone in the world, again. I couldn't feel that pain or honor it.

Parents and well-meaning peers told me to "get over it," so I hid it. I "sucked it up" and it became tighter and smaller and it morphed in my heart into a black ball of anger that followed me. Situations and years came and went and my anger just knotted in upon itself and I raged.

I raged! And the more I raged, the more I found to be mad at - righteously (I thought). Patriarchy, sexism, racism, genocide, cruelty, the Native holocaust. Ani DiFranco sang "I'm not angry, anymore," and I screamed back at her. "Fuck you, Ani. I'm still angry!" Hundreds of personal and cultural and worldly slights to be mad at until I spun myself out of anger in exhaustion some time in my late 20's - right around the time Hubby and I started dating.


During my period of rage, I pulled back from any vulnerability. My anger made me strong. It made me goal driven. It gave me scholarships and grants and awards and accolades far beyond my schooling and years. It gave me fire and it gave me drive. It made me hard.

When I did form relationships, I was so terrified of being hurt again, I kept everyone at bay. Even those that knew me for years only had an illusion of intimacy. Two year relationships only scratched the surface of "knowing who Bri was." I couldn't be authentic because of my fear, so I sought out other broken, hurt and furious souls, like me. There was no way that these relationships were going to last, but at least the two of us could find comfort in someone who was just as broken as the other was, for a time. And if my partner was broken, too, they wouldn't judge me for my damaged self.

I'm not quite sure what has changed me. Maybe it was Hubby or age. Maybe becoming a mama has softened my edges. Maybe moving back to my hometown has made little Native me want to "bury the hatchet." Maybe picking my art back up, being in therapy, admitting to being in pain, finally getting medical attention, and regular writing are all contributing to my change of heart and mind.

Or maybe it's because I'm 32 and I'm finally ready to start growing into the woman that I'm meant to be in this life, ready to step up and be the creative, the medicine person, the healer that I was always been meant to be. And you will know me, now, by the way I dance with the fire and the wolves.

There could be a hundred different reasons that I'm not the same person, anymore. But I like who I am, now. And I like who I'm becoming. I like that I am content, most days, though I still do have the yearning to grow, to explore, to learn and to create.

I used to be hard, like a scalpel. I find myself, now, becoming soft. My arms, my belly, my eyes, hair, skin and smile. All soft. And I'm okay with this. I'm reclaiming my personal power. I am strong. I've moved beyond my story and am writing a new one.

And, the one thing I want to tell you, my readers, about all of this. I am not special. I'm just one girl, out here, in the middle of the corn fields of Indiana. Trust me. If I, with all my faults and foibles can move from a place of hurt and anger to a place of peace and calm joy, you can too. There is nothing special about what I've done. All it takes is the effort to try.

You, my readers. You are my pack. So, if your heart is aching. If your spirit is downtrodden. If you're angry or alone or misunderstood or feel like you're forgotten - know one thing. There's one soul, out here, who's been exactly where you are and has come through it to a better place. There is hope. There is a way. And you can find it!

Oh my lovelies, I hope this entry finds your heart in a place of joy. If it doesn't, I hope that joy finds you soon.

And please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All My Relations,

-Bri

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The Best Advice I've Ever Given

A few years ago, I went into a gas station in my hometown to buy cigarettes. The cashier was a friend of mine and he knew about my inspirational writing and the kind of "out of the norm" life I live. Outside the gas station sat a girl, all knees and elbows, around 15 years of age.

My friend said to me, "Would you sit and talk with her a bit? She's getting disheartened about her life." So I said, "Sure," and I went outside to talk to this girl.

I sat on the bench across from her, outside this run-down gas station and as I looked across the table, I saw myself looking back at me. Large brown eyes that shone both hope and despair. Long brown hair, brushed but not styled. And I thought back to myself at her age.

Given all the years and experiences that separated the 15-year-old Bri and the 27-year-old Bri, what would I say to my past self, if I was given the opportunity? In the humid August evening, I spread out my long cotton skirt. I sat and talked to this girl who could have been me.

"This is the best advice I can think of to give you," I said. I took a long drag of my cigarette and exhaled it for dramatic emphasis. "I want you to go out into the world and fuck up."

This young girl's mouth dropped open. That was exactly the reaction I was looking for. I knew, at that moment, she was hearing me. I knew that I had just cut through all the walls that all 15-year-old girls put up between themselves and adults. With those two final little words, I had her.

"Let me explain," I said. "The best thing that can happen to you is for you to finish high school and go on to college. From there, I want you to go out and explore this world. I want you to talk to people that you think you have nothing in common with. Become friends with them. Go out and have adventures. Make mistakes. Make HUGE mistakes. Inconvenience everyone around you - friends, family, lovers. Because through your mistakes and your fuck-ups, you'll learn not only who you are, but who and what you really want to be."

I talked to this girl for almost two hours. I told her stories of my life. I listened to stories of hers. In the end, she went her way and I went mine. I haven't seen her, again.

But my advice stands. And it's the best advice I can give to anyone, really. Everything transformative that I've ever experienced and every great story that I recount at dinner parties? They often started out as really bad decisions.

"Hey! I'm going to hop into a car with 6 people I barely know and go camping 1,900 miles away. There'll be about 30,000 other people around in a state park - none of which have showered in 2 weeks. There won't be any toilets or cell phone reception, but I'm gonna come back with a puppy!"

"Hey! I'm going to go and dress up in Medieval garb. At 11:00 pm, somewhere in Pennsylvania with myself dressed like a hippy and my friend dressed like a Catholic priest, we're going to go get carryout beer from the only bar we can find. It happens to be a biker bar and the guy who's staying with the car? He'll be crocheting a scarf in the back seat!"

"Hey! I'm going to strap myself to a guy I don't know and jump out of a perfectly good airplane at 13,000 feet with nothing between myself and death but a thin sheet of nylon!"

See? Bad decisions.

