I saw my doctor right before Thanksgiving. It was supposed to be a weight-loss checkup (I lost 2 lbs which probably means I just wore lighter shoes – I’ll weigh barefoot and sleeveless next!) and general how-are-you-feeling visit but it quickly turned into a bigger deal than I expected.
I finally showed her a list of symptoms I’ve been having for a long time and after glancing over my list and asking me a ton of questions, she asked me to put the weight-loss on hold until the holidays are over (as in not STRESS about losing). My doctor thinks not only do I need to go back on anti-depressants but that I’m possibly suffering with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. The possible PTSD seems to be stemming from leaving Fundamentalism and Christianity in general.
It’s been a few years since I’ve been able to drive without having panic attacks, I have a list of phobias that keeps getting longer, and I keep having horrible, horrible nightmares. As a friend recently said, PTSD is that your mind hasn’t put the event into long-term memory. So it lingers in the present and short-term memory. And without warning, BAM – it’s in front of you. And then you find yourself in the bathtub with a knife carefully balanced on the edge. Just having the choice to do something drastic seems powerful enough to calm the trauma inside. It can get dangerous quickly. With no warning.
This past month has been particularly emotional with the petition to remove Chuck Phelps from the Bob Jones University Board and the Do Right BJU campaign. After reading through the growing number of stories and signatures, my stomach aches for hours. I emailed with one friend who was reliving her sexual abuse trauma at the school (that wasn’t reported!) and my dreams that night were so vivid that I was scared someone was in the apartment with me and woke up begging Daniel to check on Drew.
I have a list of therapists that I’m supposed to call and hopefully I’ll meet with one this month and see what their professional opinion is on all of this. I’ve been avoiding therapy for a long time and I guess I can’t stop running from it any longer. It’s just really hard to stop hearing that person tell me “all the people in mental hospitals are people who stopped believing in God!” It’s hard to admit I may have mental health problems when I feel like most people are just going to say “IT IS A SPIRITUAL PROBLEM. GOD HAS JUST HARDENED YOUR HEART. I PITY YOU.”
I just can’t escape the nouthetic counseling that damaged my brain and heart.
One encouraging bit was that my doctor was just so genuinely sweet about all of it. She listened to everything I had to say, asked really, really interesting questions, and hugged me so tightly.
I’m going to just slowly breathe and enjoy December. And see if some of this mental anguish eases. And then January will bring a new beginning and a Fifty-Two Weeks project of weight loss. Fifty-two weeks. Yikes.
I went to sleep feeling angsty and I woke feeling pretty much the same way.
Only to find Rogert Ebert talking about loneliness.
The three things I want right now: soup in a bread bowl at Panera, an escape to a cozy place without having to drag my three year old along, and to feel less lonely even when surrounded by others.
In the spirit of chronicling my life anew, I must say that the word I’d use to best describe my present state of mind is alone.
I don’t say that pitifully, and trust me, I am already imagining the awkward glances from across the room and your thoughts of she just needs to get herself together.
It’s just not that simple.
We’ve been living here for 15 months and it pains me on a very deep level to admit that I’m lonely. Dreadfully lonely. My poor three year old is even lonely. We tangle up in blankets in front of the patio door and talk about Going Out There and Doing Things. But it feels as though I haven’t been able to reach *this* place until right now. That is, the place where I can recognize that I’m lonely and that I need some change.
Up until now I’ve been trying to figure out what is wrong with my health (I finally got some answers and it turns out my thyroid is whacky as whack), attempting to understand how to communicate in my marriage (Asperger’s, with its gifts, can also be deeply frustrating and overwhelming), and attempting to keep up with a little boy who sometimes exhibits some of the same Aspie like behavior and that is when I just want to climb a tree and hide while I weep.
It’s been fucking hard.
But for the most part, I feel as though I see a light at the end of the tunnel. I have answers about my health, Daniel and I are learning how to navigate through life a bit better, and I’m trying to mother with more patience. It’s just that when I finally crawl my way out of this tunnel, I feel as though I’m going to be standing on the side of the road with my thumb up, begging for friends.
