Holy smoke

 

This week, when my small region of the globe officially took the lead as having THE WORST AIR QUALITY IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, seems like a great time to do a check-in on mental health. 

Holy smoke (pun intended) - I lost it yesterday. I don’t know what came over me exactly, but I found myself suddenly crying, a spontaneous and unexpected onslaught of tears. I felt like I needed to hug someone or talk to someone or be with someone with an intensity I have never experienced. I was equal parts lonely and sad and I just couldn’t deal with being cooped up any longer. 

With such poor air quality outside, I found myself locked indoors, without the option of running off my angst (a guaranteed endorphin boost), or sinking my gloved hands in the earth, my other tried-and-true mood lifter. While I, like the rest of my region, is thirsting for rain to water the earth and put out all the wildfires that are smoking out our beautiful air, I could not handle the weather forecast before me: rain, every day, for as long as my phone was capable of predicting. We need rain. The earth needs a good soak. But endless moisture? Exchanging the darkness of smoke for the darkness of clouds? I lacked the ability at that moment to cope.

It goes without saying that I take the shift from summer to fall a lot harder than most. I love the changing seasons and a clear fall day in the Seattle area is pretty hard to beat, but the dropping temperature brings about a significant shift in how I spend my days. And it gets me every time, and fills me with dread. I go from spending hours outside in the garden to sitting inside and looking out upon the yard in which I toiled, watching it move toward a winter slumber. I transition from making regular bouquets and playing with flowers, to anticipating what the next growing season might bring. Floral requests come to a screeching halt, and its effects are jolting, as sudden as the first frost. Though I am learning to shift my focus toward growing things indoors (pictured above), I miss being outside in the typically-fresh air. 

Midway into the summer, I shared candidly about my struggles with overthinking. And then I almost instantly regretted it, a classic case of vulnerability hangover. If I lost readers, I’ll never know, but what I do know is that many of you so gently reached out to encourage and share your own experiences. This was so powerful. Even though these past few weeks of accumulating smoke are taking a toll on me (hello, sudden eruption of tears yesterday), I actually have been doing relatively well and wanted to share a few celebrations.

I don’t know who might need to read these words this week, but I’ve learned that when I’m feeling something, someone else usually is too. So I wanted to write a little update, in hopes it’s just the snippet of encouragement your ears might need. Since writing that post in July, I have made a whole lot of changes. I started with a new therapist. I changed psychiatrists, in hopes of finding a medication that worked better for me. I started a new medication. I am also changing to a new primary care doctor, as well as seeing an OB GYN who specializes in women’s hormones. I’m doing short, regular runs (minus during this smokiest of weeks, which brings us full circle yet again to that sudden eruption of tears..are we sensing a pattern?) 

While I might not recommend making ALL the changes all at once, I will say that making these moves has been so beneficial for me. I worried about how hard it would be to start with a new therapist and tell my story all over again. This barrier has kept me from making an arguably needed switch for years. In reality, this was almost a nonissue and my new therapist has equipped me with tools and a new angle for addressing my thought life. We have been able to jump in and get to work almost immediately, combating some common unhelpful thinking patterns. The other day I had an intrusive thought pop up and I actually told my husband that I would need to pause life for about five minutes but that I would be mentally present again shortly. While sitting with him at the lunch table, I pulled out my therapy notebook and worked through the problematic thought and was able to reframe it all on my own, before I informed my husband that life could once again proceed. :) A longer term goal perhaps might be that I am able to address these unhelpful thought patterns without pausing life and jotting things down in my notebook, but hey, progress is progress and I’m thrilled. 

Changing to a new psychiatrist has also been so helpful in bringing a fresh perspective. She has asked really great questions that have helped me identify my root challenge. Is it depression? Or OCD/anxiety? It’s kind of like asking which came first, the chicken or the egg, because they are both so interwoven. But determining that intrusive thoughts are my primary challenge (which has led to depression because it’s so dang exhausting to deal with intrusive thoughts all the time), has helped us choose a medication that better treats the symptoms I’m experiencing. She restarted me on the medication that helped me when I was in 8th grade, and, not surprisingly, I’m having positive results once again. 

There’s so much more I could say but in the interest of time, I’ll try and wrap it up here. I would be lying if I said it was easy making the changes I listed above. It took so much mental energy and time to find new providers that both accepted my insurance and who were a good fit for me. It felt like nothing short of a totally unfulfilling way to spend my kids-in-school hours in the short term. But in the long run? That effort is paying off. Movement is movement, and hopefully eventually it will be in the forwards direction.

I also want to say that if you too are looking at the weather forecast and getting that sinking feeling in your gut, I get it 100%. At the recommendation of my doctor, I dusted off my therapy light last night and you’d better believe you’ll be finding me puzzling in front of it in the early hours of the morning as I drink my coffee and tune into my favorite podcasts. It’s a win-win, really: I get to sit still and do something I love for a full 30 minutes. Every day. Doctor’s orders! (I’m pretty sure your doctor would recommend it too). ;)

Lastly, I’ll share this tidbit that my doctor shared with me: sometimes as humans, we just have blue days. When we struggle with things like anxiety or depression, we tend to hyperfocus on categorizing how everything in our lives fits into those diagnoses. But sometimes we might be blue because we haven’t connected with friends in a while. Or because it’s smokey outside. Or because we are spending so much time doing active work in therapy and we just need a little bit of time sharing our feelings. We might need some downtime. Sometimes it could be hormones. Blue days happen. But so do days filled with sunshine.

Until then,

XO  

I've been (over)thinking...

 

