Day Three: Create

This blog post is part of my 2017 Write 31 Days blog series 31 Reflections on Mental Health and Illness. To read the whole series, click here for the series index page.

There is power in art. It has the power to transfix, move, inspire, enlighten, excite, overwhelm, and even heal. Most of these powers are found in the finished work of art -- whether that is a painting or book or movie or piece of music -- but the healing power of art is often found in the creation of it.

As someone who has spent a lot of her life involved in singing, dance, and theatre arts, I have a deep appreciation for all the many forms that art takes. Although I am not very gifted when it comes to the visual arts like drawing, painting, or sculpture, I find myself drawn to them and drawn to try to create something using paints, pencils, or other media. I used to wonder why I felt this way, but the older I have gotten, I think the reason is that I find something in creating a piece of visual art that benefits my mental health. There is nothing quite like skimming a pencil, pen, brush, or even a crayon over a fresh white sheet of paper and causing it to bring forth shapes, lines, and colour. Likewise, there is something infinitely satisfying about the feeling of clay, fabric, or yarn in my hands as I manipulate it into something that pleases me or expresses what I am feeling. It soothes and comforts my spirit to create. The very act of creation can be healing in and of itself, but creating something can be healing in another way.

One of the things that I am most adamant about when it comes to mental health is talk therapy. I have been through hours and hours of therapy. After all these years, you would think that I have this talking thing down. The problem is that even though Pendragon (my therapist of just over 8 years) knows me better than nearly anyone (save my husband), there are times when I find it hard to express what I'm feeling in words. That's when I sometimes turn to creating something that, hopefully, expresses what is inside my head and heart better than I can verbalise.

I didn't always do this, but about two years or so ago, I got a spiral bound sketch book and some basic art supplies (crayons, coloured pencils, oil pastels, markers) and every time I was feeling like I needed to get something out but couldn't find the words (or wasn't able to talk to Pendragon at that moment), I would get out the sketch book and start creating. The first time I did this, I was away from home visiting my in-laws and feeling really overwhelmed by the cacophony of all the noise and activity in their house, so I went to the local Panera Bread with my art supplies, grabbed a cup of coffee and settled in for an hour or two. When I left there, I felt more grounded and better able to manage my emotions.

Later, when I got home, I shared what I had drawn with Pendragon. He asked me questions and made observations about it (some of which surprised me) and I was able to glean an insight or two as well. After that experience, I packed my art supplies in a backpack and now whenever I am going to be away from home for several hours (and I know that I'll have an hour or so free time while I'm gone), I grab the backpack and take it along. Most recently, I was struggling to explain to Pendragon my current mental state, so I decided to try to draw it out. I'm not a great artist, but when I showed it to him at our next session, he immediately connected the dots and helped me to better understand it too. He also pulled some meaning out of it that, while not something I'd originally intended, was startlingly accurate and very helpful in my healing.

If you are struggling to express your feelings or need a way to help release some difficult emotions, I encourage you to create something. You can use whatever materials you like. The only rule I have for myself when I create a piece of therapeutic art is that I draw what I'm feeling and I don't hold back. If it's happy, I draw happiness. If it's sad, I draw sadness. If it's dark and dangerous, I draw dark and dangerous. If it's a mix of emotions, I draw the mix. The reason I don't hold back is that I want to be honest about my feelings -- even the really difficult, messy, and scary ones -- so that I can find healing through the act of creation. So go forth and create!

P. S. Sometimes I create by baking something. I've always loved baking (and cooking) and I am pretty good at it too. I find the repetitive movements involved in the process (chopping, peeling, stirring, kneading, measuring, etc) very soothing and it's always fun to see and eat the end result of all that work.

Five Minute Friday: Slow

Hey friends! It's been a while since I joined in with the folks at Five Minute Friday. If you're just joining me, know that this is a little longer than the average FMF post and that's because I don't set a timer. Yes, I know, I know. That's supposed to be the point, but I just can't do it that way. So I kinda do it my way. If you're a fast to moderately fast reader though, this should take you five minutes or so to read (so there's your five minutes). If you'd like to join up with this week's posts on the prompt word SLOW, then hop over to this week's prompt at Kate's blog and click on the linkup at the bottom of the page. Without further ado...

SLOW

It's been almost two months since the last time I posted here and I wish I could say that it's because life has been moving really fast or that I've just been so busy that I didn't have time to write, but I can't say that. Life has been, as it happens, pretty slow. The very beginning of the year, from just after New Year's to about mid-March, tends to be a wonderfully slow time of year that follows on the heels of the whirlwind of activity that comprises daily life and the many family and faith celebrations from September to December.

And friends, let me tell you, I need slow.

I have always been a fan of this time of respite and slowed down activity, but this year, it took on a new meaning for me. I didn't really realise it until this past Thursday when I was sitting in Dr. D's office and we were wrapping up our session. It had been a pretty intense session of EMDR and talking and my emotions were pretty close to the surface. I don't recall the exact thread of conversation, but somewhere in the midst of our normal wrap up talk, he commented that he thought I was on the right track with what we were working on. I agreed with him and replied that although I knew it was, it was still hard. He said "Oh yes, I know it is. I think though, part of the reason it's hard is because it feels like your progress is coming so slowly right now, but once we get through processing a lot of these memories, you'll notice that your progress speeds up and goes much faster."

You see, through the past four years I've been wishing for fast. I've been craving for time and progress and everything to just speed up and get me through this pain I feel. It hurts a lot when you're going through severe suicidal depression and PTSD. You feel like it's a nightmare that will never end and because it's so painful and so exhausting, you yearn for the passage of time (and all the normal thing that come along with it, like therapy sessions and tears and the like) to speed up so you just don't have to feel it anymore. Slow is the last thing you want and yet, time moves along like a turtle in a swimming pool of molasses.

What struck me about what Dr. D said on Thursday is that I knew the moment he said it that it was true and that I had already experienced that. Back in November, we took a pretty significant break from doing EMDR (a traumatic memory processing technique) because of the fact that I had experienced a very intense trigger around that time that needed to be worked through. Trying to work through traumatic memories on top of dealing with intense triggers can be far too much all at once, so we stopped the EMDR and to focus on helping me cope with the intense trigger. What I noticed during this break of about 2 to 2.5 months was that my progress did, in fact, speed up. I had more energy, more ability to handle day to day stresses, lessened irritability, and my sleep wasn't nearly as fraught with nightmares as it had been.

At some point in January, once the holidays had passed and things were calmer, we started doing EMDR again. Some of the things I'd seen improve stayed, while others slowed, and still others came to a halt altogether. I found myself wishing that it would speed up again and stop with all the slow movement. I got very frustrated, but kept pressing on despite it. The more frustrated I got though, the slower it seemed to go because I was avoiding some of the things I needed to do for myself to keep moving forward. I wasn't really facing the demons of my traumas and looking them full in the face. I was only really doing the bare minimum because I wanted to get to the part where things speed up again.

When Dr. D mentioned the bit about "processing a lot of these memories" I realised that I not only had experienced this, but that the slowing down that was happening was a natural part of the process. I also realised that until the last couple of weeks, I hadn't been fully embracing that slowness or the process. I can't say what changed and made it so that I began to embrace it again, but in that moment last Thursday, I realised something very fundamental about my healing journey: I need slow.

I need these times of slowness and intense therapy where I look at these things under a microscope and plunge deep into these memories. I need these times when I am pushing forward through molasses and sobbing uncontrollably as I face the traumas of my past anew. I need the slowness of these times to allow me to really find and untangle the threads which are binding my mind in a feedback loop of reliving these memories because that is painstaking, complicated work that requires patience, determination, a great deal of help from others, and a very slow perseverance. I need the slowness of only being able to do the basics of self care and resting a lot so that I don't get overloaded. I need to feel the intensity of the emotions that surface so I can learn how to cope with them and better manage them. I need slow.

So things are slow right now. Things are really intense too. The stuff my brain has been dredging up the last couple of weeks has been so intense that I've felt weak physically and needed a boost of caffeine and food immediately afterward just to be able to drive safely. It's also needed a lot of unpacking after processing, so my sessions with Dr. D have run longer and I've been seeing Pendragon at least twice a week and almost immediately after I see Dr. D each week. You'd think that it would be therapy overload and sometimes it's pretty intense too, but it's keeping me on a more even keel than I think I would be if I didn't have that extra help. The great thing about having these two professionals helping me is that they both have different perspectives and help me find different threads of connection and understanding that I might not be able to find without them. Gray helps too. We often do a little debrief when I come home and very often, things come up that later get addressed with EMDR or in talking with Pendragon or Dr. D.