But each and every one not only turned out for the best, but gave me an experience and memories I'll carry, forever. Essentially, each horrible decision and each fuck-up, they made me who I am, today. I am grateful for each and every time I made a mistake, each time that I stepped outside my comfort zone and each time that I said, "Well . . . why not?" Each time, adventure happened. And each time, I learned a little bit more about who I was, as a person.

During our daily routine, we get stuck. We begin to think that who we are during our routine life is who we really are, at our core. This is almost never the case.

Camping with 30,000 other people, I learned that I am not alone in my strangeness and that there are many different ways of existing in the world. Walking into a biker bar dressed in crazy costumes? I learned that I can be adaptive in awkward situations. Jumping out of a plane? I learned that I am strong, confidant, brave and that I can FLY!

And that's the truth. So I urge you all to take risks and make some bad decisions. I encourage you to fuck-up and fail and flounder and be confused. Stretch and do something you've never done before.

My comfort zone expanding as of late? I auditioned for a movie (which I didn't get), and I'm competing in a landscape art competition this weekend. I've never done A) an art competition or B) landscape painting, so I'm really psyched to be pushing my art envelope in this new way.

What are you doing to push your comfort zone? What do you find when you're outside of it? Let me know. I'd love to hear your stories!

Until next time, remember that every single one of us are visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All,

-Bri


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Daylight: Meeting Your Own Death

All of us, every single one, will die. It's not pleasant to think about and we mostly avoid thinking about it. But sometimes, during the course of living your normal life, death comes a little nearer than you'd like. Maybe you've lost a loved one. Maybe, like me, you've had strokes and chronic illnesses that shut down your body. Or maybe you passed a very bad wreck on the highway and thought, "There, but for the grace of Spirit, go I."

Today, I heard a wonderful song by Maroon 5. (I get the best ideas for posts either driving in the car or in the shower!) I know it's meant to be about a relationship, but I saw the song as an extended metaphor. Take a listen.

The chorus goes as follows:

And when the daylight comes I'll have to go

But tonight I'm gonna hold you so close

Cause in the daylight we'll be on our own

But tonight I need to hold you so close

This got me thinking. When we die, it is said that move towards the light. No one can accompany us. No friends or family can hold our hands. Death's Door is one we must walk through, alone.

I got a small notion of this when I had my daughter. Even though Hubby, my father and numerous friends were there to support me, ultimately, I was the only one who could bring The Precious Pookie into this world. The Door of Motherhood was one I had to walk through alone.

I like to think that I'd meet Death the same way I met Motherhood. Calm and resolute, with my head held high. I'd like to think that I would not need any help in navigating the Bardo. I'd like to think that I would move past this world and its cycles and on to whatever great adventures lie beyond this plane.

Thinking about death, in general, can be a great subject for art. What kind of impact do you want to leave this world as your legacy? Think of what creations you want to be remembered for, after you're gone and work on them now, while you still have time.

'Cause babies, when that Door of Death opens and you can see daylight, brighter than you've ever known? It's time to go. You will pass into the light, alone. So, now, embrace your art. Embrace your creative dreams. And, above all, embrace all that you want to remember from this plane. Every person and situation that made you the beautiful soul you are, today - hold them close.

My fellow visionaries, it's now that I embrace you and all this plane has to offer - all of its inconsistencies and beauties and intricacies. All the way out and down to its limits. While I am still incarnated here, I will continue to love every single particle and experience and embrace them all.

I hope you enjoyed this post and please remember, my lovelies, that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All My Relations,

-Bri


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Forgiving Dr. Mengele: Episode 2 - Surviving the Angel of Death

Read Episode 1 Here

Awhile ago, I wrote a review of the documentary on Netflix, Forgiving Dr. Mengele and how much the subject of the documentary (an amazing woman by the name of Eva Kor) inspired me regarding the psychological aspects of my own troubled past.

At the end of the documentary, I was shocked to learn that not only was she alive, but that she lives in the same state as I do. Eva, with her message of hope, forgiveness and healing, was right in my back yard. I waited awhile, mulling over what I should do with this information.

On Mothers' Day, this year, my in-laws came to visit my family in our new house. Being distinguished and recognized in his field, I asked my father-in-law if he'd ever heard of Eva. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I served on a panel with her and Maya Angelou, once." The man always makes my jaw drop. I told him of my idea about Eva and he gave me encouragement. I sent out the email that day.
 

Hours later, I logged into my email, intending to clean out the clutter of the day. To my surprise, a familiar name popped up. Eva Kor emailed me back! Not only did she email me back, she granted me an interview with her!

So, my lovelies, sometime after mid-August, you can expect a breakthrough interview with Eva from me on this very blog. I've got my photographer all lined up and the times are set. Needless to say, I am over the moon with this news. Eva's message is on par with Mahatma Gandhi's and I feel so blessed to be granted the opportunity to sit down with this woman face to face.

Elie Weisel said, "For the dead and the living, we must bear witness." In order to fully do justice to this story, I bought Eva's book, Surviving the Angel of Death. I felt I needed to read it so that I could really know what Eva went through. On the day that it arrived in the mail, I read it cover to cover. So detailed is the story that I had to take breaks every few chapters in order to mentally digest all I was reading, but I wanted to bear witness. True and fully informed witness.

I've been coming at this story in a round-about way for years, now. When I was in 7th grade, I took a trip to Washington DC. There, we were shown the Holocaust Memorial Museum. I can remember walking through and just not understanding how in the world something like this could happen. I've never understood hate that runs to those depths.

The image that sticks in my head the most was a pile of shoes in the museum.

Shoes confiscated from prisoners at Majdanek, on loan from the State Museum of Majdanek, Lublin, Poland. Photo courtesy of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum

I walked through the whole museum on that trip, completely silent, but I knew that I was witnessing something important. That trip, that museum and that pile of shoes does and will influence me for years to come.  

I am a visionary. I use my art, my writing and this blog to bring to light issues I care about. I care that people are mistreated all over the world. I care about human suffering and I care about inequality. I know that I can use my voice, my ability to write and all the other gifts that I have been given to speak out against hate and to speak up for peace, for healing, for beauty, for fun and for creativity.

