Bedtime Stories

I laughed at this cute little exchange between my two year old daughter, and my husband.

Husband: Will you give Daddy a hug?

Ellie: (points to fan) On!

Husband turns the fan on.

Husband: Can I have a hug now?

Ellie hugs the fan.


Choosing My Confessions

This song is a fantastic song.

Losing My Religion by R.E.M.

I relate to it so well, on multiple levels. “That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the spotlight, losing my religion.”

My husband got mad at me this morning for not telling him what I’m feeling and thinking. I did tell him, he just didn’t hear what I was trying to say. He told me, that if he doesn’t get it the first time I should tell him again. But how many times can you keep saying things, continue repeating yourself, while not being heard before you just stop saying anything at all?

He wants me to take this job that I’d rather shoot myself in the foot than take. It’s one of the jobs that is nothing but drudgery, and I am so sick of those jobs. Also, my school schedule next semester is going to be really packed, I might need that time to study. Lastly, the job would be for the two days of the work week that I don’t have classes, and I had hoped to spend those days at home with my daughter. I really want to be home with her, she’s only two once, and the time is fast approaching when I won’t have opportunities to be home with her like this.

The issue with communication is not a new one in our marriage. It comes up over and over again. He whines that I don’t talk to him, that I’m too withdrawn. I complain that I can’t talk to him, he doesn’t really listen to what I say. Plus he’ll never just listen, he always has to jump in and fix the problem, or correct me, tell me what’s wrong with what I’m thinking or how I’m feeling. A little while ago I was ranting to my husband how I think my boss is lazy. Now, for the most part I like my boss, but it had just been a frustrating day. My husband interrupts and starts telling me how I shouldn’t harbor negative feelings towards my boss, and to just let it go. I know that. I just thought I could vent to my husband, to get it off my chest you know.

When Ellie was a baby, and I was just figuring out how to deal with the whole postpartum depression mess I tried to confide in my husband. I tried to use him as a sounding board to help sort out what was going on and how I was feeling. After a while he asked me to stop talking to him about it. He told me that he couldn’t handle all the negative. So I started cutting all my negative thoughts and feelings out of conversations. Unfortunately, part of being depressed is that the dominant thoughts and feels are incredibly negative, so it didn’t leave me with a lot to share. Then when I started going through my crisis of faith, I again tried to confide in him. But he can’t stand to hear any of my heretical ideas. I couldn’t tell him any of my spiritual thoughts without him correcting me, rather than listening to me. Or he’d start getting concerned about me and my soul, and that felt so very patronizing. It didn’t take long before I filtered out spirituality and Church related topics out of discussion. So yes, I am withdrawn, I don’t share a lot of my life with him. I didn’t have a lot left to share.

To top it off, I’ve stopped talking about anything related to medical school, since it just causes fights. He doesn’t want to leave the state, he’s not sure he want to be married to a med student/doctor, he doesn’t think I can handle it – he fears that the stress will tear me apart from my family. I’m sick of rehashing the issues, so I just avoid it. He’s probably right, medical training might be the fire that destroys our family. But I think it’s already destroyed. It burned up a long time ago by the depression dragon.

I want to make it work. I just don’t know how to balance it all. How do I continue to share with him who I am, without burdening him too much with all my issues?

“Of every waking hour I’m choosing my confessions… And I don’t know if I can do it. Oh no I’ve said to much. I haven’t said enough.”

He love me, He loves me not, He loves me…

My husband might leave me.

The past week has been a roller coaster. A terrible, hideous roller coaster from hell. I finally decided to come clean to my husband about many of my horrible misdeeds and trials. They don’t paint a pretty picture of me, not at all. Lies, the depression, infidelity (sort of), abuse, and issues of faith. Lots of dark and black stuff came out.

He was shocked. He was horrified. He said he was disgusted, I was a stranger to him.

And then there was no talking. Just trying his best to avoid me. I wouldn’t blame him if he left me, or more accurately kicked me out. Most people would leave.

I walk around my home feeling like a ghost, feeling like I don’t belong and I’m unwanted. I’m afraid that every move I make will be the one that shatters my world.

But then, last night, he came home smiling. He kissed me. He kissed me! I’m still so excited about that part. He assured me that he wouldn’t leave, that he still loves me and always will. I’m still amazed and stunned. I am having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea that anyone would stay after learning what sort of vileness lives inside of me. But he did. This man is the most gracious man I’ve ever met. There is nothing but goodness to him, sweet, sweet goodness.  Ground rules were set, and I oh so much the repentant soul am going to do my best. It is going to be hard to change myself, but this love is worth it, and he deserves a much better version of me. My dear husband, so faithful, a near-perfect emulator of Christ’s forgiveness and mercy. And I, yes I am the adulterous Israel, drawn to Babylon, constantly struggling to align myself with him.

He loves me still!


Payday. Not as much as I expected, not near as much as is needed. With a sigh I plop down in front of the computer. With a resigned click Quicken’s obnoxiously cheerful chirp greets me. I start subtracting out the monthly bills. There goes rent, daycare and utilities. Bye-bye money. Next up is payment for my husband’s student loans, internet bill, and car insurance. Last is the phone bill, smallest of those monthly recurring fees, so I save it to the end in an attempt to cheer me up. Oh and then there’s tithing.* Good ol’ Mormondom.

And what am I left with?


Eighty-eight dollars and forty-eight cents until the next paycheck.

How am I supposed to pay the fees for all those secondaries?** These darn med school application process is killing me. Hesitantly I look to the left, where the list of secondaries sits waiting for me. It adds up to $1,255 in secondary fees. (That’s for 13 schools, by the way.)

I tell you I better get in. I’m not going into debt to now have it all pay out in the end. Yes, I’m going into to debt, just to apply. I’m getting a little jaded about this process. It is making it so hard for someone whose parents aren’t doctors to jump through all these hoops.

59.7 % of medical student’s parents have a six figure income. The average income of a med student’s parents is $164.485!*** One if five students have parents who brought home a quarter of a million dollars, every year. There’s a reason for that, and it’s not because it just so happens that the upper class feels such a great burning desire to help others, even more so than another demographic. No, it’s because they are the only ones who can afford to go to (or let alone apply to) medical school. It is wrong.

When filling out the applications I came across the question “Have you adequate financial resources to attend medical school?” I snort, laugh a little nervously and click no. I would’ve clicked no-freakin’-way, but that wasn’t an option.


*As a Mormon we give 10% of our income to the Church. Sort of like the Protestant collection plate, just with a defined number, and we discreetly hand it to our Bishop in an envelope.

**A small part of me is worried at the fact that my first thought is how am I going to pay for the secondary fees, not how am I going to buy groceries for my family of three. But seriously those fees are expensive. I can pull groceries off, I think.

***All of the statistics I quote come from my lovely MSAR, which is admittedly a year old, but I doubt it’s changed that much in the past year.