From reading prior posts, you may well gather that my life and mind moved at the speed of light. I created a life where there was no time for me; there was no time or consideration or thought that I was headed off a cliff; there was not a thought that I needed to push on the brakes; there was no reverse, stop, or park to my automatic drive transmission. I plowed through work tasks, all chores, anything and everything; I bulldozed through difficult complicated situations like Samson flicking a pebble. I shifted gears automatically from tasks, assignments, and responsibilities weaving in and out, switching lanes, and exceeding the speed limit without blinking. If it needed to be done, I got it done. There was never a question in my mind to question whether to do it or not, I did it. My life was full and fast. At that break neck pace, I could have never identified that something was wrong, I really truly believed I was “fine,” there was nothing wrong with me, I was successful and had finally achieved a life I thought I would never have or for that matter deserved. Outwardly, I was an autonomous robot that knew how to sincerely mimic life and present an appearance of being highly responsible, independent, dependable, reliable, loyal, loving, kind, persevering, all together, everything going for me, never let them see me sweat, and a tower of strength. No one saw that my mind was constantly racing figuring life out by the seat of my pants, creating a meticulous, organized, on top of everything existence.
No one knew of the severe sleep deprivation. I could only sleep 5-6 hours a night on average, at times 3-4 hours because my mind never stopped. It had always been that way. I did not understand that this was abnormal. It was when we stopped going to church that on Sunday mornings I wound down enough to sleep a little longer. This had the opposite effect on my system; I was exhausted on Sundays and on bizarre occasions found myself crashing for an extended Sunday afternoon nap. This supported the therapist ideology that one does not have to go to church – I needed the extra sleep on Sundays to refuel my tank for the week ahead. Yet, not a Sunday passed that my mind was convicted about not attending worship service; my heart and spirit were saddened because I loved church.
I kept therapy a secret from everyone except my husband. Quite honestly, it came natural not to speak of therapy; I never spoke to anyone, including my husband, about my childhood, my dysfunctional family, my stresses and labors through college, my husband’s life, our complicated relationship, my feelings, discouragements, battles, and my inner world. My husband, in his word, truly thought I had everything together, I had a busy life, assumed I had a lot going on, and I was managing it. There were no signs or evidence to suggest otherwise. I buried anything and everything that would suggest weakness, failing, falling, asking for help, or giving up. I was fortified and kept confidences like a reflex, including keeping my own secrets from myself. I had learned to cope and be all-sufficient from very little on; I learned that I could not depend on or trust anyone accept myself, sadly enough, not even God; I learned to take care of myself and figure out life by myself; I learned how to suffer and survive; and I hung no trespassing signs surrounding my inner world that allowed no one entry.
I have a genuine deeply caring sensitive spirit. My husband says, “You think about everybody. You have a spirit of compassion, mercy, and great love for others.” I step into other’s feelings as easily as sand slips through cracks. I experience another’s emotions as if they were my own, but it is as if I cannot experience my own. I cannot tolerate injustice and used to fight quiet crusades on the behalf of others. I wanted others to be happy; I wanted to relieve other’s burdens and fears; I wanted to alleviate conflict so others could have peace. I would sacrificially do and give anything to anybody to make him or her happy. And, I had abundant scripture to support my behaviors and actions. Yet, as written about in prior posts, I was unconscious ignorant, empty, self-imprisoned by beliefs and rules that filtered and sorted accordingly, bearing inner crosses, and continuously swallowing a massive heartache deep within every piece and part of me. That heartache coursed through my underground like tributaries, seeping through every crack, crevice, joint, fissure, rock, cavern, and cave. Those dark empty places within, where the heartache coursed, carried anxiety, depression, despair, fatigue, fear, grief, at times hopelessness, hurts, insecurities, loneliness, low self-esteem, melancholy, nightmares, nervousness, pain, panic, sadness, sorrow, suffering, worthlessness, silent screams for help; I needed “food” to feed my starving heart, mind, and soul. These internal demons lurked about within unbeknownst to my conscious mind. As an adult, I endured a number of fender benders, but no external severe catastrophic accidents had occurred to weaken and shatter my resilience to shine light into the internal darkness.
I did not know that I harbored a deep yearning hope for someone to unconditionally love me; a yearning for someone to authentically care about my needs and feelings; a yearning to be genuinely heard and it all matter to someone; a yearning to be fully understood; a yearning to be sincerely wanted not for what I could do or give, but just for who I was; a yearning to be accepted and cared about for just me; a yearning for someone to validate me and find me worthy; a yearning to not feel used, abused, objectified, and taken advantage of; an unquenchable yearning for a mother to hug me, sit close to me, hold my hand; a yearning to find a safe place to land; I wanted to be loved and truly matter to somebody.
The therapist imbued these yearnings and hopes and I, without question, in my vulnerability, cut a small opening in my crime tape letting her enter just a smidge into my inner sanctuary and persistently gain small measures of trust. I tethered myself to her like a small child clinging to the leg of its mother.
I remained in overdrive charging forward into my actualized life; the therapist was constant in securing her interest in me; and I continued masquerading in my illusionary world under the mantra “I’m fine.”
After reading Part 1, perhaps you can sense the pressure gauge inside of me very slowly climbing. The 2004 holiday season was finally over, the decorations put away, and the home put back in order, but for some reason I could not get myself put back in order. Yearly, beginning sometime in October, my tender and sensitive spirit always turned downhearted throughout the approaching and during the holiday season of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s. I did not know why. Outwardly, I appeared “Tis the season to be jolly…fa la la la la la la la la.” Inwardly, I could not explain what I felt; now I know it as empty. This year was no exception, other than I noticed a deeper melancholy was hemorrhaging. I blew it off scurrying as always through the demands, commitments, and festivities thinking, come the solace of January my spirits would settle into a calm, respite, familiar routine place. Surprisingly, I did not regain my composure. The melancholies hung around like a London fog, creating a haze inside. I was having difficulty concentrating at work, struggling to accomplish the high volume of work I took on, lagging behind at home, occasionally missing church, and constantly hearing my inner voice, “What is wrong? Come on, we got this! We’re fine” and praying God would give me the strength each day to manage that days demands. Abnormally, I took a vacation day from work the second Wednesday of January just to catch up at home with cleaning, laundry, ironing, etc. hoping that would resolve my sense of being overwhelmed. Unusual, I fell behind again. I repeated taking another vacation day two weeks later. The turbulence inside of me was creating chaos in my typically highly organized, structured, meticulous world. I was struggling to maintain my ‘normal.’