Art can be activism. Art has power and can be used as a catalyst for change. Sue Hammond West, my art professor who influenced me the most, taught me that.

The only thing I can do, my lovelies, is hope to do justice to Eva and her wonderful message. I look forward to this adventure and to sharing it with you.

Remember, dears. We are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.

Love to All My Relations,

-Bri

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If I Had a Fortune Cookie

If I had a fortune cookie for this particular day, it would have said "You will take the best bath of your life. Afterwards, still glowing, you will go outside to get your sweater and be covered in a cloud of pig poo. This will propel you into a realm of pissed that you never thought your gambit of emotions could experience. Your lucky numbers for today: None. You're going to get covered in powdered poo. Sorry."

In May of 2010, hubby and I had gone to visit his parents' house. Out in the middle of the country and surrounded by fields for farming, their house is quiet and peaceful. On this particular day, my stepson was doing his homework at the kitchen table and my body really started to ache. So, I went up to the parents' bathroom, upstairs. Newly remodeled, their bathroom was beautiful - all sandstone tile and big mirrors. AND a built-for-two garden tub with jets.

In the vanity, I found some bubble bath and I poured some in as the bath filled and I patiently waited while the tub filled up. I slid my aching body into the hot water and bubbles and I was in heaven. At some point, I think Hubby even came in and asked me how I was doing. I was so relaxed and feeling so good from the water, I think I mumbled, "Hold all my calls. I'm never coming out."

Eventually, my brain came back into reality land a bit and I realized that I was sweating and that it may be time to get out of the tub. So, I did. The process of drying off and getting clothes on was apparently a little much for my blood pressure at the time because my heart was pounding in my ears. I looked at my bra that I'm going to put back on and I thought, "There is no way that is happening. I'm too relaxed and putting that on is gonna be a lot of effort. Plus, I don't want to be strapped into that torture device, right now." I dressed and walked down the stairs to the kitchen, dopey and happy. I felt like the world was perfect. I was relaxed and calm. It was a little chilly downstairs, so I decided to go out to my car and get my sweater.

I went outside and noticed that the farmers were spreading stuff on the fields, but it didn't really register in my brain as something I should pay attention to. People spread stuff on fields all the time, here. I walked out to my car, grabbed my sweater from the back set, put it on and then I looked up and saw this gray cloud rolling my direction. Still, it didn't dawn on me. And, even if it had, that cloud was so big, there was no way I was going to be able to avoid it. I just stood there, hot water-dopey, and watched that cloud roll towards me like a movie. I had just enough time to wonder, "What the . . . " and that's when it hit me. And it smelled worse than anything I'd smelled, before.

At that point, I realized what has happened. They were spreading pig poo from the c.a.f.o. (contained animal feeding operation) on the field and I had just gotten hit with a cloud of flying poo-dirt that the spreader kicked up. This proceeded to send me flying off the handle into a realm of pissed that I never could have dreamed existed within my gambit of emotions. And I stayed outside for a minute, fuming, 'cause my stepson was downstairs and my mind is very inventive with the English language when I get mad. I stayed outside and I calmed down for a minute, enough that I wouldn't explode into new, inventive profanities when I went back inside

After a bit, I went into the house and Hubby could tell right away from my face that something was amiss. He asked me what happened. "I. Just. Got. Covered. In. A. Cloud. Of. Pig. Poo."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Can you smell it on you?"
"I was in the middle of it. I don't know. Can YOU smell it on me?"
Hubby proceeded to walk over, sniff me, then immediately stumbled back 3 paces, clutching his face. He suggested, "Why don't you go take a shower?"
"And put on poo-covered clothes when I get out all clean? I don't think so."
"Here," he says. "I brought a change of clothes. You can put these on." And he handed me a pair of his pants and a beaten up tee shirt.

I took a shower and I put on Hubby's clothes. And, when my in-laws got home, I was still standing there, hair wet and still mad. Hubby told them all about what happened. My mom-in-law patted my shoulder and tried to reassure me by saying, "Oh, we're sure it was mostly dirt. . . "

Some days, my dears, the poo's going to hit you, whether you're ready for it or not. Really? It's best to find the humor in it and learn to laugh at the situation. I hope you enjoyed this tale.

And please remember that we are all visionaries. We just to figure out where we excel.

Love to All,

Bri

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Fun with Spam

No, no, my lovelies. Not the canned, meaty kind. I mean the strange comments I get from (I think) spam bots.

One of the most interesting things about having a blog is reviewing the "Anonymous" comments that come in. I try to figure out which ones are spam by looking up links that they've sent me.

 
I can tell some of them, that English is not their first language and I love the use of language. Truly inspired. They remind me of Henry Rollins' video about Boris from the Czech Republic. The use of language is so beautiful.

Before we get into my wonderful fan mail, let me give you Henry's take on it:

Now, on with the comments. And, any of my dear readers, if these are you - you know - real people? Please comment and I will not mark you as "Spam" and will publish your comment. The track back links just seemed a little iffy to me.

"Great post. I was checking constantly this blog and I'm impressed! Extremely useful information specifically the last part :) I care for such information a lot. I was seeking this particular information for a long time. Thank you and best of luck."

"I do not even know how I ended up here, but I assumed this submit was great. I do not recognize who you are but definitely you are going to a well-known blogger if you happen to aren't already."

"It's remarkable for me to have a web page, which is beneficial in support of my knowledge. thanks admin"

"Someone necessarily help to make severely articles I'd state. This is the first time I frequented your web page and up to now? I surprised with the analysis you made to make this particular put up amazing. Fantastic activity!"

"I'm pretty pleased to find this great site. I want to to thank you for your time just for this fantastic read!! I definitely enjoyed every bit of it and I have you book-marked to look at new things on your web site"


Aren't they lovely? If they are spam comments, I'm glad that all of the bots (at least) think I'm pretty darn neat!

It's all in perspectives, dearests. You can get grouchy over spam mail or, if you're having a rough day (like I did, today), then you can just say, "Well, at least the Spam Bots of the world think I'm pretty neat." Humor, lovelies. Always humor. #1 best tip for health, let me tell you.

