Sometimes I look at my life and I think "WOW. This has turned out nothing like I expected!". Some days, that's a good thing. Some days that's a bad thing.
I'm coming up on five years since I graduated college, and with that comes a lot of emotions. It's been since I last held a "job", since I was diagnosed with an eating disorder, since I went to treatment for the first time, since I was "supposed" to go to grad school...
I think had you asked the girl in the picture above where she would be in five years, it might involve being a social worker, working in the foster care/adoption field. She might think that she'd be married...maybe just engaged. Possibly a baby. Probably still living in Alabama. She'd probably tell you that she'd be *completely* recovered and have a healthy relationship with food and body image (though she'd probably also tell you that she's weight restored right now and would weigh 115 pounds for the rest of her life, thank you very much...*cough*not happening*cough*).
Last week while visiting my parents, I took my little girl down to that same patch of grass and thought about all of the memories that had happened in that park- and I thought of the picture that I posted above. I thought about what five-year-ago-me might think if she met today-me. I think that she'd laugh. I think that she'd cry (happy and sad cries). Today, I live roughly 830 miles from home. I haven't been to grad school...haven't had another job. I've come to realize that complete recovery from this monster of an eating disorder isn't as easy as I once thought, it's far more ingrained in my brain. Further recovery and pregnancy have brought many more pounds to my body, which messes with my body image, but I am far healthier (and I have an adorable child). But...it's not all sad. I'm happily married to a man that loves me (and my body) more than I could ever imagine. I'm married to the One who makes me laugh and brings me more joy than I thought existed. I'm married to my soulmate, the one who has already in the three short years we have been together, loved me in sickness and health, for better or for worse, and has never left me. I have a daughter who shows me the meaning of wonder on a daily basis, who gives the best slobbery kisses, and who melts my heart when she calls me Mama.
In the end, is it really all that bad that life didn't turn out how I had planned? Is it possible that even though there are still struggles, my life might actually be better than I had planned?
Jeremiah 29:11 says,
For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
I've read this verse for years. I mean, I think it's on every single Christian graduation present out there. It's everywhere. I've always read it looking forward, looking out- but today, I'm reading it backwards, because it has been fulfilled in my life. I've always read it to mean that God has a plan for my future, even when things seem dark at this moment. I've read it that there is a future hope. But today, looking back at the last five years, I feel like I have made it into the hope and future. There were days in the last five years when I prayed that I wouldn't wake up in the morning, I was tired of fighting the battles within. But, God had a plan for my life- a plan wilder and crazier than I could have ever dreamed of. A plan involving a kilt-wearing man showing up at Cici's for a first date and end up in an engagement a month later, a wedding six months later, and a baby a year after that. A plan that would involve not just one move away from Alabama, but two moves in the first two years of our marriage. A plan that showed just how great and mighty God is, that He could use me in my darkest moments, bring light into the darkness, and bring me into a season of hope- a future. Five years ago, I might have read that verse to mean that God had a career or ministry in mind for me- but today, I look at that verse and I see my life. I see that the journey to get to this point may have been very painful, but we (me + God) survived.
So, five-year-ago-me, throw away that color coded Excel spreadsheet plan of your life. God is laughing at you right now, oh ye of little faith. He's got something so much bigger and so much better in store for you- you just wait!
And today-me? You do the same thing. God isn't through with you yet. Are the struggles gone? Is your life over? Then, neither is this journey. You've got another seventy-five years in you at least, I'd guess (my people like living really, really old, okay?)- let God lead the way and see where He takes you. Maybe there's something bigger, just waiting right around the corner.
Ever since my daughter was born, I knew that she'd be a fighter, a stubborn fighter.
At the end of my pregnancy when I began having blood pressure issues, my doctor warned me that there was a good chance that if we couldn't hold off on labor that S would be spending time in the NICU. Simply put, I was 35+5 when I was induced and they said she was a tiny baby with immature lungs. When she came out gray and alien-like, I was afraid, worried, concerned. She made no noise, no sound. After sitting under the warmer and being coddled by the nurses for a few minutes though, her APGAR scores improved, it seemed like the steroid shots had worked, and we avoided a NICU stay.
Less than an hour old
I learned very early on that she was stubborn. She cried constantly. The doctors said it was because she was a preemie, because her formula was upsetting her tummy, because she had colic. She wanted to be held constantly (which meant that we've invested in many baby carriers). She had to sleep at a specific angle or she wouldn't sleep. She loved being swaddled. She had a certain way that she wanted things done- and she'd let you know when you weren't doing things "right".
4 months old
Don't get me wrong, I love my daughter- she just frustrated me sometimes. I knew that we were blessed to have a baby that would sleep in her own room and mostly slept through the night at a month old, but that didn't always help when she spent the entire day screaming and screeching and I felt completely helpless. I isolated and hid away. We didn't go to church because I was afraid that she'd scream the whole time. We didn't get a babysitter because I was afraid they might shake her, as we had learned to walk away when these thoughts began to arise. I struggled massively with anxiety and depression as my postpartum hormones still tried to find their way back to how they were pre-pregnancy. I felt like a failure as a mom. Most days, I wanted to be anywhere BUT with her- because the screaming and the crying and the screeching seemed to never end until bedtime. We had some happy moments, some smiles and giggles- but Year One was rough. The Fussy Baby Site and it's Facebook groups were some of my greatest support- they made me feel like I wasn't alone. It wasn't my fault that I had a fussy baby- it wasn't my fault for taking antidepressants during my pregnancy or for the anxiety, or for struggling and thinking that motherhood was hard. Simply put, S was the way she was because that was the way that God had created her- extra sensitive- and that was okay.
After a year of dialectical thinking (that this motherhood thing IS hard AND it was okay to be that way), we reached S's first birthday. It was a hard day. The movers were packing up our things to send ahead to Maryland, my kid was a year old, and in a lot of way- it didn't feel like things were better. Sure- she was crawling FINALLY, she was starting to use words sometimes, and was starting to become a little person- but I was still unhappy. Being a mom wasn't anything like I had planned. I was mourning the loss of the child that I had always imagined that S would be like. I was grieving the way that the first year had gone, the loss of an innocent dream of childhood that having a baby would be magical. Newsflash- it wasn't.
First birthday
I realized that I had a choice. I could choose to keep being sad about the way that things were, or I could change my expectations. I could keep believing that S would eventually be a "normal baby" and everything would turn out "the way it should" OR I could let go of that ideal and embrace the idea that God made S extra special, unique, and that He made her this was for a reason and a purpose that would be revealed someday (even if it wasn't today). I decided to take a chance and try the second option. After all, I'd spent the entire first year upset about things, would it really hurt to try a new approach? With this new approach, I decided that it was a time for a new beginning. We were moving to a new state where we'd be with all new people that didn't know how S's first year had gone or what our background was, or what we've been through individually and as a family. And with this choice, we gave our child a new name.
Some of you may be curious why I've suddenly stopped referring to "S" as "SC" or "Sarah Claire". Simply put, it's because we no longer call her Sarah Claire, or even Sarah, for that matter. Are they beautiful names? YES! But to be perfectly honest, I had hesitations about her name since she was first born and people asked if she was Sarah with an A or an H. It's one of those crazy pet peeves of mine. But, by that time, the birth certificate had been filled out and I didn't feel like I had a choice in the matter. After all, we had such a hard time coming up with a name that we liked, and WHAT kind of parent decides to change their kid's name after they're born and everything formal is already done?! (If you were wondering, it's something like 1 in 5). "Sarah" is a hard name for nicknames as it's already pretty short, but I didn't want to have to legally change her name. A few internet searches later, and I found out that "Sadie" is a nickname of Sarah. I loved the name Sadie (it was a name that I considered for future children until I found out the nickname status), and T agreed to give it a try. We tried it out secretly for a few weeks (calling her it while we were home, or when we were introducing her to other people that we'd never see again), and then- we just did it. When we moved to Maryland, we started introducing her as Sadie, we told our families that it was her name now (or at least I THINK we've told all of our families....surprise if you didn't know!). And honestly, it fits her. It's got the right amount of spunk for our rambunctious kiddo. I love the fact that it's short and not a double name (which is just too much work to call out 24/7 to a high needs baby). And...as silly as it sounds, it makes me love my kid even more, because there isn't the trauma from the first year associated with it (is that bad to say...because I'm still going to say it because I'm being honest and true here and it has been a struggle to love at times). Now that we've been in MD for almost two months and we are starting to make friends that are slightly confused by my Facebook calling "Sadie" "Sarah", I felt like it was time to make an announcement- even if it did seem slightly awkward. Hey- at least I can call Sadie by her name now without weird questions!