I made a deal with myself. As I type this very sentence, I’m trying to convince myself I don’t have to keep it. I said I would write something and post it. Not because I have something monumental to say, but rather precisely because I feel I don’t have much to offer. I’ve been existing in this space for half of a year already and it’s becoming a rather convenient excuse to quit pushing myself, waiting for words to strike or content ideas to feel more palatable and comfortable. But those days ain’t coming. So I’m showing up and pushing through. She asked me this morning if something happened. To be honest, I had the very same thought as my feet pounded the pavement on my run, mere hours earlier. I almost wish something happened. That would feel easier. It would be more logical. It would explain in a more universal language why I’m at the place I am. But the reality is, nothing has happened that I can pinpoint that tipped the scale and caused my recent bout of anxiety and depression. I didn’t have a clean and neat answer for my therapist. I’m just anxious. And sad. Let’s edit that. I’m not “just” anxious. Heaven knows anxiety is minimized enough in our culture! I don’t need to shrink it down in significance even further. I am anxious. Take away the “just.” When most people think of anxiety, they picture palms sweating and legs trembling. Mine isn’t like that. I don’t have many of the outward symptoms, which, I might argue, makes it a whole lot worse because no one knows it’s happening. Mine looks more like constant, intrusive, negative thoughts that hound me. I wake up sad and filled with dread. I often begin the day working my way through a mental checklist: Am I okay? Am I in trouble? Who have I upset? Who have I disappointed? Do my kids and family know how much I love them? Have I done anything that I should feel guilty about? And this list is just the tip of the iceberg. Thoughts like these pummel me from the moment I wake up. I rise with an intense feeling of obligation to pay penance to someone. I do not know where this idea stems from, as it goes 100% against my theology. But the thoughts still plague. I try to get up before the rest of my house so I can wrestle the negative thinking into better submission. I read a devotional. I journal prayers. I meditate on promises in Scripture about who I am in Christ. I plead with God to help me know I am free and complete in Him. And the thoughts continue to pummel. It’s exhausting and defeating. It takes so much physical and mental effort to get myself to a semblance of “baseline” where I am able to function and take on the day. My morning exercise gives me a much-needed boost of endorphins that helps soften the blast of the intrusive negative thoughts. I found great encouragement in Brene Brown’s most recent book, “Atlas of the Heart,” where even she, a well-renowned and respected professional, shared that she has to exercise daily to get to a healthier baseline. Maybe I’m not crazy after all? Back to this morning. My therapist asked if something happened. She has watched me fall apart this summer. These struggles are not new. I have wrestled with intrusive thoughts for over 2 decades. But they come in waves and I have bouts where they are less impactful, and bouts like the present when I feel stuck and nonfunctional. Is it overstimulation? Exhaustion? Lack of alone time? Cumulative effects of raising 3 kids and trying to preserve a healthy marriage in a never-ending pandemic? Some past trauma coming to the surface? Maybe someday I will know. But I don’t have a nice, logical way to explain myself to others: “Because of ________, I’m struggling.” My therapist also asked me this morning if it would help to know that others have thoughts like mine, that most moms, for instance, worry about whether their kids know how much they are loved. I wanted to push back, partly to validate for myself the severity of these thought intrusions. At the same time, it was so very helpful to be reminded that I’m not the only one. So here I am, sharing where I am at outloud, in case you too are feeling alone in a mess of thoughts. I don’t have great solutions (yet), but I’m showing up here and (mostly) willing to be vulnerable. It’s always hard for me to write hard stuff without wrapping it up with a nice and pretty bow. But I’m leery about saying something that feels like a “Jesus bandaid.” I have often been handed these harmful words by well-intended, fellow Christians: Just believe more and it will get better. You aren’t trusting enough. Frankly, those sentiments can be added to the intrusive thought pile that only serve to make the problem worse. What I will say is that it is possible to love Jesus, long to live free of anxiety and have more faith AND YET STILL BE ANXIOUS. I may not like it, but this wrestling of mine is keeping me closer to Him and I am committed to keep bringing this burden to the feet of Jesus, praying for a clear way forward. One last thought. If you are reading this and you don’t personally struggle with anxiety or depression, but you love someone who does, here are some helpful words you might consider saying to encourage them: You are doing a good job. I’m thinking of you. I love you and care about you. I am here. You aren’t too much. You aren’t crazy. They don’t need your solutions. They just need your presence, prayers and care in the midst of the mess. XO.

The girl who couldn't believe enough (OCD story part 5)

(If you are just joining, this is a continuation of a story I'm working on about a young girl in a very tumultuous phase of her life. It will make more sense if you read the first posts here and here and here and here, and then return to this post for part five.)

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Though many of my anxieties consumed me, the ones that tormented me most were those involving my faith. It was as if overnight, all the things I’d previously accepted with child-like conviction as truth, suddenly came into question. I agonized over my salvation. I wanted to go to heaven (or, more accurately, I desperately didn’t want to go to hell). I was not questioning my faith because I was a skeptic. Rather, my mind grew plagued with worry, that perhaps somewhere along the lines, I had misunderstood something, or, even worse, maybe I didn’t believe enough. How was I to know? I questioned whether I was going to heaven, obsessed over the steps I must take, the things I must believe in order to go there when I died. I was petrified that I was missing something or not believing “right” enough.

I plagued my parents with my faith questions. I imagine that at first, they were receptive, excited that their daughter had taken an interest in better understanding her faith. But soon my obsession with making sure I was going to heaven began to monopolize our days. My mom remembers that I would follow her around the house, often sobbing, needing her reassurance that I knew everything I needed to, that I was understanding correctly. She said it was difficult to even take a shower on some days, because I wanted her available at all times in case a gripping worry struck that required her reassurance to diminish its urgency.

I recall one morning, laying strewn across my parents’ bed, overcome with tears. My dad had already left for work; he was gone before the sun rose on most days. My mom was on the other side of the wall next to me, in the shower, seeking solitude, I’m sure. I had been banned from entering the bathroom after spending the morning following her around, peppering her with questions about how to be sure I was going to heaven. In this particular moment, my inquiries felt more urgent than anything in my life ever had. I remember it feeling like torture, wondering how she could leave me out here, fearful and desperately crying. I remember thinking, “If I die right now without her answering this question, I could go to hell.”

I needed answers, answers that had already been given to me hundreds of times before, yet they never provided the comfort I was after. Like an incessant itch that is only relieved when scratched but then grows even worse still, I longed for reassurances, but they came without lasting solace.

Days of “faith crisis” turned into weeks and, eventually, my questions grew so incessant and overwhelming that my parents gave me a notebook, with the aptly-named title, “Kelsie’s Middle School Struggle” scrawled across the front. They told me to begin writing my faith worries down in it, hoping that by writing down my questions and their answers to them, I could begin referring to this notebook when a worry struck, rather than trailing my mom obsessively around the house in tears. They set specific blocks of time when we could discuss my questions and go over what I had written in the notebook. They were attempting to spare their sanity; I thought they were heartless, “abandoning me” in my greatest hour of need.

I came up with a 5-bullet-point list of things I must believe in order to be saved that I penned in my journal under the bold heading “To get to heaven.” I committed it to memory and repeated it to myself whenever I felt worried about my salvation.

“Believe that God exists.
Believe that I’m a sinner.
Believe that because I’ve sinned, I deserve punishment.
Believe that Jesus died on the cross and took all the punishment for all of everyone's sins. Believe that He came back alive and is alive today and will be alive forever.

Believe that God exists.
Believe that I’m a sinner.
Believe that because I've sinned…”

“Then I just needed to trust Jesus with child-like trust, to get me to heaven by how he died and took the punishment for all of everyone’s sins!”

I wrote things like “that’s all!” and “according to the Bible” in the margins of my notebook and drew arrows pointing toward my 5-point list. This was straight-forward and simple! No need to worry about it anymore now that it's recorded in the notebook!

At first, having answers to my questions in writing did help to alleviate some of the gripping urgency I felt. But my anxieties would not let up. They were constant, day after day after torturous day. Each little step we took to try and alleviate a worry helped only briefly, until my next obsession surfaced. It was like a game of “Whack-a-Mole.”

