A Year of Run

What an interesting year 2016 was.  So many changes in my life.  So many tough things, some of which got better, others which got worse.

But a very important thing happened in 2016.  Something I never expected.  Something that kind of sneaked up on me.  Something that's changed me for the rest of my life.

In 2016, I became a runner.

In a nutshell, I'd been unhealthy for years.  All kinds of medical struggles.  They weren't dangerous, just life-inhibiting.  In 2014 some things changed in my life which improved my physical and mental health.  More changes happened in 2015, which enabled me to begin walking.  Really walking.  For miles and miles and miles.  With zero intention of running.  Zero desire to run.

Until my third 5k.  I'd done my first one entirely walking, except those last 20 yards; gotta push across the finish line, right?  My second one, I added just a little running here and there.  Basically just enough to beat my time from my first one.  By the time I got to my third one, I knew I'd have to run a significant amount to improve my time.  This was all in the summer and fall of 2015.

I think I ran about a third of that last one - run until you can't breathe, walk until your heart stops pounding to the point you think it will explode, repeat.  It was incredibly difficult.  I couldn't walk the few blocks home, because I'd injured myself by pushing so hard.  And I remember thinking in that moment, "I want to run!"

It took several months of resting a little, going back to it too soon, injuring myself again before I really took healing myself seriously.

At the end of 2015, a year of HEALing, it was time to choose a new word.  I don't do New Year's resolutions.  I choose one word.  One word to guide my year.  Sometimes it's a lot of work to choose my word.  I have so many ideas run through my head.  Several of them would fit.  God and I have to talk it over for a while before I settle on one.

Last year wasn't like that.  I immediately knew what I wanted.  I wanted RUN.  I wanted to run!  But I fought it.  It seemed like such a narrow focus.  How could it possibly govern my year?  How could it affect my spiritual life?  How could I use it to govern my relationships?  How shallow a word was that to choose?!

But when I took it to God, He said it was perfect!  I still didn't know how it would play out, but I trusted it would.

It did.

I ran.

I am a runner.

Let me say that again - I AM A RUNNER!

I don't run fast or far, but I run.  And I love it!  I never, ever thought about running before.  In fact, I mocked my friends who ran.  Why would I torture myself like that?  But then I did it.

Running makes me feel powerful.  Running makes me feel cleansed.  Running makes me feel free.  Running makes me feel alive!  Running is and does so many things.

In years past, when I've reviewed my year through the eyes of that One Word, I've looked at the ways it had an impact on all those individual areas of my life.  When I chose RUN as my word, I expected to look back and see how I let it inspire me to RUN to Jesus or RUN to or from this or that.  But it didn't.  And I've learned something.

I've learned that God doesn't compartmentalize.  I do.  I'm the one who sees my physical health, emotional health, financial health, relational health, mental health, spiritual health, etc. separately.  God sees me.

I've learned that any progress in a positive direction is spiritual progress.  Because everything is spiritual.  I am a spiritual being, so my entire life experience is spiritual.

Progress in a positive direction makes me more whole.  Running makes me more whole.  God knew that.  And He knew that it was good.

The Master Healer

Today started out rough.  I woke feeling anxious.  No particular thoughts causing me distress, just a discomfort in my body.  I had a Harry Potter audiobook on; I use the Harry Potter audiobooks like white noise while I sleep.  They relax me.  But soon my agitation grew, so I switched over to some soothing music.  But that felt like sandpaper on my nerves, so I switched over to my meditation soundtrack.  No.  Just no.

My anxiety grew.  Intensified to the point that I wanted to crawl out of my skin.  I always feel my anxiety most strongly in my shoulders.  I shake my arms to try to dispel the feeling of tension, the feeling like I'm being held down by my shoulders.  Shaking my arms doesn't really help, but it's my natural reaction.  Well, I guess it helps a little.  Sometimes it gets me through the worst of it.  Not today.

My anxiety climbed.  Maybe I just needed silence.  So I turned it all off.  And that was better.  My body's stress didn't go down, but it leveled out.  I just breathed in the stillness for a bit.  Deep breaths.  Willing my body to relax.

I prayed for help.

I felt prompted I should listen to a church talk.  Luckily, I have several on my mp3 player that I sometimes listen to when I walk.  I searched through my list, not really looking for a particular talk, just the right soothing voice.  Then I saw the one.  Jesus Christ - The Master Healer.  If there was anything I needed right then, it was healing.

It was given by Elder Russell M. Nelson, a leader in our church, who does (in fact) have a very soothing voice and manner of address.  As I listened to his words, I sought release.  I sought a connection with God that would take away my current suffering.