Are our high needs issues over? Nope. They aren't. We still have rough days most days. I still am afraid to leave her with a babysitter and she still cries her way through service on Sunday mornings so we struggle to decide to go to church. She now throws tantrums and is currently refusing to use any of the words she knows. She's strong willed and stubborn AND that's okay. We can work on these things as she gets older- and now that I've started to accept that this IS what it is...things are going better most days. I'm anxious, but I'm not as anxious. I'm depressed, but I'm not as depressed. Progress, not perfection...right?
And that's the story of how I changed my 1 year old's name...and it's okay.
Oh- and yes, her legal name is still Sarah Claire and if as she grows up she decides that she wants to go back to being called Sarah or Sarah Claire or Claire, we will fully support that. But for now- she's Sadie. :)
I feel like the little groundhog that's been hiding in his hidey-hole all winter- I feel like I just kind of woke up and stepped outside and there's all these people with cameras asking if I see my shadow or not and I'm like, "What shadow? What's a shadow? Don't ask me all of these hard questions this early in the morning!".
So, hi...I'm Lauren. I inhabit this body and I take up space (and that's okay) and I've kind of been checked out from the world for about three months, but that's okay because everyone needs a break (or breakdown) every now and then...right? Right? Let's just all say "right" because I'm kind of nervous admitting that the last three months have been as terrible as they've been. I don't know what exactly set this lapsey-relapsey-messy thing into motion. It might have been stress over a high needs/"spirited" six (now almost nine) month old, might have been a triggering (I hate that word, but it's what it is) event that happened, might have just been things being things. But, "thing" happened and now I find myself back at the bottom of the ladder trying to pick myself up (or rather- get up with the help of my support system) and climb back up to the place of "meh-recovery" I was at... to hopefully get to the place of "recovery" I was at pre-baby.
And you know what? It's hard. It's hard hard hard and I hate it hate it hate it. It doesn't seem fair that life has to be such a struggle and has to suck this much right now. I mean, I have a baby, it should be easier and funner and I should feel more motivation to get better- but frankly, the motivation I have to get "better" right now is that I don't want to miss my daughter learning to crawl and walk and run because I'm off somewhere learning to eat again. So, I make that nerve-wracking baby step and I eat the meal set before me (even thought I think it might kill me) and I don't purge it (even though I feel like I'm going to explode) and I do "all the right things" even though they feel like they are "all of the wrong things". I fight even though I am so damn tired of fighting. I go to therapy twice a week and group once a week and I talk about all of these hard thoughts and feelings that are inside me in hope that all of this talking will make me feel better and will make the hard things easier.
But, sometimes this talking and fighting is exhausting. Sometimes I just want a break. So, I crawl in bed and I isolate and I turn off the light and I try to pretend for just a moment that none of this is happening. Sometimes the thoughts and feelings of anxiety are overwhelming and consuming. So, sometimes during this season (as in more often than not) we haven't made it to church or MMO or playdates or even the grocery store. I'm learning to offer myself grace even though I feel guilty for depriving Sarah of these things (she's only eight months old, she won't really remember this- what is important is Mommy getting better).
What's important right now is that I take care of myself so that I can take care of my family. On airplanes, they talk about putting your own oxygen mask on first- right now I'm working on putting my mask on. Right now, there's a whole lot of Daddy-Daughter time that T gets to have with Sarah. That's okay. Right now, there's a whole lot of eating out because grocery stores seem irrationally scary. That's okay. Life doesn't have to stay at these baby steps forever (it probably shouldn't, but I'm not going to should on myself too much), but it can stay here as long as it has to. I am okay. Baby is okay. Family is okay. For now, okay can be enough. Okay can be my baby step. Okay can be this season of learning and growing and healing.
Baby step for today is being the groundhog and getting out of bed and walking outside- it doesn't have to be answering all of the questions about Winter and Spring and telling everyone the story of my life. The baby step is a step in the right direction. Along the way there may be side-steps and steps backwards and that's okay. Baby steps. Itty bitty baby steps if I must, taking each step one day at a time...
If we are painstaking about this phase of our development, we will be amazed before we are half way through. We are going to know a new freedom and a new happiness. We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others. That feeling of uselessness and self pity will disappear. We will lose interest in selfish things and gain interest in our fellows. Self-seeking will slip away. Our whole attitude and outlook upon life will change. Fear of people and of economic insecurity will leave us. We will intuitively know how to handle situations which used to baffle us. We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves. Are these extravagant promises? We think not. They are being fulfilled among us—sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. They will always materialize if we work for them. -The Promises of AA
I've been struggling to find my place in the blogging world as of late. In college, it seemed like I had found my place and my groove. But in the crazy post-college time where recovery seemed to be all I was doing, my blogging seemed to fall apart. Blogging friendships weren't maintained (we were going different directions anyways). People got married (and I didn't until I did). Blogging took time and effort and emotion and I was too emotionally exhausted to bare my soul to the world (still true). I've tried to create my little space over here at Wiferella, at a new address, a new place, with my new little life...and it hasn't come together as neatly as I planned. I mean, I didn't really plan things out and life got busy and blogging wasn't a priority...so I didn't do it. I failed to plan, so I kind of planned to fail. I'm still not sure exactly what I want this space to look like, but in my ideal world, it might include blogging some recipes, some activities that I've done with the little, and then some more soul baring-sharing (because that's kind of what I'm all about). I've come to accept that this probably isn't going to be the perfect little mommy blog, and that's okay. I'm just not that kind of blogger. I don't have time for that...and I'd rather keep the memory keeping to something like Instagram. It gets done that way, and I'm a huge proponent of "done is best" sometimes. :)
A few years ago, I wrote a "Mission Statement" as a part of an art therapy assignment. While looking through files on my computer, I came across the document again and it made me start thinking about picking up blogging again. I love being a wife and mom, but sometimes I need to dig a little deeper and search for who I am and what my purpose is in my core inner being. That core purpose has a huge influence on how I wife and how I mother. When that core purpose is lost or forgotten...things start falling apart. I forget how I was made to be a storyteller, made to bear the light of hope found in Christ to a fallen world. So, today, as an act of accountability, I'd like to share some pieces of my Mission Statement.
I will remember, in all things that I do, that I want to guide my life and my decisions with these qualities that I value most:Sobriety, Courage, and Love. I know that I am my very best self when...I am sober in my recovery,
I am pursuing a passionate personal relationship with God,
and I am engaged in relationships with others. I am most at peace and happiest when I spend my personal life:focusing on God more than self,
letting my creativity and imagination flourish,
and when things are in their place. I will be most at peace and happiest when I spend my work life:loving people,
sharing my story,
offering hope to a fallen world,
and sharing the love of Christ. I will seek out times when I can use my inborn gifts to:be a storyteller
spread the gospel to others,
and shining my light. I know that I am meant to:love God and love people.
Nothing else matters. I will work hard to be known as someone who:is strong,
courageous,
bold,
and brave.
Sometimes I lost track of what is important- those three qualities at the beginning: Sobriety, courage, and love. When I lose track of these things, my life begins to crumble. My recovery becomes shakey and behaviors begin slipping their way into my life. I don't speak up for myself and how I feel and I grow resentful of others. My relationships with both my husband and child begin to fill up with irritation and frustration. I become overwhelmed and the cycle repeats over and over again until I am worn down, tired, laying on the ground in a heap sobbing. I find my place in the place that I swore I'd never be again, struggling the same demons. That isn't to say that remembering the qualities means that life is 100% okie dokie all the time either, but I am much more able to reach out for support and do not become as overwhelmed.
Way back in the Spring of 2013, I blogged at a different space (laurenelizabethadam.blogspot.com if you ever want to know what I was like back in college). I changed the name of my blog to "Finding Free" and I wrote the following explanation for the change. Reading it today was encouraging and frustrating at the same time. There are still so many lessons that I need to learn about true freedom, but I have come so far from where I was back then.
