Day One: Worship

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.

To be honest, this is both an odd and logical place to begin talking about the topic of mental health and mental illness. It is odd inasmuch as it isn't what I'd have chosen to start with, but it is logical for me to begin with it as a person of faith. For me, worship of God is essential to my whole life and for my mental health, it is absolutely critical. It is vital to the point that if I am forced to be away from it for a week or two, I find myself struggling harder mentally and emotionally. 

As a Catholic, what worship means to me is the Mass. The Mass is where the supreme sacrifice of Christ is represented and He comes to offer Himself as nourishment for our bodies, minds, and souls through the Holy Eucharist. He is truly present --- Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity -- in the consecrated host and in the cup and partaking of that gift is a kind of sustenance that gives me a whole lot more strength than I have normally. That's because when I receive Jesus, I am receiving an infusion of His perfect, salvific grace. That is extremely powerful. So I receive communion during worship and go out and conquer all the mountains of mental illness, right?

Actually, no. It doesn't quite work like that at all. 

What happens is that it gives me strength for the journey and a lifeline when I am falling fast into the darkness and want to give up. In truth, I don't often feel like worship of God benefits me at all, but that's because day to day, I can't see the bigger picture. Day to day, I'm focused on housework, parenting our three daughters, my marriage, my advocacy work, and therapy. Some days, I'm simply focused on breathing in and breathing out and making it to the end of the day. 

So how do I know that this Holy Eucharistic nourishment that I receive each week as I worship God in community with my fellow Catholics is, in fact, something that benefits me?

 

It's when I've gone through the darkest darkness and am bereft of the mental ability to choose life and light that I see it. When I find myself on the other side of those great chasms of despair which threaten to take me away from this existence, I can look back and see His strength guiding my hands, feet, and even my addled mind. I can see how the graces I receive each week enabled me in those moments to reach out and find a hand to hold to help me back to a place of sanity and life instead of death.

For me, it's that critical. It is, at times, quite literally, the difference between attempting suicide and staying safe. It sustains me in the good times, but when my mental health takes a serious nosedive, that is when I truly believe it makes ALL the difference. I think that's why I feel kind of Jesus-anemic when I haven't been able to go to church and receive Jesus in Holy Communion. I need Him like I need water and air and food. 

For the last two Sundays, I've been unable to meet Him and receive Him in my weekly worship and I can tell. Thankfully, the Church offers Jesus to the faithful every single day of the week at Daily Masses, so there are other opportunities than Sundays. It's hard to find the time on a weekday, but for me, this week, I think it's going to be a priority to come and worship Him again even before next Sunday. 

I'll end with a quote from one of my patron saints, Pope St. John Paul II, which I think sums up this need and desire for worshiping and receiving Jesus in the Eucharist:

Introducing: 31 Reflections on Mental Health and Illness

 

The background of this is images from a special box I made during a period of intensive outpatient therapy. The many images are reflective of who I am, things I like, and goals I set for myself during that time.

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” 

– Ferris Bueller

Indeed, life does move fast and it hardly seems like two years have passed since I did my first Write 31Days series. I remember being rather daunted by the prospect of writing every single day on a single topic, but felt like God was pushing me to both write and to write about my struggles with mental illness. That series was called 31 Days of Stumbling ThroughDepression and it was about my struggles with a particularly difficult episode of depression. Had I known then what I know now, I would have titled it a bit differently and changed the word “depression” to either “PTSD” or “mental illness.”

At the end of that series, I had intended to keep writing my story, but discovered that I needed a break from it. Instead, I started writing other things about faith, family, and life in general. The thing is though, that try as I might, I couldn't get away from the subject of mental health or my personal struggles. I took a pretty long break from writing a lot about it, but eventually, with a mention of something here or a post on a subject there, I kept writing about it in a roundabout sort of way. My posts have been sporadic at best and not really much of a story, except for the fact that much of the things I've written have been pieces of my story.

I thought that I wanted to continue where I left off two years ago with this year's series, but after much discernment and looking at this year's Five Minute Friday Free Write prompts for 31 Days, I decided to go in a different direction. Part of my discernment about this included the fact that, as in the last two years, I have a lot on my plate with staying on top of my mental health, family life, and helping organise our local Out of the Darkness Community Walk for Suicide Prevention.

To that end, instead of continuing my personal story, I am going to use this year's FMF prompts to do a series of reflections on mental health and illness. Each post will feature the day's prompt word and a brief reflection on a mental health or illness topic. Although I'm not going to really do these in five minutes or actually as a free write, I want to keep them fairly short and edit them as little as possible so as to keep with the spirit of Five Minute Friday. Although this won't exactly be a continuation of my story, I will be sharing pieces of it at times along the way as well as sharing things I've learned through my journey.

