Miss Minty Fresh

Update: Postpartum Depression

I made a decision to post about my lingering postpartum depression on Facebook a few months ago and I received such a wonderful little outpouring of support and well-wishes. Wonderful enough to life the lid off the bad spiraling funk I was in…the lift let in some light, some goodness, and while I don’t know if it’s ever possible to feel “cured” fully, I have been doing so much better since then. I wanted to mention that I appreciated everyone’s thoughts, love, and encouraging commentary so very much since I believe that at least a few of my close friends and family are also readers here. Please know that your little bit of communication makes everything a bit brighter. It’s really difficult for extroverts to lead somewhat isolated lives, and it’s being away from friends that I find most draining and exhausting during this strange and transitional phase in my life. Every “hi” helps a great deal, and I’ve been lucky enough to be in touch with a handful of old friends during this past week. The amount of proverbial spring it puts into my step is noticeable. Most of you are far away, but I’m not without you. Thank you. I love you.

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Friends, last night, fueled by some last vestiges of post-partum depression, I had a teary text conversation with my husband about my own physical self-perception.

That guy….thinks I’m pretty. That I’m sexy and lust-inducing. That my extra 20 babyweight pounds and acne-riddled skin and other flaws too numerous and embarrassing to name are inconsequential and imperceptible. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around this concept, honestly. And of course at first I didn’t believe him.

“HOW can’t you be bothered by my universally ugly flaws?!” I texted angrily.

“I don’t know how to defend you against you,” he replied. “Wouldn’t it be so much better to go through life without constantly flagellating yourself? I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

That got me thinking more about perception.

Ben and I share a private board on Pinterest (you can see a public one I curate for him here) and on it I like to pin pictures of beautiful, mostly naked, VOLUPTUOUS, THICK, GIANT-THIGHED women. Seeing them makes me feel incredibly beautiful, because they are built just like me. When Ben sees me, he sees me in the same way I see the pictures on the Pinterest board. But since Kai’s birth it has been so difficult to see myself that way, too. Mostly impossible. I couldn’t even begin to tell you why.

I don’t know how to defend you against you.

I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.

The problem is in my perception. As a [amateur, hungry, ambitious] photographer, I know that I have to begin to tackle this problem for my own developmental benefit. But I really need to tackle it for my own sanity and that of my family’s. They deserve a happy mama and partner and friend. So, I plan on slowly slowly changing my perception of myself through the medium of the self portrait.

This is by no means going to be a scheduled or rigorously followed project, at least not now. I’m just going to take some selfies as often as I think of it. Not just on good hair days or good skin days. Not just when I’m feeling cheerful and bouncy. On any old day at all.

Today was any old day. My hair is clean and shiny. My eyes are a little tired but still inquisitive. I miss my little guy. And I’m clearly a little bit wary of being in front of the camera. But…those shots…they look like me. And I don’t want to wince when looking at these. So, it’s a good start, I think.

I hope you’ll accept the occasional publication of these, friends. Thanks for letting me share with you.

Ashley George’s Tomboy Project

I had a bit of a style black hole for a few years in my life. Even well into my late twenties, I kept receiving subtle and not-at-all-subtle messages that I should be more “girly”…to the point of people offering to take me shopping expressly to buy some dresses. Apparently slim ankle-length pants, metallic sandals, and a silk camisole are not appropriate attire for a bridal shower. (?!)

Honestly, I’ll never turn down a paid-for shopping spree, and I did find a few nice things that day, but the whole time I felt uncomfortable. Rather judged. And just…like my own style was somehow inferior to that of a “real” woman’s.

Today, I no longer wear any of the things my well-intentioned personal shopper so generously purchased for me. I now dress the way I like, and I feel incredible, because I feel like myself.

I have to admit that the impetus to unabashedly dressing as androgynously as I wanted was finding Lizzie’s Tomboy Style blog. She’s a talented curator and reading her content made me feel great! Reading it was inspiring, but it also quelled my need to continue seeking further inspiration for my own personal style. I stopped subscribing to fashion blogs en masse and got rid of half of my clothing that I felt…not like myself in (I was also pregnant at the time, which helped that impulse). After my son arrived I slowly began to collect clothing that felt like me, and I now rarely dress in anything that feels weirdly girly like I used to. Jeans, blazers, fedoras, shoes from the men’s department (and silk camisoles!)…this is my uniform that I love wearing. Even while painfully attempting to reclaim my body after a pregnancy, I at least could happily dress like myself. I’m embarrassed that it took external forces and 29 years of life for me to unashamedly define my own style, but it’s more than just the materiel. It’s the confidence to wear your persona as obviously as you’re wearing a baseball cap on your head.