Be brave. Let Him make you brand new. That's what I want to be right? Brand new? A new creation? But, this is a painful process. It kind of hurts. It hurts to be real and honest. But, secrets don't bring freedom. Secrets bring shame. Secrets bring guilt. Secrets keep us entangled. Secrets keep us in chains, in bondage.They hold us back. They keep us from living...really living! But, being open and real and honest and admitting that we have struggles? That we have strongholds that bind us? That brings freedom.
The new name of this little space on the internet is "Finding Free".The title is inspired by Maya Angelou's "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings". My favorite part of the poem is the last two stanzas:
"But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom."
The truth of the matter is: I feel like I'm that bird standing on the "grave of dreams" with clipped wings and tied feet. I feel like giving up some days. Sometimes the struggle to live and breathe and function seems to be too much work. That's why I entered a treatment program for eating disorders a month ago. For the last four years, in addition to keeping up this blog, I've struggled off and on with anorexia. It's easy to hide things when you feel like your whole life is a secret. It's easier to not let anyone know that you're struggling. But, over the last few months, things hit a breaking point. I wasn't able to hide my secret struggle anymore. I felt so ashamed for living this way. My secret was killing me (literally). So, I finished off a rough last semester to complete my degree, and then I entered a program to help me recover. It's been one of the best decisions I've ever made. Recovery? Is ridiculously hard. But, I'm finding free. And even though I'm not free yet, I'll sing the song of freedom from my cage, because I know that redemption is coming.
I'm learning to love and trust myself in a way that I never imagined. I'm finding what "free" really means. Life isn't just about growing up, moving out of your parents' house, getting married, buying a house, giving birth to 2.5 babies, and working at a job you hate until you can retire. Life has to be something more. There has to be a purpose for living- a passion behind what you do. I think that when you live life in this manner, it won't matter how the details work out. It won't matter what kind of house you have, when you get married, or how much money you make. It won't matter what color the walls of the foyer are painted or how many smocked dresses your precious baby girl owns. What matters is that you are FREE. Free to be the person that God created you to be. Free to travel, explore, and have adventures wherever life takes you. A life lived "free" is a life without limitations. It's not limited by false ideals of perfection. It's not limited by what other people may think. Finding free means learning to embrace life at it's fullest. It means running with the moment and enjoying what each and every moment brings....the good and the bad. It means shifting your perspective to focus on the positives of the situation, even when everything is falling apart. It means living for today, and letting tomorrow worry about tomorrow. Finding free means running in full pursuit after the coattails of the creator of the universe. It means dancing in the fields of wildflowers... even if they make you sneeze. It means fighting for life with every fiber that you've got. It means clinging to faith when you have nothing left. I may be standing on the "grave of dreams" right now, my voice may waver with a "fearful trill", but it's okay...I'm singing of freedom. As the Beatles' put it in their famed "Blackbird",
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise"
I may be broken. I may be down. But I will rise. I'm finding free.
Maybe the purpose of this blogging drought I've been in is so that I can rediscover the wisdom of old and drink it deeply.
Maybe I was only waiting for this moment to arise.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?" "Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." "Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. "Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." "Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" "It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
One of my favorite posts I've ever written on this blog was written on the 10 month anniversary of being clean, being free from the addiction of self harm (you can read it here if you want). I remember being so incredibly proud that I had made it that far, and I remember wondering what it would feel like when I reached a year in recovery from self harm, two years in recovery...
Today marks two years free from self harm.
I am proud of myself and the battle I have fought and won. I am thankful for the incredible support that I have received from my family, most particularly- my husband. He has stood by me through what was literally some of my darkest times- and never ever every given up on me. He consistently models the love of Christ to me. I thought I knew what I was talking about when I said the following in our wedding vows:
You are a breathtaking reflection of God’s heart for me, of how he pursued me and loved me even when I didn’t love myself. You held my hand in the darkness and you pulled me out into the light. You are my life. Because of you, I laugh, smile, and I dare to dream again.
But, over the last year, I've realized over and over and over again how blessed I am by my husband. I struggled mightily with mental health issues during pregnancy, and postpartum hasn't been my best friend. But somehow, someway, T always finds a way to make me laugh and bring me back into the light. He's always stood by me, always supported me...I could go on and on about it, but it would get super cheesy and that's not the purpose of this blog post.
This week is National Suicide Prevention Week. It's quite convenient how it lines up with the darkest times of my life, and the anniversary of freedom from self harm and rebirth. It might get annoying to some of you as the years wear on and I'm still celebrating, but- I don't care. I'm going to scream the message of hope from the rooftops if I have to. There is hope, even when it all seems meaningless and hopeless. There is a reason to keep living, even if all seems lost and life seems crappy and you can't seem to find the escape hatch that you are looking for, but all you see is a dark hole with a big flashy arrow pointing to an abyss full of razors and pills and all sorts of things that scream "at least I might feel something". Here's the thing- there is a life out there for you. The sunshine and brightness might not come right now, it might take a few weeks or months or even years to dig your way out of the darkness and find the sunshine- but go ahead and start digging. You are worth fighting for.
I kept living. At first, I kept living because I was scared. I didn't know how to do "it". I didn't know how to do "it" well, successfully (if you want to call it that). I kept living because I didn't want to hurt the ones I loved. I kept living because I had a tiny bit of hope that there might still be some light out there and I didn't want quit quite yet if there might still be a chance for hope. I kept living for "them".
I keep living. I fight a battle every day with the thoughts in my head. But today, I have a firm grasp on hope and I don't want to let it go. Today, I keep living for "them".
I can't write it any better than I did 14 months ago- so here you go:
Nothing can prepare you for the moment when the person you love discovers your wounds and your scars for the first time. The most horrible, most awful moment in my relationship with T happened when he ran his hand across my leg and found those horrible awful marks, still not completely healed. Having to answer the quiet question of "what happened, honey?" totally gutted me. I felt so teeny tiny at the moment. The first time, I answered something like "I don't really want to talk about it" and he didn't press it. But the next time, he patiently prodded me on to explain this chapter of my story. For the most part, a majority of the scars have faded or blend into my skin. But, there is one section that I fear never will- the section where I carved the word "fat" into my thigh. The scars from these terrible letters haunt me every time I get dressed, every time I see my leg, every time my shorts go up too high, every time I'm lying in bed with my husband and his hand brushes across it. I can't wear a bathing suit without showing the world my scars- literally. They have faded somewhat, but I fear that they will never be completely gone. How will I explain this to my future daughters?
If you are struggling with self harm, please reach out. There is so much more to life than spending your days and nights punishing yourself. It is not worth it- and please, learn from my mistakes so that you don't have scars of your own someday. I don't want you to have that awful experience of explaining to your husband that there was a time when you used to hurt yourself, when you used to carve terrible awful words into your thigh because you believed that you deserved to carry that scarlet letter. You don't have to carry that scarlet letter. Jesus came down and because a man and walked on this Earth and died on the cross so that you didn't have to bear that scarlet letter. He bears it for you. Please reach for healing today? Please reach out for help? Please know that you are not alone in this darkness- Jesus is standing there with open arms, just waiting to embrace you and love you as you are- as messed up and shitty as you might feel that you are. You are never too broken for Him. He redeems. His job is making broken things beautiful. Don't bear your scarlet letter alone.
This year, I have a daughter. I have a daughter that might one day look at her mother and see her scars and ask the questions that I fear she may ask. Honestly, it scares me to death to have that conversation with her. But you know what? I've decided that I will. I will have that conversation with her. I will be honest with her. I fully believe that the scars that we share become lighthouses to others that are headed toward the same rocks that we have hit.
I will tell her about my struggles, so that maybe someday she will know that even if she has these thoughts- she isn't alone. She is loved. She has hope. I will not hide, I will not be silent, when my daughter's very life could be at stake.
I wake up and fight every day, I keep living- so that she might do the same.