I hope that you will find these posts to be helpful and educational in some way. Please feel free to leave me comments and let me know if you found them helpful. I'd also love to know your thoughts on these topics too! Most of all, my prayer is that these posts will serve to bring light to the darkness and hope for those who may be struggling (or watching a loved one struggle) with mental illness. God bless you!

A Reflection on 9/11 and Mental Health

Mom: "They're all gone."
Me: "What? What are you talking about?"
Mom: "The Twin Towers. They're gone. They're all gone!"
Me: (starting to cry) "Oh dear God. All those people..."

That conversation with my mom is how I found out that the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City had been reduced to rubble. I was living at home, working at a local restaurant, and was off that morning. As usual, my dad had made breakfast and after eating, I decided to have a second cup of coffee and watch the Today Show with my mom. I had worked two double shifts in a row prior to that day and was still plenty tired. As I snuggled on the couch with our cocker spaniel curled up on my feet, my eyelids grew heavy and I began to drowse. At some point, mom woke me and said that there had been an explosion at one of the two Twin Towers and although I heard her, I was so sleepy that it didn't really register completely. I nodded for a bit more and then upon halfway dropping my coffee cup in the floor, decided to give it up and go back to bed for a bit. At some point after witnessing the towers collapsing, my mom woke me up to tell me the news.

I couldn't believe it. It was unfathomable and hard to wrap my head around. I remained glued to the TV for a good part of that day and the next, desperate for some scrap of something that would explain it in a way that I could really understand. As I watched and the rest of the story unfolded about the two other planes, the FAA's grounding of all flights, the military jets who were scrambled to patrol the airspace above us, the Americans stranded abroad and stranded in cities in the US away from home, the terrified people covered in ash and soot fleeing away from Ground Zero, and the many things we just didn't know yet, I began to feel terrified. The footage of the planes crashing into the towers was played over and over, people were interviewed who were desperate for word of their loved ones, and there was practically nothing else on television or the radio.

Everyone was absolutely consumed with a need to know anything and everything about what had happened. 

Then still photos and more video became available.

Then I saw it.

At first it was just a brief glimpse of part of a video and the person who was talking about what was happening said that it was a person who had jumped from one of the floors above the impact zone in that tower. They had chosen to die by suicide rather than wait around and die by fire. The video was shot from fairly far away, but as I watched, I saw a very tiny human shaped speck in free fall toward the ground.

I suddenly felt like I was going to throw up. I felt an intense fear grip me and my heart began to race. My heart broke for that poor soul who felt so hopeless and scared that he or she chose suicide. My heart broke again as I understood that the reality of the situation was that there was no way that that person could be rescued even if he or she had chosen to wait it out and stay alive.

I felt something else too, but I didn't realise what that feeling was until just today. 

You see, thanks to a Facebook friend, I saw that image again today. She posted a much closer range, much clearer still image shot of a person who was in free fall, having chosen to die by suicide that day. She added the comment, "Never forget the reality of 9/11. Shocking image -- but so important to remember."

I felt that feeling of intense fear grip me again and my heart began to race. I knew as my eyes took in that photo that was so clear that I could tell you what the person was wearing, that what I was feeling was the feeling of having my PTSD triggered. Fear is a kind of anxiety and whenever I feel anxiety, it almost always means that I am re-experiencing trauma from my past. In my case, what I felt on 9/11 as I watched that video footage and today as I saw the still image of a person in midair, was a re-experiencing of trauma from my childhood where I felt trapped. I was trapped in wholly different way as a child, but it was still a situation of feeling like there was no good way out and that no matter what I did, I would suffer horribly.

When I saw that video footage at age 25, something inside me went back to when I was a child and a teenager and although what I was witnessing wasn't literally happening to me, in a sense, it was happening to me -- at least in some part of my mind. Anytime I get too close to the graphic details of someone's death by suicide, it has that affect on me. Part of this is because I have attempted suicide three times, so there's a strong association with that too. While this person's situation was different than my struggles with mental illness, there is a common thread between us in the feeling of being trapped. He or she was quite literally trapped with no way out but to die in one way or another. I felt trapped, but because of my mental illness was unable to see the reality that I could find a way out that didn't mean death by my own hand.

Seeing that photo today brought it all back to me in a flash. My friend said of the image that although it was shocking it is "so important to remember."

No. No it's not. It's not important to remember all the graphic, gory, horrible, terrifying details. It's really, truly not.