About ten to eleven years prior, while working, I came upon a daily radio show broadcast through our local Christian radio station entitled, “Minirth Meier New Life Clinic.” I would have the program streaming for the daily hour at my desk, but only caught snippets being engrossed in work. I picked up that they were psycho something with clinics in Richardson, Texas. I did not give it much credence until one day, I overheard them speaking about being overweight and implications that could suggest a deeper problem, and the faint concept of depression. Hmmm…I chewed on those for a time, but the broadcast was soon terminated and those contemplations slipped into oblivion, so I thought. My second Wednesday in January while home, those Minirth Meier thoughts resurfaced. As I continued noticing lags in my ability to keep up, an inner voice began saying, “Maybe we need to get some help.” At first, I brushed that off as quickly as it came, telling myself, “No, we don’t need help, we just need to try harder! Come on…we got this!” However, as the lagging continued and I could not get on top of everything, the thought switched to, “We definitely need to get some help.”
I had no idea where to turn. I knew of a couple psychology professors’ names from the college I attended, but that was out of the question. I could not ask anyone; I could not show weakness; I could not be vulnerable; I could not let down my guard; I could not risk tainting my image – the stakes were too costly. I had jumped high hurdles my whole life to build a life that I never thought I could have or deserved. When I moved to this city for college, on occasion I would hear people jest about needing to be locked up in a padded cell at the local mental health facility. I wasn’t even sure what that meant; a padded cell? It was years before I learned the actual name of the facility. Whoever said it, I asked what the place was. They chuckled and explained it was for the crazy people. It actually made me rather sad that they were laughing at those people, but even then, it meant nothing to me. I began looking in the yellow pages and came upon a huge ad for that local Christian mental health facility. I figured Christian; surely, this would be the place.
It takes dogged courage to reach out for help! I had fear assaulting me like golf ball size hail from heaven. The very thought of calling constricted my throat, tightened my chest, and instigated heart palpitations. For about a week, I would pick up the phone to call, giving up before ever dialing the number. Inwardly, I am a strong soul. There is a bravery that rises inside of me that eventually pushes fear and emotions aside to face the giant. Friday, January 28, I quietly slipped away from my desk into an unoccupied office and dialed the number. A voice answered stating, “….Christian Mental Health Facility, this is…, Intake Specialist, how can I help you?” I silently wondered what ‘intake’ meant, but proceeded to explain that I was having some issues and wanted to know if I could set up an appointment. She asked if a LLC would be OK. I had no idea what that meant and said, “I suppose.” She gave me the name of the therapist and scheduled a new patient appointment for February 10, 2005 @ 4 pm. She said she would be sending me paperwork in the mail to complete and asked that I have it ready to turn in when I arrived. Ah…sweet relief…first step taken…NO!!! My mind became a raging forest fire with flames shooting in every conceivable direction second guessing myself, running through every imaginable scenario possible, who is she, will I be able to talk to her, what questions will she ask me, would I like her, what if I don’t like her, would I find the location OK, maybe I shouldn’t do this, what if somebody finds out, etc. My mind split in a million directions and I became engulfed and consumed with nerves! I thought about it every single day.
Driving to my first appointment, I felt like I was driving to my own funeral. I was somber, detached, and flat. I could hardly speak a word all day without it catching in my throat. I had an underlying nervous hum inside. When I arrived, there was a front and back receptionist area. The front receptionist area had a sign directing everyone to check in at the back receptionist desk. I checked in barely audible giving my name, handed the receptionist the paperwork, and took a seat in the waiting room. I was vigilant watching everyone, listening to everything, and taking in my surroundings! My inner voice prompted me to take flight and flee like a lone wolf into the dark of night, “It’s not too late!” The hyper-responsible part of me would never concede to such an irresponsible act! There I waited! I watched a woman walk past wearing stilettos, dressed quite fashionably nice, carrying paperwork, appearing to be someone on staff. Minutes later, she returns and calls my name. I am scarcely breathing on the quiet trek to her office with my mind repeating, “What are we doing? What are we doing? Oh my goodness, what are we doing?”
Upon entering her office, she took a seat at her desk and left me wondering where I was ‘supposed’ to sit. I took a seat in the chair next to the door, quickly scanning her office space. I took it all in, including her. She seemed friendly and genuine, and appeared as if she knew what she was doing. She sat facing me with her legs crossed scribbling notes on a legal pad as I answered her questions. She says, “So, tell me about yourself.” I lost my mind and my voice; I did not know what to say! I muddled through a few current facts. She was pleasant and smiled. We had more exchange of my current life and slowly I calmed down, found my voice, and could audibly speak. We slowly discussed the issues that prompted me to come. I factually shared pretty much all the details from Part 1. She assessed that I was struggling with codependency issues, wrote down the name of a book on a yellow sticky note, handed it to me, and suggested I read it and do the exercises at the end of each chapter. I said, “OK,” she stood up, we exchanged parting words, and I headed to the receptionist desk by myself to check out, praising God and thanking Jesus that was over!
Here is a glimpse of the exchange at the receptionist’s window:
Receptionist: “So, do you need to schedule another appointment?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Receptionist: “Did she tell you to schedule another appointment?”
Receptionist: “Do you want to schedule another appointment?”
Me: “I don’t know. What do you think?”
Receptionist: “Well, I’m pretty sure you are supposed to have another appointment. When would you like your next appointment?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Receptionist: “Would you like one week, two weeks, or something else?”
Me: “I don’t know. What is normal?”
Receptionist: “I’m gonna schedule you for two weeks from now. What time works for you?”
Me: “Evening if possible.”
Receptionist: “How about February 24 at 6 pm?”
She hands me an appointment card and I leave. I felt as ignorant as believing the world was flat! Was I supposed to know these things? What was I missing? Should I have asked those questions of the therapist? I shouldered all responsibility believing I looked like a fool and should have known something that I did not.
On the way home, I stop in at the local bookstore; I purchase the book Codependent No More by Melody Beattie. Ironically, before my husband and I were married, his therapist, who I spoke with only once for about 30 minutes, recommended I read this same book. At the time, I told him kindly that I was not the one with the problems here; I really did not think I needed to read a book. He smirked, wrote the name of the book down, and handed me a yellow sticky note as well. Not with any anger or malice, I crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash thinking he was pointing his finger at me as if I were the one with the problems. There was nothing wrong with me; I was fine!