That is what I was missing. No more.

Inspired by Lizzie, I started to curate a Pinterest board dedicated to all things tomboyish (including slingshots and skateboards). It’s still my favorite board (although the Lake House board is a close second). Through Pinterest, Ashley George found me. She is doing an incredible project called, succinctly, The Tomboy Project. She’ll interview and photograph a tomboy in each of the 50 states and compile her content into a book, and I am so happy she is well on her way to completing the project despite her Kickstarter campaign being unsuccessful.

Ashley, best of luck…and if you need a Pennsylvania representative, I hope you’ll ping me!

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Tonight I got a lucky chance to play around with Adobe Lightroom for the first time! Watermarks! Whites and blacks! Highlights or shadows in any shade! So many OPTIONS! Looking forward to procuring my own copy soon.

Self-portrait taken in San Antonio, Texas in May 2012. Overly pink and fake-smooth skin edit done in February 2013.

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This is my dream job. (The photography part, not the starting pitching part).

Source: philadelphiaphillies

Looking at these pictures that I took just a few days ago makes me feel teary and a little bit sick. It hurts so much to leave these two for any amount of time, let alone for our permanent (at least for the foreseeable future) living situation.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to look forward to leaving tour. While I suffered from post-partum depression I felt lost and sometimes devoid of love completely. I didn’t know myself and I certainly had cut myself off from my family, emotionally. I made the decision to leave full-time family life behind and return to work in Toronto while my immigration status permitted it. Seemed like a good enough idea at the time; Ben and I were on the rocks, it could be argued, and besides, we needed the money. I felt useless and unproductive trying to work remotely from the road, and I wanted to have my own life. I didn’t want to allow Ben’s career to dictate the course of my own career and life. All reasonable arguments, certainly. Except now… I’m feeling SO much better (which I must tell you more about sometime soon) and I am now acutely aware of the mother-void that Kai’s life has.

Happily, Kai will be coming up to Toronto to live with me for a few months. Today I insulated the playroom (which is actually the sunroom…brrrr) and I remade his bed, organized his clothes, and fixed some of his toys. I can’t wait to see him and I’m so excited to bond with him again, but…it’s just not the same when I know I have to say goodbye to him just a few short months after he arrives.

Clearly…I have a lot to sort out around here.

Carsie Blanton Talks about Women Who Like Sex

I’ve blogged about my friend Carsie before. In fact, I’ve encouraged you all to read this very post of hers when she first wrote it. She has good things to say and while the more socially conservative of all eight of my readers might be wincing right now, please don’t. Please take a read and hear Carsie (and me) out. I’m re-posting because I feel it’s that important. Re-posted with Carsie’s permission, of course.

So, this seems like the time to make my confession. Confession might not be the right word, actually, considering my last album, Idiot Heart, was more or less an epic poem on the topic. But, for those of you who don’t know me, or who aren’t big on lyrics, or who are still nursing your vision of me as an innocent young folksinger, here goes:

I like sex. A lot. I don’t like it because it’s all about love, or because it’s some kind of spiritual journey for me. I like it, mostly, because it’s just so dang fun. Because it makes me feel alive, and it allows me to share that aliveness with other people. Because it helps me to learn things about my body and mind and heart that I otherwise wouldn’t. In other words, I like sex for the same reasons I like music and dance: it is a joyful, playful, fun, surprising way to connect with people, and to explore the human experience.

So why, when I’ve written and talked extensively about music and dance, haven’t I gotten around to writing about sex? Because I am afraid of what it will mean. I’m afraid of being judged, shamed, belittled, or reprimanded. I’m afraid my fans will either run screaming into the hills, hiding their children, or become creepy stalking phone-breathers. It’s only recently occurred to me that these fears don’t belong to me; they belong to a culture with a long history of wrongheaded, destructive views about sex, especially as it pertains to women.

In my own interest, and the interest of sex-liking women everywhere, let’s get a few things straight.

1. Sex ≠ love. I think the idea that sex and love are the same thing (perpetuated throughout the world for much of recent history by religion, art, literature and advertising) is responsible for many of our misconceptions about both, so let’s get this one out of the way first.

Clearly, on occasion, people who aren’t in love have sex. Clearly, also, people love other people and don’t have sex with them. I’m not saying they’re mutually exclusive, but neither are they inextricably linked. Love and sex, like milk and cookies, pair well; but neither is required for the enjoyment of the other.