The root of my questions were less theological in nature and more reassurance-seeking. Queries like “How do I choose God to be my Savior and mean it?” and “How do I know I want God to be my Savior?” began filling the pages of my notebook. And even when I did pen a strictly theological question that my parents answered with scriptural reasoning and Biblical reference, I wasn’t satisfied. It was more of a doubt in myself and a mistrust of my own mind than a mistrust in God.

Soon, a new worry surfaced. Since I was the one writing both my questions and my parents’ answers in my notebook, how could I be sure my parents had actually said the words I’d written? What if I was confusing dreams with reality? Everything in the notebook was penned in my own handwriting and this sent me on a new spiral. I began to doubt whether any of the conversations with my parents had actually taken place. Could I even trust my own memory?

I went back through my notebook and peppered it with little notes and arrows stating, “Mom said!” or “Dad said!” in hopes that they would help me truly KNOW that the words I had written were said and affirmed by them. Their truth felt like greater truth. The right truth. The trustworthy truth. I just couldn’t trust myself.

I was aware that it was unreasonable to question my memory. I knew the conversations had happened, yet it was as if I needed my doubt. My brain was operating in a state of constant overdrive.

It is difficult to put into words the experience of knowing in your mind that your behavior is absurd, yet be compelled to go through with the behavior anyway, in order to feel better in one's body.

This, in a nutshell, is OCD.

And all these questions recorded in my notebook, were my desperate cry for help.

Undone-ness

I read the following words this morning:

“I’ve been a list maker since I was a kid; that’s when it started, I realize now. I never appreciated what I accomplished each day, I only felt frustrated by what was left undone. Undone of course being the perfect work for my mental state related to my list-making habit. I am constantly undone by being undone…Our lives – as a couple, as a family – have always been governed by my dissatisfaction implosions. The lists were simply an attempt to supply answers to my endless questions: Was this my life? What was my next move? Why is this house so small? Is this all there is?”

They were published in a random book I grabbed off the shelf at the library, entitled “Amateur Hour: Motherhood in Essays and Swear Words,” by Kimberly Harrington. At first it was the book’s aqua cover and picture of a cute pink contraption spewing hearts skyward that drew me. (My husband informs me the cute pink thing is a grenade; I thought it was a perfume bottle. Nevertheless.) But let’s be honest, it was the catchy title that made me toss the book in my bag. I’m feeling angsty in my mothering life of late and it seemed right to read the words of someone who, at least in title, wasn’t about to mince words.

I don’t know this author from Adam and so, the last thing I was expecting was for her words to crack me open this morning. Suddenly, it felt like someone had been spying on my life and taking notes and now I was reading back to me what they saw. I didn’t like her critical attitude. It hit too close to home. And her descriptive use of “dissatisfaction implosions” left an especially personal sting.

I am a Type One on the Enneagram and my hunch is that the author of this book is too. (PSA: Have you heard of the Enneagram? This is a brash oversimplification but it’s an ancient personality typing model of sorts - if you haven’t yet explored it, be prepared to fall into a wonderful black hole of information). Type Ones are also known as “Reformers” and, according to The Enneagram Institute (https://www.enneagraminstitute.com), they are “conscientious and ethical, with a strong sense of right and wrong. They are teachers, crusaders, and advocates for change: always striving to improve things, but afraid of making a mistake. Well-organized, orderly, and fastidious, they try to maintain high standards, but can slip into being critical and perfectionistic. They typically have problems with resentment and impatience.”

That’s a lot of words for saying I have constant eyes for how things could be improved – which can be both a rich blessing and extreme curse.

The site goes on to say that when Ones are at their healthiest, they are said to be capable of becoming “extraordinarily wise and discerning, inspiring, and hopeful. Their sense of responsibility, personal integrity, and of having a higher purpose often make them teachers and witnesses to the truth.” I would summarize that to say they are truth-tellers.

Beautiful!

When they are unhealthy, Ones are dissatisfied with reality, they become idealists, “feeling that it is up to them to improve everything. They become orderly and well-organized, but impersonal, puritanical, emotionally constricted, rigidly keeping their feelings and impulses in check. Highly critical both of self and others: picky, judgmental, perfectionistic. Impatient, never satisfied with anything unless it is done according to their prescriptions.”

Ouch! Hit home much? Dissatisfaction implosions.

There have been times recently when I have felt like I hit some of the healthier points of my personality potential. Like last week for instance. I was working on a talk I will be giving to my Bible study group in December about expectant waiting. My plan was to talk about our areas of deep longings and places of hurt, those places where we are waiting for Christ to move and provide healing and reconciliation and redemption. I was piecing together bits of my own journey through hard times and painful seasons and I felt inspired and excited and, wait for it, even hopeful, with what God gave me to share. I was going to teach! I was going to be a truth-teller!

My word for this year has been “hope.” There have been so many moments where I have felt “Hey. I think I might be getting somewhere. Maybe I’m healing!” After a long season of waiting, I was more than ready to box up some of my broken bits and catalog them on a shelf with a “no longer an issue” stamp across the front.

Yet inevitably, it seems, these hopeful moments are quickly followed by long stretches of discouragement and frustration. One week I am gripping the cheeks of my husband saying, “DO NOT GIVE UP HOPE FOR CHANGE,” and the next week I’m sob-praying as I run through the neighborhood, “I don’t think change is possible. I feel no difference. I’m getting nowhere. I give up!” Like the author of my book, I feel undone but the undone-ness.

On the tails of preparing my talk on waiting with hope, all I feel is slashed with discouragement, overwhelmed by my feelings of deep sadness. I’m back to screaming “WHERE ARE YOU GOD IN ALL THIS? Why am I still hurting? Why don’t I feel more hopeful?”

If I’m taking all my pills and exercising for endorphins, why am I still depressed?

If I’m working on viewing myself as fearfully and wonderfully made, why do I still loathe my body so?

If we’re doing all this hard work in our marriage, why do I still feel lonely?

If I’m working so hard on my thought life, why do I so often find myself at the bottom of a shame spiral?

Are my expectations too high? Is this just life? Is what I’m feeling yet another “dissatisfaction implosion”?

While I (obviously) don’t have the answer to all these hard and tender questions, I was made aware of one, blaring, gaping, painful hole in my faith life. Recently, when posed with the question, “When have you been especially aware of the love Christ has for you?” I came up empty. I literally could not identify a time where I felt completely, entirely, wholly accepted and loved by God. Though I would preach God’s incredible love to everyone around me until the cows come home, I haven’t been able to fully accept it for myself. I know my ugly. I see my mess. I track my failures. And I’m ashamed. And so, I have been disqualifying myself. I’ve erected a buffer around myself in self-protection. Because I fail to meet my own bar (perfection), I opt myself out of fully receiving the relentless, never-ending, totally-covering love God has for me.