Ever consider the domino effect where every choice we make represents a domino? Sometimes I imagine my entire life as a series of dominoes falling and colliding and intersecting with a forward push successively creating momentum or lethargy depending on extraneous factors with each topple. Every single day is a series of choices. All of life is a cycle of choices. There are spiritual choices, personal preference choices, obvious choices, random choices, informed choices, uninformed choices, impulsive choices, compromising choices, sacrificial choices, long-term choices, emotional choices, moral choices, physical choices, financial choices, health choices, food choices, charitable choices, educational choices, career choices, transportation choices, relationship choices, etc. Many choices are seamless, not even recognizing them as choices; they become reflexive behaviors. It is possible that one choice could fit into several of these categories. Every category contains good or bad options, pros and cons, accordingly. At the end of the day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime, I believe it is the uninformed, ignorant choices (whatever category) which lead us into the darkest pits and deepest valleys – the choice you revisit in your mind and so wish you could take back; the choice you make in pure inexperience and unfamiliarity; the choice you make innocently fully believing it to be the right choice; the choice you make trusting God for good outcomes – the dominoes that fall on detonation sensors. I believe it is these choices that God uses to bring Him glory; to discipline us; to mold us like clay in His hands; to endure a long and painful process to purge out the dross and impurities like refined precious metals under heat; to lead and direct us to new places and understanding for our good; to discipline us to His highest value rendering wisdom, knowledge, and understanding; and ultimately to help others along their journey. Trust me, until eternity when “I shall know fully, even as I am fully known,” on this earth I may never fully know God’s purposes and reasons for allowing things to occur, but I now trust Him more.
I would like to share a personal experience, which actually began February 10, 2005 – one ignorant quiet choice to reach out for help, one unsuspecting private phone call to establish a new patient appointment that set off a drastic flash lightning chain reaction of events that haunts me to this day! I actually sometimes ask God, “Why did we have to do it this way?” I pray He will use it for His greater purposes. My first post will be preliminary accounts of happenings prior to this date, which will help give you an understanding of the events preceding my choice. I pray sharing this true story helps someone; gives someone wisdom and insight; and perhaps disrupts potential choices that need clear discernment – maybe that someone is just me! I will share this in parts.
I was in my fifteenth year of marriage still trying to navigate a complex web of marital dynamics stemming from two incredibly shattered people becoming one with all bets against our survival. We were only aware of one atomic bomb of my husbands that spewed debris, soot, and smoke all over us while dating. We spent over a decade of married life weaving in, over, around, and through the wreckage, consequences of choices he had made prior to marriage and on occasion, we still encounter a tiny burning ember that we more skillfully extinguish. After we were married, the rubble and plume of smoke from his explosion engulfed our existence, at times choking the life out of me. During our tumultuous, peculiar dating life, he was in the throngs of a ferocious battle I could not comprehend or understand. I had little clue about the size of the crater this explosion had created, but I did know I was teetering on the edge of a level of crazy I barely survived. I was aware of the framework, but I had no idea of the actual ugly images in the picture. Once I became conscious of a few images, I began piecing more and more together and throughout the ordeal became codependent, making every attempt to rescue him from the clutches of this monster and keep everything a secret. His plume of smoke was so wide, high, and thick that it blinded me to myself. I thought all our problems were because of him. I was normal; I had no problems; I was fine! There was nothing wrong with me. Truly, it is a heavy story of God’s redemption in his life; it is a heavy story of how I lost pieces of myself in the midst of his story. I was well equipped for the mission after years and years of my own buried and repressed life, yet I did not count the cost of my own personal damage until much later. I was an expert at suffering, survival, and denial!
Another atomic bomb that unknowingly flattened me on a level I denied was infertility. At no time while we were dating had we talked about having children. I loved little babies and little kids, but growing up I was not ‘in’ to babysitting, except for a select two. My mother consistently lined up babysitting jobs for me with people I did not know, for weekends, for summers, for evenings. I was ill equipped; I did not know what to do with these children; I had never learned to play, though I had no cognition of that for years and years. At a pre-marital exam, my physician (a great Christian physician whom I respected and loved) brought up contraceptives. He explained everything to me. I was not keen on the idea of taking a pill, but I also knew I/we were not prepared in any way, shape, or form to raise a child in the debris field, soot, and smoke we were currently living within. And always placing myself as the one responsible, I began birth control three months prior to our marriage without a blip on my radar that my husband could have taken measures. We gave no thought to not having children; we were just living life. However, our mothers were not shy in making their desires known. My mother boldly asked deliberately and consistently. His mother would never ask, but instead on multiple visits be crocheting baby booties, baby blankets, and baby jackets with a faint smile on her face as if I were giving birth the next day. We did take note of these things, but again were in agreement, in the wake of everything, it was not time. Around a year and nine months, I no longer wanted to take birth control, we were not totally prepared for children, but heard from friends ‘you are never fully ready.’ We decided I would stop taking the birth control and let nature take its course. Three months later, at another physical, my same doctor brought up having children and pregnancy. I explained to him that I discontinued birth control three months prior. He looks at me quizzically and suggests I get some preliminary infertility testing. It was a world I knew nothing of, but because I am a rule follower, I am present and accounted for at all procedures. Everything is normal. The physician then suggests my husband get checked. Against his every desire, he too follows through with his testing. It is a late summer afternoon. I hear the phone ringing as I am putting the key in to unlock the door. My husband is not home yet. I rush to the phone, “Hello.” It is our physician (kind of a fatherly figure to me) with a solemn tone. He says, “Hello Dee, this is doctor…, are you sitting down.” It all took me back for a minute, as I was not accustomed to him actually calling me; I thought something must have happened to my husband. I sat down and said, “Yes.” He tells me he got my husband’s fertility test results and that we only have a 2% chance of pregnancy. Nonchalantly I say, “OK” as if I had lost a dollar, no big deal. He inquired if I was OK. I said, “Sure, I’m fine.” He hung on the line as if waiting for some reaction of which I had none; I was blank; I was fine. When my husband arrived home, I shared the news with him like telling him the mail had just arrived. It was as if neither of us felt anything, no disappointment, no sadness, nothing. That was it, case closed. This was a loud bomb that I never heard go off, leaving destruction that I never saw for years.