I and many other people like me could live our entire lives without seeing that photo ever again. We could do that AND successfully remember what an awful, life-shaking day that was. It is not necessary to rehash all the nightmarish minutiae in order to recall the events of that day. It is not necessary to subject ourselves or others to the most lurid tidbits each year. For many people who lost someone that day and those who lived through the terror of that day, they will never forget even though they may desperately wish they could.

I don't need to purposefully expose myself to all of that in order to remember and not forget. All I need do is look at the calendar.

The date itself -- September 11th -- will, to quote President Franklin D. Roosevelt, live in infamy in the hearts and minds of those who were alive to see it. They will recall with crystal clarity how awful it was and the fear of those moments when they realised that our collective culture as Americans had been irrevocably changed forever. They will forever see the date of 9/11/2001 as a kind of dividing line between the way things were and the way things are now.

More to the point, repeated viewing of those kinds of images can negatively affect the mental health of those who see it, especially if they are prone to depression, anxiety, or PTSD or have survived a suicide attempt. I know it negatively affected my mental health today.

I'll be 100% honest and transparent. I haven't been in a great place over these last few months and came very close to attempting suicide in July. It's why I've not been posting much. I've been working hard in therapy on trying to process trauma and one of the side effects is that it stirs up a lot of emotions that I've spent my whole life trying to stuff down. It's hard, but I have the help of my support team and strategies to keep myself safe and cared for when things are really hard. Sometimes though, something comes along that triggers something and there's not a blessed thing I can do about it. Today was one of those days. That photo triggered me and it made me mad.

I got mad because it wasn't necessary for me or anyone else to see it and now I can't get it out of my mind, so here I am writing about it. I got so mad that I unfriended the person who posted it and reported the post to Facebook. I rarely ever do something like that, so you can bet if I do, there's a good reason. For me, the reason is that I don't need someone in my life who is that insensitive to others and I'm pretty sure that posting that kind of thing goes against Facebook's terms of service.

I don't expect everyone around me to know or understand my personal triggers, much less be responsible for not triggering me. I take full responsibility for that. What I do expect is for someone to understand that it's not okay to post stuff that is very obviously upsetting to a large percentage of the population.

Please hear me when I say this: posting photos of suicide is NOT okay ever. NEVER EVER EVER EVER. There is NEVER a good reason to post a photo of suicide on social media or use it in a news article on TV or the internet. If you get nothing else from what I'm saying here, PLEASE get this.

Even if it doesn't trigger anyone, it's disrespectful to the person who has died and to their family. But the thing is, research has shown that publicly posting photos or videos of suicide IS triggering and can create a kind of contagion effect where others wind up attempting suicide too. Even if you don't know the research, I just cannot understand how anyone thinks that it's okay to post something like that. There's just NO need for it and it can do so much harm.

If you want to remember 9/11 or any other major event by looking at photos or videos like that, go ahead. Just leave me and everyone else out of it by keeping them to yourself.

Five Minute Friday: Expect

It's Friday and that means it's time for the linkup at the Five Minute Friday blog! Since the last time I linked up with the FMF community, Kate has moved things from her personal blog to a new space that is totally dedicated to FMF. Go check it out! This week's prompt word is....

EXPECT

Friends, it is June. More to the point, it's almost the middle of June. I have been so inundated with the stuff of life lately that I just haven't had the time or mental energy to write in this blog. I don't know why I can't seem to make myself do it. I guess I've gotten out of the habit (not that it was such a firm habit to begin with!). I start posts and then don't finish them. I just looked and I literally have over 100 posts that are drafts. They're just sitting there, waiting for me to do something with them. I don't know what I'm expecting. It's not like they're going to finish themselves or edit themselves. Some of them aren't actually too bad.

Several months back we actually had this prompt word and I had a pretty decent post going with it. I had actually finished it, but it was long and seemed really disjointed to me, so onto the scrap heap it went! Looking back over it, I can see now where it can be cut and not lose meaning or impact. That's what I feel like I'm always chasing. I write so many words and so often, I'm scared of cutting things. I'm scared of just writing without editing too. I don't know what I expect the reaction of others to be to my verbose ramblings. Maybe they'll think I'm crazy. Maybe they'll think I talk too much. Maybe they'll think that I need to just stop writing altogether because I really really suck at it. These are the voices in my head that keep me from writing a lot of the time.

Even when I do write something that feels like it's pretty good, I wind up getting scared to publish it. I've felt this way from the beginnings of this blog and I don't know how to conquer these feelings. I don't know how to change this. I think it's because I expect my writing, my blog, and all of it to be as good and polished and lovely to look at as my fellow bloggers. The thing is, I don't really like polished and pretty all the time because it's not who I am. But polished and pretty gets people to read and to comment.

