Bullies, Bad Days and a Fighting Chance

Sam has been going through it the past week or so. There are bullies on the playground. He goes to school for an hour longer now that he's in first grade and it wipes him out. His little sister loves him - I mean LOVES HIM - she never gives him a break unless I physically remove her from wherever she is holding vigil within his presence.

But something deeper has been brewing.  I'm still not sure what's fully going on, because for the first time in his little life, Sam is clamming up. 

However in the throes of tears last night, after being sent to bed an hour early due to not being able to regain control, he said something that stopped my heart. 

"Mommy, there's so much in my brain. There's garbage just swirling around." 

I was hit with a tidal wave of guilt and fear, realizing that this could very well may be the first hints of Sam's future struggle with depression and anxiety. My genes may be winning out after all, despite how hard I try to fight the constant worry I have about that happening. 

I'm not a therapist. I'm not a psychic. I want to believe that my concerns are just because I'm a mommy and they shouldn't go deeper than that. 

But still, last night I scooped my not-so-little-anymore boy into my arms and told him that sometimes there is scary garbage in my brain, too. 

"Really?" 

"Yes, true story. That's why I went to the hospital last month, buddy. The garbage got so big, I couldn't see anything else." 

"Oh. Is it better now?" 

"Sometimes. But hey, guess what! Did you know that when you feel the garbage in your head and it starts to scare you, you don't need to make bad choices. You're six. You don't want to go to bed at 7pm every night, do you?" 

"What should I do?" 

"Come up to me, wherever I'm at, and tell me that you are feeling junky. And whatever I'm doing, I will stop to snuggle you and pray for you." 

"What about when you aren't with me?" 

"Whoever you're with will have a way to call me. And whenever I can, I will come straight to you. If I'm with a friend, I will come home. If I'm at dance, I'll leave. I will always come as soon as I can and we will cuddle and pray." 

I felt his body relax and he excitedly told me about how I should write down my cell # and put it in his school uniform pocket, his lunch box, his backpack....wherever he will be. 

He rested in the knowledge that if/when he feels that indescribable junk in his mind that frightens him before he's old enough to comprehend a clinical name for it - someone will come running to help him. 

That's all people with this sort of struggle want sometimes - the assurance that in a world that hardly makes sense and is terribly, upsettingly loud with distortions, that someone will always be there consistent and strong.

And my prayer is, if I can exemplify that for Sam now, that it will lead to Him resting assured that God will always come running to him, too. All he needs to do is cry out, and God will hold him close. 

We all need to know that. God's love is fierce but not cruel, passionate but never with ill intent. I want Sam to know he can run to me, so he can then see me run to Jesus. Because, should Sam turn out to have more than my eyes and stubbornness - if this venom is brewing up inside of him - He will know that frequently God is the only quiet refuge. And He's a lovely one at that. 

Sam drifted off to sleep and I prayed over him and wept. I asked God over and over again to protect him from the taunting lies of mental illness. From the grainy mind movie reel running continuously off of relational and experiential wounds. 

I know it was an unfair prayer to pray. But still.....

Sam had a great day today. He was all smiles after school, and was sweet, obedient and loving all evening. 

"Mommy, God puts the words in our head that comes out of our mouth." 

"But only the good ones, right?" 

"Yeah - God only puts the good stuff in." 

Amen.