My mother passed away January 20, 1994 from metastasized lung cancer. I never shed a tear – her first cancer diagnosis in December 1987, July 1992 when she phoned to tell me the cancer had returned, first chemo treatment, when she called me at work crying because her hair was falling out, every time she called me on the phone crying, multiple trips rushing 300 miles home; two sleepless weeks at the hospital as she lay dying; at the funeral; or thereafter. This too was an explosion of magnitude proportions leaving debris, smoke, and soot all over my life. I went through the motions managing her treatments, pain, and death as if it were spilled milk. The only residue I carried home was guilt, guilt, and more guilt; consistently wondering if she was OK; hoarding all her belongings for her return; nightmares; and weariness that dredged me like an anchor. But, after being gone for two weeks, I immediately began running forward at a pace that dwarfed the roadrunner. Inwardly, the emptiness and melancholy were escalating, but I was still able to outrun the emotions without recognizing or identifying that was what I was doing. It was my normal; I was fine! I did not know anything about grieving. It was my normal; I was fine! Yet outwardly, I began putting on pound after pound of weight, swelling to an all-time high of 460 pounds. I had no idea food was a coping mechanism that I used my entire life to fill the emptiness within and comfort my painful emotions. You see, psychology, mental illness, depression, anxiety, panic, insomnia, trauma, abuse, PTSD, neglect, abandonment, attachment disorder, etc. were not part of my vocabulary or knowledge. I was not educated in this field. These were my every day normal; nothing was wrong with me! I was independent, successful, and needed no one. I lived under THE mantra, “I’m fine.” Other than the embarrassing morbid obesity, amazingly, I presented an outward level of surpassing normalcy, I had everything together, all was well, I was fine. Inwardly, I had more secrets than a ‘secret keeper’ and I figured out any way possible to keep the secrets a secret from even myself. It is pretty tricky how the mind splinters, divides, and compartmentalizes information removing it from your awareness.
September 5, 1998 my maternal grandmother passed away quietly alone in her home. Another story for another day. We rushed there for the funeral, spent a day helping go through some of her possessions, rushed home with a few mementos in tow, and back to the grind without emotion. It was my normal; I was fine!
Sometime in 2004, another detonation of crushing decibels was released. My family has been riddled with friction, disagreements, narcissism, anger and rage, prolonged silences, passive-aggressive silent punishments, unsettled disputes swept under the rug, cruel actions, gossip and judgments passed down, hurts, wounds, and shredded relationships. I am not pointing the finger at anyone except myself, nor is this the storyline to delve into that world, and nor am I here to break this down for analysis. We are a dysfunctional, fractured people in constant need of forgiveness, reconciliation, and restoration – that continual atonement! At this particular time, I once again found myself cast out into that world of dark silence with zero contact. I do not know the exact root that caused the seven years of separation, but this time I made a choice that I would no longer go crawling back with my tail between my legs, offering apologies for unknown actions, groveling to regain a standing in their good graces. I stepped away not knowing I was looking down the barrel of seven plus years of silence and separation. It was tragic. It was years of isolated aftershocks. I felt like an orphan. It was like scraping the skin off your knuckle having a constant sting. It was crushing and yet it was an all too familiar place; I was fine. I am just going to leave this here. For me, sharing the story of my family is like having a Viking reach in and rip your heart out with their bare hands.
I was a severe workaholic at work and home, which I learned as a coping mechanism to outrun and deny any ounce of emotion. Though I changed jobs four times of my own choice, I excelled at surpassing standards, cranking out work beyond imagination, and working overtime – often going in a 6 am and working until 6 pm, working a double plus shift at the end of each month from 6 am until 2 am the next morning, or going to work at 7 am on a Friday and not leaving until 3 am Saturday only to go back in after church on Sunday, then back to the regular work week on Monday. At home, I managed ALL affairs, and I do mean ALL. In silence, we fell into these roles. For years I just did anything and everything; if I saw it needed to be done, I did it. I was hyper-vigilant, hyper-responsible, hyper-organized, hyper-meticulous, hyper-clean, hyper-whatever. I lived at a pace unsurpassed by Hermes. That was my normal; there was nothing wrong with me; I was fine! As time progressed, I began to see that I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders and my husband was whistling off to work happy as a lark without a care in the world. He was fulfilled. Now I gave the appearance of unbelievable stability, dependability, super employee, church pianist, served in various roles in the church, and happy, yet on the inside, I was empty. My entire life I carried a measure of melancholy that steadily increased like a growing stock market price. We began to have a few tussles, but I had crippling fear that his past would resurface at the scent of conflict or disagreement. I chose to remain silent.
My body was letting me know it was under extreme duress! May 1985, April 1992, and December 1998 I was in the ER for heart palpitations and chest tightness – all three visits diagnosed as benign. March 2003 I visited my doctor for heart palpitations and chest tightness. He administered a stress test – diagnosed benign. Not one person spoke anything about anxiety. I now find that bizarre. September 1993 through May 1994 my thyroid levels began functioning at 170%. Specialists could do nothing to slow it down except radioactive iodine treatment. There was never a root diagnosis – no goiter, no virus, no cancer – nothing! August 1996 another ER visit for a 104-degree fever with delirium. They thought it to be a kidney infection, but nothing was ever confirmed. May 2000 and July 2004 broke my right foot, twice in different bones. Except for the ER visits, I went through all follow-up appointments, testing and procedures alone, including fertility. No emotions; I did not need anybody; that was my normal; I was fine!
I praise God for His enduring love, grace, mercy, and presence in my life.
Raise your hand if you have burdens you bear. It does not matter if those burdens are permanent or temporary, heavy or light, exposed or hidden, or even perhaps you are driving with your eyes closed, trust me, eventually you will crash! Come on, raise those hands, we ALL have our crosses to bear in this life. Some crosses are unchangeable and interminable. Some crosses are an adversity lasting an indeterminate, but limited amount of time. Some crosses are things that ‘happen to us’ causing severe ripple effects throughout our entire lifespan. Some crosses are consequences from conscious or ignorant choices made. Some crosses are life, redefining moments that establish a time marker of before and after where life breaks forever, you are now stumbling through an unfamiliar dense forest, and your life story is instantly getting re-written; life will never be the same. Now that all of your hands are finally raised, you ALL can put your hands down now.
If we put together an impromptu list of crosses people bear, I imagine it would be a scroll stretching out unfathomable miles and truthfully still would never be all-encompassing. I have my truly unbelievable ‘stuff’ to me, but I know every single person on the face of this earth has their personal story filled with hardships. I wish I had an anonymous PO Box to receive anonymous stories from willing people about their adversities. I think it would be quite therapeutic and safe to unload a portion of that weight. Whatever your crosses and however you define them, at times the pills seem too hard to swallow. To me I can feel like Sisyphus pushing that boulder up that steep hill; sometimes I would like to let go of that boulder and just let it steamroller over me. Crosses equal suffering! Suffering equals grief, pain, agony, anguish, despair, temptations, trials, and tribulations. I have had times when I felt like I simply could not tolerate my constant-never-ending-at-times-desperate struggling.