I feel like sometimes we like to blame Eve for all of our problems. Sometimes, I think that she's the most hated woman of the Bible. I mean, if it wasn't for her believing that silly little lie from the serpent, we'd still be living in paradise (and we'd have NO pain in childbirth. Seriously Eve, what were you thinking?). We like to blame this women for messing up the world (and causing us to have pain during childbirth...SERIOUSLY EVE. I don't know if I can ever forgive you for that one). We blame her for believing the serpent, we like to pretend that we wouldn't have done the exact same thing in that situation, but the truth is...Satan isn't all that creative. He knows that what worked all those years ago can still mess us up big time today. All this time, since the beginning of time, we've been fed the same lie over and over and over and over again. The serpent whispers softly in our ear just like he did to Eve on that day long ago. He seductively dangles a fruit in front of our hungry eyes and lures us away from the truth. He tells us that who we are is not enough. From the days of childhood, he whispers this thought into our ear over and over again. It begins to seem so natural, a part of our inner being that is so engrained, such a part of who we are that we no recognize this fruit as dangerous or harmful. Just like a Pooh Bear being drawn to his pot of Hunny...we're helplessly, hopelessly lured into the trap and we believe the lies.
As little girls, we believe the lie that everyone in this class is better than us. In ballet class, they're better at the pirouettes. At the playground, they're better at the monkey bars. Some other little girl's dress is prettier and more twirly than ours. At a very young age, we begin to compare our bodies and our clothes and we believe this lie that is whispered to us that we are not pretty enough. The belief that we would somehow be a "better" version of ourselves if only we were smarter, faster, taller, smaller begins flicker in our tiny brains, slowly becoming the very center of our thoughts. As we grow older, these lies continue and morph and spin out of our control. In Middle School, we spend hours obsessing over how to tame our frizzy hair, how to paint on a pretty face, how to put up a facade that everyone will fall for. We spend so much time worrying about being smart enough to make the grade, athletic enough to make the team. We base our entire existence on being accepted by this invisible audience. We play a role, dancing and twirling around the stage. We try and we try, but we just end up exhausted, collapsing in a heap in the middle of the stage with the spotlight shining straight on us. And there we lay. Vulnerable. Weary. Overwhelmed. The serpent whispers in our ear "Darling, you will never be enough. God is hiding something from you, you're just not good enough for him. Trust in me, I won't fail you. I won't hide the magic cure from you. Take this fruit...and eat.". And just like Eve, we fall for his trap.
He's an awfully good manipulator. We believe his lies with all of our heart. We live a life of fad diet after fad diet. We restrict what we eat, and punish ourselves when we eat "bad foods". We run after this false ideal of perfection- if I just reach this weight, if I just can wear this pants size, if I can just get noticed by someone...I will be enough. But, the fact of the matter is...nothing you do will ever be "enough". You might reach that goal weight, but the serpent will whisper in your ear "Just five more pounds". You might suddenly be able to squeeze into your "skinny day jeans", but the serpent will whisper to you "You're still not enough. See that muffin top? So unattractive". He'll plant lies into your head:
If you eat that, you're going to get fat.
If you get fat, nobody will like you.
You seriously just ate that? Go throw that up. You know the drill. You don't deserve "it".
So what if they say you're skinny? Behind your back, they're probably whispering about how ugly and fat you are.
If you just lose some weight, you'll have more friends.
You don't fit into this playgroup with all of these pretty, wonderful women.
You'd look more attractive if you just had a salad for lunch. Real women don't eat.
If only you were skinny, your husband would love you more. You don't want him to leave you for some other more beautiful woman, do you?
If people knew about your past, they'd be gone.
LIES. All of them. This serpent that we allow to linger in our lives is a terrible, horrible friend. He's not looking out for our best interests. He's a toxic and abusive relationship that we choose to remain in- yes, we choose to stay with this terrible one. Why? We find comfort and security in him. Even though he treats us horribly, he still sticks around. And, it's not really that bad, right? I mean, losing a little weight isn't a horrible thing. It's not bad to work hard to achieve success in academic endeavors. We rationalize our "dear friend"and his horrible behavior. The serpent whispers seductively in our ear, "I won't hurt you. I only want what's best for you. Trust in me." But, it is time to fire back. It is time to tell that serpent who's boss. We need to stand up and be assertive and tell him, "Nope. Not gonna listen to you. Not gonna trust you." Will he like this? Probably not. But, that's where we can change our story and stop the lies.
In the story found in Genesis, Eve falls for the serpent's trap. She ate of the fruit and then she felt ashamed. Rather than getting up and confessing her sin, she stays trapped in her shame and guilt. She made clothing out of fig leaves to cover up all she had done. She saw that she had been lied to, but she didn't run away from her serpent friend. She rolled around in her shame and guilt and let it consume her. She decided that she would rather stay trapped in the "comfortable terrible" than face God and say goodbye to the serpent. We can learn a lot from this. True freedom means finding freedom from these chains that have bound us, all of these lies that we have believed. This means that we have to acknowledge that we had a thought (such as, "I am not pretty" or "I am broken" or "I am unlovable"), and then move on from that thought. Thoughts are not fact- lots of them are lies. We need to let go of these false thoughts. They're just holding us back.
Here's the thing: God loves you, no matter what you've done in the past. Our entire faith is based around the principle that we do not have to be enough, in fact we alone CANNOT EVER be enough. There's this not-so-tiny concept called grace. We celebrate the various liturgical seasons (Christmas, Lent, Easter) to remember all of what Christ has done for us. If we were "enough", if we had EVER been "enough", he wouldn't have had to come down to this crappy planet when he could have been partying it up with God in Heaven. But, he chose to die for us. While the serpent whispers in our ear, "You will never be enough", Christ tells us that it is okay for us to not be "good enough". In Romans, it says that ALL have fallen short of the glory of God. But, that is why Christ died for us! It's this wonderful thing that we need to celebrate! We do not have to be enough. We don't have to live up to unrealistically high standards. We are beautiful just the way we are, because we are made in the image of God and he loves us! We don't have to live in the embrace of the serpent any longer. You can choose to walk away from that abusive relationship and start a new journey on the path of freedom. Freedom from the lie of "not enough". Free from the lie of "if I just lose five more pounds." Free from the lie of "if I just make the grade, make the team". John 3:16-17 reveals this wonderful truth:
For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.
We are free. We are free from these unrealistic, unattainable lies that have taunted us since the day that we came into this world. God didn't send his Son to condemn us. Jesus didn't come to Earth, see us in all of our brokenness and say "Ain't nobody got time for that!" and walk away. No.
He came to heal.
He came to restore.
He came to bridge the gap so that we could be forgiven and have eternal, everlasting life!
You are enough to him. Let that sink in for a moment. You. Are. Enough. For. Him. If you were the only one on this planet, he still would have chosen to come down here to save your soul. You don't have to lose five pounds to gain his acceptance. You don't have to pretend to have it all together for Him to gain his acceptance. You don't have to be the prettiest, smartest, or most outgoing to gain his acceptance. He loves you for you, not for what you have done or what you will become. All he requires is that we love Him with all of our heart, soul, mind and strength...and that will be enough.
Looking back, I can see that there were many times during my eating disorder that I "should have" known that something was wrong.
I should have known that freaking out about a 100 calorie granola bar wasn't "normal eating".
I should have known that throwing up after I ate wasn't "normal eating".
I should have recognized that something was up when I suddenly decided to go gluten free for a month.
There are so many more examples I could provide of instances over the years that I "should have" known that something was up. I mean, maybe I was really great at hiding my monsters from others- but I should have known myself, right? How could I have convinced myself for five years (at least...) that everything was okay...when I am the one that knows myself the very best? Maybe it was because my weight stayed in what is considered a generally "healthy" range, maybe it's because I'd "always" been a picky eater, maybe it's because I didn't want to admit that something was up. Maybe it's because I'd always had anxiety and had struggled with body image and self esteem issues since preschool. Maybe it's because we live in a society that has such a perverted way of thinking about food and weight. Disordered eating is even seen as, might I say...normal? Society jumps from fad diet to fad diet. Juicing. Cleanses. Constant battles with the scale and numbers on the inside of our clothing. It's kind of hard to see the line between dieting and disorder when the line is so blurred.
I remember one specific instance during college when the thought passed through my head that something wasn't right. It was right after my gluten-free "adventure. I was frustrated because I felt terrible and sick and tired all of the time, no matter what I ate. I had taken to eating every meal in my dorm room alone, because I was throwing up most of the time after eating- and that's just "embarrassing". I mean, someone might catch me elsewhere and think I had an "eating disorder" or something. I vaguely remember grabbing my laptop and consulting Dr. Google with my symptoms- I think it came up with either some deadly kind of colon cancer or an eating disorder. I chose to believe that I was most likely dying of terminal cancer, but that I might should do some research on this eating disorder thing. I took one of those self test things on the internet and it told me that I probably did have a problem with eating and that I should consult a professional. I thought about it for about five minutes and then put my laptop away, not to think of it again for several months. I didn't reach out for help, I didn't mention it to anyone, I didn't do anything...after all, I had a degree to complete, an internship to do that summer, and I didn't really believe that I had a problem.