Those are some tough words to type and even tougher words to swallow. But here is what I know: until I can truly accept Christ’s deep love for me, His grace for my ugly, complete healing cannot happen. And so, even in my undone-ness and pain, I am choosing to meditate on His unfailing love.

I will end with these beautiful words from Zephaniah 3:17:

“The Lord your God is with you,

the Mighty Warrior who saves.

He will take great delight in you;

in his love he will no longer rebuke you,

but will rejoice over you with singing.”

You've got to go through it

Do you recall the classic children’s book, “We’re Going on a Bear Hunt?” There is a song too, often sung at summer camps, that depicts the story of 5 children and their dog who venture out into the wilderness in search of a bear. On their way, they encounter all sorts of obstacles – a river, mud, tall grass and a forest, to name a few. As they face each one, large and looming before them, they chant together:

“We can’t go over it.

We can’t go under it.

Oh no!

We’ve got to go through it!”

Recently, I was having more mornings than I cared to admit where I awoke unsure whether I could “do life” that day. My load felt heavy and very few things were bringing we joy. I was existing but unable to engage. It was like I witnessing the world happening around me from behind a glass wall. Everything appeared muted and distant.  

I related to those kids in the bear hunt story, unnerved by my environment yet unsure as to how best to proceed. Just as the book characters surveyed the landscape before them, wondering how they would get over to the other side, I too wondered if I would ever get past this tough season. The “other side” looked awfully appealing but getting there involved enduring uncomfortable circumstances and it was tempting to retreat from whence I came and give up on hopes of forward progress.

The things I knew would help me were hard to muster energy for. Running. Creating order in chaos. Eating well. Writing. Connecting with others. Instead, I longed to curl under a blanket and eat ice cream and drink coffee (or maybe wine?) all the live long day. And some days I did. After delivering  my girls safely at school, I would strip back out of my too-tight-right-now jeans and don some pants with an elastic waste band, a baggy sweatshirt, and slippers. Getting dressed was my least favorite part of the day - my body, oh how I loathed it!

I wasn’t feeling well physically or emotionally. I’m wasn’t practicing what I preached. I’d reached the unhealthiest state I could remember being in ages. This was me.

And what I was experiencing was most definitely depression.

There have been many times where I have surveyed the landscape before me and I have felt totally overwhelmed. I have wished I could skip the messy jungle, dark, and filled with unknowns lurking behind every bush. Certainly, it would be easier to just fly over it, to launch myself through the air and land on the other side, I would think. Or maybe I could simply dig my way under the rugged terrain to avoid all the bumps? I could tunnel “down under” and pop back up when I’d crawled past all the obstacles and the coast was clear and the way was smooth again.

But alas, it’s not that simple with life, is it? As the bear hunt book reads,

You can’t go over it. You can’t go under it. You’ve got to go through it.

This very idea of “going through it” brings to mind the art of glass-blowing. I’m certainly no authority in this field but I have seen it done a time or two. In making a delicate piece of blown-glass art, first the artist must dip the blowpipe into molten glass. Like honey, this syrupy glass isn’t yet anything to behold. It moves and oozes and threatens to run off the end of the pipe as it spins. For the artisan to shape and grow the molten liquid into what he envisions, he must first put it in the furnace until it is white hot. Only after it had endured the heat of the fire can the artist begin blowing into the pipe. Out of the molten mass, a beautiful ball of glass forms and takes shape.

Glass-blowing makes a good metaphor for us as humans. At different points in our lives, like the molten glass, we find ourselves feeling messy and sticky and formless. We may be questioning our purpose or wondering if we are living to our full capacity. We might be lonely or hurting. Maybe we received a sobering diagnosis, or we are experiencing relational strife. Or maybe we find ourselves amid a painful season due to no fault of our own. Perhaps we were wronged or harmed and now we are sorting through the aftermath. These circumstances come at us like a hot furnace, burning, scalding. When we are in the fire, in the middle of the process, it’s hard to see the good. But it is only in these moments when we are stretched to the point of discomfort that growth can take place.

It is in the furnace, when we are white hot with pain and exhaustion and bewilderment that we become malleable enough for a gentle breath to fill us and form us and grow us. We can’t skip the vital step of walking into the fire.

You can’t go over it. You can’t go under it. You’ve got to go through it.

I know what it’s like to feel numb, to wonder if you will ever experience joy again. To take a stab at the things you once loved, expecting a spark, and instead to detect nothing. I know what it feels like to question what’s wrong with you, to be scared out of your mind that “this is just how it is now.” I know well the temptation to settle. To decide the river seems too vast to cross and opt to stay put instead. To set up camp and convince oneself the other side was overrated anyway. I know what it feels like to long for a painful season to end, to be ready to get on with the next one. On better days, I can remember that “this too shall pass.” I recall that I am mid-process, that I am going “through it” as the bear hunt book would say. But on the average day, I often want to hibernate under a blanket until it's over.

We want to skip the hard, refining work. We don’t like the furnace because the heat feels unbearable. The stretching that takes place there is uncomfortable, and we’d rather skirt around or pass over the parts of our lives that are painful or ugly. Yet here we find ourselves, in the midst of our present circumstances.

And it is in this very midst that God longs to meet us.

It is in these moments where we aren’t sure we can take one more step, moments when we are acutely aware that we are incomplete and broken that the Spirit intercedes for us “with groans that are too deep for words.” (Romans 8:26). 

The verses that precede this passage encourage us not to lose heart. Romans 8:24 says “But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.”

Are you waiting for something? In this season of Advent, are you filled with longing? Are you in the midst of hard circumstances? I hope you will allow the breath of the Holy Spirit to wash over you and intercede “with groans that are too deep for words.”

It’s when you’re wading through the river, when you’re being refined in the fire that God meets and intercedes for you. It’s when you realize you are broken that growth happens. Brokenness is not the end of the story. We can’t hide from the broken areas of our lives. God is redeeming and making all things new. This is really the “other side” but he’s calling to us to a journey through. We’ve got to go through it.



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I'm Baaaaaaack

I think I owe you an update. Many of you have been lovingly concerned as I have shared openly here and here about the journey with depression that I have been on this year. There have been many other layers to my wrestlings, struggles that I haven't yet spoken of in this space but hope to one day when the timing is right. On some days I look back at the year 2016 and think about how excited I am to put it behind me. I can't wait for January 1st when I will turn the calendar page into 2017, as if somehow that act will magically put all the trials of the last 12 months completely to rest. I've been tempted to call 2016 The Year My Life Fell Apart because in so many ways it feels as though that has been the very thing that has happened. But something in me cries out saying that, though it may tempting to make the falling apart the theme of the year, it is the putting back together of the pieces that really deserves the spotlight.