For me, I did not exactly win the “Wonderful Parenting, Happy Childhood” lottery. Life was MESSED up!!! Nevertheless, I drove through life with my eyes closed. Externally, I gave the appearance of all together, life was a bed of roses – clean, pruned, good job, faithful employee, bills paid, nice clothes, friends, attend church and served, practiced personal spiritual disciplines, warm and cozy tidy meticulous home (all things said in no certain order,) the only external red flashing beacon of light giving off urgent warning signals was my ever-increasing weight. I was over-qualified at surviving, recovering, and denying and onward I raced through my inner obstacle course. On the inside, I was MESSED up! Weedy vines began choking out and killing my roses! Those vines intertwined around everything; they were killer vines invading and smothering my landscape. Yet, I was merrily speeding through life with my eyes closed at a high rate of speed. I did not even realize these vines had suction cupped and attached themselves to every piece of me, until eventually, I crashed. In reality, I was being internally strangulated by choking vines; I was being attacked by rose thorns causing injurious deep scrapes and cuts; I was slowly fading and dying. I carried crosses labeled spiritual, physical, gender, marital, financial, bankruptcy, loss of house, moving, friendships, family, financial, employment, disability, death, mental issues, therapeutic abuse, medical nightmares, insomnia, buried feelings of emptiness, loneliness, resentment, shame, PTSD, etc. – all symptomatic seepage from my internal brokenness. I was fighting a fierce battle of survival, trust me I had an extreme arsenal of weapons acquired in childhood where I learned how to survive. Eventually, profound despair, exhaustion, and hopelessness turned into a daily crusade of desperately wanting to take my own life. I would sit at work on the third floor, thinking about going down to the vacant first floor restroom and slashing my wrists. I would think about OD’ing on pills. The abyss kept getting deeper and darker the further my mind slipped into searching for an escape hatch.
This is just a mere glimpse at the tip of my iceberg; it is the unseen mass below the surface that truly needed to be worked at chipping away. It takes a whole lot of courage to choose life; it takes a brave soul to look at what lies beneath the surface. It seems the holidays and winter months can capitalize on my weaknesses, even though I have gained many coping skills. I know that I am not alone. There are oh so very many who suffer during this joyous season – sadness, loneliness, estrangement, anxiety, stress, sleep disturbances, fatigue, isolating and social withdrawal, loss of interest in activities, depression, PTSD, grief, tearfulness, financial constraints, fear, shame, perfectionism, frustration, irritability, fixating on the past, physical ailments, aches, and pains, etc. These too are symptoms of floating icebergs. It takes bold audacity to drill down inside those frozen parts and take a hard long forward look at what is actually causing behavioral and symptomatic manifestations of deeper causes. It is hard work! It is hard to get gut wrenching honest with yourself and begin identifying your junk. And, it is even harder to implement the life-long changes in order to stop the hemorrhaging. There is always a different way to manage carrying our crosses. Now, I am no authority or professional, and quite honestly am still in recovery, but we have been able to cut away some of the vines, remove some of the thorns, I am breathing a little better these days, and definitely I am not suicidal.
I don’t begin to know or pretend to know what cross you are bearing; I don’t know if it is a thorn in the flesh, a death, a divorce, a sick child, someone terminally ill, mental illness, personal injury or illness, addiction, family issues, troubles at work, change in work status, less than favorable custody arrangement, financial decline, foreclosure, change in residence, school, or church, betrayal, loss of trust, loss of safety, violated, crime, imprisonment, a bad hair day, or hell on earth. Here is what I do know. There is ALWAYS hope, there is always something to be thankful for, and there are acts of service we can do for others to switch our focus!! I do not mean denial; I mean concentrating on good things. Your situation might not change tomorrow, next week, a month, or a year from now, but there is hope and something to find gratitude for in the midst. You may spend a lifetime praying for something that will never be and at times, it makes your heart so painfully sad that you recoil from life for a bit, lick your wounds, and slowly emerge with renewed hope. Press the reset button and do a good deed for someone else. Somehow, find gratitude and bless someone else. You may spend a lifetime battling an addiction – rising and falling, rising and falling, time after time hoping this time will be victory at last. Do not give up hope! Extend grace and mercy to yourself. Stand up, brush yourself off, and try again! You may be carrying a hidden grief so heavy and painful that at times you are drowning and suffocating. Do not let hope slide away. Look around for even a miniscule something to be thankful for and spread a little joy somewhere. Whatever your cross, keep hope alive, find gratitude in the waiting, and grasp that little mustard seed of faith. Miracles happen everyday!
I want to share a writing by someone anonymous to me:
THE MIRACLE OF CHRISTMAS
The whole Christmas story is full of miracles.
I personally find them hard to comprehend.
It makes no sense.
How could the infinite eternal God become a baby?
Not only how, but also why?
Why would He choose to be born to peasant parents?
Why would He empty Himself of every advantage of His divine nature?
Why would He choose to become a servant and become obedient to death?
even death on a cross?
Why to sinners like us did He do it?
It is because of his all-encompassing love.
I cannot explain it, but I believe it.
I thank God for sending His Son to an imperfect world.
To a world that celebrates the spirit of consumerism
Where Christmas comes from shopping lists, catalogs, and the almighty credit card.
I pray God delivers us from empty cheer and season’s greetings born of obligation.
I hope He delivers us from all the social events that supposedly honor Jesus.
Surely, Christmas is supposed to be more than packages, paper, bows, silver bells, Frosty, Rudolph and all his reindeer friends.
You see the true spirit of Christmas cannot be found in a store window or in a Christmas carol.
Christmas is not giving bigger and better so we can get bigger and better.
You cannot count Christmas by the number of decorations you use.
We cannot even count Christmas by the number of manger scenes and stars we have on the tree.
In fact, we cannot even count Christmas by the number of verses we memorize.
I pray God would grant us the true spirit of Christmas:
Generosity of heart and the love, which caused Christ to wrap Himself in the garments of our humanity.
I pray God shows us the true meaning of Christmas and affirms our worth apart from what we have or what we do.
For reasons which only His Holy love can explain, God gave Christ to become one of us and to suffer the consequences of our sin.
This Holiday season as we’re in the middle of singing carols, baking cookies, decorating our homes and opening our gifts
remember to leave room for CHRIST.
“For unto us was born this day in the city of David a savior, which is Christ the Lord.”
“And His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Prince of Peace, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father.”
As we celebrate Christ’s entrance into the world, let us try to make our world a little better.
Mend a quarrel
Call a friend
Seek out a forgotten friend
Do random acts of kindness
Give compliments, encouragement, and appreciation
Do not be critical of others
Dismiss suspicion and replace it with trust
Write a letter
Send cards of kindness
Share some treasure
Cook dinner together
Bake something and take it to a neighbor
Pay for someone else
Let others go first
Give a soft answer
Say ‘Thank You’
Encourage one another
Be loyal in word and deed
Keep a promise
Apologize if you are wrong
Try to understand and show acceptance
Express your gratitude
Welcome a stranger
Invite a friend for hot chocolate
Gladden the heart of a child
If you’ve wronged someone, fix it
If you think you’ve wronged someone, fix it
Go outdoors and take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of this earth
Make a difference
I am not talking about the other person
I am talking about you; you are the one that can make the difference.