Anyway, I hope this has brought a smile to your face and made you smile for the middle of the week.

As always, please remember that we are all visionaries. Sometimes even Spam Bots. We just have to figure out where we excel.


Love to All,

-Bri


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Pookie's Birth Story in 3 Episodes

The night before the big day, I was anxious. The list of “last minute things to take” hung on the front door, taped at eye level. Hospital bags for mama, papa and baby sat in the trunk of my black Cadillac, waiting. Hubby fell asleep sooner than I did. In the house, dimly lit and quiet, I looked around at my room and my life. In my heart, I had this immense, still sense that nothing would ever be the same ever again. Something big was about to happen to me. I was excited and nervous and scared-to-shit about whether or not I could handle all that was upcoming. Tomorrow, I knew, I would become a mommy.
 

On the morning of September 30, 2011, I woke up before my alarm buzzed. This is not new for me as I normally have very fitful sleep the night before a big event. Before the sun was up, I heaved my lumbering pregnant self into the shower. Basking in the hot water, I shaved my legs and hummed softly, to my daughter. Emerging from the shower and wrapping my hair in a towel, I woke Hubby. "It's time to get up," I said, soft and calm. We were meeting my father and his girlfriend for “breakfast” and one last store run before the big event.

Up and around. Hubby and I got all the bags into the car and left our town as the morning came into being. I would like to tell you how I watched the sun come over the horizon as we drove, but I can’t. The morning was overcast – horizon to horizon, grey clouds hung and scattered sprinklings of rain intruded on my otherwise calm and collected demeanor.

First, to Target. I don’t even remember what I had to pick up, now, but I’m sure that (at the time) I thought these last minute items would be essential for baby and I for the following weeks. Hubby slept in the car, cranky that we were up so early. 

Next, off to a breakfast cafe to kill some time. My father and his girlfriend had breakfast and Hubby continued to snooze away in the car. I had nothing to eat. As per doctor's orders, I was not allowed to have anything to eat, drink, suck on or chew for 8 hours before my upcoming surgery. It didn't bother me. The diners around me watched as I sat there, pregnant, not even sipping water.

I was upset with Hubby that morning. I remember that quite well. Here I was, getting ready to go through this huge life change and all he could do was be grumpy and sleep. I felt that I wasn’t being supported all that well and, in the middle of the diner, it dawned on me. “I get it now,” I said to my father. “It took me a minute, but I get it. Essentially, I’m all alone in this. 

Sure, having a partner to help in this is going to be helpful. But, in the end, it’s just me. I'm the mama and I have to go through this door, alone.” My father looked at me quizzically while his girlfriend just smiled, dropped her shoulders and softly said, “Yes. You’re right.”

My soft calmness turned into a strong sense of determination. Today was ground zero. All the planning and all the reading and all the "to do," "to bring," and "to buy" lists were about to coalesce into this one act that no one but me could perform. As much as I wanted Ian's support, I was the one who had to birth this little girl into being. I was stalwart.

Time passed. My dad and his girlfriend tried to fill the time with conversation as best they could, but I had gone into a deeper place. I felt a kind of quiet, stoic resignation at the challenge that lay before me, but I didn’t say much. Silent in my determination, I was ready to meet my mama destiny.

Finally, it was time to head to the hospital. Out the door of the diner into the chilly grey morning. On the phone to my baby’s godparents saying that the time had come. I navigated traffic to the hospital and Ian finally woke up. I parked the car and left all the bags in the car, except my purse. I knew that Hubby and my father would bring them to me, later.

I don’t remember walking into the hospital, but I do remember the shiny silver elevator ride up to the 4th floor where the "Mother / Baby" ward was. I remember standing in silence with Huby, my father, and his girlfriend, all of us watching the yellow numbers light up. 

2 *bing* 
3 *bing* 
4 *bing* 

And open doors. I stepped out of the elevator, resolutely, with my chin high and my family followed me like a parade.

At the nurse’s station, they checked my I.D., checked my appointment time and walked my little parade into the waiting prep room. Coats and purses and shoes were stashed in a waiting closet. I went into the small hospital bathroom to disrobe. 

Before I put my hospital gown on, I had to remove all my piercings. Uh oh! I was in a predicament. I couldn’t get one of my intimate piercings out. I draped the hospital gown around me and opened the door. “Hubby, I need you,” I said.

The nurse was quite chipper and started to come towards me. “Do you need help getting into the gown?” she asked. “No,” I said and pointed at Hubby. “I need him.” Hubby gave me a quizzical look as he came into the bathroom and shut the door. “I need your help getting this piercing out,” I said. What a sight we must have been, but (sure enough) he removed the curved bar for me.

When Hubby left the bathroom, I heard the conversation from inside. Hubby spoke to my father. “She needed help getting one of her piercings out.” My father was confused. “Which one?” he asked. Hubby replied, “My favorite one.”

I came out of the bathroom and climbed into the waiting bed. My family and my baby’s godparents and I sat there, talking and joking. All of a sudden there were lots of medical people surrounding me. One put in an I.V., one was asking me questions about allergies, one’s sole purpose seemed to be to shine a big light in my eyes. One put some strange compression socks on me. And, just as fast as they came, they were gone.

More talking. More of my friends came to see me. Then a nurse entered the room and shooed everyone but Ian out. The time had come. Hubby sat to my left, holding my hand. I remember, finally, being very nervous. I turned to Hubby  and said, “You know? Could we just maybe wait another month? I don’t think I’m ready for this yet.” Ian laughed at me. “No,” he said. “This is it.” “I know,” I replied.

Finally, the nurse came back. “Let’s get you over to surgery,” she said. She helped me out of my hospital bed, snagged my I.V. pole and I shuffled out of the room and down the hall. My body felt numb as I approached a big wooden door with the word “Surgery” written across it in red. I can’t even remember the temperature of the tile. The door to the O.R. was held open for me. I stepped over the threshold, shuffled past all the little closets and into the bright, blinding white of the Operating Room. This was it. After years (and nine months) of waiting, I was going to meet my daughter for the first time. 