I was feeling so discouraged back in October when I initiated a trial of a new medication and didn't experience any relief in my symptoms. What my provider neglected to tell me was that my dose, even after two increases, was still in a sub-therapeutic range. This was simply a fancy way of saying that the does I was taking was lower than what had been the established as having an impact on actually treating a condition for the majority of people. Awesome. Essentially most people wouldn't experience any relief taking the small dose of medication I had been prescribed. That certainly would have been nice to know as I'd begun worrying that my body had acquired a medication resistance somewhere along the lines that was interfering with it's ability to respond to drugs. I was fearful this was "it" for me, that life would always feel heavy and unmanageable for me.

When I returned to my provider to check-in, she gave me the facts - that we still had a looooong ways we could safely go up on my dose - and I was thrilled. Maybe there still was hope! So at the beginning of November, she doubled my dose for a third time and within days, I was pretty confident something was different. I was suspicious it could be the placebo effect, (those times when one can experience a relief in symptoms for psychological reasons simply because you believe that you will, not due to the efficacy of the actual medicine itself) but honestly, I didn't really care WHAT was making me feel better. I was just so glad to finally, finally not be filled with so much dread.

A couple days later, I boarded a plane for a writing conference in North Carolina. In our Christmas letter this year, my middle child tells readers that I went on this trip "to be alone." I love her perspective on matters. Though that wasn't actually the purpose of the trip, four kid-free nights and time with a dear friend doing something that I loved certainly didn't hurt matters. I felt amazing during that time but decided to give myself a week back at home in my "real" life before I made the call that the medication was actually working.

I woke up the Monday morning after I arrived back home from North Carolina and promptly opened my fridge to assess the situation.. I was beyond alarmed at the state of affairs in there. Based on the level of nasty spills that had crusted upon the shelves and disgusting mess in all the produce drawers, I was certain some creature had taken up residence and made it's mark on the territory in my absence. It took a moment for it to settle that no, this sight before me had actually been the state of my fridge for pretty much all of 2016. Gasp. It was like I suddenly was seeing it through an entirely new lens,

This is so gross, I thought.

And so guess what I did? I did what any person in their healthy right mind might do - I grabbed a spray bottle of cleaner and a handful of rags and went straight to work. It was Monday morning. At 7:30 AM. The kids were still at home and I hadn't even fed them breakfast yet but this fridge was NASTY! So I took care of it. Every last bit of it all the way down to removing the shelves and doors and scrubbing them in a sink full of sudsy water. This behavior would have been totally normal for me in some of my past lives. I used to clean the fridge on at least a bi-annual basis. (Is that often enough? Maybe that number should embarrass me more?) But this year was different. I hadn't been "myself" for quite some time and my house had suffered some neglect.

If I'm fully honest, I had noticed that the fridge was dirty countless times over the months that preceded. But the thought of actually doing anything about it overwhelmed me to no end. So I simply ignored it and shut the door. For like a year. The reality was that I just couldn't. I knew it needed to be done but the energy required for the endeavor was more than I could muster. So I spent a lot of time under a blanket on the couch reading books instead (which I actually don't know if I would trade for anything...)

Halfway through my fridge-cleaning rampage, I caught myself.

I am cleaning the fridge! What has happened to me?!

It felt so good to accomplish something and I sensed a shifting in me. Later on that week, we were gifted a beautiful crisp sunny fall day in the Pacific Northwest. The girls were in the school so I grabbed Jack's hand and we ran for the outdoors. Armed with brooms and buckets and rakes, we gathered the fallen leaves together and worked to winterize the yard. Again this behavior shocked me when I really sat down to think about it. Yet also it felt so invigorating.

Still later that week, my father-in-law contacted me. He had a free queen-sized bed frame and mattress available. Did we want it? We could upgrade our current double-sized guest bed to a queen to make it more comfortable for our guests. He sent me a picture of the bed and my wheels began to spin. I could paint it! Emerald green, maybe? Then I could throw on a white comforter and sew some orange and navy accent pillows with pops of emerald. That could bring it all together with the blue area rug already in the bonus room. I jumped on Pinterest and began scanning my options. Before long it hit me - I was dreaming again! My creative juices were flowing. This had been a long time coming.

For quite some time now, I have had at least a gazillion pending painting projects - my daughter's dresser, the purple magazine rack, the toy bins, the kitchen cabinets. I had even gone so far as to gather the tarp, paint tray, roller and brushes - they were all ready and waiting on the bonus room shelves, waiting for me to make it happen. They still sit there today, 18 months later, I'm afraid. The energy never came. But suddenly it was feeling doable again.

Last night, someone asked my husband how he feels I've been doing on this new medication. Has he noticed this shift in me that I describe? I expected a vigorous nod of affirmation. The lightening of my load over the past month has felt so dramatic and monumental and relieving for me. I feel productive again! And I feel marginally capable (though I realize that anything including the word "marginal" usually isn't the highest of compliments but it's an overall improvement for me so I'll take it!) I can handle the little things and they no longer create in me an immense desire to crawl under and blanket in the corner, never to reemerge again.

But when my husband was asked this question- do you see a shift? - instead of answering confidently, he furrowed his brow and thought for a long time.

"Yes," he said finally, with a heavy overtone of hesitancy. "I would definitely agree that she is beginning to dream again. That part of her has been missing for months. But the thing is, she fights so hard to keep everything together that most people observing from the outside never would have known just how much she was suffering inwardly before, myself included, so the shift isn't quite as obvious to me."

Maybe his response shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did. In retrospect, there were others close to me in my life who also wondered at the idea of my being depressed. I didn't fit the textbook depiction of a depressed person - one who is not showering, unable to meet basic needs, totally withdrawing. But man was I ever suffering on the inside. I know that full well now that I have finally experienced the relief!

For a good long while there, I didn't know if I would ever be able to write a post "from the other side" of depression. I feared that feeling down was forever to be my baseline. But here I am, so very, very grateful.

Even still, over these past few weeks of feeling better, I have had moments where I catch myself thinking This medication is just temporary. Soon I will be able to wean off and be just fine. That could happen, yes, but the greater likelihood is that I'm going to continue to require medication, possibly indefinitely even. This idea of being dependent upon a drug doesn't sit well with me. I feel somehow weaker and less fully human to have this thing that my general well-being is dependent upon, a chemical deficiency. The voices from my upbringing still flash through my head, whispering ugly lies that I'm reliant on a medication because I "just don't trust God enough." What a terrible, horrible misconception so many of us have been led to believe.

Do you feel this too? Has someone somewhere along the lines convinced you that you are to blame for your depression?

Dear Lord Jesus, set us free! I pray for anyone else who might be struggling with deception coming straight from the mouth of the devil - lies claiming we struggle and feel this way because of something we have done. These words are not from you, Lord. Remind us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Show us that we are fully loved and cherished and accepted in our brokenness. There is nothing we could possibly do to make you love us more.