This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week, and the theme is "3 Minutes to Save a Life". The goal is not only to raise awareness for this issue, but to also encourage people to complete a self screening online if they are thinking that they might have an issue with disordered eating or exercise. Eating disorders are potentially life-threatening illnesses and early detection of the signs and symptoms of disordered eating and eating disorders increases a person’s chance for successful recovery.
In addition to encouraging you to take the step to complete the "simple three minute screening"- I'd also like to encourage you to not let it stop there like I did. In reality, the screening is simple- it's confidential, nobody will ever know, and after it's all said and done- you have the choice to deny reality and not act on it. In reality, these three minutes aren't what saves lives- it's the hours and weeks and months and years that come after. It's the reaching out for help, admitting that you are powerless and that you need help. Sometimes I think back and I wonder if I had gone to our campus nurse during the Spring semester when I did the screening instead of waiting until the Fall semester when my life was completely falling apart- would things have turned out differently? Would I have been able to deal with my issues outpatient? Would we have been able to prevent the downhill spiral that happened? I don't know. Shoulding on myself, woulding on myself, and coulding on myself don't help me...I can only live in the present, living moment by moment, doing what I can right now to pursue a life of recovery. But, I can encourage others to reach out for help. I can use my story to possibly prevent someone else from going down the path that I did, and I might can convince someone to take the three minutes to save a life to start them on a journey to recovery.
Please remember,
You don't have to be underweight to seek help.
You don't have to be on your death bed to seek help.
You might not even be totally convinced that you have a problem, but you still can seek help.
Dear Prenatal Nurse Practitioner that belittles my pains and complaints at every appointment,
I understand that you deal with many pregnant patients day in and day out. I'm trying to see your point of view when you dismiss my nausea (that still hasn't completely gone away at 18 weeks), or my concern with my blood work, or one of fifty other complaints that I brought up at the appointment that you told me was "normal". In your mind, in your training, in your world- it probably is. Those twinges and cramps are just my uterus growing to make room for baby. My excessive tiredness is fine, because once again- I'm growing a baby and in a few months, I'm going to be wishing for these naps. But, can I explain my point of view to you? Can I try to recreate the world in my mind that is the reason that I'm worried about these issues?
My chart should tell you that I have an anxiety disorder- what it doesn't tell you is what that means, or the fact that I've had one since the day I was born. This anxiety monster that lives in my brain makes me assume the worst in every twinge, every symptom. Yes, the rational side of my mind will try and reassure the other side by asking "Self, isn't this a completely normal part of pregnancy?". But, most of the time, I'm too tired to fight, too tired to listen. So, that twinge becomes cramping which leads to a miscarriage which leads to a dead baby. That headache becomes a brain aneurysm. The migraine combined with back pain becomes preeclampsia.
What my chart doesn't tell you is that I know the pain of miscarriage all too well, even though I've never personally had one. You may see that this is my first pregnancy- that much is true. But, I've seen many women that I love suffer through the pain of losing a child. I've loved a child that was carried within someone else's womb, only to have to hear that the child was gone. I've loved children that were born prematurely, that had to spend months and months in the NICU, fighting various complications. Miscarriage and prematurity are a part of a "normal" pregnancy in my mind- thus, I fear them greatly. Even at 18 weeks, I'm still afraid to get too attached to the baby that I'm carrying inside of my, afraid that it could be taken from me at any moment.
What my chart doesn't tell you is that I'm a scared 25 year old newlywed that moved 600 miles from the only home that she's ever really known three months ago, at 7 weeks pregnant. My chart doesn't tell you how hard of a time that I'm having adjusting to life in Ohio. It doesn't tell you how my anxiety makes it hard for me to make friends. It doesn't tell you how much I'm struggling with being a military wife, being thrust into a whole new world. It doesn't tell you about the adjustment issues that I'm having from moving away from the town that I knew as home. It doesn't tell you how hard of a time that I'm having that I can't just go over to my mom and dad's house and ask my mom, "Is this normal?" and hear her tell me honestly a yes or no. It doesn't tell you how hard it is to have to share these pregnancy milestones and first kicks through Facetime, rather than in person. It doesn't tell you about all of the times that I've laid in bed with my husband crying over the fact that I "just wish things could go back to how they were before we moved". I'm new to the military lifestyle- I don't think I really understood what being a military wife was until we PCSed in August.
What can you do?
You can offer me grace and compassion. I'm begging you to stop just telling me that everything is normal, and show me actual tests and lab work that prove that it's normal. I need to see concrete evidence that everything is normal. The first two doctors that I saw in the ER this pregnancy and the OB in L&D got this- I'm a nervous, anxious first time mom, you can't win me over with false promises- I need evidence, I need proof. I get it- this takes time. But, don't tell me that there's not a way to make this work- I've seen multiple doctors that pressed forward and offered me compassion in these situation and found ways to make it work. The ER doctor that pulled out the ultrasound and showed me that my baby was okay, and explained that his wife was the same way with their first child. The L&D doctor that went through the process of measuring my cervix, even though all signs pointed to everything being "fine"- just to give me some proof that it was indeed "fine". I get that you've had two children- that's great. But, please don't play the role of Super Preggo with me- it's fine if you didn't have issues, or if you pressed through and persevered through them with no worries- that doesn't mean I don't.
(Oh- and you can quit telling me horror stories of babies born to moms that took Zofran. I told you, I've done my research, weighed the risks, and I feel that it is perfectly appropriate- given that the alternative is puking up my guts all the time. Just because you were Super Preggo and you didn't need medication and you were able to go all natural, doesn't mean that I have to or want to.)
That's why I'm breaking up with you, NP. That's why I'm valuing myself and my complaints and standing up to say that enough is enough and asking for a different provider at my next appointment. I was afraid to ask, for fear that you might "get mad at me" or something crazy like that (blame the anxiety disorder). But, when I think about it, I realize that it wouldn't be my problem- that would be on you. I'm standing up with confidence and proclaiming that I'm worth quality prenatal care and I have a right to ask for someone that respects me. I'm realizing that I'm worth it.
It all started when I was reading through my news app on my phone the other day and I came across this article where Rob Lowe reflected on "the gift of alcoholism" (now is probably the time to fess up and tell you that I have NO IDEA who this Rob Lowe guy is, so if he turns out to be some porn star when you Google him, don't blame me. I warned you!). At first, I was a little setback by him calling alcoholism a gift. I mean, it's a mental illness. It's an addiction. A gift? Doesn't he know how many lives are destroyed by overconsumption of alcohol? But, then I got to the part of the article where they quoted a part of a speech he gave- and suddenly...I understood.
"Being in recovery has given me everything of value that I have in my life," Lowe told the crowd. "Integrity, honesty, fearlessness, faith, a relationship with God, and most of all gratitude. It's given me a beautiful family and an amazing career. I'm under no illusions where I would be without the gift of alcoholism and the chance to recover from it."
It's the same idea that I've been taking about all this time- the idea that sometimes the best things in life come from lessons learned in the darkest night of the soul.
After I read the article, things just kept popping up in my daily life that seemed to reiterate this idea. Multiple articles on gratitude and being grateful seemed to show up on my Facebook newsfeed- people thanking God for "blessings in disguise". It was then that I realized that I was receiving what many wise Christians in the faith have called a "God wink". There was clearly something that God was trying to teach me through all of this- and I decided that I needed to use the time that I had to think about what lesson he might be trying to teach me in this given moment.