Episode 2 - The OR
My body felt numb as I approached a big wooden door with the word “Surgery” written across it in red. I can’t even remember the temperature of the tile. The door to the O.R. was held open for me. I stepped over the threshold, shuffled past all the little closets that held coats and masks and into the bright, blinding white of the Operating Room. This was it. After years (and nine months) of waiting, I was going to meet my daughter for the first time.

The Operating Room was white. Blindingly so. In the middle of the room sat a long silver table, only about 16 inches wide. It gleamed in the light. As I shuffled towards it, I didn't care that my butt was hanging out of my hospital gown and anyone behind me could see the entirety of my tattoos. As I approached the table, I thought, "There is no way that my huge ass is going to be able to stay on that thing."

The nurses led me around the table, to the far side of it and told me to sit down. It was time for the spinal. I had been concerned about the needle going through my tattoos for this procedure, but there didn't seem to be any problems, at all.

The anesthesiologist introduced himself, but I can't recall his name. He swabbed my back with some topical anesthetic and set to work. "Okay," he said, sitting down on a stool behind me. "I'm going to need you to hunch down and jut your spine out for me." I tried to comply as best I could, but hunching down and thrusting your spine out when you're nine months pregnant? Not easy to do! But I always try to be a good patient, so I tried to do as he said.

My back tattoos. More work has been done since this picture,
but you get the idea.

  
"No, no," he said. "Push your shoulders down. Hunch. Really bend and push your spine toward me." Again, I tried to comply. I felt the needle go into my back, about halfway down. A sharp ache began in my spine and I closed my eyes and began some deep breathing. "C'mon," he said. "Really push. But you gotta relax your muscles. Really hunch that spine out." Again, I tried. More sharp ache from the needle trying to go in. "Hold on," he said.

At that point, a nurse came over. She stood in front of me and placed one hand on each of my shoulders and she began to push down as the anesthesiologist dug in with the needle, more. The thought raced through my head, "Now I know what one of those stress squeezy things feels like." 

Obviously not my back, but this is what happens

More pushing. The needle dug around in my spine sending sharp pains and aches all over my back. For 20 minutes, the anesthesiologist and the nurse worked in tandem, trying to get my spine to open up enough for the needle. When it finally did go in, there was a mad rush.

"All right, quick. Swing your legs up on the table, here, and lay down." Quick? That word doesn't apply to a big ol' preggo lady. Still wanting to be a good patient, I grunted and groaned and got myself fully on the table as fast as I could. (Imagine a hippo trying to do this and you'll get a good idea of how "fast" a pregnant woman can move.)
 
Sure enough, I felt secure lying on the table. Apparently 16 inches wide is just enough for a procedure like this. When I was fully layed down, a bustle of movement began to happen. They put the drape up, right above my breasts so I couldn't see what was going on with the surgery. Two perpendicular supports came out from under the table. My arms were taken and my arms were strapped down at the wrists like a crucified woman. It was here that I began to get a little bit scared.

I looked to my left, toward the door, hoping to see hubby. I wanted him to come in and tell me everything was going to be okay. That I wasn't, in fact, being transported directly from here to the psych ward or some other such nonsense that a pregnancy-addled brain comes up with. 

Sure enough, in walked someone in scrubs and a face mask. From the eyes, I knew instantly that it was hubby. And not only was hubby coming through the door, there was uber-awesome-bestest-ever-OB doctor. I was filled with relief.

Ex hubby's most comforting eyes

 Hubby came and knelt down by my head. I was so happy he was there. From this point on, things get a little fuzzy in my memory. I don't remember anyone saying, "Ok. You're numb. Let's begin." All I really remember is hubby being next to me and my being interested in all that I could see (which wasn't much).

I do remember hearing uber-awesome-bestest-ever-OB explaining to someone how to use a certain tool. The hospital I gave birth in was a medical teaching hospital, so this didn't surprise me, at all. In fact, I remember calling the bestest-OB, "Well, I'm glad I could help you learn how to use your new toy!"


Later, I would learn that he used a particular spreader on me for the first time. He said that he was so pleased with it, that he would never do another C-Section without it.

The next thing I can remember is hearing the nurse. "It's a girl!" We'd already found out the gender, so that wasn't a surprise, but the very next sentence made me giggle. "And look at all that hair!" Sure enough, Pookie was born with a full head of blondish brown hair.

Then, panic began to set in. I couldn't hear her! She wasn't crying! She wasn't making any sound! In my head I began to plead, Breathe, baby. Breathe! Tears came to my eyes as I watched the nurses carry her over to the weighing and measuring station. Breathe baby! C'mon! Breathe!!! I my head, I prayed to every god there has ever been. Jesus, Buddha, Zeus, Inanna, Ra, White Buffalo Calf Pipe Woman. I told them I would do anything they wanted. Anything! I'd even become a nun if they would just let my precious little baby breathe!

Then, I heard it. Her first cry. I can't tell you how a sound, when you hear it once, can embed itself into your permenant memory. I can't tell you how every fiber of my being, from that one sound rejoiced and latched onto the particular timber of her voice. In an instant, I was a mama and I understood every single lion who protected her cubs. I understood every bird that pretended to have a broken wing, so as to lure predators away from her nest. I comprehended the fierce and unparalleled need protect and to have this one little being be safe.

They brought her over to me. I looked at her tiny red face and I was in love. Head over heels, over the moon in love. And no other love, not even that I have for hubby, could ever match it. Then, away she went. "She needs to go the NICU," they told me. And I began to cry, again. What was wrong? What did I do? Is she okay? 

Tears fell from my eyes. I looked for hubby, panicked. He had been taking the first pictures of her and he placed his hand on my forehead. "I'm going to go with her," he said. I nodded my head and he followed the medical staff out of the room.