2. Women like sex just as much as men. Countless theories have been put forth over the past few centuries about why women don’t like sex. Without going into the tedious details, let me state my own opinion on the matter: they do.

If you don’t buy it, let’s do an experiment. Let’s start a new culture where women, from their girlhood, are told that sexual pleasure is a natural, fun part of being female. They are never told that sex is dangerous, dirty or weird. They are never badgered, shamed, pressured or forced into any sexual experience. When they become interested in sex with other people, they are encouraged to explore it in a consensual, safe, fun way, with whomever they find themselves attracted to. All of their sexual partners are caring, communicative, generous, and happy to take direction.

That will be our control group.

3. Women who like sex are not sluts. Let me try to sum up the meaning of the word “slut”, as I think it is commonly used, in a sentence or two. A slut is a woman who will sacrifice a lot of valuable things (her physical and emotional health, her reputation, her friendships with women) in order to have sex. It’s generally understood that sluts are not truly interested in sex; they just use sex to get other things they want (like attention, love, or money).

So, a slut is not actually a woman who likes sex. A slut is a woman who uses sex as a bargaining chip to get other things, which she does like.

A woman who likes sex, on the other hand, is just a woman who likes sex.

4. It is not “dangerous” to like sex. All people are vulnerable to rape and sexual assault. All sexually active people are vulnerable to sexually transmitted infections. I don’t believe there is anything about liking sex, or acknowledging it, that puts me in a more vulnerable position.

That’s not to say that there are no risks to having sex, but those risks are not higher than, say, driving a car. Driving a car is generally considered a justifiable risk, whereas having sex - colored by its cultural legacy of shame - is not.

5. Women who like sex will not necessarily have sex with you. This, my friends, is the clincher.

When I find myself in a conversation about sex, and mention that I am a fan of the activity, the men in the room tend to get very nervous, very handsy, or very surly. I think this is due to a common misconception: that women who like sex will “give it up” to anybody. Like, our brains will be so flooded with arousal endorphins that we’ll transform into some kind of pansexual nymph.

Women who like sex still have all our wits about us. Like most people, we only want to have sex with people who we think are attractive, and trustworthy, and with whom we have chemistry.

In conclusion: I just made a music video that is sexy, based on a song that is about sex. Why? Because I like sex. I like sex that is loving and profound, and I like sex that is fun and casual. I like sex as much as any man I know. I am not a weirdo, I am not a slut, and I am not in any excessive danger. I like sex, but that doesn’t mean I want to have sex with you.

Probably.

Photo by Lauren J. Andrews

Kerry, Kayla, and the Care Abouts

Full quote for those who don’t feel like clicking through:

It’s easy for me to forget what the heck the point is of caring about someone. This problem is particularly acute with a romantic caring about, but it applies everywhere. The point, as I see it, is that the person is happy and fulfilled. The whole entire point. I care about you, I want you to be the bestest, funnest, happiest, most lit up and fulfilled you.

When I forget this, I am sucked up into the illusion that the person I care about should like me best or care about me the most or want to be around me all the time or think I’m the goddamn second coming, all kinds of weirdoland stuff like that. I am not the second coming. But even if I was, it’s not their job to think I am. It’s only their job to live a fantabulous life. If their movement towards fulfillment takes them away from me or into the arms of another, well, great.When I forget the point of caring about someone, I make myself the focal point of the whole shebang and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t make things weird. Truth is I’m not the focal point, they are. Because I care about them.

Kayla and I have decided to create a shorthand for reminding yourself what the heck the point is of caring about someone. We call it the care abouts. Care abouts! Feel free to use it. The more people caring about other people, the better, I say.

You must love in such a way that the person you love feels free. -Thich Naht Hanh

back to Toronto

If you feel like you can barely keep up with my life, you’re not alone; I feel the same way.

I’m back in Toronto (and have been since the middle of August), working my same awesome job and missing the boys terribly.

It’s difficult right now. I left full-time family life to get my career back on track and to continue the work I care very much about. But is it worth leaving my little guy when he’s still so young? Of course, we plan on keeping Kai up here in Toronto for half of the time, but daycare is more than my rent (O_o) and thus impossible at the moment. So…instead of saving some pennies we’re spending them on plane tickets and gasoline so we can all be together as often as possible.