With all that intensity and slowness, I know I will be glad for a time when we break from things so that progress speeds and breathing is easier, but knowing that this slowness is part of the process and that it is moving me forward is helpful. As much as this slowness is hard, it is forcing me to look at these traumatic memories full on and really feel the impact of them in a way that allows me to understand them and move past them instead of repressing them or hiding from them.

It's very hard work and it's very painful and there are days, like yesterday, when the pain is so fierce that I want everything to end -- but I know that slow doesn't have to mean running away and death by suicide. I know that all this pain and agony as I face this stuff in the slow is shaping me into a better person who is stronger, braver, and better equipped to do the work that He has planned for me as a wife, mother, mental health/suicide prevention advocate, and child of God.

The mountain is steep and the climb arduous, breath-stealing, excruciatingly painful, and interminably slow, but I know the vista that awaits me at the top will be worth it all the more for the journey.

One Word 365 Recap and Thoughts on 2017 - part 2

(If you missed it, click here for part 1)

I didn't connect this struggle of faith with hopelessness until one very dark afternoon while waiting in the carpool line at my daughters' school. I had been struggling through several very days of dark moods when my friend Chez, who had been very concerned about me when I stopped talking to him, called me on the phone as I sat waiting for school to get out. He suggested to me that what I was feeling with regard to God sounded like hopelessness and I knew at once that he was right. I realised when he said it that I had cringed at the sound of the word and that I'd been actively avoiding using that word. I knew that the painful, gaping hole inside me was there because of a lack of hope. You would think that knowing this might help, but it only seemed to make it worse. I sank deeper into despair and grew more and more disconnected from my faith and, subsequently, from any desire to continue living.

To make a long story short, a flicker of light appeared in March of 2015. That's when I attended a Lenten ladies' devotion at our parish that was led by our family's beloved friend, Fr. B. After the devotion ended and everyone was chatting and nibbling on snacks, I went to say hello to Fr. B as it had been a good year or so since we'd seen each other. After our initial hellos, he asked how I was. I didn't want to burden him with my troubles, but something in the tone of his voice when he asked the question reminded me that he is more than just a priest, but a dear friend. That reminder of our treasured friendship undid my resolve and any attempt at trying to pretend I was "just fine" completely crumbled. In a choked up voice, I told him that things were hard and I'd had much better. He looked at me with such compassion that I felt myself start to cry a little bit. He handed me a napkin, gave me a hug, and said he'd be praying for me. That alone was a priceless gift, but then he told me to send him an email and we'd get together at his parish and pray about it. I did just that and a week or so later, we met together.

I'll admit that at that first meeting, I wasn't very keen on the idea of praying at all and told Father as much. He understood and before insisting that we pray anyway, he heard my confession and gave me the anointing of the sick. After those two sacraments, we began to pray -- or rather he prayed. I sat beside him and as the words of the prayers washed over me, the dam burst and I bawled like a baby. When Father finished praying, we talked briefly while I wiped my face and then we walked over to the main church and he gave me communion before leaving me there by myself to pray.  As I knelt there in the church, a sense of calm stole over me that I hadn't felt in a very long time. I had promised Father that I would stay for at least 10 minutes, but somewhere in the midst of that silence, 10 minutes stretched into an hour without my even noticing it.

After that meeting, we began to meet regularly, about 1-2 times a month for spiritual direction and prayer and over time, that increased to weekly at times based on my need (and his schedule) along with keeping in close touch by email as well. What grew out of those spiritual direction meetings was a very slow and very tenuous renewed relationship with God. In the past year and a half, there have been moments when I have wondered if what I was feeling stir within me was a spark of hope, but every time I have felt this -- whatever this is -- it has gone as quickly as it came, snuffed out by fear, PTSD triggers, or the circumstances of life. I have longed for hope to return and it has remained elusive and also something that I simply cannot bring myself to believe that I will ever have again.

And yet.....here we are and it's time to choose another word for the year and I'm being nudged by the Holy Spirit to choose "hope" as my word for 2017. I felt this insistent nudge about a week or so ago and immediately refused to entertain the idea. I've continued to feel it since then and every time I have shut the idea down so fast that if it had a head, it would spin. Nope. Nope. Nope. BIG old NOPE. Think of Dana Carvey's impersonation of George H. W. Bush where he says, "Nope, not gonna do it. Wouldn't be prudent at this juncture." That's basically where I'm at right now.

The Holy Spirit even went so far as to nudge me to mention this idea to Pendragon during our last session and to Gray last night. Obviously, Pendragon didn't push me and neither did Gray, but I know that both of them would be encouraged if I did decide to take the plunge and make "hope" my word for this coming year. The thing is, I can't do it because of how I know it would make them feel. If I chose this for any reason other than a desire within myself, I think it would be a miserable failure.

And yet....and yet this nudge is persistent. Do you know how I know this nudge is from the Holy Spirit? It's because everything within me -- every instinct, every gut reaction, every fiber of my being -- is screaming at the top of its voice, "Noooooooooooooo!!!!" and as much as I want to ignore this nudge to do it, I simply can't. It's not that it's louder than my own voice, but that it's just as loud and inexhaustibly, relentlessly determined not to let me wiggle or headbutt my way out of this.

So here I am on the edge of 2016 becoming 2017, still resisting and still scared. I know I need to just bite the bullet, say "Okay" and make the commitment, but for whatever reason, I just can't. Then why write this long essay about words and this subject? Because I needed to write it and because I know that despite not beginning the new year with a new word, this isn't over yet. It's only just beginning.

In the meantime, pray for me. God knows that not only did I need to write this, but that I need to do it too and only He can help me find the courage to plumb the depths of this virtue and learn how to find it, embrace it, and allow it to grow in my heart once again.

One Word 365 Recap and Thoughts on 2017

Eleventh Doctor: Vincent, can I help?
Vincent van Gogh: It is so clear you cannot help. And when you leave, and everyone always leaves, I will be left once more with an empty heart and no hope.
Eleventh Doctor: My experience is that there is, you know, surprisingly, always hope.

*****************

I'm not gonna lie y'all. It was a rough year for me personally. It was also a year that turned my world upside down in a way that was really difficult (and still is to a great degree), but that will, I think, eventually wind up being positive. The jury is still out on that, but my therapist Pendragon said something at our most recent session on Thursday that he hasn't said in a long time. Actually, he used a word that he hasn't dared to use in a long time -- but more on that later.

A couple of years ago I discovered this thing called One Word 365. Basically, the idea is that you select a word for the year to be a kind of focus word, if you will, that you allow to influence and change you mentally/emotionally, physically, or spiritually. For 2015, I chose two words because as much as I tried, I couldn't shake the idea that I needed to embrace both of them -- write and follow. The first one was chosen because I had just come off the 2014 Write 31 Days challenge in October and I wanted to commit myself to writing in my blog more regularly and keeping up with it instead of just throwing it to the side. In the two years that have been since, I've had ups and downs, but I think I've managed to write at least one entry each month and some months, more than one. That may not seem like much, but it's a start. I chose "follow" as a word because I was struggling spiritually with wanting to follow after Christ. I've spent pretty much my entire life following Christ, but had gone through a trauma so severe that it had shaken my faith to the deepest levels. I wanted a reminder of what I had always done and that I knew deep down that I still wanted to do -- follow Him.

For 2016, I kept my 2015 words and added a third -- move. In 2015, I participated in my first ever Out of the Darkness Overnight Walk and struggled physically much more than I wanted to do. After only completing about 1.5 miles of the total 18, I felt defeated and I knew that although I had emotionally been struggling, I wasn't in the physical shape I needed or wanted to be either. I also knew that I needed to lose weight and make some changes to better my health, so I decided that a good first step would be to start moving more. To that end, I joined a local gym so that I could start walking and lifting some weights and in April, I got a Fitbit tracker to help motivate me to take more steps each day. I can't say that I suddenly became a fitness fanatic, but I did get more steps in this year and as a result, I lost a little weight and got in a little better shape. This year I completed 7 miles of the 18 during the Out of the Darkness Overnight walk and that was with the addition of taking a nasty tumble and mildly injuring myself. So although it wasn't a hugely different year with regard to fitness, it was a better year than the one before it and it is the beginning of a journey that I'm going to continue this year.