I could do nothing. I stared at the white ceiling and tried not to sob. Tears ran from my eyes, down the sides of my head and into my ears. A nurse that I will be thankful to for the rest of my life saw me crying. "It's going to be okay," she said. "She's fine." She layed her hand on my head and she stroked my hair, but nothing would stop the tears. I was afraid that if I actually sobbed, that I would do something to mess up the doctors who were trying to stitch me up.

So, I made no sound. I squinted my eyes and I held in my sobs. At 30 years old, my world had just begun and, now, I felt like it was ending. My baby! I want my baby! is all I could think. So much time and years and not being sure if I could even have a baby. Then the miracle of find out she was on her way. All the struggle to help her grow. It couldn't be over. This couldn't be it! If she wasn't okay, I didn't know how I could live past that moment.

Again, I prayed to any god that would hear me. Anything! Anything you want! Just make her be okay!

The next thing I remember, I was in my recovery room. Family and friends surrounded me. They gave me some information about what had happened. Sweaty and shaky, I had only one thought on my brain. One driving need. Get. To. My. Baby.





As my family talked to me and made sure I was okay, I was focused on moving my feet. I was Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, hyper focused on one task.

When I was able to move my legs, I pressed the call button. A nurse came in and I said, "I'd like to see my baby, now." The nurses moved me into a wheelchair. Still sweaty and pale from the anesthetic, I made the monumental move from bed to chair. Now, it was off to the NICU. My baby awaited me. . .  
 

Episode 3 - Perfect and Failing

The Precious Pookie, 10 seconds old

When I was able to move my legs, I pressed the call button. A nurse came in and I said, "I'd like to see my baby, now." The nurses moved me into a wheelchair. Still sweaty and pale from the anesthetic, I made the monumental move from bed to chair. Now, it was off to the NICU. My baby awaited me. . .   

Throwing up from the anesthesia of my medically necessary C-Section, I kept insisting. "No, no. I'm fine. I'm fine *hoy* Take me to her. *blaaaargh*" as I threw up in the pink square plastic tub they'd given me. The voice in my head, my mama instincts had no concern for myself. There was only one directive in my head. "GET. TO. THE. BABY!"

As they wheeled me down the hall, I heard other babies crying. As we got closer to the NICU, one sound stuck out from all the rest. That cry! I knew that cry! That one cry above all others, I heard her! 

Of all the babies on the floor that night that might have been fussing, it was her. From hearing her voice, just once, I could pick her out of a chorus of crying infants. Somewhat more high pitched, I knew the voice of my daughter and I felt it resonate deep in my bone marrow. That cry called out to me and echoed through my spirit, back to the dawn of time and our coming into being amid starstuff. I knew that cry by instinct and I couldn't get to her fast enough.

"That's her! That's her! I hear her!" I told my friends who walked beside me, overcome with excitement.

The nurse wheeled me into the perpetual twilight and quiet of the NICU. In there, it is still. Time stops. There is no outside world that exists. There is just mama, family that's with you and this tiny little miracle that has just come through you into this plane of being.
  
The nurse wheeled me past other infants and to the platform where my Precious Pookie lay. Tubes came and went from her. A heart monitor blipped and she lay there, slightly inclined on her back, her hair curly with dried gook. I didn't pay any of that notice, at the time. She was the most perfect thing I'd ever seen in my life.

When the nurses gently placed this precious thing into my arms for the first time, she looked up at me, her beautiful cerulean eyes looked right into my soul and they spoke to me in silence. "Oh, mama. There you are!" She let out a sigh and started to cuddle down onto me. I removed my hospital gown from my upper half and held her against the soft skin and strong bone of my chest.

I could feel her cheek against me and I knew she was listening to my heartbeat, the booming, never-ceasing rhythm that now beat just for her. I tucked her head up under my chin and I just bathed in the glowing, timeless mama-baby light that we created, together. I now understood what the hospital meant when they said, "Supporting the baby-mama dyad."

Holding Pookie for the first time

How perfectly happy I was in that moment. How absolutely blissed out I was. How could I, a messed up girl with faults and imperfections, have created such a perfect little being? Straight from Spirit and into my arms, I felt like I'd never known peace or joy until that moment.

All the years I'd run around the country, written and made art. All the friendships and relationships and burned bridges that come along with the process of living? None of them mattered, anymore. For some reason, Spirit found me worthy enough, with all my faults, to gift me with this little girl with her perfect fingers and adorable toes. With whisps of brownish-blonde hair and a smile that charmed everyone she met, she was the closest thing to heaven I could think of. . .

And, in that moment, I knew real fear. Fear of falling, fear of flying, fear of being alone, fear of being unlovable? All these fears and doubts were trivial, now. Now came real fear, gripping fear, the fear of taking this infallible little being that had been entrusted to my care . . . and fucking her up.

And I knew that it was only a matter of time. I knew me. I knew that the day would come when I would say the wrong thing or make the wrong choice or something would happen that was beyond my control and her world would no longer be perfect. Because I know that I am human and I mess up. And I know that the world isn't always softness and doesn't always treat us kindly, no matter our circumstances.

It turned out that Pookie had an air bubble between her lung and her chest wall that made it difficult for her to breathe. They couldn't tell me why it happened. She was only in the NICU 24 hours and the bubble went away on its' own. During the overnight, she tore her oxygen tube off her own face. The next time I held her, she pulled out her feeding tube and set straight to nursing.

My little one was born with a strong will. To this day, that continues. She knows what she wants and is very definite about it. She has no problem voicing her desires and is very clear about them.

Two months later, still blissed out

This week, I read some articles and it got me thinking about failing as a mama. Did I fail my baby in some way? If I'd done something different, would she not have been in the NICU? It turned out perfectly fine, in the end, but that first day was one of the scariest I've ever spent.

Amy from Pregnant Chicken Blog wrote this:

You are in the trenches when you have a baby. To the untrained eye it seems pretty straightforward and easy – you feed them, you bathe them, you pick them up when they cry – but it’s more than that. It’s perpetual motion with a generous layer of guilt and self-doubt spread on top, and that takes its toll.