*     *     *     *     *

This year has been one marked by an owning of brokenness for me, recognizing more fully than ever my need for a Savior. The Lord has so tenderly been showing me all the places where He has been at work, healing and restoring me. I know some of you are also in places of deep hurt. I know this because you have told me so. I pray that you would have the strength to examine these places and fully accept your own brokenness. And then I pray that you too might experience God's healing, even when feelings of emptiness and hopelessness abound.  

A friend recently shared with me the lyrics of one of the late Leonard Cohen's songs entitled "Anthem" and the imagery struck me. In it he sang:

Ring the bells that still can ring 

Forget your perfect offering 

There is a crack, a crack in everything 

That's how the light gets in. 

Though, to my knowledge he was not a believer, there is rich wisdom that we as Christians can take from the words of this song. I just love the phrase "There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." We are a broken people and our fractured nature will remain with on while we reside upon this earth. But through His healing and restoration, the very cracks in us no longer serve as markers our struggles and failures. Instead, these cracks become illuminatory, a means through which the light of our Lord Jesus shines through ever brighter, magnifying the incredible nature of His redeeming power. What a beautiful word picture! May we ever continue to ring in His name, despite of our imperfections.

The Fraudulent I-Have-It-All-Together Pedestal

My thoughts are a jumbled mess inside my head and it's been a few weeks since I've managed to untangle any of them. I've tried, believe me I've tried. I have countless drafts, run-on sentences, messy outpourings from my heart, broken attempts at processing and composing something that feels worth sharing. The writing life, I'm discovering, isn't for the insecure or faint of heart. One always finds oneself questioning - what is the point? Am I saying anything of worth? What do I have to offer than hasn't been said before? Will my words touch any souls? It is easy to talk oneself out of sharing, to practice avoidance. And now that I have let the whole wide internet know of my depression, I am tempted to run and hide and never speak of it again. But what good would that do?

This journey is terrifying for so many reasons. There are moments when I feel surges of hope and elation, anticipating a lighter, brighter perspective on life. I long for a life less consumed by anxiety and fear and heaviness. Maybe this isn't, in fact, how the rest of the world experiences life when they begin each new day. Maybe this isn't how God intended for me to feel. 

And then there are other now more-common moments when my throat wells with panic. I can barely type the words for fear that even forming this sentence on paper will automatically bring it to fruition: What if this is all there is? What if these medications make no difference and these symptoms I've been experiencing are simply the realities of life on this earth? What if I don't actually have a chemical imbalance? What if I'm just weak and can't handle my life? With each day that passes on this new medication without obvious relief, I begin to worry that this is it - my forever and always. I try to hold out hope that there are still other options but these are the kinds of thoughts that plague me. Obviously, anxiety is still a very-present struggle.

The last few months, as I've waded straight into the thick of my darkest inward places, I've been wrestling a hard battle and it's difficult to determine who is winning on any given day. Back in my "better-functioning" days (though I'm sure my counselor would challenge that statement and wonder whether I was actually functioning well at all), I used to have tabs on most things in my life. I cleaned my bathrooms and vacuumed my floors on a weekly basis. I was ultra productive and as busy as all heck. I could juggle dozens of balls at the same time and only on rare occasions would I lose track of even one. I managed to support my husband while he attended grad school AND worked full time, all the while raising three children, managing our house, working part time and co-coordinating the MOPS program at my church for three straight years. I look back on that phase on my life and I honestly have no idea how I did all that. The only thing I can recall as that I mastered the art of sending emails and writing meeting agendas while breastfeeding. Today I feel like the queen of accomplishment if I even manage to get dressed.

Am I proud of those years? This is a question I have never really asked myself until now. The old me would have said an absolute and obvious yes (!!!) because that old me was functioning under a whole different set of principles - my deep desire to stay on the pedestal and look like I had it all together and, in doing so, somehow win the affection of others.

These days are a lot different. I think there are a number of factors at play. When my counselor first urged me to seek alternate pharmaceutical treatment for my depression and anxiety, I was relieved. It felt so validating to hear from an external party (and a professional at that) that the signs of depression were operating. Initially I felt hopeful - there might be a form of treatment that could make things better! And then in the days that followed, things took a turn. Like a knit blanket whose yarn has snagged on a rough edge, I felt myself beginning to unravel. Slowly my "functioning" self dissipated and I felt myself slipping into alignment with the descriptions one might read of a person suffering from depression. Unmotivated to complete daily tasks? Check. Exhausted? Check. Indecisive? Always. Loss of interest in hobbies and activities one used to find enjoyable? For sure.

It's as if in finally accepting the diagnosis of depression, I finally allowed myself to feel all the feelings that came along with depression, feelings that I'd been swallowing and internalizing to the deepest depths up until this point. I thought that in finally accepting my depression, it would set me on a trajectory toward getting better. But in many ways, it has only made things harder. This acceptance has brought the pain to the surface so that I am forced to really sit in it. And this sitting in it - it is painful. I like to get things done, check them off and move on. But what I'm learning is that this wrestling match I'm in is really more of a marathon. I'm not sure how long it will last. On so many days, I long to disengage. I wish the humans in my house could care for themselves and get themselves where they need to be so I could stay in bed all day.

"Is this a thing," I questioned my counselor "that I actually feel much, much worse after acknowledging the fact that I'm depressed?"

"Anything is possible," she told me.

She continued on to explain that it made a lot of sense that I would feel worse now that I was finally letting go. After spending so much of my life over-functioning in protection of my image, I had reached a breaking point where I could do it no more. And so it was only now that the traditional symptoms of depression began to surface.

The "old" over-functioning me never qualified me on those depression scale surveys that they use to assess for depression at the doctor's office. I would mention to my provider that I was feeling a bit down and she would hand me one of those surveys and I would "pass," leaving my doctor's office with the same heavy darkness that I entered with, armed with no new information other than the confirmation that I "wasn't depressed." There were even some people close to me who said what I was dealing with couldn't be depression. How could it be if I was able to keep my life together so well? I was getting out of bed every day. My kids were fed and I got a lot done. But inside, hidden beneath it all, I was desperately sad, not to mention utterly exhausted.

When I went to see a new provider recently who specializes in this sort of thing, I'll admit, I was terrified. I expected she would hand me the very same depression scale assessment that I'd taken in past. And she did, in fact, hand me one such survey. This is the best way they know how to diagnose this sort of thing, I suppose. As soon as I had the paper in hand, I worried that she would look at my answers and deem me "just fine" and send me on my merry way. Should I fudge the test? Should I check more "extremely likely" boxes to guarantee me a diagnosis of depression and therefore some treatment? These are some of the thoughts that ran through my mind, so desperate I was to feel better. Thankfully, I didn't have to fudge the test. My honest answers as the "less-functioning" version of myself landed me score enough to call for treatment. But even if it hadn't, this provider made it clear that these scales were simply a tool among many others that could be used toward obtaining a diagnosis. It wouldn't have been the end-all-be-all to determining my health.