Speaking of this year, I suppose it's time to tell you about what happened the other night in Pendragon's office. You see, out of deference to how much he knows I've struggled with it, there is a word that he has studiously avoided using for the most part over the last three and a half years. He knows how much this word has caused me anguish and buckets of tears. He knows how many hours I've spent in his office talking around this word, afraid to even breathe it aloud. Because of that, he hasn't pressed me on it, but during our conversation on Thursday, he went out on a limb and said that he felt like the things I've been learning with my psychologist Dr. D have been beneficial and that the fact that I've been able to use those skills is a good reason for hope.

Hope.

I have to be honest. Just typing that scares the heck out of me. I have been scared for almost four years to have hope. It is to the point that in the beginning, I couldn't make myself utter the word aloud, not even in its more common sense (like "I hope you have a great birthday."), much less talk about it in any depth or use the word in its theological sense. A lot of my reluctance to talk about it has come from the fact that part of the theological sense of it has to do with trusting God. For someone who has trusted God her whole life, that ought to be easy, but trauma has a funny way of changing the most fundamental things about a person in ways that he or she never thought possible.

You see, the trauma that I endured and the PTSD that came about as a result of it also created a deep pit of anger within me and a quite a lot of that anger was directed towards God. I felt deserted by Him in my greatest hour of need, despite having cried out to him amidst the ordeal I went through. It was as though He had vanished completely. The silence was deafening and the sense of His presence which had always been so real to me, was gone so completely it was as though I had never felt it at all. The combination of the trauma itself plus feeling so completely abandoned by God shook my faith so much that for a very long time, I wanted nothing to do with God or even anything associated with God in any way. It got so bad that I eventually began to doubt my faith and struggle with the temptation to turn away from God completely.

(Please click here for part 2.)

The Big Lie of Mental Illness

One of the most difficult things about living with a mental illness and trying to manage it is trying to recognize what is true and real versus what is a lie. On the surface, that sounds like a silly statement because most people have a pretty firm grasp on reality in their day to day lives. I mean, they know that the sky is blue, that the grass is green, that people need oxygen to live, that gravity keeps us all rooted to the ground, etc. These are more general truths and easier to see. The harder things are the more specific and personal realities. That's where mental illness likes to lie and convince you to swallow those lies.

To outsiders, these lies are very obvious. For example, a person struggling with bulimia or anorexia hears the frequent lie that they are fat, obese, or overweight. For those who are outside of that disease, it is very easy to see that the person struggling with the eating disorder is either a healthy weight or underweight, but it's not so easy if you're the one struggling with it. You may stand in front of the mirror and try to convince yourself that it's a lie and that you need to eat to stay alive, but the illness has lied to you so often and so loudly, that it's almost all you can hear about yourself.
Depression lies. Bipolar lies. PTSD lies. No matter the illness, they all lie.

While each illness has lies that are specific to it, many of the lies that mental illness tells tend to overlap between the various illnesses:

• "You're worthless."
• "No one cares about you."
• "You'll never get through this."
• "You shouldn't need help. You should be stronger than this."
• "He/she only stays with you out of guilt, not love."
• "This is hopeless."
• "You are alone in this."

I want to address that last one -- "You are alone in this." I think this is one of the single biggest lies that pretty much transcends every mental illness. You feel as though no one has ever gone through what you are going through or that no one you know has any idea of the pain you feel. You may feel physically alone because of a lack of support via family or friends or trained professionals. You may feel spiritually alone as though God has abandoned you or as though no one in your faith community understands what you're going through (and sadly, many people of faith still believe mental illness is something that can be prayed away or is the result of demons or sin). You may feel isolated due to your living situation -- living alone, living in a rural area, having no family or friends close by to help.

Here's the truth about this lie -- you are NOT alone. Let me repeat that. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. If I can convince you of one thing, I hope it's this. I know that it sounds simplistic and perhaps a bit like I'm trying to make light of your feelings, but trust me. I've been there and I know how fierce this lie is and how easy it is to believe it.

I've heard this lie (and many others) more times than I can count. When I was in so much pain and the feelings of being so totally alone were so strong, it made believing this lie as easy as hearing it. I've believed it so fiercely that I have done things that were detrimental to my mental health and that only made my illnesses worse. I would isolate myself, stop reaching out to others, hide my pain from those closest to me, and slowly drown in my feelings to the point that the pain was more than I could bear and suicide became an option that I not only considered but actively planned.

So what changed?

Well, for one, it took my big brother Chez knocking me over the head several times with his own particular way of phrasing things. Every time he heard some expression of my feelings of being totally alone, he would firmly, but kindly tell me that "feelings are not an accurate barometer of reality." In other words, our feelings about things don't always tell us the truth. The reality is that I am surrounded with people that care deeply for me -- including Gray, my kids, Pendragon, Sif, Rikert, Fr. B, and my big brother Chez -- who all want the best for me and that best includes improved mental health. But feelings are strong and this wasn't an easy or fast change. In fact, it took not only Chez's admonitions and support, but also various supports from Gray, psychological help from Pendragon, and Fr. B's prayers and support. Most of all, it took me making a conscious decision to believe that I wasn't alone so that I could reach out to those people when I felt most alone.

Let me be clear -- that conscious decision didn't erase my feelings or the lie that pounded through my head. Far from it. If anything, there were times that the lie grew much louder and more difficult to fight against and the feelings of loneliness grew stronger along with the temptations to let go, sink into despair, and embrace suicide. In many ways, once I made that conscious decision, the fight actually got harder because that decision meant that I was suddenly having to trust people and be really vulnerable with them in ways that I hadn't before.

One of the biggest hurdles was to learn how to totally let down my walls and be 100% vulnerable with Gray. It wasn't that I didn't trust him before, but rather that I was scared of hurting him with all my pain. You see, the depression and PTSD had lied to me that if I was totally honest with him, he would get scared and have me locked up somewhere or that he would just decide that he couldn't handle "my crazy" and leave altogether.

Because I believed these lies for a long time, I struggled violently and almost daily with wanting to kill myself. The feelings were so intense that there were more than a few times that I made a suicide plan and intended to carry it out. The only person I was reaching out to at that point was Chez. You see, it's easier to be vulnerable with someone who lives 2000 miles away (although I kept some things from Chez too). Thanks be to God though, Chez cares enough about me that after trying to convince me to talk to Gray and running into a brick wall, he went around the wall to Gray directly and told him to talk to me. That was a very hard conversation to have and one that I fought having. In the end, it took several marital sessions and a lot of help from Pendragon (in those sessions and my individual ones) to help me work through my fears and be completely vulnerable with Gray.

In the interest of being completely candid, I still have moments when I struggle with being totally vulnerable and honest with Gray, Pendragon, and Chez too. It's much easier these days than it used to be, but every now and then when things get really dark and I feel alone, I want to isolate myself from everyone again. Instead of giving into those temptations and feelings though, I fight back. I reach out instead of being quiet. I talk to those in my support team -- Gray, Pendragon, Fr. B, and Chez primarily -- and I talk to them honestly. It's not always an easy thing to do either, but then fighting against yourself never is easy.

Gray and I still do marital sessions with Pendragon on a regular basis. Those sessions help a lot. They give us a place to talk through our struggles when they arise, to vent about a difficult week, to strategise when things are tough, and to continue to work on communicating with each other. As I often tell people, it's not that our marriage is in dire straits, but rather that given the nature of my illness, we want as much help as we can get.

Notice that I said "we" rather than "I" in the previous sentence. That's because another thing these marital sessions have accomplished is to more solidly unify Gray and myself into that "one flesh" that is spoken of by Jesus. We are a team in this. I no longer have to fight this alone. That's the thing about mental illness and the big lie that "you are alone in this." It not only convinces that you are alone, but that you must fight it alone, but that's a big fat lie as well.

You are not alone and you don't have to fight it alone. Even if you feel alone as you read this, know this one thing: you have me. Yes, me. See that red square button on the right hand side of this page? It's the one that says "Email The Momma." If you feel alone, all you have to do is click that button and send me an email. I promise that I'll write back.