Baring your soul, talking about uncomfortable things like mental illness, and trying to write in such a way that causes people to think seems to be met with silence and indifference. It makes me wonder who is reading and if they care. Then I wonder why I care so much about that. I try not to care, but here I am, caring again. Here I am second guessing myself. Here I am wondering if when you finish reading this, you will forget this as soon as your eyes hit the last word. Here I am wondering if what I have to say about anything is worth sharing with the world. These thoughts and wonderings and fears are what keep me from writing. I don't want to expect anything of this, but I am only human and we human beings are messy, complicated, and complex that way.

I don't even know if any of this makes any sense to anyone but me or if I should expect it to make sense. I just know that I feel compelled to return to this space and write. I just don't know if I ought to expect anyone to read it.

FMF: Sing

I didn't think I had anything to say about this week's prompt word, but suddenly the first sentence came to me and then I found that I couldn't stop writing. I love my Five Minute Friday community, but on those weeks when the inspiration does actually come, five minutes just isn't enough to convey everything that is in my heart. So without further ado, this week's prompt word:

 

SING

What do you do when you can't sing?
What do you do when your heart can't hear the song anymore?
What do you do when the song that once called you now hurts you with its words?
What do you do when your voice leaves you and the notes are replaced with tears?

The good Christian and Catholic answer would be that you keep singing.

But it's not that easy. It's just not.

It's not that easy when every time your eyes take in the words on the music sheet or hymnal and you feel a knot in your stomach, a lump forming in your throat, a quivering tremble in your normally steady voice, or a white hot anger spreading through your chest. Honestly, sometimes when your the song becomes too painful to sing, what you do is stop singing.

I know. I know. That's not what you're supposed to do. But it happens.

Can I tell you something? Despite whatever message shame and guilt are telling you, sometimes it's 100% okay to stop singing. God understands. He understands the pain and suffering we are enduring and that sometimes forcing ourselves to sing just exacerbates that pain. He's felt the same pain you are feeling -- whatever that may be. He gets it in a way that no one else can or ever will. It's because not only did He feel that ache in your heart when He was put to death for the sins of mankind, but He feels it now. He is with you in your pain. More to the point, when we are suffering, we are closest to His Sacred Heart.

So what do you do when you can't offer a song of praise or worship or even thanksgiving to God? What on earth do you do?

You offer up your sorrows instead. Offer every tear, every heartache, every moment of screaming and shaking anger, and every little bit of you that hurts. Offer that up to Him. You may be asking the question, "well, how do I do that?" The easiest thing to do is to make a conscious decision that whenever you feel all the things that steal your voice, that you will say to Him, "Jesus, I offer these to You." It doesn't have to be any kind of flowery or fancy sounding prayer. Just a humble offering in the midst of pain. Yes, that sounds easy and yes, it's hard to do. It can be especially hard to do if you are angry with Him.

So if you're angry at Him, what then? If that is what you are feeling and you can't bring yourself to offer anything to Him, just offer Him the promise that you won't run away. You can rage. You can rail. You can scream. You can tell Him exactly how you feel and use all the swear words in your vocabulary. All of the above are acceptable because He can take it. Just offer Him the promise that no matter how angry you get, you will keep coming back to Him. That means that you'll continue to do at least the bare bones basics of faith so as not to let the relationship die. Things might be distant for a while and you might be tempted to turn away, but keep turning back to Him. Sing Him the song of your promise to be obedient and faithful even amidst your anger.

I know that if you are hurting -- no matter the reason -- that you may be screaming at your computer screen right now and telling me in no uncertain terms that I'm bonkers or that I don't get it. You may be crying as you read this because you think that there's no way that you'll ever sing again. You may be in such great pain that you are praying that He will mercifully take you from this life. You may have reached a point where you are no longer concerned with singing any song because you are thinking of ending your life yourself. 

I know absolutely all of these pains. I know the anger, the rage, the heartbreak, the deep ache of wanting the pain to stop, the praying that God would take my life, the thoughts of suicide so dark that I couldn't see my way into the next hour, much less tomorrow. I know all of these things so well, my friend. I get it on a deep level.

Actually, I get it right now. I've had a week when the heavy dark cloud has been hanging over me and I just couldn't shake it. This evening, in fact, I felt so overwhelmed by it that I lost my ability to care that I was in the floor, shaking with sobs, and my eldest daughter was watching it all. It was horrible. It's still not so great. My classically trained soprano voice hasn't sung at all this week.