Feeling like you also need to keep on top of scrapbooking, weight loss, up-cycled onesies, handprints, crock pot meals, car seat recalls, sleeping patterns, poo consistency, pro-biotic supplements, swimming lessons, electromagnetic fields in your home and television exposure, is like trying to knit on a rollercoaster – it’s f*cking hard.

Leonie Dawson also wrote this:

"I had tomes of bibles. All the ways I should be parenting. All the hard, hard lessons I needed to know. There is no test greater than this.
How does one ever prepare for the momentous task of becoming a mother? The answer? One cannot. You only go there. And then you sink and swim, sink and swim. But oh, those tomes. Those bibles. I thought it would be easy. Easy if I did it this way.

I read all the books while I was pregnant. Before I was pregnant too. I wrapped myself in a haze of:
if I only do this perfectly and differently from how I was raised,
then my baby will be perfect
and she will never suffer
and will never ever go through any pain or discomfort
and all will be right in her world."

This week, I saw these posts and it caused me to want to write about this. My dearies, I'm a mama and a stepmama, so I'm right there "in the trenches" with you.

When I brought this sweet, this perfect, this most beautiful being into this world, I told my father that it wasn't fair, but that I finally understod. It wasn't fair because, now, my heart was out in the world, outside of my body and I had very little control of all the things that could happen to her.

I read all the books. I took all the classes. I had done everything my OB said and, now, here was my little Precious Pookie, fresh into the world, taken away from me and given a feeding and an oxygen tube. What happened ?!?

I was tormented and plagued by my own perceived failings.

Oh, my mamas out there. Leonie Dawson spoke in the post I referenced earlier of how she judged other mamas. I will never lie to you, my dear readers. I judged. And I judged hard. Before that moment of actually being with my Perfect, Precious Pookie, I had it all figured out.

I sneered at women who didn't breastfeed or didn't breastfeed as long as I thought they should have. I growled at women who told me that I should encapsulate and eat my placenta. I downright yelled at television documentaries who's message to me was that my medically necessary C-Section was going to scar both me and my baby for eternity. And that an "orgasmic" or "water birth" was the only right way.

Before that moment with my daughter, I was the perfect parent, as all people are before they actually have children. At the moment of first meeting my daughter, I knew for certain that I was the most incompetent parent in the world. And she was less than 15 minutes old.

Pookie's birth annoucement photo - 1 day old
The face of the little being that changed my life

Today, Pookie is almost 16 months old and what a long trip it's been for the both of us. Yet it seems to have flown by. Then, she was unable to stay awake for more than 1/2 hour at a time. Now, she's toddling around the kitchen, playing drums on the clothes washer and she is able to communicate her wants. From a "ba-ttle" of milk to "bites" to "Doodle," he favorite teddy bear.

Doodle used to be my bear. I bought him when I was 21, at the F.A.O. Schwartz in Chicago, the Christmas before the store closed. At that time, I named him FAOS (pronounced "Faus" as in "Faust" without the 't'). But Pookie claimed him as not only her own, but as her favorite. And she dubbed him "Doodle." At 31, now, nothing could make me happier than to give her something, anything that brings her so much joy. There is nothing of myself that I wouldn't give her, just to see her merry little soul light up with joy.

Through this time, of Pookie's first 16 months, I've learned a major lesson. As mamas, we all do the best that we can with what we know and what we have, at the time. We are human, so we will mess up, but our love for our babes is so deep, so strong, so powerful, so ingrained in us, that there is hardly any way (at all) that we can, in fact, fail as mothers. If we are truly in love with our babes and let that love be our guide, our heart will set us on the right path.

In these 16 months, I've let go of the mama I thought I should be. I didn't make Pookie's baby food from scratch. We use disposable diapers. I breastfed her until I needed to be on medications for my Lupus that turned my milk toxic. I kept my nipple rings, but took out my 10 gauge tongue bar 'cause it was chipping my teeth. Pookie has no set schedule. When she's tired, she goes down for sleep and I let her sleep as long as she wants. Her favorite food is bananas, so she gets one every single day. She's terrified of the noise shopping carts make, so she stays at home with her Papa when I need to go to the store and I don't wipe her down with hand sanitizer whenever she touches something that may have one germ on it.

My father, Pookie, and Doodle Bear
Christmas morning, 2012

My point is that, now, I'm allowing myself to be the mama that I am and the one that Pookie needs me to be. I am not the mama that I or anyone else thinks I should be. The parenthood mental scorecards? They're gone. Now, I've beaten myself up less and just do the best I can for her, day by day.

I also judge other mamas way less, now, because I don't know their story or their situation. One day, I hope all women and mamas can see that we each, no matter what philosophies of parenting or ideologies or politics divide us, are trying to do the best we can for our babes.

Every birth story is empowering to us, even if it doesn't fit in with what others say we "should" be doing. Every voice of every mama deserves to be heard. We should not be ashamed of any of it. It's a trial by fire, no matter how it happens. And every child deserves a mama that may not be perfect, but is the perfect mama for them.


Until next time, my lovelies, please remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel!


Love to All,

-Bri


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Boundaries and the Sacredness of "No"

Throughout my life, I have had a problem with boundaries. For a long time, in my formative years, I was not allowed to have boundaries. I was not allowed to set parameters of what I would and would not accept as situations in my life. Even a boundary of, "When I'm in the shower, that is a time for privacy. Do not come in and talk to me while I"m naked," I was not allowed to have.

Secret thoughts written down in a journal? No. My journals were taken, read aloud, and I was made to pay a psychological and emotional toll for "thought crimes." Any possession that I had was subject to being taken from me on a whim. A pocket knife given to me by my father? Taken. Books of poetry that expressed any thought other than happiness and rainbows? Confiscated.

"Did you grow up in some sort of strange cult?" you might ask me. The answer is yes and no. This is one of the tolls on a person's mind and emotions when they're living with an abusive parent.

After I got out into the world and my life became my own, it took quite awhile for me to learn how to respond appropriately when my boundaries were crossed. It took therapy, medications, meditation and a lot of deep breathes to center myself when presented with conflict.