If you need someone to connect with sooner than I am able to get back to you, you can pick up the phone and make a call. I know that's hard to do sometimes, but you can do it. I believe in you! If there's no one that you feel comfortable calling, then call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 (TALK). You don't have to be suicidal or in a severe crisis to call them. Just dial the number. You can also click the link I provided and chat with them via the internet if you'd rather talk that way. Both the hotline and the crisis chat are available 24 hours a day/7 days a week.

One other option if you have a cell phone and live in the USA is the Crisis Textline. It's super easy to use. All you have to do is text the word "Start" to the number 741741. When you do, a crisis counselor will text you back quickly and talk with you about whatever is on your heart. I have not personally used this resource, but have heard wonderful things about it. If you want more information on it, just click the link above.

The big lie that "you are alone in this" is a hard one to overcome and a hard one to convince yourself to fight against, but it IS doable. Remember: feelings are fickle and not an accurate indicator of what is true and your feelings WILL lie to you about this, but now that you know, you can fight. Reach out for help if you need it. You've got this!

P.S. Lest anyone reading this thinks I've got it all figured out, I want to assure you that I don't. I wrote most of this yesterday (7/13/2016) and I got hit with the big fat lie of being alone today. I was physically alone, but my illness came along and tried to convince me that in my moment of struggle that no one cared and that I was absolutely alone. It smacked me over the head like a sledgehammer. I felt weak and struggled for a solid hour before I finally gathered enough wherewithal to remember that my feelings were lying to me. I wrestled with this lie for a good hour before I managed to remember that Gray was just a text message away and that I could reach out to others. That action of reaching out eventually quelled the lie (after some time and some prayer too), but it shook me a bit. As strong as I've gotten and as much as I've learned, I can still fall prey to this vicious lie. I don't tell you this so that you lose hope, but just to be transparent with you. The hope in this is that I remembered that this is a lie and I overcame it. You can too!

Psalm 13

Upon reading today's psalm there was only one thing that came to my mind. I could have very easily written this psalm word for word for word. The first four verses of it are basically every prayer I have cried out to God with in the last three years summed up pretty neatly.

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me? Consider and answer me, O Lord my God! Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep the sleep of death, and my enemy will say, "I have prevailed"; my foes will rejoice because I am shaken. (verses 1-4)

To me, this psalm just screams as though it's written by someone who is deeply depressed and has been for a very long time. I know that's why it resonates so powerfully with me. I think I've read this particular psalm a couple of times during the last three years, but it always bugged me because verse four wasn't the end of things. Here's verses 5 and 6:

But I trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.

I've struggled mightily with all of the things in the first four verses and the last two verses seemed like a foreign language to me. I had gotten to such a deep dark place and had been there for so long that it's fair to say that I lost my ability to trust in God's love for me -- much less any ability to rejoice in His salvation or sing because of His generosity toward me. In fact, as for singing, I've had difficulty singing His praises until very recently. I'll be honest, those two verses still ring a bit hollow to me. I'm a work in progress -- as we all are -- and the journey of recovery and healing that I'm on is a long one. I'm seeing little victories, but there are still a lot more difficult days and mood shifts that go down than ones that go up. Perhaps one day I will be able to connect with the truth in these two verses that I know is there.

Until next time...

Pax Christi!

Psalm 9

Today's psalm is the longest one I've read thus far in this little exercise, but I know it's not the longest to come yet (Psalm 119 may have to be spread over a few days!). Given its length, I decided to take a slightly different tactic for this meditation. As I always do, I read the psalm in my Bible and then left it for a little bit. More specifically, I went and took a shower. I don't know about y'all, but I do some of my best thinking in the shower. Well, wouldn't you know it, I didn't think much about it at all. Instead, my brain went a thousand other directions. As I was coming back to it, I decided that instead of focusing on the entire psalm, I was only going to focus on a single passage from it. In this case, it's a couple of verses.

The Lord is a stronghold for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. And those who know Your name put their trust in You, for You, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek You. (verses 9-10)

This particular passage kinda jumped out at me because of the word "oppressed." As I said in one of my previous posts, I've been seeing all the red flags that would normally indicate demonic oppression for well over a year. Gray has said several times in the last three years that he believes that the severity and lengthiness of this episode of depression is due to some kind of attack by the enemy. Any other time I would have agreed with him, but when you're struggling amidst such heavy darkness, it's hard to see light or anything -- much less actually discern spirits.

I think another reason that he probably arrived at that conclusion was because of the drastic change in my spiritual life. It's not that I suddenly stopped going to Mass or doing the base level required stuff, but I lost my ability to connect to it, to find joy in it, and most of all, began to struggle with even wanting to do the basics. I found Mass to be emotionally tortuous at times and an especially agonising challenge most of the rest of the time. For a good portion of the last three years, I participated as a cantor (someone who sings the Psalms and Gospel Acclamation for Mass) and soloist as well as being a regular chorister. I felt like I had an obligation and that people were counting on me, so I stayed and I was honestly miserable. It got to a point where I not only dreaded Sunday mornings, but found that I had no desire to go at all. At some point, I began to feel a kind of revulsion at the idea of attending Mass and even told my big brother Chez that I just didn't want anything to do with anything of faith anymore.

Still, I pushed forward. I went through the motions week after week, month after month. I began to despair that I would never find any peace with my faith or with my relationship to God ever again. At one point, I began to question whether everything I'd always believed was really true or was just something someone made up. That was the lowest point. In that dark valley, apathy set in and the only thing that made me get up and go to Mass on Sundays or pray blessings at meal times and bedtime prayers with my children was my love for my children and my desire to be a good example of them. I wanted them to see me as someone who was struggling, but still continuing to practice her faith, so that some day when life hits them with something that causes them to be angry at God or question their faith, they'll maybe recall my example.

I don't remember what pulled me out of that low point exactly, but I know whatever it was, grace was behind it. A little less than year ago, I began seeing Fr. B for spiritual direction. That was when my faith began to change. It wasn't overnight or even after a few months. It took a good six months before I noticed anything at all. It had been happening gradually, but one Sunday evening when we'd gone to Mass, I realised that I hadn't felt so annoyed and angry. At some point after that, I had several bad weeks in a row with my depression. Given how bad things had become, Fr. B and I stepped up our meetings to every week instead of every 2-3 weeks.

I knew when I walked into the first of those weekly meetings and saw Father's purple stole, holy oil, holy water, a small hand sized Benedictine crucifix, Father's Bible, and a very worn looking small leather book that things were about to get serious. It was about to go down spiritually. That day Father heard my confession, anointed me with the Oil of the Sick for healing, and prayed prayers of deliverance over me. To say that it was intense is an understatement. As he prayed, he blessed me several times with the holy water and touched the crucifix to my head. I started bawling at some point and just kept crying and crying and crying. After he was done, I blew my nose and wiped my eyes. I wasn't sure if I felt different, but I knew that I was actually looking forward to spending some time with Jesus once Father and I parted ways.

We walked over to the church and he gave me the Eucharist and then left me to pray. I spent the next hour and a half praying, crying, praying some more, crying a lot more, and then I did something I hadn't done of my own volition in a long time -- I sang. It was just a simple Latin chant that I know and that was all I sang, but I sang. Don't get me wrong, I didn't feel great paroxysms of joy, but I sang. It was kind of a big deal. When I left, I felt emotionally lighter.

It didn't last though. That's the thing about experiencing spiritual attack or oppression. It's rarely over and vanquished in one go. I think that's because demons are kinda persistent. It's not much consolation at the time, especially if you've been suffering as long as I have, but you have to ignore that it sucks and be more persistent than the demons. So I went back the next week and the next and the next and the next. Before I knew it, Christmas was approaching and both my schedule and Father's got very busy. Then we went out of town for the two weeks surrounding Christmas and New Year's to visit Gray's family.

After Christmas, I set up another meeting with Father, but we didn't resume at our weekly pace. It was back to every 2-ish weeks. Then February hit and my mood took a serious nosedive. We stepped up our meetings again and Father continued to pray both deliverance and other prayers over me, hear my confession, anoint me, and give me the Eucharist. I continued to spend an hour or so after meeting with him to pray and talk to Jesus. Somewhere toward the end of the month, something significant happened. I didn't see it at the time, but Father did. He had told me earlier in that meeting that he really believed that my depression had both psychological and spiritual causes. I halfheartedly agreed with him in the moment, but was still clinging to not wanting to see oppression where it was clearly present.