When we left South Carolina and move to Pennsylvania for nine months, we had a sweet group of people that tried their best to get to know me and I just sat in that beautiful house for nine months and cried everyday. They made offers to watch Drew, lend us an extra car, go out for coffee, and I just couldn’t do it.
My trust issues have grown in the past few years and in Pennsylvania, I couldn’t handle the vulnerability it required to let anyone in. And here in Michigan, I thought it would be different. I really did. But here we are, 15 months later, and I still haven’t made any real friends. I have met some really kind people here but no one here really knows me. And it isn’t because some of the people here haven’t tried. Like I said, there are some really kind people here. I’m just the one with walls.
I don’t have a very high social need. In fact, I get easily annoyed with people who require parties, gatherings, and constant social interaction. Give me my laptop, a stack of books, or games to play, and I’ll nerd it out until 3am.
And yet I know that it’s quite healthy to step away from the computer and breathe. There are places I want to go, things I want to try, friendships I want to really happen. I just have to figure out how to make it happen.
And the most frustrating part is this in-between state – where I know I want some change, I’m willing to write about it publicly, and I’m making lists of things I want to do. And yet I’m swallowing a huge amount of fear at the idea of trusting another human being to be my friend. My heart has been hurt so badly in the past few years that I feel like I just can’t handle anymore.
But I have a little boy who needs a mother who isn’t so afraid and so that is where I am. I’m slowly and cautiously opening the door to new things and if a sudden wind blows that damn door back in my face, then I’ll probably go hide again for awhile.
One of my online friends, Annie, recently linked to an article on Facebook that discusses joyless parenting. After clicking on the link about a week ago, I read the first two paragraphs and then had to add it to my Read Later file because I already had tears in my eyes and my stomach ached.
It ached because I’ve said “I love Drew but I hate my life” so many times that it breaks my heart. Each time those words slip out of my mouth I spend the next five minutes desperately clammering to Daniel I HOPE YOU KNOW I LOVE DREW and DO YOU THINK I’M A BAD PERSON? He always smiles so sweetly to me and calms me with things like yes, you’re a good mother and a good person. You’ve just been through a lot. You’ll adjust.
That’s all well and good but after I finally got the courage to read the entire article, I knew that I couldn’t just wait for Someday When I’d Adjust. I’m not suffering with crippling depression anymore and mothering for me isn’t so much about resentment (as it was during the most horrid days of depression) anymore as it is about joyless repetition. I know that’s horrible. 🙁 It hurts to type that.
It isn’t through any fault of Drew’s though! He’s the most genuine, loving, happy little boy and even if he WAS a fussy kid, it still wouldn’t be his fault that I have succumbed to the lie that modern parenting is drudgery. I haven’t thought it was all drudgery though – we have had these AMAZING moments lately, when the stars are aligned, in which we’re all three HAPPY and SWOONY and I suddenly think, wow, parenting is fun! But it’s as though my brain has categorized mothering as something I have to live through and that it’s mostly difficult, fussy, and I may have one or two days a month that are wiggly.
But that is not what I want at all. I want my relationship with Drew, for as long as we each have breath (and my hope is that we’ll be able to giggle together until we’re both old and wrinkly, wondering where time has gone), to be wonderful, delightful, fun, and dreamy. I want to walk with him, while being emotionally and physically present, as he learns about the world.
Realizing all of this has made me face the reality that I’ve been holding Drew back quite a bit. He turned three in April and for the past six months, he’s been mentally and emotionally moving ahead and yet I’m still treating him like he’s younger. Our list of Things To Work On includes teaching him better table manners, play dates with other kids, getting completely rid of the high chair and sippy cup (he uses a booster seat at the dining room table and a regular cup at the table but the high chair is used a lot for pizza night, movie night, or when I’m just lazy – and he uses the sippy cup at night-time and for most of play-time and I’d rather just get him a water bottle to carry), lots more structure in his day-to-day, and POTTY TRAINING.