In the depths of being in this emotionally vulnerable state, I recall one such boundary breech situation where I did not respond well. Though I constantly strive for higher understanding and sharing of the force and experiences that unite us as people, I am human. And sometimes I miss the mark, make a mistake and don't respond as well as I could have.

In my hometown, there are no 24 hour coffee shops or diners. When I need to write, these are the places I prefer to go. From the age of 18 on, instead, I began to frequent a local bar. I would sit in a booth by myself with my books and my journals and I would drink coffee. Always coffee. And, since I got known for being very quiet and not causing trouble, I was allowed to stay in the bar past "all ages" time. I became so familiar there that they allowed me to get coffee refills, myself, whenever I wanted. The hours that I've spent in this bar have been great.

For years, I would venture out into the world, trying to find my place in it. But I would always come back to my bar. Employees came and went, but the new ones quickly learned who I was. Sometimes, I had no money and they let me drink coffee for free. If I had a dollar or two, I'd give it as a tip to the lovely bartenders who were always so kind to me. Over time, I got to know them and became their friend. Many a time, I counseled them through good times and bad, and I became known as the "bar therapist." If that bar is the hometown bar from the TV show Cheers, then I am the "Frasier" of The Inn.

Once, while at my bar, I left my journals and books on the table and I went to the bathroom. This was not uncommon. Every common patron of the establishment knows (at least) of me and, with it being such a small town, no one had ever bothered my things. 10 years I went to that bar doing the same thing and never once did I experience a problem. Until one day. (There's always an 'until' that comes after a 'never,' isn't there?)

On this particular day, I went to the bathroom, then stood at the bar chatting with the girls. When I returned to my table. I was horrified. The bar was mostly empty, yet there were two men sitting in my booth. It was obvious that they'd done so on purpose and, horror of horrors, one of them was flipping though and reading my journals.

When I saw this, I felt so violated. It's not that this man that I barely knew was reading my journals, he was peering into my mind. He was seeing into my heart and soul, deep thoughts I'd never uttered. And he was doing so without my permission. I instantly became panicked and afraid. I stormed up to the booth where the men sat and they looked up and me. I exploded at the man holding my journal.

"What are you doing!?!"

"Oh. We didn't know that this stuff was yours," he lied.

"Yes, you did! Everyone knows that I'm the only one that comes he with books and writes! Get out of my booth!!!"

"We can sit anywhere we want." The man's friend taunted me.

"Fine!" I yelled. "At least stand up and let me get my purse."

"No." The men refused to get up, so I did the only thing I could think of to do. I dropped down on the floor, crawled under the table and retrieved my purse. Then I stood up and took all the books and the journal off the table and out of their hands. Immediately, I bolted for the door and deposited the things in my car, which I locked.

I went back into the bar and told the bartenders what happened. I don't really know what I wanted them to do. I wanted the men kicked out, yelled at, arrested. Something! In my mind, you couldn't just violate a person's space like that and get away with it. Talking to the bartenders, it became clear that they, basically, couldn't do anything about what happened. Nor should they. It was not their wrong-doing or their fight and I knew it. I calmed down and went back to the table.

Going back to the one that had read my journal, I asked if I could speak to him outside. In the parking lot, I apologized for flying off the handle. Then I asked him why he got into my things. "I don't know," he said and I never got an explanation. But what happened next shocked me to my core.

"I read that thing about being a mountain. Did you write that?" Hesitantly, I replied that I had, knowing that he had stumbled upon a guided meditation I'd written for a friend. "I really liked that. The part about the goats? I didn't know anyone else thought like that. Sometimes, I go and sit and just watch the sun set, lying on the hood of my car. I didn't know anyone else thought stuff like that, at all."

Here he was, this man that had just pried into my inner world without my permission and he was standing there telling me that he didn't know that others in the world thought like he did. 'What a lonely life,' I thought.

"You liked it?" I asked, still hesitant. "Yeah," he said. I felt my shoulders relax and my anger subside. "Well," I said to him, "I'm glad. But you still shouldn't have gone through my stuff. That wasn't right." "I know," he replied, looking at the ground.

This man violated a boundary of mine. He invaded my personal things. He shouldn't have done that, but I did calm down, we did talk it out. I ended up giving him a connection in this world and he knew, finally, that he was not alone in his experiences.

Still, I continue to set boundaries and I continue to enforce them. These days, though, I try to be more understanding and more level-headed when they are breached. I, occasionally, even overstep someone else's boundaries; most of the time on accident. When it is brought to my knowledge that I've done so, I apologize.

I have always thought that saying "yes" to life was a sacred thing. It opens you to new experiences, new lessons and new levels of understanding. But, in this new Visionary Bri project, I have come to learn that saying "no" can be sacred, as well. When I say "no," I am not denying another person. Instead, I am standing up for and honoring my own integrity and self.

No, I cannot be your unpaid web developer.

I'm sorry, but I can't run your business for you.

No, you must make your own art, your own path, your own life. I will give you advice and help, but I can't do it for you.

Saying "no" allows each "yes" I say to be a full extension of my being. It means that I have committed to bring myself fully to the experience I am agreeing to without reservations. If faced with a choice, if it's not a 100% yes for me, then it's a no. And, once this is understood, people often take my "no's" a little easier because they understand that I can not be with them, fully, in the way they are asking.

But I am working on ways where I can say "yes" more often. I am receiving so many requests for help that I am coming up with a way to offer creative counseling sessions by the hour. This way I can say "yes, I can help you" and my needs can be met in that exchange of energy, as well.

Look for more new and exciting this coming up, here, in 2013. I will announce them when the time comes on this blog, on my Facebook and on Twitter. So be ready! When I open up the spots for Creative Counseling, I will only have a few spots available and they will be first come, first serve.

As always, my lovelies, I hope that you can take something from this post for use in your own life. Please feel free to leave me a comment and I'll reply back to you ASAP.

Remember that we are all visionaries. We just have to figure out where we excel.


Love to All,

-Bri