I'm not so broken, after all.

So, there's this pile of pants that had been sitting in our bedroom closet since the beginning of July.  They were my "iron pile" of Kenny's work pants that I'd been meaning to get to- but at the end of my pregnancy, putting on flip flops felt like an Olympic event, so on my feet ironing for even 10 minutes wasn't happening.  I had planned to iron them many times...before Kenny went back to work from paternity leave (we all know what happened next), then maybe one of the days when I wasn't living here I thought I'd just do it, or maybe before he returned to work after the brain surgery...but I just didn't.  I couldn't.  That damn pile of pants was the weirdest of small hurdles for me.  They stared at me from my closet for months.  The last shred of things I was supposed to do before everything started.  One day, last week- on my second cup of coffee when I have my ultimate energy buzz- I finally did it.  I couldn't stand the thought of peering into that closet one more night before bed and seeing that pile of pants.  I dropped Cam off at school, grabbed the ironing board and the pile, and quickly zoomed through the 7 or so pairs.  As soon as I was done, I carried them right upstairs and placed them in the closet with the rest of his clothes, where they belonged.  I know it sounds stupid (and if not stupid, definitely odd) that it was so hard for me to finally iron those pants- and I honestly have no clue exactly why it was - but I was so excited it was done that I texted my best friend about it.  Yes...I texted her that I ironed pants.  That sounds boring even to me, but it felt great.

I thought about blogging about it immediately when it was done.  But not really knowing the relevance of the unironed pants, it pretty much seemed like I was going to blog about my wifely to do list.  Not exactly riveting- not to mention, I really had it in my head that I was done (at least for now) blogging about my tough times. I wanted to go back to fluff.  I wanted to write about getting in shape and my cute kids and leave the tough stuff at the back door.  Then yesterday, at the gym, I was in the middle of a serious workout, and a song came on my iPod that I've been avoiding for months.  I was obsessed with it at the end of my pregnancy, and it reminds me of this amazingly perfect day we had at the beach about 36 hours before Ben was born.  It was seriously a perfect day.  80 degrees at the beach, family (and extended family), happy toddler playing in the sand, long stroll along the water with the husband, little man wiggling in my tummy- movie quality beach day.  It was the perfect send off to our trio becoming a quad.  During the whole ordeal, I often thought of that day, and wished if I could be anywhere in my life, it'd be that day.  Hearing the start of that song in my iPod usually triggers a "stabbing in the heart" effect, which is usually what prompts me to quickly change the song...but yesterday, on the rowing machine (at full resistance, thank you very much), I didn't change it.  I thought of that day and it didn't hurt (as much).  And then I realized, I'm not as irretrievably broken as I thought.  

I'll back up.  I know I mentioned that I was having a hard time.  But seriously, I was having a hard time.  I felt sad (like cry in the car every time I'm alone sad), and anxious, and was only compounded by me feeling terrible that I couldn't feel happy that everything (at least mostly) turned out okay.  I felt like I was a broken person.  I tried to cut myself slack, it'd only been a few months and I was still adjusting to everything and processing everything that had happened (because when you're in it, you certainly can't process it), but it felt endless.  But then the pants...and then the song...and then I realized I haven't cried in almost two weeks.  I realized I was feeling better...still cautious...still nervous...but better.  I'm healing (YAY!).  It might be slower than I'd like, but considering that 6 weeks ago I felt like a broken person who might never feel totally happy again, the epiphany gave me boat loads of hope.  If I could give myself a big fat hug, I would. 

And back to that workout (it hurts so good, today!)...it's part of a personal challenge to get healthy and look/feel well by my birthday.  I didn't really publicize it- not because I don't intend to follow through, but for some reason it feels intensely personal this time.  I'm not doing it because I have a major milestone or because I have a dress I want to look good in (like last time), but because I just want to feel my best.  I'm on a mission to be the best me I can be.  One thing I realized through this process was that I sacrificed a lot of who I am over the years- for a lot of reasons, but mostly, because I felt ashamed.  I can't say why. I just did.  I didn't like myself, and I assumed no one else liked me either.  By my mid-twenties, I think I was a pretty well balanced version of myself...some of the quirk without all the drama (and more selective of my friends).  I wasn't "all the way" there though.  I still felt embarrassed about some parts of myself...like the fact that even though I was pretty good at my job and I did like it, most of my talents and passions were creative.  Growing up I'd wanted to act, but wanted so much to be "like everyone else" and lacking the confidence to just be myself, I never went for it.  It's true...you regret more what you didn't do than what you did.  I regret that I never even tried.  Now, at 31, that ship has sailed, but I'm done being embarrassed of who I am.  I figure to be the best role model for my kids, I need to be the best Megan first.  It's not going to be a "thing" that I write about every week, but I'm sure I'll mention it sometimes.  In the mean time, I hope to keep the healing coming.  Wish us luck!