After that meeting, my mood improved and I found I had more energy emotionally and physically. I found that I was actually enjoying some things, laughing more often, being less grouchy with my children, and that I was looking forward to things in the future in a way I hadn't before. It took another week for me to make the connection between how I was feeling and the spiritual side of my depression.

It's been about three weeks since that happened and although I've had some bad days, my mood has been more or less at the same level. I'm not joyful or what I'd call happy, but this feels different. I told Gray today that I'm starting to feel more like myself. I've been wondering in the last couple of weeks if how I'm feeling means that I'm turning a corner with the depression. I've been very nervous about even thinking that because I've experienced such disappointment in the past when I thought things might be getting better, but today, I found a kind of peace about it. Whether or not this is a harbinger of good things to come, I don't know, but I'm accepting it for what it is for right now.

So why the long story? Because at some point in all this mess, I realized in a very palpable way that I was definitely being oppressed and that motivated me to put my trust ever more firmly in the Lord. In some ways, I think my insistence on not believing that it was oppression protected me in a way. I needed to find my way back to God, to have some healing take place in that relationship, to let go of a lot of the anger before I could be in a place where I could call my God my stronghold and actually believe that He wouldn't forsake me in my time of trouble.

The other thing that I realized as I read this verse is that despite my anger, despite how far from Him I ran, I was still looking back over my shoulder at Him and trusting Him on a certain level. My stronghold was in Him all the time, but I just didn't know it. That obedience and that desire to have my children see some better example about faith in me, that was my trusting in Him to not abandon me (even though I felt abandoned). The reality is that He didn't and He won't and that is what I must cling to when all seems lost.

Until tomorrow....

Pax Christi!

Psalm 6

All the psalms in the Bible that I'm using have a short phrase that was added by the editors which gives you an idea of what the psalm is about. Today's psalm subtitle is: "Prayer for Recovery from Grave Illness." That actually makes a lot of sense to me as this psalm has been one that I've felt effectively expresses much of what a person of faith may feel emotionally when going through a grave illness. In particular, it resonates with my experience of going through depression.

But depression isn't a grave illness, right? Actually the statistics say otherwise. In the United States alone, some 42,000+ people die by suicide and the biggest risk factor for suicide is mental illness. Given that depression is one of the most common mental illnesses in this country, it's not a big stretch to say that it's likely the illness behind many of those deaths each year.

Even if you don't wrestle with thoughts of suicide though, depression can weigh you down so much that it feels as though you're so deep in the blackness of it that you might as well be six feet under. Those intense emotions of sadness, heartache, numbness, loneliness, and despair are at the heart of the psalmist's prayer to God in Psalm 6:

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am languishing; O Lord, heal me, for my bones are shaking with terror. My soul also is struck with terror, while You, O Lord -- how long? (verses 2-3)

I have absolutely felt every bit of this in the last three years. I've even said to both Gray and Pendragon that I feel as though I'm wasting away, little by little. When the depression gets so dark that I cannot see anything light, there is a kind of terror there that resides deep within my bones.

I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. My eyes waste away because of grief; they grow weak because of all my foes. (verse 6-7)

If I could somehow summon every tear that I've ever shed because of depression, I imagine there would be enough to fill the several gallons. In the last three years alone, I've shed enough tears that there have been many occasions when I thought I would dehydrate myself from crying. I have wept so much that I have moaned and howled with the ache of it. I know that sounds like I'm being dramatic, but it's the truth.

When the emotional pain you feel is as intense as mine has been, you may find yourself at a place where you just can't vent anything with sobbing alone. I'd never had the experience of such intense crying until I lost my ability to cry for several months at the beginning of this depressive episode and eventually had the dam burst in Pendragon's office one day. Since then, I've had quite a few dam bursting moments. The second part of this passage always seems so perfectly written to me: "My eyes waste away because of grief; they grow weak..." I have often felt after a long spate of crying that I feel a great weakness around my eyes, almost to the point of heaviness. I think that might account for how sleepy I often feel following a good cry.

The Lord has heard my supplication; the Lord accepts my prayer. (verse 9)

I think this verse is the hardest for me at times. All the struggles I've had with my faith have shaken me and made it all the harder to pray this verse and believe it. To be honest, there have been times when I have struggled so much with belief that the only prayer I could manage was, "Help. Oh, help." and this out of desperation, more than belief. In moments when the darkness was less heavy, I have prayed "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief." (Mark 9:24) I know intellectually that God hears my prayers and that He accepts them, but given His silence and my inability to connect with His Presence, that intellectual belief offers cold comfort.

Still, because Truth is reality and I have always believed in Truth -- even when I didn't fully understand it -- I keep praying. Also, I know that despite my lack of connection with Him, He is doing things. I still don't like feeling like I'm in the dark and that He is nowhere to be found, but I see the traces of His touch on my soul from time to time. And that is enough.

+ O Lord, I offer this psalm up to You as a prayer from one who has been through the darkest of valleys and still breathes. When the heaviness of this illness lays waste to my ability to see You or believe that You are there, I pray "O Lord, I love. Help my lack of love. O Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. O Lord, I hope. Help my lack of hope." Jesus, I trust in You. Amen. +

Psalm 4

In reading through this psalm, I am always struck by its final verse:

I will both lie down and sleep in peace; for you alone, O Lord, make me lie down in safety. (verse 8)

I think I need to write this verse down and memorize it or post it somewhere that I can see it frequently throughout the day. One of the biggest difficulties that I face in the night time hours is trying to convince myself that if I lie down and close my eyes that I will be safe. So many of the flashbacks I've had have happened upon lying down and as I've slept, I've had more nightmares than I can count. Both things make me more than a little skittish about going to sleep at night. So I stay awake. Usually I'm up until the wee wee hours because I just can't convince myself that it will be okay.

As I look at this verse, and indeed the whole of this psalm, it seems to me that the major theme is putting things in God's hands, trusting in His ability to do mighty things. The psalmist begins the psalm by talking about how God has helped him in his distress. Later he admonishes the reader to not sin, but be repentant, offer restitution, and put trust in the Lord. He points out that despite these promises of God, some seek more of God's blessing and favour, but that he (the psalmist) has more gladness in his heart than those who do this even when they receive what they ask for. Why is the psalmist so confident? Because he has put his trust in God.

Sometimes though, I am definitely like those people who are seeking more of God's favour and blessing. I'll admit that throughout these past three years, one of the things I have sought many times is an emotional connection with God and a real tangible sense of His Presence. My dear big brother Chez has pointed out to me that emotions are fickle and change on a whim and that the real tangible Presence of God is to be found in more than those feelings. He has encouraged me time and again to take joy in and practice gratitude for even the smallest of things -- a sunny day, a cool breeze, my children's hugs, my husband's presence, a cherished book, coffee with a friend, and all of the small victories that I have in my therapy and healing. Truthfully, deluged as I was at times with seemingly impenetrable darkness, I often balked at his suggestions and even countered them with poor excuses for why I just couldn't do what he was suggesting.

Despite this, Chez's repeated encouragement stuck with me and eventually, I began to become less resistant to the idea and tried to take his advice at various moments. As the months have passed, I've gotten better at finding small moments of joy and expressing gratitude for them and I think that has helped in some way when I have days where the darkness descends and it's harder to find anything to hold onto. I still struggle with wanting to feel God in an emotional way at times and it is still my prayer that one day I'll be able to reconnect with Him in that way. That said, I think I'm getting to a place of spiritual maturity where I'll be able to say that if it never happens, I'll be okay. When I've reached that place, perhaps then I'll be able to really trust God like the psalmist and say with him that I both lie down and sleep in peace. What a wonderful sleep that would be!

Psalm 3

This psalm really hits me where I live. There's so much that speaks to me in it that I could honestly write two or three blog posts on it with no problem at all. Of course when I say that it hits me where I live, I'm talking about depression -- more specifically, the depressive episode I've been struggling through in the last three years.

