I know, Mother of the Year, right?
"No."
"Why not, Sam? You're going to be SIX this summer."
"I'm afraid."
"And what should we do when we are afraid?"
"Cover our eyes."
"No!"
"Trust."
I was quiet after that. The correct answer in my head was "get over fear by doing what scares us," but his "trust" response was pretty good.
If he were about 20 years older and not my little boy, I likely would've said to Sam, "I've been completely underwater lately, you know, and you're right. Trust sounds like a pretty good idea right now."
I got mad at God on Wednesday for the first time in a long time - maybe ever. I know God loves me and that Christ died for my sins - but on a day-to-day basis I often find myself afraid of Him, working too hard to please Him, etc. But anger....it's never really been on my list.
As most people know, for my entire life I've struggled with severe depression and anxiety, a compulsion disorder, etc. I've been to doctors. I've been to therapists. People have tried to pinpoint my "unconfessed sin". People have tried to health food it out of me. Mentors and teachers I really love and respect have told me it's my imagination and I just need to stop thinking about it and it will go away.
In college, I was healed. I had an incredible period in life where I lived an uncaged existence - no medication, no cuts or burns anywhere on my body, no nightmares, no panic attacks.
I have clung to that night of healing for so long, convincing myself it was permanent and that if I JUST DID THIS OR THAT it would come back. That I wouldn't have the struggle with mental illness that used to be my identity, that crazy things that had happened to me wouldn't affect my day-to-day life again, etc. That I could just will it away because God met me that one night, and to go back to where I was before would mean it had never been real in the first place.
Can God's healing really only stick as well as a band aid in a swimming pool? Maybe. I guess so. I mean, I am not a great theologian, but that kind of sucks, right? Or does it?
When I started to relapse again last week - one of MANY backslides since college, I got mad. Super mad. I stormed out of a church prayer time and sat in my car barely able to breathe - wanting to cry but not able to because I was so stinking angry. I don't usually get mad about this struggle in my life, and it felt strange. There was a room full of people 20 feet away that I could've asked to pray with me, but instead I sat screaming in a parking lot, totally enraged at God for not taking this "thorn in my flesh" away. Sorry Paul, I've gone way beyond you - I've asked God more than three times - likely about three thousand at this point.
So here I am. I'm back in the pit. If you've ever been diagnosed as Bipolar II, OCD, Tourrette's, struggle with debilitating panic disorders or PTSD because some people at some point decided it was better to hurt you in ways you could never hurt back, then let's be friends. I know a great sushi place. I seem to have independently covered a significant portion of the DSM-5 and apparently I'm still free falling toward rock bottom, if you care to join me.
People who DON'T live with these things don't really understand them and the ways they hurt. Which is fine. I don't wish that on anyone because we all have our own battles, and these just happen to be mine. However, if you ever want a glimpse into how it feels, take yourself to these two places:
1) That frustrating feeling where you're sitting in class or at work and you're fighting sleep. That precise moment where your eyes are forcing closed and you feel "floaty" and not really able to focus/listen because you are so tired.
2) That surge of uncomfortable adrenaline that goes through your body when you get scared - that moment when you closely avoid a road collision, you get that phone call with bad news or someone startles you from behind. Where your palms get sweaty, your whole body feels tingly, your heart has given up on any sort of reasonable routine of beats, etc.
On a daily basis, I ping pong between these two feelings. I mentally experience #1 - I can be wide awake and fine, but my brain is so tired & cloudy, I might as well be in bed still because my soul is dead to the world and I can't focus on anyone or anything. A lot of times I DO go back to bed - which makes absolutely nothing better. I physically feel #2 constantly - it's more than a daily thing when I am in this place. You wouldn't even notice it sometimes by looking at me - I seem fine, but what I'm experiencing mentally & physically is survival mode. When I'm sitting there listening to that church sermon, hanging out at a birthday party or rehearsing in the studio - my body/mind is reacting like something is trying to kill me.
I don't like it.
You know those signs you see at offices that note how many days there's been since an injury? Maybe I need one of those? It's been seven months since there's been self-harm. It's been two weeks since you last couldn't get out of bed. It's been one day since a panic attack. That would be encouraging, right?
But because I have two little kids and a lot of tenacity despite my naturally defeatist nature, I instead went back to the doctor. It was like turning myself in to the prison, even though I probably have the world's greatest doctor and would love to plan a celebratory parade for her because she's that awesome.
This is the two-foot path up to the reception desk. If you look closely, you'll see it says "almost there!" on it. Do people really need the encouragement to walk from the front door to the desk? Maybe I'm not doing so bad after all.
So after a long appointment, I'm back in the psychiatry game. Crazy powerful meds that will undoubtedly make me feel very sick at first as my body adjusts, and with longterm side effects that include oh, insigificant risks like diabetes, facial paralysis and extreme weight gain. Should work great for a dancer who loves cake and ice cream, right? I'm going back into counseling, including group therapy where I will be required to whine about life incidents I don't really enjoy talking about - but it is better than going to the hospital. Because I really do want to be around to watch Charlotte learn to swim this summer (and heck, maybe even Sam), go to the state fair and work in some barbecues and fireworks.
What will be different this time? I don't know. I worry there's no one there for support. I worry that I will traumatize my children. I worry I won't have friends anymore if I'm candid about this and that I will lose respect and leadership if I try this new honesty thing and work hard at getting the help I clearly need.
But this time, I am mad at God. Which I've decided is GOOD for now, as long as I don't stay that way. Why? Because to be mad at someone means you trust them. We get angry when we are disappointed - which means we counted on someone. We become infuriated when we don't get our way - which means we trusted someone or something to work out a certain way.
It means for the first time ever, I felt comfortable enough to scream and tantrum at God. Which means I trusted God fully for the first time, too. I may not have had the best approach, but I complained to Him because I knew I could and that He loves me. And I haven't had many moments like that.
People will judge me harshly for writing this, because I'm a ministry leader and because I'm a Christian - and we are always supposed to be strong enough. But, if writing these words down and hurling them into cyberspace helps or encourages one person - if just one person knows they aren't alone, even when I feel like I am - then it's worth the judgment. Please take caution before throwing stones...there are already plenty of people underneath a whole pile of them.
So.....all this to say that I am broken, weak, tired, frustrated, angry, sick and sad. But I'm also hopeful and ready.
And that's good enough for me.