It's a very tender place, this space of first owning and accepting and then seeking treatment for depression and anxiety. I fear others will view me differently, that suddenly I will lose some of my worth and credibility. I fear they will see me as incapable. The likelihood is high that a handful of people will. And, quite honestly, I expect most people will view me differently, as well they should. With every revealing of detail, every exposure in vulnerability that we offer up, comes a clearer, truer picture of who we really are - one and the same, struggling with our own messes and insecurities. I'm learning that it is only when we recognize we are all together broken people, that we can finally experience the freedom to jump down from the crazy I-Have-It-All-Together pedestal that the world urges us to erect and plant ourselves upon.

I for one have spent the vast majority of my adult life frantically trying to balance atop such a pedestal. My Have-It-All-Together pedestal was carefully constructed and I tended to it meticulously. At different phases in my life I probably would have even died fighting to defend, were it not for the grace of God. But I'm done hiding and pretending to have it all together. It's a very slow process, one that I am gradually surrendering to. What I've found is that as I've released every illusion at perfection, I have people in my life who are reaching for my hands and helping me step down off this fraudulent pedestal and into the graceful arms of vulnerability and acceptance.

Though I started a new medication about three weeks ago (and even increased the dose), I have yet to feel a noticeable difference. If anything, I've only been more anxious and this has been very hard for me. I feel like a lady in waiting, holding my breath and wondering as I begin each day, will I feel better today? I long to say I am better but the truth is that I still have a long way to go.

This week, the Holy Spirit met me where I was at. I didn't recognize it as such at first but I know it now. Amidst the feelings of overwhelmedness and anxiety that quite literally overtook me at times this week, the simple phrase "I trust you, Lord" kept running through my head. So this phrase "I trust you, Lord" is my new mantra in this season that I know will be wrought with disappointment and unknown. What I longed for was a quick fix - a pill to pop that would get me to a place where I was feeling and functioning better. And though I am still holding out hope that there will be a medication that can provide some immediate relief, I do know that, in this journey, I will grow. And so when the fear, guilt and anxiety threaten to consume and completely debilitate me, "I will trust you, Lord." When I wonder if I will ever get through this "I will trust you, Lord." When I'm scared my friends will tire of my struggle "I will trust you, Lord." When I worry if my kids will come out OK on the other side of all of mama's wrestling "I will trust you, Lord."

"I will trust you, Lord." 

From Darkness to Light

Everything I knew my life to be crumbled away in the middle of my 8th grade year. I don't recall how or when exactly and I certainly don't know why. There is no single event I can identify as a trigger. All I know is that as sudden as a surprise thunderstorm on a sunny summer day, anxiety and depression showed up and invaded my body and took up residence. Though their existence have waxed and waned in severity over the years, they have remained my near-constant companions, in one capacity or another, ever since.

The year I turned 13, my 8th grade year, is quite literally a blur. Though the details are foggy, I can say with full confidence it is one I care never to repeat. Thoughts and anxieties and sadness consumed me. I washed my hands incessantly. I became rather adept at opening door knobs and turning off faucets with my wrists, lest any "germ" contaminate my hands. I flipped light switches off and then on and then off again with one final burst of force to ensure they were really, truly off. Only then would exit the room, returning mere moments later to recheck the switch one last time, fearing my exertion on the last flip could have somehow caused the light switch to bounce back up and land in the middle, a position I knew to be a fire hazard of the worst kind. I counted and I tracked. I knew which seat belt buckles had been "contaminated" by my touching them with "germy" hands 3 weeks prior and therefore were off limits to me. Everything was a ritual. My behaviors perfectly paralleled those of one suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD).

It is probably unnecessary to state the obvious but I will anyway: My life was absolutely miserable.

I recall very little about this season, likely due to the fact that my brain was absolutely consumed by the incessant tracking and worrying and depression. Beyond the more commonly recognized symptoms of OCD - the hand washing and counting and fear of germs - I was deeply plagued by worries and anxieties of a whole different realm. What I agonized over the most was my very salvation, where I would spend the afterlife. I cried about it more than anything else combined. I absolutely wanted to know that I knew that I knew that I KNEW FOR SURE that I was going to go to heaven when I died. I worried perpetually that I didn't believe enough. That maybe I was believing "wrong." That perhaps I didn't pray "quite right" for it to "count." And because of these worries, I spent my days sobbing continuously. Utter craziness, I tell you. I have done my homework and am now much better informed. Further research has made it clear to me that these spiritual struggles are actually very common in one suffering from OCD. We just don't hear about them in the same way we do, say, the hand washing.

I cannot even begin to imagine what this period of time was like for my parents other than to say it was probably a literal taste of hell. They reminded me how I used to follow them around the house, crying, with a notebook in hand. In it, I recorded all the scriptures they'd provided to assure me of the permanency of my salvation. When my mom wanted to take a moment to herself to shower, I would cling to her, bawling, for fear I would die and go straight to hell during the span of 15 minutes that I would be left alone.

As silly as this may sound to the average reader, this was my ever-present and ever-painful reality. I was scared beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would spend eternity burning in hell when I died and I had no idea what I could do about it. I'm pretty sure this wasn't how my fellow 13 year friends passed their hours and it certainly was not normal. I know that now but I certainly didn't then. I had no idea that my struggles were due to a chemical imbalance, a diagnosable, medical issue.

And Church, you let me down.

And Church, you let my parents down too.

Gosh are those words ever hard to type. Yet I know I need to say them. I know others need to read them. And I know that in allowing myself to realize them and let them sink in, healing will happen.

Allow me to take a moment to clarify - when I say the word "Church," I mean not just my specific childhood church, but the church in general, the collective of people, the broader Christian community of believers. We have absolutely, wholly failed each other on the mental health front. As unintentional as it may have been, so many of the churches of my generation (and I would argue the ones before as well), have led their congregants to believe that mental health issues are spiritual in nature, not medical. And the resulting damage from this false idea have been devastating.

The church I grew up attending was wonderful and amazing for so many reasons. I loved our community and the friendships that were formed there. It was there that I first asked Jesus into my heart and there that my faith grew. But, like any church, it had it's faults. As a child, and a very black and white thinker at that, I took everything I heard from the authorities in my life at face value and accepted them as truth. My church was very conservative in nature and, looking back now as an adult, had a tendency toward legalism. This posed a challenge for the very literal person that I was. There were a lot of "rules" and expectations for the attendees and the culture was one where we kept our flaws hidden. If we struggled in any particular area, we certainly didn't advertise it. The words "vulnerability" and "authenticity" were not a part of my childhood vocabulary. There were a few instances where failures was made public and the results were heavy in discipline and shame and grace was limited, at best. I didn't question any of this, of course, because it was all I knew.