O Lord, how many are my foes! Many are rising against me; many are saying to me, "There is no help for you in God." (verses 1-2)

Recently, on a couple of different occasions, Fr. B has said to me that he thinks that I've been dealing with not only the psychological part of depression but a definite spiritual part too. I've struggled mightily with my faith for most of this episode and still struggle with it even now at times. Gray has posited on many occasions that he believes I'm being spiritually attacked or oppressed. I'll admit, I've been reluctant to believe that. What I've been seeing are all along are all the signs of spiritual oppression and I've been ignoring them because I didn't want to believe that there was anything demonic going on.

Part of this is that I used to go to a church before I became Catholic where there were some people who saw demons under every rock and attributed demonic influence or attack to nearly any problem. Prayers for deliverance were pretty standard. I even went through prayers for deliverance from depression back then and when nothing happened, I grew very bitter toward the practice. What changed was that I trust Fr. B and his discernment. He's not the sort to see demons everywhere, so when he senses that there's something going on, he is serious. I had been very resistant to any kind of deliverance prayers or ministry until he and I started meeting for spiritual direction. My trust in him allowed me to put my hesitancy aside and let him pray prayers of deliverance over me. And this time, little by little, the various things that had kept me at odds with my faith started dissolving.

Despite this, I still resisted the idea until I had a very powerful experience of being spiritually attacked that frightened me so much that I could no longer ignore all the signs. The next time Fr. B and I met and I told him that, he prayed deliverance over me again and as I wept, he said he sensed something happening with me. I didn't feel any change, but over the next week I had a realization: I have been feeling less anger toward God, less animosity toward my faith, and there has been an increase in my desire to move toward God in the last several months. In short, there has been a very slow, steady healing of faith happening right under my nose and that is due in large part to my having been delivered of some of the spiritual oppression I've been experiencing. My foes have been many, rising up against me and whispering the lies that God will not help me. I had been drowning in the tide of these attacks and had believed the lies, but all of that has been changing.

But You, O Lord, are a shield around me, my glory, and the one who lifts up my head. I cry aloud to the Lord, and He answers me from His holy hill. (verses 3-4)

I know that despite being so attacked, God has protected me. He has protected me as He has from the day of my conception with the presence of my guardian angel. He has protected me through the interventions of my husband Gray, my therapist Pendragon, and my friends who have saved me from myself. He has lifted up my head through the encouragement of dear friends and family. He has heard my cries in the night, in the day, in my bed, in my car, and lying prostrate before Him present in the tabernacle. For a long time, the last part of verse 4 didn't resonate with me at all. I was under such a heavy oppression that I was unable to see Him or hear any kind of answers. To be honest, I still struggle to see Him and hear Him. The difference these days is that I've grown more able to bear what seems like His silence and absence.

I lie down and sleep; I wake again for the Lord sustains me. (verse 5)

Oh this verse! This verse! I'm getting a bit emotional just reading those words. You see I've been absolutely dreaming of being able to lie down and sleep. Sleep doesn't come easily for me. I struggle with horrific insomnia that is brought on by anxiety about lying down and closing my eyes. This is because of the nightmares that I have which take me back to my trauma again and again and again. When I finally do sleep, I don't want to wake because I'm so very tired from fighting nightmares. I don't feel sustained. Of all the verses in this psalm, this is the one I have the hardest time swallowing. It's the one that causes me to want to stop reading and close my Bible. Maybe one day it won't be so hard. Or maybe it always will be. Crosses and such, you know?

I am not afraid of ten thousands of people who have set themselves against me all around. (verse 6)

What a bold statement! In my case, I'm not surrounded by ten thousands of people, but I know there are likely quite a few darker forces at work who have definitely set themselves against me and do their best to not only surround me, but envelop me. Am I afraid? Honestly? Yeah, a bit. I'd like to be as bold as this, but I'm just not there yet. It's a process and one that I'm still muddling through.

Rise up, O Lord! Deliver me, O my God! For you strike all my enemies on the cheek; you break the teeth of the wicked. (verse 7)

Obviously, this is a prayer of the psalmist for help. I don't normally ask for my enemies cheeks to be struck or their teeth broken, but I do ask for God's protection from evil. I also ask the saints to pray with me against any evil that might beset me. St. Michael the Archangel is an especially powerful intercessor against evil because of his special status as the warrior angel who leads the heavenly army in the fight against Satan and his army in chapter 12 of Revelation.

Deliverance belongs to the Lord; may your blessing be on your people. (verse 8)

In the end, I cannot find my way out of any kind of oppression on my own. I need the help of the Lord which comes through prayers of deliverance prayed over me by Fr. B, frequent reception of the Sacraments, and remaining obedient to what is required of me by God. Being so vulnerable and trusting when it comes to this process doesn't come easily for me. I still wrestle with a great many doubts, fears, and a real lack of genuine hope. I still have difficulty with what seems to me to be God's silence and absence. I'd love to say that I'm becoming more mature in my faith through all of this, but I still have so many days when I'm sure that God looks at me and sees a whiny, ill-humoured, petulant child. I want that deliverance now, not tomorrow or next year or when I'm 50 years old. But just as my deliverance itself belongs to God, so does its timing. As impatient and immature as I am, there's nothing for it but to keep pressing on and to keep asking for His blessing and His mercy while I wait on Him.

Suicide Prevention Week - How You Can Help

Today's the day! It's both World Suicide Prevention Day and National Suicide Prevention Day (USA).

One of my favourite charities that works to #StopSuicide is the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. They are so dedicated to working toward their goal of reducing the number of suicides nationwide by 20% by the year 2025. I was so honoured to work with them by participating in one of their two national Overnight Walks this past summer in Boston. Not only was the walk an amazing experience, but my fundraising efforts were added to all the rest to total just over $3 million raised. That money will go to the various programs AFSP has which:

• help educate teachers, school administrators, students, businesses, and other professionals about suicide prevention and how to identify and help those in their schools and workplaces who may be at risk
• help those who have survived the loss of a loved one to suicide with grief support that is tailored to that specific kind of loss
• help local, state, and national government lawmakers create laws which will help raise awareness, educate others, and better enable those who need help to get it
• help raise awareness about suicide prevention through community programs, public service announcements, social media campaigns, billboards and the Field Advocacy program
• and help schools and other large organizations identify individuals who are at risk and help connect them with mental health services

I highly encourage you to consider getting involved with this organization in some way. Suicide is 100% preventable, but no one person can accomplish that feat. I may be wrong, but given that 41, 149 people died by suicide in America in 2013, I'd wager that the vast majority of Americans have been touched, in at least some small way, by suicide.

But being touched by it isn't enough. We need to use that sadness and grief to spur us into action to prevent other deaths. 41,149 deaths by suicide is 41,149 too many.

So what can you do?

1. Share your story of how suicide has touched your life. If it's a personal struggle, it may be very hard to share it, but know that by being courageous, you may just save a life. 
2. If you've already shared your story, keep sharing it. Once is great, but sharing it again and again reaches more people and that's the point of awareness -- to reach as many people as possible with the message.
3. Learn the warning signs of suicide. Check out this great graphic:
   
   Notice that first warning sign -- talking about wanting to die or to kill oneself. The others are very important, but if you hear someone talking about wanting to die, then STOP and PAY ATTENTION. Anyone who exhibits that warning sign should be taken very seriously. 
4. Educate yourself about mental illness. At least 90% (if not more) of people who end their own lives were struggling with a mental illness of some kind. It may have been diagnosed, but often it is something that hasn't been diagnosed for one reason or another. All mental illness carries with it some risk for suicide, but Major Depressive Disorder (aka Depression), Bipolar Disorder, PTSD, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) are the most common among people who have killed themselves. Learn the symptoms and signs of these illnesses and use that information to help those around you who are struggling. Encourage friends and family to seek out a professional evaluation if you or they suspect they may have a mental illness. A proper diagnosis is CRITICAL to getting proper treatment and going it alone because you're afraid may make things worse.
5. Get involved. Even if you can't do a community or Out of the Darkness walk with the AFSP or raise a lot of money, you can still make a difference. If you have access to a computer, you can #BeTheVoice for those who are struggling and need help by getting the word out via social media. You can do what I do and blog about suicide prevention and mental illness. You can reach out via phone, letters, and emails to your local and state governments and your national representatives and senators. You can write and call local television and radio stations on behalf of someone who is raising money. You can help organize a community walk fundraiser. You can make a commitment to pray every day for those who struggle and those who help them. There's LOTS to do.