To be completely honest (since I place a high value on being honest on this blog), I've been struggling with antenatal depression throughout (more often than not) this pregnancy. It's something that I just don't hear people talk about- so it brought a fair amount of shame to me. I mean, I've heard of postpartum depression. I knew that based on my history, it was something that I needed to look out for after the baby comes. But antenatal depression? I'd never even heard of that! After all- pregnancy- this is supposed to be an exciting time! I am excited, very excited- after all, this was a very planned and very wanted pregnancy. But since the beginning, I've suffered from extreme, debilitating morning sickness. Some days it is better, some days it is worse. On the days where it is better and I am able to get out of bed for a majority of the day and get stuff done around the house- things are good. I am happy. I am content. But, on the days when the nausea and vomiting is relentless and I've tried every medication that the doctors have prescribed- I can get very very down on myself. When this happens for days on end...it can be quite difficult. Last weekend, we spent Saturday night in the ER getting rehydrated, since I hadn't been able to keep fluids down in 24 hours. Hypermesis has been thrown around, but I don't fall anywhere near the severity for that, so it has kind of been a waiting game, trying to figure out how to make things better. Sometimes, it gets very difficult to celebrate this pregnancy, especially when I remember that I still have 29 weeks left!
I am blessed though, that I have an incredible support system. I have a husband that is willing to drop anything and everything to make sure that I am safe. I have a husband that is willing to call the psychiatrist office for me, make the appointment for me, and bring me to that appointment. When the anxiety and the depression build up, I have a spouse that will step in and meet my needs. T is so supportive about everything- and I'm grateful that I married a man like that. Thanks to the hard work, we were able to meet with a psychiatrist on base this last Monday for a medication adjustment, and other than being very very drowsy all of the time- it seems to be making a difference. The dark thoughts aren't quite as dark anymore, and I'm grateful for that.
Last Friday, I was browsing on Facebook and I came across a blog post that the organization To Write Love on Her Arms posted for Suicide Prevention Week. I'd encourage you all to click over and read the post in it's entirety, but for now, I'm just going to summarize what really stood out to me. The post is about endurance, and what "endure" means. When I think of endurance, I normally think of an athlete or someone running a marathon. I think of them having the strength to make it to the end- on their own, by their own power, without help. But, I'm beginning to realize that maybe it isn't about doing it on our own. The author of the post discusses three definitions of the word "endure":
"To suffer patiently"- I tend to get caught up on the word "patience". I am terrible about being patient- I am like a five year old, that desperately wants to grab the marshmallow on the shelf, rather than wait five minutes and get two. At first, I was like- well, there we go. I guess I can never endure anything. But then, I saw the definition of "patience"- it means "bearing pain, being tolerant, and persevering". Well, I am bearing the pain, I'm tolerating it, I'm not acting out or using behaviors. I guess you could even say that I am "persevering". If the act of suffering, the act of putting up with the pain, is a form of being patient- maybe I am a patient person.
"To remain in existence"- I am still here. After all of the illness and sickness over the years- I haven't given up. I am still here. Even through this difficult pregnancy- I have made it to eleven and a half weeks- that is a huge accomplishment. I may not be pain free- but I am still existing.
"To undergo a hardship without giving in"- There have been many times over the last eleven weeks that I have felt like resorting back to old behaviors would make things easier to handle. There have been many, many temptations- many, many opportunity to act out without getting caught. But, I haven't. I have stayed on track. I am trying to eat a balanced diet. I am caring for myself. I am not harming myself. I am not giving in to the urges.
When I look at these definitions, I realize that even though I might not be running marathons- I do have endurance. I also realize that endurance is not about surviving until the end under your own power or strength. In order for me to "suffer patiently", "remain in existence", and "undergo hardship without giving in"- I need other people. I need to reach out and ask for help if I need it. Asking for help doesn't put an asterisk next to my name when I finish the race. We need each other. We need community. We need to be able to be open and honest about our struggles, because then we are allowing others to come beside us, be a part of our story, and give and receive gifts. Gifts don't have to be tangible objects. Sometimes they might be a pat on the back, or a warm hug. Sometimes a gift is a kind word of encouragement. Sometimes a gift is someone sitting in silence while you pour your heart out and cry out every tear in your body. Back in the beginning of the post, Rob Lowe said that die to alcoholism, he received the gifts of "integrity, honesty, fearlessness, faith, a relationship with God, and most of all gratitude". In my journey, I have received many gifts as well, but I think that the one that I'm just now open to receiving is gratitude.
I am grateful for the Hell that I've been through, because now I can enjoy life that much more.
I am grateful that I have discovered my imperfections, because now I can celebrate in being imperfect- and I can allow God and others to step in my life and help me- because I don't have to do this by my own power anymore.
I'm grateful for this pregnancy. I'm grateful for the opportunity to carry this child in my womb, for however long God sees fit. I'm grateful that I've gotten to see our precious baby on an ultrasound machine, and I've heard his or her heart pumping away like crazy. I'm grateful that I can receive quality prenatal care from a team of wise doctors, nurses, and midwives. I'm grateful for the invention of medication that can help curb the nausea and stop the vomiting. I'm grateful that my husband hasn't given up or gotten too annoyed by my whining yet. I'm grateful that in two days, I will be twelve weeks pregnant- and I'll only have 28 more weeks to go. :)
Maybe struggle is a gift after all. It helps us realize that we are not alone, that we are not an island. It helps us accept the fact that we are pretty much powerless, and we need others- we need a mighty God in heaven to save us. We need a God that won't just stay up on a big throne up in the sky, but rather one that will come down to Earth and save us from ourselves. We need a God that will run the marathon of life beside us, one that will carry us to the finish line when we are too exhausted to make it any further. Is there darkness in the world? Most definitely. Will I still struggle with antenatal depression after writing this post? Probably. But, what will help us make it through the hard times, what will help me endure this pregnancy is the idea that even in the darkness, there is light. There is a glimmering, sparkling, shimmer that is peeking its way through the cloud. It is a hand that is reaching down from above, saying "Come, my dear child. Come and drink of the living water. I want you to choose life over death. I want to walk beside you all of the days of your life, and when you get tired, too exhausted to walk another step, I will hold you in my arms and carry you the rest of the way- all because I love you this much."
I used to joke that I was born in a church. Literally- born in a church. I've gone to church since I was a wee little baby child- many times it seemed like we lived there- even though where "there" was changed a few times over the years. Until recently, my "salvation story" went something like this: I was practically born in a church, I grew up loving Jesus, and when I was eight years old I walked down the aisle of a church at Vacation Bible School and said a prayer and asked Jesus into my heart. I was baptized when I was twelve, and I never really strayed from church. I'm just a super awesome Christian. I mean, I went to college and majored in religion and worked at churches..what else would you expect?
But, I've come to realize that I didn't meet Jesus in the back of a pretty little sanctuary off of backroads in rural Alabama. I didn't meet Jesus at Vacation Bible School. I didn't meet Jesus at Children's Choir. I didn't meet Jesus by doing Bible drills or playing Bible Jeopardy. I didn't meet Jesus on a mission trip or a ski trip. I didn't meet Jesus in a worship service, or during a great sermon, or at a college Bible conference. I didn't meet Jesus in the classroom- even though I did take a class or two on Him.
I didn't meet Jesus in a bible study or in Sunday School or at my youth group or even at bible college- even if these were the places that I learned about Christianity.
Sure- I considered myself a Christian. I knew all of the right answers. I'd read the bible from cover to cover, written term paper after term paper, interned at various different churches. I could share a message in front of children, teenagers, and adults. I could write curriculum. I could "lead someone to Christ" and teach them how to pray that simple prayer. But, I didn't know Jesus. I didn't know the extent of His love. I didn't understand the messages of love and mercy and grace.
It wasn't until I began to recognize my own depravity, helplessness, and hit rock bottom that I could see just
how good,
how great,
how strong,
and how mighty Jesus was and is.
Jesus met me in the mess, I met him in the struggle.
It wasn't until I started genuinely struggling with my faith, wrestling with all things holy, questioning the beliefs that I had grown up blindly believing because "that's what I was taught and why would I need to think for myself?"- that I really began to know Jesus. It wasn't until I started questioning his love, that I began to understand his love.
He came to me in the drugstore aisle as I debated which brand of laxatives would be the most effective. He met me in the grocery store as I walked away from a full buggy, once again, because I felt too guilty buying food. He sat by me as I sat on the bathroom floor, vomiting in a toilet, watching all of my hopes and dreams get flushed away, down into the sewer. He was with me as I lay in bed, begging him to just make it stop- to just make it stop- to just make it all stop. He sat with me as I sat on the tiny white bed with the scratchy pink blanket at the psychiatric hospital. He was there with the blood and the razors and the pills and the treatment facilities. He was there as I tried over and over again to hide the pain, to numb the pain, to stop the pain once and for all. He was there as I cried out in hopelessness, "my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?". He was beside me through the darkest night of my soul- and he never ever gave up on me- even when I started giving up on him.