I’m always pretty aware of parenting fads, and when Elimination Communication became the Thing To Do (Drew was less than a year old), I bought the book + a baby potty chair. And the potty chair sat in the corner, with dust, because the reality was that I was fighting depression and there was no way I could deal with potty training an infant.
Around two, we bought a real potty chair and pull-ups and had a few conversations with Drew (and attempts) about what should happen and he was pretty upset about it to the point that I decided to wait a month or so. Even though my Granny was calling and writing letters to me about how I should have him potty trained YESTERDAY, I knew that he wasn’t ready.
And then, at some point, we crossed into the reality of Drew being completely ready and his mother ignoring the issue. I’m not sure where that line is and when we crossed it, but we’re totally there. He wakes up with dry diapers each morning, I absolutely know when he’s going to poop or pee and he talks about it all matter-of-factly. But I haven’t been ready. At all.
And when I started pondering the reality of my joyless parenting, I realized that this is a huge opportunity to place myself back in the present of walking with Drew as he encounters these big, new changes. We brought him into the world over three years ago and were SO happy and thankful to have him here. I’m not going to hate myself for going through thick depression and severely struggling with the balance of parenting, but now that those dark clouds have lifted, I’m having to kick myself pretty hard to get back into active mothering and being prepared for constant change.
So, my current plan, if all goes well, is to make this weekend the weekend of Change. We’re spending the next few days talking about it all, re-doing his bedroom and closet, buying pull-ups, big boy underwear, his own soap, and wipes for the bathroom. And then making cookies together as the reward for having met his goals!
But, I’m smiling while doing it. 🙂 I’m really eager for this. I’m aching for it, to be honest. I love Drew so much and I feel like he’s really lost out on wonderful parts of life in the past year or so (just as I have) and I want to make it up to him by showing him that part of growing up is learning all these new wonderful things and that even if it feels overwhelming at times, that I’m going to be there with him, every step of the way.
After breakfast this morning, we sat on the couch and talked about potty-training for a few minutes and I explained that we were going to be talking about it a lot over the next few days and I asked him if he was excited about learning to go in the potty all the time and he said, “no thank you.”
So, if he ends up peeing and pooping all over the carpet, I’m just going to eat all the cookies, have a good cry, and keep trying.
Since the beginning of this year, I’ve been in the bluest, most angsty depression you can imagine. At times, it felt worse than the scary post-partum depression I experienced after a rough recovery while healing from the c-section with Drew.
Those days were scary. Scissors, throwing pots, ripping pages out of books, finding myself in the floor of the bathroom and not remembering how I got there. In time, I realized the “Christian” advice of just committing more to Christ so He would heal my obvious sin problem was very, very wrong and found my way to a doctor. Interestingly, it was a Christian doctor who wrapped her arms around me and whispered that she treated so many folks in our community (the upstate of South Carolina at that time) who’d been told all of their life that depression was a sin problem. She prayed over me and we talked faith and science for quite a while. Anti-depressants were a life-saver at that moment. As was my husband who gingerly and sweetly walked through those days with me.
(If you know very little of depression, or the effect that depression can have on the other spouse, please go read Jon Armstrong’s story.)
After we moved here, I went off the meds simply because I was feeling a lot better and when it was time for my prescription to be refilled, I thought, why not try a month without it to see if I need them permanently or all the time. A perfectly normal thought.
I did very well from August – December. Yes, there was change, in a variety of forms, and the normal stress of life was always present, but I was able to function very well through it all. I had blue days occasionally but we all have those.
After we visited South Carolina for Christmas, and then had a New Years celebration in Maryland, we came home and I slowly sank into a depressed state. I think many different things contributed to it all. I was sick with a sinus infection for a month, I started having asthma problems at night, and with the cold Pennsylvania days blustering around the house and Daniel having our only car, Drew and I have been stuck in the house for 6 1/2 weeks. I think we’ve gotten out of the house during the day for maybe 4 days.