I'll close this National Suicide Prevention Day with a special prayer to God, asking for the intercession of my patron saint, St. Dymphna. She is the patroness of mental illness and mental healthcare workers and is someone I've asked to pray for me many, many times. Feel free to pray along with me (the following is from a prayer card I have, hence the odd mention of "nervous disease"):

+ O merciful God, you have willed that St. Dymphna should be invoked as the patroness of nervous and mental disease. Grant that, through the prayer of this youthful martyr of purity, those who suffer from nervous and mental illness may be helped and consoled. I recommend to You in particular those who are struggling with suicidal thoughts that You would send loving hands and hearts to help them out of the darkness of hopelessness and despair and into the light of a new day. Grant them skilled and compassionate mental healthcare workers, a strong network of support, and the strength to persevere to the natural end of their lives. Through Christ, Our Lord. Amen. +

Five Minute Friday: Try

Note: This post is my weekly contribution to the Five Minute Friday community that is hosted by Kate Motaung on her blog Heading Home. Click here for more information about Five Minute Friday and how you can get involved! To link up with all the other entries for today's prompt word, click here.

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July 2009

"No."

"Why not? Why not try it?"

I look around the office at the book case, the desk, the carpet and window and swallow. There is a fear stuck in my throat and I don't know if I can give voice to it. I look at Pendragon again.

"H-h-hospital. You said hospitalisation program..." I manage to stammer.

"Yes, it's the partial hospitalisation program, " he says. I look down at my lap.

"I don't want to go in the hospital.." I reply.

"It's not like a real hospital. It's an outpatient program. You go during the day and then you go home at night. Actually, it doesn't even look like a hospital." Pendragon tries to explain it more fully for me.

I am wary, skittish, and very afraid. It is early days in our therapeutic relationship and I'm still learning whether or not this man sitting across from me is trustworthy. And now he wants me to stick my neck out and try something new and scary? Something that probably won't work?

"No, I don't think so."  My answers are short and to the point, something that is very unlike me, but it is anxiety creeping in and an unspoken fear that this is something that he will somehow force me to try eventually.

But he doesn't. He nods. "Just think about it, okay? I really think if you give it a try, you'll benefit greatly from what that program has to offer. There's a great program therapist, Samantha. She's really great."

He's hit one of my hot buttons. I stare at him with daggers.

"She???" I query, wondering if I've heard him correctly. He knows how I feel about women and my past experiences.

"Yes, she. Actually, she's a lot like you," he says. Unlikely, I think, inwardly rolling my eyes. Despite my attempt to keep my disgust to myself, he senses it and continues, "No really, she is. Your personalities are very similar. I really think you'd like her a lot. And all that aside, the information is good stuff and I think would be very helpful to you."

I shift in my seat, glancing down at my hands, biting my lower lip as I think. "No, no, I really don't think so."

"Okay, okay, it was a thought. If you change your mind, and decide to give it a try, there's some fliers in the reception area about it and all you have to do is let me know," he answers and turns toward the computer on his desk. I can see by the clock on the wall that our time is almost up.

"Okay," I answer. We make another appointment for two weeks later and he ushers me out of the office.

In the reception area, I pass by the fliers in their little bins on the wall and wander over. My eyes flit over the various group therapy fliers and just as I'm about to walk toward the door, I happen to spy the one marked "Partial Hospitalisation Program."

I freeze for a moment, my breath catching in my throat. Then without another thought, I reach out, grasp one of the fliers and fold it in half with my appointment paper as I walk to the car. I don't know why I took one, but now it's burning a hole in my purse and I feel like I've made some kind of decision, although perhaps only subconsciously. I open the paper and read the information on it. My stomach is in knots and I am tempted to crumple it up and toss it out the window, but I don't. I keep that paper in my purse and look at it several times, reading the information over and over again.

A month later as I am sitting in Pendragon's office for another regular appointment, I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. I am sitting cross legged on the little sofa and am trying to think of how to respond to his usual opening question regarding how I am. With a tremor in my voice and feeling as though I am about to step off a ledge, the first thing that falls out of my mouth is, "Okay, so I've decided I want to try it..."

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Five Minute Friday: Free

 Note: This post is my weekly contribution to the Five Minute Friday community that is hosted by Kate Motaung on her blog Heading Home. Click here for more information about Five Minute Friday and how you can get involved! To link up with all the other entries for today's prompt word, click here.

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Maybe you're tired of me talking about it, but that's okay. I'm good with that. It's my experience and my passion and something I think more people need to talk about. Of course, I'm talking about mental illness and mental health. For this Five Minute Friday, I want to talk about something that is related and something that REALLY needs talking about. I'm going to try to do it in 5 minutes.

Self-injury.

Yeah, it's a kind of scary thing to say aloud. I'll be honest. It's not the easiest thing to talk about with regard to my own experience. So why talk about it today, with this prompt?

Because I'm free of it.


It's something that plagued me on and off from about late middle school through my early 30s. Then I went through an intensive outpatient mental health program and using the education I gleaned from that, the coping skills I learned, and the help of my therapist Pendragon (who helped me uncover the reasons why I did it), I broke free of the stranglehold this habit had on my life.

This August will make six years of freedom from self-injury. And I'm pretty stinking proud of that.

One thing freedom from self-injury isn't: easy. It takes incredible effort and it takes vigilance. Freedom also isn't being free from thoughts and temptations to self-injure. The freedom is in resisting those thoughts and temptations. Every time you resist, you get a little bit stronger. I've had some fierce temptations. I've come very close to losing the fight with those thoughts a few times, especially in the early days.

Eventually though, I got to a place where one year became two and then three and at some point, I realised that when I'm tempted, the part of me that has become stronger with resistance says, "It's not worth it to throw all this hard work away and have to start again at square one." And the part of me that's fighting yet another temptation says, "You know? You're right." And the temptation loses and I win another victory.

I am free from self-injury. If you are struggling with it, know that there is hope for you to find freedom too. If you need a friend to encourage you along the way, email me at the link in the sidebar. I promise I'll listen and be there. You can do it! You can be free too!

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The Week in Rear View -- July 6-12, 2015

It's Sunday night, so it's time for a rapid fire little post that I'm going to call "The Week in Rear View" where I take a look back at the week and hit the highlights (and possibly lowlights). Ready? Here we go!

1. It was the week of trying to get my head back together. I returned from Boston on June 29th and felt like the weekend and the walk were all a-jumble in my head. I was struggling to process things emotionally and mentally and felt like I couldn't figure out where to begin. My session with Pendragon helped a tiny bit, but that one little hour the day after I got back just barely scratched the surface. This week, I dove into therapy and self-care head first. I had 2 sessions with Pendragon -- a marathon appointment (about 2.5 hours) on Tuesday, followed by a short phone call on Wednesday, and a second appointment Thursday. Friday morning, I met with my spiritual director Fr. B and received 3 of the 4 sacraments I'm allowed to receive multiple times, and followed that meeting with a very intense hour with just me and Jesus over in the main church. After so much talking and prayer (and a fair bit of extra sleep), I feel like things have been set more to rights and that my brain is finally clicking again and processing things that needed it.

2. The big girls and I managed to get through two chapters of Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone. We're reading it as a bedtime story and usually do a single chapter at a time. They are really getting into the story and keep wanting me to read another chapter once I've finished the one we're currently on. I enjoy it almost as much as they do. It's an exercise for my acting muscles as I like to not only read the text with enthusiasm, but with a different voice for each character. I'm particularly pleased with my Hermione and Hagrid voices.

3. Quite a bit of laundry got done this week by my beloved Gray. He has been slowly trying to go through the clothes and pack up the wrong season stuff, sort out the stuff that needs keeping but is too small for the big girls but too big for GB, and toss out the stuff that is stained/ripped/worn out beyond repair. It's quite a job, but he's made a lot of headway in it and I think a lot of that is due to the fact that he's been home a good bit this week -- see #1.