He met me in the darkness,
he rescued me from the pit,
and he brought me up and out and into the light.
I learned about God in church, sure. But, I learned to love him when I hit rock bottom and Jesus didn't just leave me there, but rather he came down into the muddy, dirty, pit of depravity and wretchedness; and he embraced me, wiped the mud from my eyes that had blinded me all of these years, and he grabbed my hand, and led me out to start a new life.
I walked out of the darkness and into the light, from fear of shame into the hope of life. Mercy called my name and made a way to fly-out of the darkness and into the light.
Part of being married to the military means that every two or three years, our lives will drastically change and we will take part in what is called a PCS, or Permanent Change of Station. I go back and forth on a daily (maybe even hourly) basis on how I feel about this issue. T and I will be PCSing this August to Ohio- a place nine hours away, that until a week ago I had never been. As the date of our departure inched closer and closer, my anxiety went up and up and up. I mean, I already have a diagnosed anxiety disorder. I already have attachment and separation anxiety issues. I already have gone through a massive life change this year (getting married). AND NOW THIS? It's enough to cause a girl to lapse or relapse in recovery, it's enough to cause various different health issues due to stress/anxiety, and it's enough for me to want to just spend my days in bed, in bed, with the lights off, pretending that none of this is really happening. But, in recent weeks, T and I have made some conscious choices to try and make this move a little easier- hey, PCSing with a dependent is something that he's never done either. I thought that today might be a good day to share some of the steps that we've been taking to make this transition go more smoothly.
Operation Find A Home: T took permissive TDY so that we could spend 10 days in Ohio searching for a place to live, exploring the city, and getting oriented with our new base. Honestly, I don't know how people do a PCS and wait until they get into town to find a home. That's a super important thing to me, as my home is my "safe place", the place I can retreat to when I feel overwhelmed. The idea of living in an extended stay hotel or on-base lodging for weeks didn't appeal to me or my anxiety. Luckily, I can report that after only a few apartment tours, we found a place to live. Yes, we wanted a house, but we couldn't find one in the area we were looking in for a price comparable to our BAH (basic allowance for housing)- everything was too expensive, if we were looking for something comparable to where we live now. For 18 months while we are at AFIT, I think we can handle the tiny spaces of a two bedroom apartment. We can make it work. Finding a home took a major stressor off of my shoulders.
Therapy Plans and Continuation of Care: I'm special. Since I see a therapist and a psychiatrist for mental health issues (i.e. anxiety), I am enrolled in the Exceptional Family Member Program (EFMP for short). Basically, this is just to ensure that the Air Force does not send us somewhere where I cannot receive adequate care. This has been a bit of a learning curve though- most resources out there for the EFMP program are for children with special needs or adults with severe special needs. There isn't much out there for "the girl that's just trying to get a therapy session before January". It doesn't help that we are changing Tricare regions, so I can't get ANY referrals until we actually move up to Ohio and I get reenrolled in the program up North. I've spent hours on the phone with various people (both at our losing and gaining bases) trying to get this figured out. As it is, I normally see a therapist every 1-2 weeks. The idea of going months without therapy is scary. I called both EFMP programs, both Tricares...and nobody had any answers for me except to wait it out. Well, I don't like taking no for an answer, so I kept calling various different places. I finally decided to call up the on-base mental health clinic and ask them what to do...and they figured out a way that since I'm technically in their system due to EFMP (they approved the move), they could bend some things around and I now have an appointment about a week after we move to see a psychologist. Hopefully, from there we can figure out a treatment plan so that I can ensure that I have a provider that will meet my needs and so that maybe I don't have to wait until January to see a psychiatrist to get meds either. Lesson of the day: Keep calling, don't take no for an answer, and if you ask super nicely- sometimes people can make things magically work. :)
Lists, Lists, and More Lists: I'm a to-do list person. On my desk, beside my computer, I currently have three pages, front and back of lists and phone numbers, and to-dos. I feel so much less stressed about everything that I have to get done when I have a place that says exactly what I have to get done. The goal isn't to get everything done on these lists today- just sometime before midAugust. :) Progress, not perfection. I do have a couple "dailies" that I'm trying to find a place to fit in my schedule each day- read a chapter of a book, yoga, and journal. This is for my personal sanity and stress relief, not necessarily to get anything done for the move.
Cook What You Have: We are currently playing a game called "what can we cook with what is in the fridge, freezer, and pantry?". It means we've had some adventurous meals (I made meatloaf the other night!), but it also means that we will use what we have up, save on grocery bills, and since the moving company won't move our food- it means we won't have to throw it away! Some of the things on our list for the next week or so include: burrito bowls, chicken with whole wheat pasta, chicken stirfry, Hamburger Helper, chicken and rice casserole, and english muffin pizzas! I'm also trying to use up our muffin mix stash that I have by baking muffins for us to grab for breakfast. Our main thing to use up is the meat that we have stored in the freezer- chicken is easy enough for me to cook with, but ground beef is hard for me to come up with ideas for. I mean...tacos...and tacos....and...I don't know. Leave ideas of yummy ground beef recipes in the comments below! :)
Capsule Closet: I've been reading online about this concept called a capsule closet for eons. While I was drawn to the idea, I always thought that I had too many different clothes, too many different styles to make it work. But, since changing sizes (yay recovery!), I've cleaned out and simplified my closet and dresser quite a bit. Since we are PCSing soon, I decided to go ahead and pack up most of my clothes (fall/winter and dressier items--all things that I will wear again and that do fit) and try this whole capsule closet thing out for the next month before we move, and for the time after we move until we get unpacked. Who knows...maybe I'll love it and stick with it. For now, it means less clothes and less laundry, so I'm all for that. Look for a post on this project in the coming days..I just have to find a time to write it. :) This whole capsule closet gives me so much less to be anxious about- getting started packing, simplifying, having clothes that fit and that I truly love, and less laundry! I hate laundry. T hates laundry. Thus, we have fifty-bazillion stacks around the house of clean and dirty clothes.
So, that's what I'm doing to prep my brain for our upcoming move. Honestly, I think most of these tips could be useful for any move, or even just everyday life (hello, capsule closet). Now, it's time to get started on dinner- burrito bowls/tacos tonight. I think I'm going to have to run to the store and grab some Mexican cheese...I feel like my husband wouldn't think tacos were tacos without taco cheese.
Ten months sober, I must admit- just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it.
Ten months older, I won't give in- now that I'm clean I'm never gonna risk it.
- Taylor Swift, "Clean"
A year ago, I was another girl. A year ago, I was a completely different person. I was a depressed, miserable, mentally unstable, skeletal, shadow of myself. A year ago, I wrote the following in my journal:
Running. I am running hard and fast into the cold, hard ground. My face is slamming against the pavement. I am so frustrated. Here I am, sitting at twenty three years old, a college degree under my belt, and I’m unemployed and will most likely be underemployed for my entire life. My light is going dim. I am so depressed right now. My motivation is lacking. I find it hard to conceive complete sentences and coherent thoughts. The days run into each other like a freight train flying fast down the tracks. I am frustrated. This is not how I imagined my life to be. I always imagined I’d be happy. I’d be either employed or married with children. I always imagined my life to be so much different than this. It does not seem fair that mental illness has stolen so much from me.
I wish I could say that things got better in August. They didn't. The descent into darkness was not as a slow, seeping drop of syrup, dripping down the bottle. No, the decent was a spiral of doom, a black hole, a tornadic even with enough force to hold me in, so that even though my nose was against the glass and I could see what was outside...I could not escape. August turned into September, and the storm seemed to get darker and darker, stronger and stronger. That's where this post really begins.