Sometimes I really feel like a fucking idiot, I really do. What is the point of trying to maintain a career when you have a small child and you haven’t ruled out the possibility of another? Right now it feels like I can only have one of those things at a time, and with Ben still keeping on with the circus I don’t have the opportunity to put down roots somewhere and start my homestead or get a satisfying job or build any other kind of business, at least none that I can think of that would be immediately somewhat profitable (i.e. not blogging for $$$).

“Tagging along” with the circus and trying to work in between taking care of Kai and the RV felt like the worst hell I could possibly imagine. I felt listless and unproductive and frankly, completely miserable with my life. Perhaps it was the post-partum depression, but perhaps it wasn’t. It’s impossible to say. At this juncture, I feel smart and productive, like my brain is functional, and like myself. Fucking yay…finally. I have a comfortable home here up north, a handful of friends, and a job I really enjoy. But. I don’t have Ben and I don’t have Kai.

As it stands currently, I have a work permit for a little under two years more. The Canadian government, which has been welcoming immigrants with “open arms” (um…not in my experience…but maybe that’s another post for when/if I am back in the States again) is starting to stem the tide of foreigners. What implications this has for me are unclear at the moment, but my past experiences have taught me that it’s best to not count on ANYthing with regards to immigration “stuff”. I just have to see what’ll happen in the next 12 to 18 months.

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new blog design launch!!

If you normally read in a reader, please click through today. I have an awesome new design I want to tell you a bit about:

Just a quick word about the horizontal menu:

“about” is exactly what you think it is
“travel” covers all my non-RV traveling I do
“rving” …uh…you guessed it
“photography” is for when I want to show something off
“family” is anything pertaining to my awesome boys
“home(s)” is a bit weird…Florida, Philadelphia, the Lehigh Valley, and Toronto are all “home” to some extent. So…anything going on in those places will go there
“chatter” is for when I spill my guts. If you’ve been reading a while you know I do that sometimes.

Many thanks to Lauren at Anvill for the great work. I love how it turned out!

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“Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life - and travel - leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks - on your body or on your heart - are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt.”

— Anthony Bourdain (via thatkindofwoman)

(via thatkindofwoman)

Source: chanelbagsandcigarettedrags

some serious class is displayed here

You all probably know that I’m not into religion. However, I don’t think I’ve ever read a more moving and yet dead simple explanation of why and how religion gives meaning to an individual’s life. I urge you to take a few minutes and click through to the article.

p.s. fuck you, bullies.

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checking in.

Hi friends.

I haven’t had much to say lately, as you’ve noticed.

I HAVE had adventures, though. Lots of travel time on more modes of transit in a 36-hour period than even I thought possible (personal car, taxi, bus, streetcar, subway, water ferry, airplane, monorail, heavy rail). I got plenty of work done. I drank good beer. I saw many dear friends (still not everyone I wanted to) and was blown away by how much people love me and how easily they seem to demonstrate it. It’s easy to forget such things due to a pervading sense of isolation and general despondence (brought on by you-know-what).

I was trying to figure out why exactly I’ve been disinterested in creating content for the blog. There’s no really good reason why; I’ve had adventures and plenty to write about. Lots of opportunities for taking pictures with something more involved with Instagram.

And yet….no interest.

My friend Tamra has somehow, magically, explained why:

I remember years ago being so frustrated by all the depressing stories of women I found online. I realize now that writing is very therapeutic when you are struggling. People tend to stop when they are doing well. I think we just want to forget this ever happened to us and are anxious to go back to the way things used to be. This is of course impossible because we have been forever changed.

I wanted to write this post to give strength to anyone fighting a difficult battle right now. I remember how hard it used to be. I remember hitting my arms, bruising them repeatedly to try and distract myself from the pain. I remember driving in the car and thinking how easy it would be to turn the wheel slightly and escape from the pain.

I remember specific nights, crying on the floor, wondering how I was going to get through another day. If I only knew the happiness, the elation that I would feel just a year later. I couldn’t whisper in my ear back then, so I’m whispering in your ear now.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever your battle, however long it’s been happening, keep going. Keep going. You can’t give up when you don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

I’m not elated yet; I still have quite some time before I will feel completely at ease with my newly defined role and life and body. But….I am starting to feel the stirrings of real happiness again, or at least, I see the path clearing in front of me. And THAT is elating.

I have lots of news and pictures to share. Stay tuned.