It starts with you.
At Christmas, we tend to believe all things are possible.
“The wrong shall fail, the right prevail.”
Sin can be forgiven.
Broken relationships can be restored.
Hearts can be healed.
Try to make your little corner of the world a better place!
have never been arrested or confined in a literal prison, bordered by multiple
barbed wire fencings, limited by brick walls, enclosed in cells, surrounded by
criminals, and observed and inspected 24/7 by guards. The objective of
imprisonment is to deter those who would otherwise commit crimes, to ‘pay’ the
consequences for committed crimes, to safeguard society, and to be a “house of
corrections” for hopeful rehabilitation and education for the prevention of
future crimes up on release.
incarceration takes an altered dimension when it progressively materializes in the
mind! My mental captivity, for all intents and purposes, was never intentional.
From birth on, I began erecting a wall brick by unseen brick, a wall so tall
and so thick that neither I nor anyone else could see over it or breach the
stronghold. In fact, I was ignorant that
I had constructed a wall, let alone know when the construction of the wall was
completed. Truly, it is an ingenious work of art. It is strong, stable, and resistant.
It has weathered the storms quite well. However, here is the real truth and
recent revelation – my wall takes an incredible amount of energy to maintain; my
wall comes with a titanic price tag. On several occasions, I just wanted to
give up — the wall has nearly cost my very life.
The greater question is, “What’s behind my wall?” This wall actually serves to protect me from what is on the other side; this wall serves as pseudo safety and security; this wall serves as a barrier and coping defense. All that is behind my wall is all that holds me hostage. What is behind my wall? Years and years and years of denied unspoken pain; my trust is behind that wall; my emotions are behind that wall; unforgiveness is behind that wall; emptiness; all the tears I’ve literally never shed; grief, sorrow, and heartache beyond measure; unexpressed fear and sadness; loneliness and isolation; bleeding wounds of abuse, trauma, suffering, neglect, abandonment, silence, cruelty, intrusion of boundaries, indifference, gloomy days after days, conflicting gender identity issues, suffering, disappointments, timidity, and humiliation; loss of childhood; powerlessness; the darkness and melancholy; PTSD; sleepless and restless nights, anxiety and panic; depression; social anxiety; a host of physical ailments; every pound of excess weight and food addiction; feelings of being a disappointment, unacceptable, an embarrassment, inferior, a misfit, left out, being bullied, and overwhelmed; all the pieces of my broken yearning empty heart; all the shattered and devastating losses of hopes and dreams; denial and defeat; regrets; the attempts to reach out for professional help only to have it cause more destruction; anger, resentment, and at times hatred and bitterness toward each person who contributed to my wall and all the debris and trash that lies behind. I have lost myself and my identity in the rubble.
see, there is more than one kind of prison! My wall and all the ruins that are
piled up on the other side limit me. I am paying severe consequences. The wall
is my attempt to deter more bricks and wreckage, yet the irony is that the wall
is actually creating more. Only by finally receiving quality professional help
am I willing to identify and acknowledge the brevity of all of my pieces and brokenness
that I have tossed and stored behind my wall. Frankly, the wall has little
breaches and it is time for the wall to come down brick by brick; it is time! The
light must shine in and expose all that is hidden in the darkness. It is complex
and deep. Though I am externally freakishly meticulous, clean, organized, and
orderly, behind my wall I am an emotional hoarder. It is time to sift through
each component and determine what to keep, what to give back, what to trash,
and what to let go. It is time to set the captive free. To be quite honest, I
am tired; I have sheer exhaustion and chronic fatigue and no longer have the
emotional capability to preserve my wall! It is scary to me, but I am committed
here is what I know to be truth:
[The Lord says,] “Even to your old age and gray hairs, I am He, I am He who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you. Isaiah 46:4
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18
From my prior blog, Church 101, I wrote, “I had no emotion
over our departure. However, I must admit in the wake of leaving the church, I
certainly did not leave much behind, in fact quite the opposite. I packed
myself numerous boxes of substance and toted them right out those church doors.
One box contained my precious salvation and baptism along with a few spiritual
disciplines like daily praying, reading my Bible, listening to my Christian
music LP’s, and the various convictions of living a moral life. I lugged out a
heavier box crammed with legalistic rules that I had witnessed and been taught
to believe was the mark of the accomplished Christian soldier. I hauled a box
brimming to overflowing with all the reasons I was unlovable and unacceptable
to God and everything I ‘should’ be doing to gain His love and favor. I carted
off a box of glass shards each representing the countless times I was mocked,
laughed at, ridiculed, and exploited by those church kids.
These boxes were sealed tight with an encryption that only I
could decipher. They contained my interpretation of what a Christian should and
should not be, what they should and should not wear, what they should and
should not do, where they should and should not go, and what makes a Christian
acceptable and loved by God. In other words, I was inherently a bad person on a
mission to attain these perfect standards. Then, and only then, could God
possibly accept and love me, as well as these church people — or anybody else
for that matter. I might as well have been an Israelite trying to live under
the letter of the law, conditions of a narrow, rigid moral code that imprisoned
me spiritually. And here is the kick in the teeth; I knew no difference because
there certainly was no one at church or home explaining anything! These beliefs
seeped into me without my awareness. These beliefs coupled with my home life constantly
whispered in my ear, “You are unacceptable, a disappointment, and totally
unlovable.” These beliefs drove me! I had mountains to climb to achieve that
which I desperately longed for – to be acceptable and lovable by God and as a Christian.
My mother took me to church as an infant onward. Weekly,
faithfully we attended Sunday morning Sunday school and then the morning church
service directly afterward. Of course, I began in nursery, graduated to
toddlers, and then into Sunday school for certain age groups, progressively. When
I was five, I shared with my mother that I got saved. She insisted that I was
too young to understand what that meant. For two years, she contended I was not
saved. At age seven, I had a Sunday school teacher who I thought the sun rose
and set on. I lagged behind one Sunday morning after Sunday school helping push
the chairs in – it really was not about the chairs, it was about being with her.