4. Friday, July 10th was the 2nd anniversary of my admission into inpatient care for depression. It's still very very hard for me to say that out loud (I usually resort to various euphemisms) and hard to type it as well. That day changed my life irrevocably due to the trauma that I experienced because of it. The anniversary this year wasn't as hard as it was last year (or as hard as I was expecting), but it wasn't without its difficulties. I met with Fr. B and afterward, spent over an hour before Jesus in the tabernacle (at Fr. B's parish) praying and crying and praying and crying some more. I snuggled a lot with my girls and Gray too.

5. I went out on a mini-date with each of my two big girls, M2 and AB. Neither outing was more than 30 minutes, but it was fun to ride along with each of them in the car, singing songs and talking and just being together one on one. Need to make an effort to do that more often.

So that's the quick roundup of my week! Thought I'd try a different spin on something I started trying to do a good while back. Hopefully, this is something I can get into a habit of doing. Y'all hold me accountable, okay?

The Other Man

Strip courtesy of peanuts.wikia.com.

Two people that I mention on a routine basis on this blog are my husband, Gray and my therapist, Pendragon. I've talked a lot about Gray's support and our story, but I haven't really talked much about Pendragon. I know some people might think it strange to go into much detail about their therapist, but he is an important person in my life and I wanted to share some of my thoughts about him.

In the last 2.5 years, I've seen him so frequently (due to the intensity of this episode of depression) that I have jokingly referred to him as "the other man in my life." Outside of Gray, he knows me better than almost anyone on the planet. It's very rare these days that I pull something out that totally surprises him. I've gotten to know a little bit about him too as he's shared different experiences he's had with similar things to give me a new perspective or encourage me that I'm not alone in something.

More Than Medication

In 2008, I was going through a particularly severe depressive episode, complete with self-injury. It began about 11 months after the birth of our second daughter, AB, but it wasn't until about 4 months later that I finally managed to make an appointment with a psychiatrist at a large psychiatric group near our apartment. I had gone off my antidepressants when I got pregnant with our eldest daughter, M2, but never got back on them postpartum because AB was conceived so soon after M2's birth. Gray suggested I might need meds again, so I made the appointment.

At the appointment with Dr. Alt, I gave him the basic history of my illness and waited for his assessment. He asked some questions about the current episode, looked back over his notes, and finally said in his pronounced German accent, "I am going to give you a prescription, but I think you would benefit from talking to someone."

My heart sank. I wasn't expecting that.

In retrospect, given that I was cutting myself and severely depressed, it was silly to think I could get away with just taking a prescription, but I didn't feel ready to talk about stuff. He continued, "So I'd like to set you up to see someone. Do you prefer a woman or a ma--”

"A man." The answer came flying out of my mouth before he'd even finished his question. He raised his eyebrows and looked down at his notes before addressing me again.

"Are you sure? You wouldn't prefer a woman?"

I shook my head and replied, "No, I wouldn't."

He continued, "The reason I ask is that in my experience, women are usually more comfortable talking to a woman."

I shook my head more firmly. "Not me. I would prefer a man, please."

He bent his head over my patient file, scribbled something down, and looked up again. "Well, in that case, I think I have just the person for you. I think you'll like him. His name is Pendragon." He made another note, then turned to look at something else on his desk. After a few moments consultation, he asked, "would next week be okay for an appointment with him?" I nodded mutely. After a bit of writing, he stood, handed me both a piece of paper bearing my new prescription and a larger one with instructions for the front office to make that appointment with Pendragon and with that, ended the appointment and ushered me out of the office.

The First Appointment

Time has a nasty habit of speeding up when you want it to crawl and the time between my visit with Dr. Alt and my first appointment with Pendragon flew by like a gust of wind. The day arrived and suddenly I found myself sitting in the parking lot, steeling myself to go inside. I finally got myself together, went in and checked in at the front desk. I sat down to wait. It must have been a few minutes, but it seemed like I'd barely sat down when I heard a pleasant sounding male voice call, "Therese?" I looked up and saw a rather tall, very young looking man holding a file folder and looking around. I stood up and we made eye contact. He repeated my name, "Therese?" I nodded quietly. "Hi, I'm Pendragon. It's nice to meet you."

I think I muttered something like "Nice to meet you too" but I can't be totally sure. My heart pounded nervously and I felt like I was barely breathing. He motioned toward the double doors that led back to the individual offices and invited me back. As we walked, I glanced at his face again and was struck by how very young he looked. Is he even old enough to be doing this? How old is he? As these thoughts went through my head, I suddenly realised that he was about six paces ahead of me. Dang, long legs! Hold up! Wow, he's tall!

I don't recall much of that first session. I do remember being surprised that he sat across from me rather than having a desk between us. I also recall that he didn't push me for details or pressure me to tell him anything more than I wanted to tell him. As a result, I didn't mention the self-injury or suicidal thoughts. I wasn't sure how he'd take it. My experience in the past had been very negative with doctors and therapists who just didn't understand self-injury and I'd only ever admitted suicidal thoughts to one other person. I wasn't sure if I could trust him with those darkest of secrets. Despite my reticence in that first session, I did find myself warming to him. He had a kind face, a relaxed approach, and my initial impression was that he wasn't judging me. At the end, we made an appointment for two weeks later. In retrospect, he must have sensed I was in more distress than I was letting on because as I was leaving, he told me that if I needed to talk before that appointment I could call during office hours, leave him a message, and he'd call me back. It was a small thing, but it made me feel a little less alone in my struggle. I decided in that moment that I thought I liked him and that this just might work out.

These Days...

Well, six years later, he still has a baby face (for real y'all, he looks like he's barely out of college), but I have since learned that he is, in fact, older than me by about 4 years. I've also learned more about him which has strengthened my ability to relate to him, be myself, and do the work of trying to recover and make positive changes in my life. These days I don't have to gallop to keep pace with his long legs, since he is now in private practice and the walk from his waiting area to his office door is only about four steps.

Because I trust him implicitly, I also, very rarely, hold anything back. He knows me well enough now though, that he can tell if I am. He still doesn't pressure me to say things I'm not ready to say, although he has perfected the art of helping me find a place where I feel able to say those things. In fact, there have been days when the depression has lain so heavy on me that my tongue was rendered silent and I couldn't bring myself to speak at all, but somehow, bit by bit, Pendragon has managed to help me find my voice and speak many difficult things aloud.

He doesn't judge me -- ever. No matter what kind of insanity falls out of my mouth or how much I sob and use half a box of tissues at one go. He doesn't care that the moment that I come in his office I kick off my sandals, tuck one foot underneath me, and plop down on his comfy sofa with all the grace of a paraplegic hippo. His office is a place where I feel safe and able to truly be my authentic self -- stripped of masks and defenses, totally honest, raw, vulnerable, and exactly who I am with all my good, bad, and in between. I've come in his office exhausted from too little sleep, in need of a shower, wearing clothes that were dirty, half out of my head from not eating for days, and so darkly depressed that I was silent as a tomb and have found deep concern, a lot of patience, and and a determined perseverance to help me find my way to a better place through self-care, coping skills, and changes in my thinking. I never feel like I'm under some kind of judgmental scrutiny.

Despite the lack of feeling scrutinized, Pendragon is keenly observant and is able to glean an awful lot about me and the kind of week I've been having before I've said the first word. I first noticed this two years ago when I had an appointment after one of the most traumatic days of my life. I know therapists are trained to be observant, but I think he is particularly so and it's very helpful as he has used those observations to point things out to me that I wasn't even aware of previous to that moment.

Lest you think that our sessions are all gloom and doom, we do laugh. In fact, there have been several moments where both of us were shaking with laughter. It's a darn good thing too, because the nature of mental illness is that you really need that kind of pressure valve to release tension and help ground you a bit. Pendragon also encourages me in the good things in my life like my marriage, my kids, and most importantly, my faith. He is, like me, a Christian (although not Catholic) and understands the vital role my faith plays in my life and in my mental health. His encouragement of the pursuit of my faith has been especially important as I've struggled mightily over the past 2 years with feeling connected to God and wanting to remain faithful in my walk with Him.

I am immensely grateful to God for bringing Pendragon into my life. To be honest, I do not have adequate words to express my gratitude. I am thankful for his listening ear, outsider perspective, professional expertise, and immeasurable amount of compassion, gentleness, and caring with which he has helped me through many a difficult situation and some of my darkest hours.

And so with that, I will wind this up and say "Thanks be to God for His merciful gift of a compassionate healer who helps me be just pensive enough to fight and slay my dragons."