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about my post-partum depression

Friends, I’ve started at least five drafts of this post in the past several weeks. It is an exceedingly difficult topic to face head-on without sounding as if I’m seeking a chorus of validating statements. Please believe me: I’m not. I just think I might feel a little better if I got it out. If you’re not comfortable reading about my (very personal) life please go ahead and navigate away now; I’ll be back with pictures tomorrow.

Kai’s six-month “birthday” was this past week, and it seems impossible that I am not feeling better. In the beginning, I thought I’d feel better when the surgery pain abated and I could start to lift and walk normally again. Then I thought I’d feel better if I could just make enough milk for Kai to be satiated for once. Then I thought I’d feel better if I switched him to formula to guarantee a full belly. Then I thought I’d feel better when I started working again and keeping a regular schedule. Then I thought I’d feel better when we finally had two real (almost) incomes. No…all of these things just bring me guilt and anxiety for failing to max out my attempts at work, at budgeting, at being a good mother.

I thought I’d feel better if I got some nicer clothes that fit me instead of not being able to button all my pre-baby pants and watching my still-quite-pudgy midsection spill over the waistbands. Then I thought I’d feel better if I got a wax, some new facewash, and a lipstick in a pretty red color. Then I thought I’d feel better by throwing myself into (i.e. distracting myself with) a new hobby: photography. No…all of these things cause me to keep desiring more: take more pictures, buy more clothes, download more photo editing apps. I crave newness and novelty to temporarily forget how shitty and dark I feel.

I thought I’d feel better (and maybe sexier?) if I could just try to shave my legs at least every third day. Then I thought I’d feel better if I tried to initiate some lovemaking with my husband despite how I felt about my looks. Then I thought I’d feel better if I let him go down on me (he asked to, no…begged to). Then I thought I’d feel better if I just forgot about sex altogether for a while. No….I wince away from his touch, I can’t bear to look at myself, and I sobbed the entire time he was going down on me until I finally gave up and asked him to stop. My attempts to feel like a sexual and sensual creature again have left me feeling disgusted at and with myself.

I thought I’d feel better once the baby weight started “melting” off like it should (hint: it never did). Then I thought I’d feel better if I started exercising. Then I thought I’d feel better if I started to seek out social dancing again. No…I literally cried of shame and embarrassment before I went for my first post-baby jog (and cried about the prospect for a week beforehand). I have only been outside hoop dancing once, and I can’t bear to bust out my jump rope because I’m too ashamed of jiggling my 35 extra pounds around in front of strangers and our circus colleagues (many of whom are current or former performers and have incredible, strong, beautiful bodies). And forget dancing: I was mortified of my clumsiness and heaviness to the point of tears after most of my dances (hope no one noticed) when I was home in Philly a few weeks ago. The body I’m living in is still that of a stranger’s.

I thought I would feel better if I took anti-depressants…

And I don’t know yet if they work, because I’ve had them for five months and have barely gotten through two months’ worth because I’m afraid of them. Afraid of what they’re doing to my brain. Afraid of how I’ll be affected after the script runs out. Afraid of being dependent on them for…not even happiness, just lack of unhappiness. Because then what? What happens when the best I can hope for is simply lack of unhappiness? Right now I am just floating about…out of ideas for “fixing” my condition and wistfully hoping I’ll just snap out of it one morning (like Joanna did, lucky lucky girl).

I love Kai, but I don’t yet love being a mother. I’m looking forward to the day when that is no longer the case.

Thanks so much for reading, if you made it this far.

Happy Mother’s Day, mamas. You are all heroes to me.

Very important disclaimer: if you are a new mama and struggling with depression so bad that you have entertained the thought of harming yourself, your baby, or someone else, PLEASE get yourself to your doctor or the emergency room, pronto.

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Welcome, Offbeat Mama readers!

I’m so pleased and honored to have Kai’s birth story shared with the amazing group of readers at Offbeat Mama. If you clicked over after reading the version that appeared on Offbeat Mama, thanks so much and welcome!

I document our full-time RVing lifestyle here, as well as share lots of my pictures. I occasionally reblog some cool shit, too.

I have a few other online presences if you’re into that sort of thing:

instagram — @missmintyfresh (mostly babies…and cats. Also travel pictures on the fly. I try not to post pictures of my lunch)

pinterest — right here (I promise I never pin those annoying motivational .jpegs. Only the weight loss ones when I’m feeling shitty…which is unfortunately kinda often these days)

and facebook — right here (I have a blog page solely to avoid spamming my “real” friends with updates about miss minty fresh)

I also use twitter but really only to follow my favorite Philly sports bloggers.

Cheers. Hope you stick around. =)

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