She asked me if I was saved. I told her no because my mother drilled it into me
that I was not. She shared Jesus with me that morning and I got re-saved. She
told me I had to go forward during the morning worship service so that it could
be announced to the congregation. Huh? You mean walk down that long footpath in
front of all those people and tell the pastor I got saved? With fear,
trepidation, and my little heart racing, I made my way forward in front of all
those people to proclaim my salvation. Two weeks later, I was baptized. As I
waded out into the deep baptismal, I heard a gasp hover over the congregation
and then this hush of silence. On the way home, my mother told me that those
sitting around her turned to her and said it was like seeing an angel walking
out. I was wearing a white robe furnished by the church and had white blonde
hair. In all truth, these two events were pivotal phenomena in my life. God
knew that I would need Him at such a young age to survive all that was
happening and all that lie ahead. He became the very foundation upon which I
found my hope to keep trying. Without Jesus, I would not be who I am today. At
this church, I was further strongly commanded to be reading scripture,
memorizing scripture, and praying daily. This is the one box I took from that
church that I cherish and hold with deep gratitude.
Now, children’s church felt like overwhelming chaos to me –
lots and lots of kids from well to do families who attended the church academy
huddled in their groups of friends. Oh, not me! I was fat, which made me a huge
target for being ridiculed and laughed at; I owned one dress that I wore week
after week as opposed to those who wore the newest trends; I attended public
school and not the church academy, which made me an outsider; and I was not in
attendance every time the church doors were open, which relegated me to being
less than. To make it worse, somewhere between seven and eight years old, my
mother began a path of irregular church attendance, which naturally played out
in my life. Some weeks we attended both Sunday school and the morning church
service; some weeks we attended just Sunday school and would scurry out the
door to head home before the morning church service began; and some weeks we did
not attend whatsoever. There seemed to be no rhyme, reason, or pattern behind
the confusion of what each week brought, but this disrupted pattern of
attendance placed me under a huge spotlight. You see, they took attendance. As
I entered the Sunday school room or children’s church, someone took my name and
checked me off some list. The woman taking attendance for children’s church
would inevitably ask me why I had missed the prior week or weeks. Every time, I
would tell her, “I don’t know.” One Sunday morning my mother planned to go to
Sunday school only. I asked her if we could please stay for church. She asked
me why and I told her because the woman keeps questioning me each time I am absent
why I am gone. My mother looks at me and says, “You tell her it is none of her
business.” I proceed into children’s
church a couple weeks later praying the woman would not notice I had been absent.
Not on your life! She again asks me why
I had been absent the past few Sundays and, not knowing anything different, I
say, “My mother told me to tell you that it is none of your business.” Granted,
I was never questioned again, but it took me years to realize that that
response was inappropriate. To this day, I simply say good morning, hi, or if I
know the person well enough I might say, hey, I missed you, but I will never ask
anyone why he or she was not in attendance.
Because of my father’s negativity about the church and my mother’s
free-flowing feelings at home about her personal scrutinization from the church,
I already had the strong sense that we were a diseased family of rats attending
church amongst the snakes. The way I was treated by the other kids further supported
my notion of being eaten alive. To the depth of my soul, I so wanted to fit in
and be a part of the kids at church. It would have meant the world to me. But that
simply would never, ever be, as hard as I tried. I had not one friend. There
was one girl who was the ringleader and literally reminded me of Nellie Oleson
from Little House on the Prairie – prissy and spoiled, and displayed a vicious
and manipulative personality. One Sunday they announce that our Sunday school
class is having an outing. They are going to somebody’s farm to go horseback
riding. I desperately wanted to go. I love animals and had never ridden a
horse. However, I had no one to go with. As the time got closer, the desire to
ride a horse outweighed the fear of going alone and risking the mockery of the
other kids. My mother dressed me in a white speckled shirt two sizes too small
and off I went. When I arrived at the church, we were instructed to get on the
bus. I was last in line to enter the bus and there sat Nellie. My throat choked
as she squealed in her shrill voice, “How much do you weigh?” The entire bus
erupted into laughter as I deflated, hung my head in shame, and made my way to
an empty seat. When we arrived at the farm, the horses were lined up on the opposite
side of a wooden fence. We were told to stand on the opposing side of the wooden
fence. As would be my fate, a horse walked up behind me and in between the
slats of the fence, proceeds to lick me across the top of my suffocating tight
white shirt leaving a huge grass stain swiped across the top. Once again, Nellie
erupts into laughter and in her shrill voice announces to the entire group what
happened causing a ripple effect of laughter. I wish the ground had opened up
and swallowed me whole. The humiliation was crippling.
My mind was continuously trying to think of ways to fit in
and gain acceptance from these kids. Around my sixth grade year, in an effort
to gain acceptance and fit in, I asked my mother if I could attend the church
academy. She was sitting at her sewing machine, as always making herself quite
the attire, when I approached her with my novel idea. When I asked, she said, “Now
why would you want to do that?” I said because I do not have any friends at
church and I want to fit in with the kids. She said, “That is no reason for you
to attend that academy. Those kids are no better than you are for attending
that academy. Besides, we cannot afford to send you there. Do you know how much
that costs?” Case closed! I continued attending public school. And, I continued
to be the friendless laughing stock each time I attended church.
On another occasion, when I was in seventh grade, the 50
some year old teacher of the Sunday school class I was attending announces that
we will be having a back to school pizza party at her home the following
Saturday. Now my motivation to go had nothing to do with pizza or being with
the kids. Truthfully, I would have rather played in traffic than be the fat
girl scarfing down pizza in front of Nellie. My motive was the Sunday school
teacher’s niece. Remember the Sunday school teacher that I thought the sun rose
and set on, the one who shared Jesus with me? That was her niece. Her niece was
the co-teacher of our class. She was not present in the class every Sunday morning,
but I knew she was helping with the back to school pizza party. I wanted to
attend the event because I wanted to see her. Did I mean anything to her? Not
so much, as the years revealed, for that matter we never had conversation. But
if you recall that emptiness that I spoke of in a prior blog, I was chasing
after love from birth and other than my grandmother, she was probably the first
female I wanted to love me. What a mistake to go to this party! What a BIG
mistake! You know how the Grinch’s heart
grew 3X larger that day? My body had grown up and out over the summer and
literally I had no pants that fit. Now my mother was a fine seamstress and in
her brilliancy, rather than make me a new pair of pants, she decides to take a
pair of my treasured undersized knit peach pants and sew (no kidding here) a 6-inch
lace on the bottom of each leg of the pants. In a panic, I tell her, “No, I
cannot wear those. I will look like a freak!” She convinces me that the lace
makes them look really nice, they will not be too short, and everyone will
think I look so cute. I wanted to puke the entire ride there. My mother drops
me off at the end of the driveway. I see the kids playing baseball in the yard.
I begin walking toward the area. I hear a piercing “Look” that split the
atmosphere like lightning. Nellie begins pointing and laughing hysterically
creating a riotous scene. As I got closer, the niece of the Sunday school
teacher is standing on the porch watching the entire incident playout. No one
stopped it. I had no way of leaving. I fell into a silent world of pure hell!