The laundry has piled up, the dishes have stacked in the sink, and for one week, I only showered once. I didn’t even have the strength to take my clothes off and stand in the hot water. And yet I ached to.
Each day has been the same. Daniel leaves for work, and Drew and I slowly wake up and eat breakfast while watching Sesame Street. Then we color, read books, and play with toys. And all the while, I cry. I change his diaper, I give him a bath (and yet couldn’t muster the strength to shower), we eat lunch, I teach him blue, yellow, red, and during his naps I go into the guest room and sit in the chair by the window.
I tried to read my Bible. I tried to read books. I tried to surf online. I deactivated Twitter and Facebook. And I sat curled up in the chair and wept for two hours every day. Drew would snore, and I’d watch the squirrels play in the tree, and see the little neighbor girl arrive home from school each day. She’d wave at her mom and run into the house and I’d envy her ability to skip on days when snow was covering everything. I stopped going to church for a while. And I avoided all phone calls and emails.
Our evenings consisted of Daniel arriving home, and comforting me for a bit before he planned dinner, did laundry, and straightened the house. I’d hold Drew and read books but without the wiggly voice I always use. I tried to play the piano and I tried to sing. But it was as though I had no voice with which to sing.
We finally had the talk about how perhaps I really needed to get to a doctor and get back on some medication so I could start to function again. But in the back of my mind, I kept fighting this voice that spoke with Christian authority urging me to simply ask God what I was doing wrong and that once I confronted my sin, I would be healed of these blue days.
It was as though I had learned nothing in the past two years of my on and off struggle with depression and reconciling it with God. It was difficult to think of depression as an illness that simply happens to some folks through nothing that they’ve done at all. I told myself that if I or Daniel had not seen or felt improvement in two weeks, that I’d schedule an appointment with a doctor.
That was two weeks ago.
And on the other side of that long conversation, with Daniel and God, I am wide eyed in amazement.
One evening, I sat in the floor with my laptop and thought perhaps I could use some of this time in which I was off Facebook, Twitter, and blogging, to find all of my past archives and sync them into Fairly Ordinary. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to publish them all but I just wanted them in one place.
It was pretty mindless to sit and scroll, copy and paste, and create entries in WordPress. But I did read every word, and I slowly began to relive all of these stories.
Part of my biggest frustration in the past two years is that I’ve felt like I don’t know who I am anymore. The woman I was in college, and the woman I was after college is different. And the woman I was when I met Daniel, and the woman I was after we were married for a year is different. And Lord knows the woman I was before being a mother and the woman I am now are really, really different.
The more I learn of God and the more I learn about life, my creeds seem to shatter and I slowly find myself realizing that life is truly only about acting justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly with God. The rest is grace and freedom.
I’m so thankful to have learned of the sweet grace of Jesus but I’ve still paced back and forth on the question of but who am I now?
As I relived my stories, I realized that I am still the same Jennifer.
The same Jennifer who wept at the piano and in hot baths, who knew to lift her head to the sky, who realized that she was being woven into the story of redemption, who reminded herself that nothing compares even when those she loves walks away from Christianity, who spent weeks listening to Taylor Sorenson’s I Sought for the King so many times that my cd broke, who had days that felt like annoying drips from the kitchen sink, and the same Jennifer who rediscovered the beauty of grace and peace woven into the story of the One who is my Rescuer.
I’m just someone who has forgotten the depth of some chapters in my life. I laughed and cried as I re-read the stories. I rolled my eyes at the naivety during my college days. I wiped tears as I read and remembered the hearts I hurt and those who hurt mine. And I winced as I read things about faith that are simply not true. But all of these pieces are part of my glorious story.
