So much has happened in the last year. There's so much I wanted to do, that I never actually managed to accomplish. Of course, a lot of that pales in comparison to my biggest accomplishment yet...Baby J. We waited so long for him, and at times I still feel like maybe we're living in a dream, or that something is going to happen that will take it all away. I try my best not to focus on the negatives, but sometimes it's hard. Then I look at that little boy's smiling face, or hear his little giggle, and I realize that everything I didn't accomplish, doesn't matter. What matters is him, and my Husband, and our little family. What matters is making the most of every moment that we have together. It's been a rocky road getting to where we're at now, but in the end, it was all worth it. 

I came to a realization this evening, as I was sitting here listening to the Hubby and Baby J sleep. I was looking at the themes for the anthologies this year and thought that just maybe, I could write something for it. It's been so long since I really did much writing at all. And I realized something. About the time I quit writing, really writing, was about the same time that I got diagnosed with Anxiety. That stupid A word that makes me think that every little twinge is something wrong. To be fair, many in my family have had health issues the last couple years, and not just minor ones. But that had happened before and I'd always been able to write through. I'd always been able to put my feelings to paper and it helped. Then a dang nurse at a doctor's office mentioned one word, and I saw something wrong with me around every corner. (Note to nurses: Don't tell a patient (all perfectly calmly) that their blood pressure is in stroke range and you'll just give it a moment and take it again. Nothing good comes from that, especially when less than five minutes later you take it again and go "Oh, it's a lot lower now, maybe it was a mistake". Maybe? MAYBE? You mean you don't know? You're talking about my damn life, woman!  GRRRRRR) I'm lucky in that I have a Husband who is willing to do whatever it takes to put my mind at ease, but sometimes I feel like it gets a bit ridiculous. And the more I looked at things, the more I realized that is when I stopped writing. I was so focused and worried about what MIGHT be wrong with me health wise, that it consumed me.

I started with a new doctor, and at first things seemed good, up until I refused a medication that I read more bad than good about. Sure, it worked for people's anxiety, as long as they never tried to go off of it. And it wasn't even something that he thought for sure would work, but something that he just wanted to "try". Everything I read pointed to people being completely hooked after only a very very short round of dosages, even less than how long he wanted me to "try" them for. And these people had a nightmare of a time trying to come off of it, many of which never managed it). After talking about it with the Hubby, we both agreed that neither of us were comfortable with me being on that medication. My doctor's response was basically to tell me that he didn't know what else I wanted him to do then. Ummm... I don't know, maybe try and actually rule stuff out rather than blaming anxiety for EVERYTHING!  In the end, we THINK that some of the ER trips, EKG's, chest x-rays, and doctors appointments that I was told were just anxiety, were the beginnings of my gallstones. They hurt, but we're thinking the gallstones just weren't big enough to cause the excruciating pain that finally got the ER docs to do an ultrasound and find the stupid gallstones. Gallbladder removal, and surprise, no more than the occasional twinge that could be just about anything. 

Fast forward to now. I've started going to a new doctor that is doing a really long blood panel to see if anything comes back. It's early days yet, but he has promised that he will NOT blame anxiety for things without ruling other issues out first. So we'll see how that works out.

Anyway, that's a long winded way of saying that perhaps I need to look at things a little bit different now. I've always had some anxiety, but never as bad as it has been in the last couple years.  If what I now suspect is true, perhaps it was my writing that helped me to keep my anxiety in check. Could it be possible that by losing my writing, I lost that outlet that gave the anxiety free rein? If I could get back into writing, is it possible that I'd be focused enough on that and Baby J that the anxiety would take a back seat?

I'm hoping to find out. Of course, there are no guarantees, but this year, I'm going to put forth a concerted effort to get back into my writing (most likely during Baby J's naps and after he goes to bed at night). It might just start out with short stories, or prompts, but writing was my escape for so long, and I think when I quit writing, I lost the part of me that was able to keep other things at bay (though I got something back too, in the form of Baby J). Anyway, this was all on my mind, so I thought I'd get it down while thinking about it.

I hope to have something new to share soon!!!