This was the last attempt to participate in any church activity – no more
Sunday school parties, no more children’s church, and no more youth activities.
Remember those boxes – the one overflowing
with all the reasons I was unlovable and unacceptable to God and the other box
of glass shards each representing the countless times I was mocked, laughed at,
ridiculed, and exploited by those church kids – they both also contained blood
from the wounds that dug so deep into my very soul.
That last box of legalism contained so many rules. And, I
believed every single one. They were leverage against myself, indicators of my
spirituality or lack thereof, markers of defeat, gages to remind me that I was
not worthy to be loved, and guides that drove me just about over the edge.
Now, here is what I did love. I loved walking quietly into
the huge sanctuary, locating my mother, quietly sitting in the pew, and listening
to the prelude music. I loved singing the hymns. I loved hearing the beautiful
choir each Sunday. I loved special music. And, I loved hearing the Word of God
preached. At the most important level, somehow God got ahold of my heart and
despite the fact that my heart was broken, I believe He held onto me beyond any
words that I could ever write.
In a prior blog, I shared that I devote the mass majority of
my life living like an F5 tornado day in and day out. My detection of the
slow fade begins like a slow, minuscule, trickling leak. At impromptu
intervals, I hit a disguised brick wall. My knees buckle; I stumble; and I fall
to the ground. Shaking my head, I wonder what is happening. For me, it is
similar to a boxing match — punched, falls down, get back up, over and over
and over and over and over and over and on it goes. It will take me literally
years, and I do mean years, to identify this inescapable pattern. I pass it
off, return to my ‘normal’ self, and race forward. Eventually, colliding with
that wall begins happening in rapid progressive intervals, with time in between
decreasing and longevity of down time increasing. The battle is fierce and I am
a tough competitor! In the down times, I am in unchartered territory. I do not
know this slow life, nor do I like it whatsoever. The first significant wall
collision occurs when one morning, I wake up and a steamroller has leveled me
and backed up over me again. I cannot start my engine; the fuel tank is empty!
I think I must have a bug of some sort. I call in sick, stumble my sorry self
back to bed, and am certain I will be back in sync tomorrow. One day turns into
an entire week. On day three, I call my doctor, get an appointment that day,
and my mind continues to concoct that I have contracted one serious bug. The
doctor asks me a series of questions and then proceeds to prescribe me an
anti-depressant. An anti-depressant? Wait! What! I have never heard of such a
med! I do not need an anti-depressant. How silly! I am not depressed! I am fine;
it is just a bug, right? He suggests I take the medication for six months and
writes me off work for the remainder of the week. I leave his office rather
perplexed. I am fine; I just need to get back to work. It feels like
Because I am a rule follower, I begin taking the script as
prescribed that day. At first, I feel pretty funky – queasy, headachy, shuffley,
listless, just off. I think, “Wow! This bug has taken a turn for the worse.” I
call the doctor’s office again to inquire if I should really be taking this
medication because this bug I have has worsened and after all, I am not depressed,
I am just a tenderhearted, melancholy person! The nurse assures me that my
symptoms are normal. She tells me to continue taking the script as prescribed;
she says in about three to four weeks that I should notice a difference. Well,
OK, but truly I felt a little better before taking this foreign medication; it
is just a little bug! I continue the prescribed course.
It is a peculiar experience. I am standing at a co-worker’s
desk one afternoon enjoying friendly chatter when a subtle thought occurs to me
– I feel like I have a layer of cellophane between me and the world; I feel like
things are bouncing right off me with no internalization; I feel like I am unaffected
by things that would normally unsettle me. Well, how awesome is this! I am
feeling pretty good! Now my little magic pill is a bottled up corked secret
like my entire life. I tell no one, except my husband, that I am taking this
pill. In pure ignorance, this valuable miracle medical discovery has just given
me permission to increase my speed to flash lightning. Hallelujah!! God is good!!
The birds are singing! I am bursting with positive endorphins! After about four
months, I am convinced I need no further medication intervention. I am back in flash
lightning sync, managing a balanced life, and believe all is well. So,
cold-turkey, I stop taking the Paxil, after all I am not depressed; we all have
our sad, melancholy, sentimental days, right?
I am going to stop here, but do not be fooled! My warning
signs of a great tsunami are countless; my warning flags are everywhere blatantly
flapping in the breeze, even beyond hitting the wall, but I am clueless!
Believe me, ignorance and denial are an elusive, crafty, liar my friend! Is it
time to take inventory of your life, your behavior patterns, and your motives? Now
my framework and yours will not look alike, but these concepts are universal. What
I have shared thus far is a very tiny blip on my radar. I could not begin to
detect the depth of the mud from the surface, but I sure wish I would have
known to seek help sooner! Think about it!
I speak for myself, but I suspect there is many a sojourner who has an internal empty feeling. I am consciously aware of and connected to this vacuum inside myself now. For the majority of my life I did not recognize what a driving force this void created; for that matter, I was ignorant of psychological reasoning for anything. There was nothing wrong with me. I was an excellent employee, working hard to climb my way up the success ladder, at times working 55-60 hours per week. I was a meticulous housekeeper, managing literally everything in our home. I lived my life like an F5 tornado, completely oblivious about what was really happening. Slowly, random warning signs begin suggesting danger ahead, but I do not know how to read the signs. It is kind of like when warning signs are posted on the beaches signaling high surfs, riptides, and undertows, when swimmers should make the choice to exercise extreme caution. I ignore the signs; I do not even know to acknowledge the signs. I am a blind swimmer who does not know signs exist. I keep driving myself further out into deeper churning waters. Eventually, the high surf begins washing over me, the riptides gain control, the undertows pull me below the surface, and I realize I am drowning. Yet, I continue to fight ferociously and the struggle to remain afloat intensifies. My human spirit is desperate to survive, to cling to the only life I know. As I grow weary from the battle, I am fraught with anxiety, depression, over-eating, physical illnesses, and a host of other despairing weights that sink me further into the depths of that suffocating, tumultuous water.
When I come to the end of myself and concede, when God wins
the fierce, raging battle and forces me to slow down, He is then able to step
into all the breached levees. He is working to rebuild the fractured, broken me.
With continued significant help, I begin identifying the emptiness that I am
relentlessly trying to outrun, the emptiness that represents an abysmal hollowness
and famine within, the internal pit that holds all my monsters!
Now, there are voluminous more details left to share, but
here’s the thing – maybe there are warning signs you are ignoring; maybe you
are in high surf and need to get out of the water; maybe you are already in the
riptide being pulled out to sea; maybe the undertow has you in its grasp and
you are drowning – please, please reach out for help! Disrupt the drowning!