A story of one fairly ordinary girl who met God as a child and had no idea what she was getting into. And I still don’t. 🙂
I felt my heart healing, the sadness leaving, and joy flooding over my soul as I remembered all the times God brought me through. I reminded myself of His mercy, I bathed in His love, and I opened my front door on a cold winter day while crying as I realized that no matter if these dark days were going to subside or linger, that I’m loved by the God of the universe and He cares where I am and how I feel and He’s not sitting in Heaven marking off a list of lessons that Jennifer Needs to Learn.
In other words, this life isn’t a Sunday School Lesson in which I need to get an A+ or I’ll have to repeat the lesson. Nor is life about finding the ever elusive Will of God that even when found needs a secret map or decoder ring to decipher.
It’s simply about acting justly, loving mercy, and walking humbly with God. The rest is grace and freedom.
Interestingly, the dark depression has lifted for the moment. We’ve realized that my being indoors all week doesn’t help me emotionally and so we’ve visited parks at lunchtime, had dinners out in the evening, and music has poured out of our living room late into the evening.
I still don’t know if I need medication but I’m willing to see a doctor and head back down that road if that is what my body needs. I just know that this dark depression I was in was very real and painful and my body and soul have healed without meds for the time being. I am just taking each day at a time right now.
This weekend was so encouraging. We spent Valentines Day in Hershey, Pennsylvania where we trekked through ZooAmerica and Chocolate World (and I am actually sick of chocolate now – and yes, that’s blasphemous I realize), and I finally found myself back at church this morning.
I’m so incredibly glad I did.
Daniel is playing with the band now so I took over his technical/keynote responsibilities. I had to get there early and was around when the band started to practice.
I sat in a puddle of tears as I heard for the first time, C.S. Lewis Song. It’s based off of his writings and the lead singer this morning read from Till We Have Faces before she sang. You can find the lyrics here and below is the video by Brooke Fraser:
We then talked about big hairy questions that make a lot of Christians normally squirm. Things like why does God allow bad things to happen to anyone, much less Christians? Why are their tsunamis, earthquakes, famine, and airplanes crashing into houses? If God is all powerful, then does God cause pain?
It wasn’t a pretentious time of We Have All the Answers and you are welcome to gather around and learn. We just shared our stories and read the Bible and marveled on what is true about life and God.
At one point, someone was sharing that a particular painful chapter in their life had been when a family member was very ill. In their crying out to God, they began to learn that pain isn’t something that God sends to teach a lesson (my dark depression isn’t just a sound bop on the head from the Almighty who is itching to remind me to rely on Him) but that through the curse of a broken earth or a broken body, and through our own stumblings and failures, we do have pain.
We do have depression, ended relationships, sickly family members, children without food, dying dreams, and the blackest of days – but we can see God through the pain. And by see, I mean, really know.
And with all creation groan as I wait for hope to come for me.
I’m on the other side of the pain for the moment. My soul is encouraged and I’ve written this down to remind myself in the days ahead…although the pain will no doubt come, there will be an end.
My patient husband and sweet son are sleeping right now. I’m thinking I might order Pizza Hut’s pasta for dinner. And now it’s the middle of February and I feel like I’ve lost a month and a half in this year. But I haven’t. I’ve gained perspective and a gentle reminder that He was here all along.
The days ahead look interesting.
Our stay in Carlisle looks as if it won’t be much longer. Because of Daniel’s job, we are 90% sure we’ll be moving to Ann Arbor, Michigan in the coming months. And who knows what other pieces of our story will change. But all along, no matter where we live, no matter how dark my days are, I will listen to His voice in the light of the dawn and wait for Him to hold my hand when I’m singing loudly and full of joy or when I’m blindly stumbling through my day and unable to step into a hot shower.
For I was made to live. I was made to love. I was made to know You.
At the moment, I keep Octolilly up just for nostalgia’s sake. I stopped updating this site in 2013.
Be warned:
You may find broken image links throughout the posts. Also, there’s the reality of spilling my heart online for twelve years. It gets messy at times. If you start reading, prepare to find a lot of heartache, mommy-blogging, face-palming, immaturity, and awkwardness all tangled together.
If you are interested in my current every-day, find me on Facebook or Instagram.