When my struggles with depression and OCD surfaced in 8th grade, I was at a loss on so many levels. I don't recall what, if any, words may have been preached from the pulpit of my church regarding mental health and depression. It wasn't something that was talked about (maybe therein lies the problem?) But reading between the lines, the unspoken message that was impressed upon my young heart through the culture of the leadership there was clear: counseling and medications were not looked upon fondly. The idea prevailed that the Bible alone stood as counsel enough for our problems. People in the congregation may very well have been struggling with depression or seeing a counselor but they sure as heck didn't talk about it. It was something to be ashamed of, to keep hidden. What I heard was that my struggle with depression and anxiety and everything else that made up that horrible year of my life, were the result of me "just wasn't trying hard enough," sure evidence of a lack of faith in God.

And so the trickle-down, take-home message that seeped into my sensitive heart and seared itself on my soul was that I was a complete and utter failure.

What a very hopeless, helpless place to be. And what a heavy load for a 13 year old girl to be carrying.

By the grace of God (and through my parents' strength and willingness to push outside of what was the "norm" in our community), I remember eventually landing in the medical office of a family physician who also attended our church. My parents were at the end of their rope with me, their child, who was passing most of the hours of her day sobbing. I'm sure it was obvious to them that I was very much not ok. I was mortified and ashamed to be struggling with issues that had such a negative stigma and I begged my parents to keep my problems quiet, a request they honored, sharing only with their innermost circle of friends out of a desperate need for support.

I can only imagine how terrible this experience must have been for them - to have a daughter, wrought with pain and sadness and yet to feel like their Church (or at least a some of it's members) viewed such challenges as spiritual in nature, not medical. Thankfully, the doctor they took me to had a different take on the situation and immediately recommended I start medication AND see a counselor. I don't recall the conversation but I imagine his medical perspective regarding chemical imbalances must have been SO refreshing for my tired parents' ears! Despite the embarrassment of seeing a doctor I would encounter in other settings on a regular basis (he eventually became one of my youth group leaders!), I am forever grateful to him as he is the first Christian I encountered to categorize depression where it belongs - in the medical realm.

I believe wholeheartedly that the Bible is the inspired and true word of God. In fact, Isaiah 9:6 says Christ is our "Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." The Bible is filled with scriptures that impart wisdom and encourage faith. The words in it most certainly provide wonderful counsel, yes, but I also believe with all of my heart that God created skilled and incredibly intelligent human counselors and physicians to help us with our broken bodies as we live this life in this broken world. Do we need bigger faith? Most assuredly, yes. But sometimes the struggles in our physical bodies run so much deeper.

It pains and angers me to think of how many people have been or are still being hurt by the church (or members of the church) who send outright or subliminal message that depression is a deficiency in faith. Thankfully I now worship alongside a pastor and community who is fully-aware of the pervasiveness of mental health challenges and depression in our society. We recognize it for what it is - not as a lack of spiritual discipline, but rather a chemical imbalance. I have some amazing people in my life who support me in seek help when help is needed though I still fight feelings of shame and failure because of it every single day.

So I guess that's why I'm putting this out there. I want others to know that are not alone if this, too, is their journey. I am still very much in the middle of my story, one whose plot line involves a hard-fought battle with depression and anxiety and shame that, in retrospect, have likely been a part of my story on and off since my 8th grade year. At that time, I was put on medication and went to see a counselor who instructed me to journal about my feelings (my mom is quick to point out how hard I resisted that assignment - ha! These days I would give anything for more time to write!) The result was incredible - like night and day for me. In a relatively short period of time, my world was righted again and I literally remember feeling peace wash over my entire body. Freed from the prison of the worries in my mind, I could once again really, truly rest. I remember laying on my mom's bed and thinking to myself "This is what it must feel like to have faith like a child."  

Praise God I have never again experienced anything like what I did that terrible year. What happened to my body and mind once I finally got the treatment I needed felt like a miracle. I was essentially "healed" from my OCD (if that is even medically possible) and have never struggled with counting, checking, hand washing or worrying over my salvation ever again. But yet I continue on this journey. My struggle with depression has been real and I only fairly recently sought treatment for it again, 5 months after Jack came into our live and only because it felt more acceptable to label the beast as a case of "postpartum depression" rather than the more likely underlying case of general depression that it is. (I mean, my "baby" is nearly 3 and the dark clouds still shadow me on many-a-days). My stubborn self does not want this to be the case, but some trusted souls in my life are helping me go deeper and see that my struggle for what it is and I am taking steps to make a change right now.

I'm really hesitant to put myself out here again on the internet, but Friends, if there is anything that God is teaching me, it's that He uses our stories. Even MY story has a purpose. And I'm willing to risk the embarrassment of you knowing I battle depression if it helps encourage even just one person. I absolutely can't stand thinking about the possibility of anyone suffering in silence, afraid to reach out because they've been told the lie somewhere along the line that if they just "tried a little harder" or "believed a little more," that the dark cloud of depression would dissipate. God created doctors and mental health professionals and counselors for a reason and they be a group of SMART people, let me tell you, a group I am learning to ADORE. No one should ever suffer in silence. And let's not kid ourselves - we ALL could benefit from therapy. All of us. 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 says "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong."

Though I loved my church, I feel strongly that I need to call out their failure on this front because I know we can do better. We need to. At this point, I'm sure it would be tempting for many to write off the church and Christianity, to turn their backs and walk away. You hurt me, so I'm out. Our natural instincts tell us to avoid pain. But oh no, dear soul, this is not at all what I am proposing. Life does not work like that. Anytime humans are involved in the equation, there is bound to be hurt and pain and misunderstanding because we ourselves are broken people. Every relationship - whether spouse to spouse, friend to friend, parent to child, boss to employee, pastor to congregant - is saturated with opportunities for failure because we are human.

But you know the amazing part that God is teaching met? I am going to be OK. I can be hurt and knocked down by something (the Church's failures) and still cling to someone (Christ) who is my solid and firm foundation. What I suffered was the result of humanity's failures, not Christ's, the world's words, not His. I can cling to the knowledge that He is re-writing this story in me, revealing Himself in whole new ways. In the process, he is erasing any misconceptions I may I formed about who He is or how He views me. Through all this, this story of redemption in the making, God is helping me to see that in Him, I am complete. Do I still need help? OH YES DO I EVER! I live on this earth in a very broken body. And that, I believe with all my heart, is why He created all those lovely mental health professionals and physicians that are quickly becoming my best friends.

Dear friends, if you are reading these words today and hurting, I want you to know that you are not alone and you need not be ashamed. I pray that you would reach out and ask for help. I'd like to leave you with the words of Psalm 19:14 which is my heart's desire for what I shared here today:

"May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be pleasing to you, O LORD, my rock and my redeemer."