Ten months ago, shit hit the fan. Pardon my language, but there is no other way that I can think of to adequately describe it. I had told my therapist that I was self harming, but nobody really knew the point it had reached. At a doctor's appointment, wounds were discovered, people freaked out, and my mom and dietitian were called- something had to be done. I was to be shipped off to rehab again- in hopes that this time would be the time that everything magically got better. I remember sitting with my mom and her crying and begging me to "please make this work" that it was "rehab or the psych ward" and that "we could lose everything". Honestly, in the darkness of that long night of waiting, I just wanted to die. But, I knew I had to fight this- I didn't want to cause any more pain to my family than I already had. So, I agreed to not self harm until I got to treatment. This was huge. At this point, it had been almost two years since I'd gone more than a day or two without harming. It was incredibly frustrating. I just wanted to feel something. I wanted to numb all of these emotions within the confines of my brain and quiet the noise for five minutes. But, I lasted until the Sunday that I admitted to treatment, if only because of the threat of locking me up in a psych ward. And then treatment went south, and I begged my parents to just let me come home. It was a terrible, awful feeling. On the phone, I made all sorts of agreements- agreements to eat, to not purge, to not harm myself, to be better. Honestly, I didn't believe myself as I agreed to most of the conditions for me returning home. I just didn't think it was possible. But, I was desperate to do anything to get out of that place and return home- I would agree to anything. When I got home, everything from before changed. Yes, a part of me still wanted to die. A part of me still wanted to continue the slow painful suicidal actions of before. The day I left treatment was September 17, 2014.
I met T on September 27, 2014- honestly, it was probably not the wisest decision I've ever made. My therapist was begging me to get off of online dating. My parents were not terribly happy with it. It was honestly just another one of those bipolar/borderline "let me feel something" spells- until I met T. Things didn't change overnight, but they did change quickly. I suddenly had a reason for living, a reason for fighting. So the "no self harm" thing continued. Eventually, by the grace of God and the love of my wonderful husband, I was able to quit purging. As I look back to my life a year ago, I realize just how different things are, and it amazes me that God could take the brokenness of my life a year ago and change it into something this beautiful. As T and I were driving to therapy today, the song at the beginning of this post began to play. Since the CD was released, I loved "Clean". I loved the words. And I loved the truth and vulnerability contained in the line "Ten months sober, I must admit- just because you're clean don't mean you don't miss it." There is so much truth in that statement. There are some days that I miss my old destructive coping mechanisms. They sneak into my brain and they taunt me- telling me terrible, horrible lies. As I sat in the car today, I realized that it's been TEN MONTHS since I last self harmed. Ten months since I picked up a sharp object with the intent of harming myself, in the name of "feeling something". I'm really proud of myself for this feat. It's a huge thing.
Nothing can prepare you for the moment when the person you love discovers your wounds and your scars for the first time. The most horrible, most awful moment in my relationship with T happened when he ran his hand across my leg and found those horrible awful marks, still not completely healed. Having to answer the quiet question of "what happened, honey?" totally gutted me. I felt so teeny tiny at the moment. The first time, I answered something like "I don't really want to talk about it" and he didn't press it. But the next time, he patiently prodded me on to explain this chapter of my story. For the most part, a majority of the scars have faded or blend into my skin. But, there is one section that I fear never will- the section where I carved the word "fat" into my thigh. The scars from these terrible letters haunt me every time I get dressed, every time I see my leg, every time my shorts go up to high, every time I'm lying in bed with my husband and his hand brushes across it. I can't wear a bathing suit without showing the world my scars- literally. They have faded somewhat, but I fear that they will never be completely gone. How will I explain this to my future daughters?
If you are struggling with self harm, please reach out. There is so much more to life than spending your days and nights punishing yourself. It is not worth it- and please, learn from my mistakes so that you don't have scars of your own someday. I don't want you to have that awful experience of explaining to your husband that there was a time when you used to hurt yourself, when you used to carve terrible awful words into your thigh because you believed that you deserved to carry that scarlet letter. You don't have to carry that scarlet letter. Jesus came down and because a man and walked on this Earth and died on the cross so that you didn't have to bear that scarlet letter. He bears it for you. Please reach for healing today? Please reach out for help? Please know that you are not alone in this darkness- Jesus is standing there with open arms, just waiting to embrace you and love you as you are- as messed up and shitty as you might feel that you are. You are never too broken for Him. He redeems. His job is making broken things beautiful. Don't bear your scarlet letter alone.
I skipped church again last Sunday. And the Sunday before that. And the Sunday before that. To be honest, I haven't attended a service in months. I wish you knew that I hate this. I wish you understood how much I hate this, how much I really, really hate the control anxiety has over my life. I wish you understood how crippling anxiety really is. I want so badly to be “better”- to be able to go places and do things. But, I get so anxious that it literally pains me to sit still. My hands and legs won’t stop shaking. Sitting still, as is expected by an adult in church, is excruciating- both physically and mentally. When I do make it to church, I have to leave. This is extremely embarrassing.
Why do I struggle so much at church? Many reasons- the amount of people, the unknown, the fear of judgement, the fear of God, the fear that a pastor is once again going to call anxiety a sin and make me feel like a bad person. All of this makes walking through the church doors extremely difficult and sitting through services seems impossible. I feel hopeless. I want to go to church- it’s the “good Christian girl” thing to do- but I cannot make myself do it. I was reading a blog the other day that was talking about how churches could be more inclusive to children, teens, and adults with special needs. I think these paragraphs explain quite perfectly why I don't going out trying new churches every Sunday in hopes that I'll find one, and why I'm not looking forward to that process once we move to Ohio. If you are a ministry leader, I encourage you to think of these things:
Signage is an important component of any review of ministry environments. Are directions clear and simple? Do they avoid “insider lingo?” For example, a visitor to my church wouldn’t know that our large group children’s ministry is “Upstreet” or that “Circle of Friends” is our special needs ministry.
As someone with ADD and a history of anxiety/depression, I wish I could impress how simple and effective it is to clearly communicate traffic patterns, church campus and parking entrances and parking directions with signage–even mapped on websites. I’ve had this discussion with many friends and was relieved to learn I wasn’t alone but surprised that churches generally know about the issues but fail to address.
I’ve visited churches and left before reaching the parking lot if the traffic was overly stimulating and the parking lot was confusing and poorly marked. I’ve turned around in a parking lot if I couldn’t find the correct entrance after parking and leaving my car. Imagine having a panic attack with a car of family, forcing yourself to go in while wanting to cry in the bathroom–avoidable with clear signs and a good map on a website. I’ve prioritized visiting churches over others because their websites and info provided clear campus maps for first-timers. I’ve found I’m not the only one–and I’m a committed, life-long church attendee who prioritizes the community component. I couldn’t imagine being new to the church experience–it almost wouldn’t be worth attending church in person.
I wish you understood that my anxiety is out of my control right now and I can’t help it. I’m trying my hardest, but it’s not always enough. I'm taking my meds, I'm going to therapy, I'm practicing my DBT and stress tolerance skills. But sometimes, it is just too much. I want you to know that some days I can't get out of bed in the morning. Some days, I just lie in bed for hours, thinking of all of the things that I have to do that day, thinking of all of the people I might have to encounter, thinking of the places that I might have to go. I know- I used to be okay with large groups. They weren’t my favorite, but I could handle them. I wish you understood that my anxiety comes in phases. I can do things one day and not be able to do it the next.
I wish you could see and understand that this is not how I want to live. It’s not always a choice. I did not choose this illness, this disease. My body is forcing me to act this way. My brain doesn't function right. There's a chemical imbalance. I don’t know how to fix it. It’s really scary sometimes. I wish you could understand how physically uncomfortable my anxiety is. If you see me twitching or moving or having trouble sitting still, offer me grace. If you see me walk out of service, try not be be distracted or draw attention to me. Please, don't judge me. I'm trying. I'm trying.
I wish you understood that anxiety isn’t a joke or a laughing matter. Panic disorder and social anxiety are scary and hard- they definitely aren’t something to joke about. They are painful and sometimes they make you feel like you are going to die or that dying would be better. It is hard to live this way. I would never choose to live this path, but it’s the path I’ve been given- so I’m trying to accept it. It is serious and it’s my life right now. I’m struggling to accept it- but I am surviving. Please don't make this any more difficult by making jokes at my expense- or at the expense of ANYONE that has an anxiety disorder, not everyone verbalizes their anxieties- some people keep it hidden for years and years. And please, please, please...if you are a pastor of some sort- never ever ever make an anxiety joke from the pulpit. That's the number one way to get me to walk out of church and never come back.
I'm a wife to T and a mama to SC. I'm a hesitant seamstress, an ironically good chef, and a huge fan of high fives. Click on the picture to learn more!