To be honest, I've not regularly sung His praises in the way that I normally love to do, for almost three years. So what have I done? I've continued in obedience and done the bare bones. I've gone to Mass each week and on holy days. I've prayed the blessing over meals. I've prayed bedtime prayers with my children and husband. I've wept so many tears that they would likely fill a rather large vat by this point and many of them as I've been on my knees before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. I've screamed at Him (yes, with profanities on occasion) and told Him how angry I am and that I felt abandoned by Him when I needed Him most. I have, in my own disjointed and imperfect way, tried to continue on in faith and obedience even when I didn't feel anything and even when I didn't want to anymore.

My efforts to that end haven't been fruitless, but I have needed an abundance of help from my spiritual director, Fr. B. and the graces of the sacraments of Reconciliation (confession), Anointing of the Sick, and the Eucharist. Those meetings with Fr. B and the graces I've received through frequent reception of the sacraments have been like a healing balm that works slowly, but steadily. I can't say that my song has returned in full, but I am finding moments when the words and music fill me up with more than pain. I still don't sing as much as I once did, but my voice is returning in fits and starts.

So if you can't sing and it hurts too much, know that you are not alone. He is with you even in your pain and anger and silence. May Christ who knows your pain and hears your silent anguished song abide with you until you can sing again.

*********

If you find yourself at that place where you are thinking of suicide, please reach out to someone. If you need it, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) or if you'd rather text to someone, text the word HOME to 741741 and the Crisis Text line will text you back.

FMF: Empty

It's been a while since I've written in this blog in part because we've had a lot going on within our family life of late. I really want to get back into the habit of writing on a regular basis, so with that in mind, here's my contribution to this week's linkup at the Five Minute Friday community. This week's word prompt is EMPTY. Given that we've just been through Holy Week, I've been thinking and meditating on Christ's last week on earth and more particularly, on His death and resurrection. This prompt definitely pointed toward all these meditations for me, so that was the inspiration for this. I hope you find something in it to edify and encourage you. Happy Easter!

EMPTY

I have heard quite a few people ask the question of Catholics, “why do you keep Jesus nailed to the cross?” It's a good question. Most non-Catholic Christian churches do not have a cross with Jesus nailed to it. Their crosses are empty. Having grown up Baptist, I was always told that the reason the cross was empty was because He had overcome death. So if the empty cross is a symbol for Jesus having overcome death, then why do Catholics display and wear a crucifix?

There are a number of reasons for this, but the biggest of these is that having Jesus on the cross in front of our eyes makes it so that every time we see it, we are reminded of His great love for us – that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. You see, it is death that we see when we look at a crucifix. It is an agonising, brutal, vicious, torturous death. It is also a beautiful death. That may sound strange, but think of it this way: not only did His death bring about redemption and the possibility of salvation for all of mankind, but He bore that death with the full knowledge that there would be those who would reject His love. When Catholics look at a crucifix, we are moved both by the agony of it and the beauty of it, because we see Him at His most loving.

One of the other things that a crucifix encourages us to do every time we look at it is to persevere as we carry our own crosses. It also encourages us that He is with us in that journey because He has been there and He knows the pain of carrying a cross. He knows it more perfectly and more fully than we will ever begin to fathom. So when we gaze upon the crucified form of Jesus on a cross, we can draw great strength from being reminded that He is with us, helping us to carry the crosses of life.

Finally, there is one Truth that we are reminded of every time we gaze upon a crucifix and that is this: there is no way to heaven but through the cross. To reach heaven, we must go through the cross. We can't go around it. We can't avoid it. We can't ignore it and pretend that it isn't there or that we don't need it. We need to embrace the crucified Christ because His love for us in that moment is what enables us to reach heaven.   

Without the crucifixion, there can be no resurrection and the resurrection – the empty tomb, not the empty cross – is the ultimate symbol of victory over death. That empty tomb is a promise that one day our own tombs will be empty because we will be raised up, our bodies made perfect because of Christ's death and resurrection, and we will be with Him for eternity, enjoying the beatific vision of God the Father.

So we keep Jesus on the cross – not because we are consumed with His death – but rather because seeing Him there is an unavoidable and constant reminder of just how much we are worth to God. When the world tells you that you are worthless or you feel like God doesn't love you or doesn't care about you, I encourage you to go look at a crucifix and meditate on what you see before you.

That, my friends, is the message of the crucifix. The crucifix in all its brutality with Jesus hanging upon the cross is a message of great love and of great hope. We know when we see it that this isn't the end of the story and so the crucifix points us toward the empty tomb and the resurrection. It gives us hope that our own crosses are not the end of our stories. It gives us hope that with His help, we can persevere to the end, having run the race to its completion and having obtained the prize of eternal life.

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.