And then a panic attack hit.  Hard.

Suddenly I was gasping.  Crying.  Sobbing.  It felt like my throat was closing up.  The distress in my body grew.  My headache exploded.  I cried and cried, clenching at my throat and pressing my hand against my forehead.  I had been propped up in my bed, but had to get rid of the pillows and lie flat to try to relieve my throat.

Talk yourself through it.  You can do this.  Talk yourself down.  I tried to remember all I've learned to get through a moment like that.  Nothing.  And then a vague recollection of how brief it was likely to be.  A knowledge that even though it felt like I would die, I wouldn't really.

I began to pay attention to my breathing.  Even though I could feel my throat constricting, the muscles tightening, my breathing was still fine.  No restriction.  No limitation.

But still - panic!  Ridiculous, overwhelming panic.  And the talk continued.  The soothing voice strengthening me even then.

I let myself cry.  I let my breaths heave.  I let my body work through whatever it needed to work through.

As the talk ended, the panic began to subside.  But the anxiety was still there.  How would I get rid of that?  I need to go to church.  I have a calling to perform.

Slow down.  I felt prompted strongly to slow down today.  I have a tendency to rush around in the morning getting ready and to be highly energetic in my calling.  Today, I need to slow down.  I need to not do anything which will feed the adrenaline.  I need to relieve my body.

Stretch.  I felt prompted to stretch.  I stretched my legs.  I did the stretches for my plantar fasciitis.  It helped.  I could feel my body releasing a little.

Wash your face.  Okay, that might sound like a strange prompting.  But I have a very minimal morning hygiene routine.  Generally just a quick splash of water on my face.  Today I was supposed to wash my face.  Gently.  Circular motions.  Massaging my face slowly.  Warm water.  More release.

Lotion.  Put on some lotion.  I put some baby lotion in my hands, rubbed them together a bit, and gently applied it to my face.  A similar massaging action.  Lovingly.  Slowly.  And my body calmed.

There is still a remnant of anxiety in my body, just under the surface.  I still need to go slow today.  I still need to be gentle with myself.  Mindful of myself.  But I will get through it unscathed.  I will be the better for it.

I believe I was touched by the Master Healer this morning.  I was guided through healing techniques I had learned but couldn't recall in that moment.  And I'm grateful.  And I testify.  Truth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKx63a1vBlg

A Time to Heal

It's a new year.  A fresh start.  Sure, there's no big difference between December 31st and January 1st, but there actually is.  People all over the world are taking this opportunity to examine their lives and decide what they want to change.  How they want to improve.

I love that!  It feels like a moment of unity for our entire species.  That doesn't happen often.

I don't do resolutions, but I do examine my life and look for a new focus.  I choose ONE WORD.  There will be one word that guides my year.  I never know exactly how it will play out.  Some of it is how I change my actions; some of it is the natural flow of life; and I believe God brings people and experiences into my life to help me, because I've opened my heart up to Him in that way.

In the past I've sometimes stewed over what word to choose for the next year.  Other times I just instantly knew.  This was one of the latter.  As soon as I thought about the new year and what I wanted to focus on, a word came to my mind.  Clear and strong and spoken.

Would I go so far as to say God chose this word for me?  Yes, I would.
This year God wants me to HEAL.

The word and a feeling came strongly.  But the feeling was an open one.  Heal is my word, but much of how I interpret that will morph throughout the year.  What I do with that word is largely up to me.

So when I was given that word the first thing that came to mind was working on my physical health (which I think is the direction most people who know me would also go with it).  I have some health struggles that I've sought answers for over the past several years - to no avail.  They interfere with the life I want to live.  They interfere with relationships.  They interfere with who I want to be.

Then I felt selfish.  Always looking at how my life will change.  Always focused on me.  Maybe it's meant to be an outward thing.  Maybe I'm meant to heal others.  Who would I want to heal?  My family, my friends, my parents, the world.  But I don't actually have the power to heal others.  I have the power to help others heal, but only God can truly heal.  And maybe He and I will spend some time working together to help others heal.  I'm open to that.

In order to figure out what God was really asking of me, I pulled inside of myself.  I took a deep breath.  I opened my heart.  And I asked, "What does this mean, this word heal, for me this year?"

And then I wrote:
 - finances
 - past
 - Christmas
 - physical health
 - food issues/habits
 - house
 - garden/yard
 - car management
 - Mother's Day/Father's Day/Parents' birthdays
 - my boundaries/obligations/desires for relationship with my parents
 - mental health separate from my past
 - spiritual health?
 - daily habits/time management
 - relationships?
 - from relationships
 - coping strategies
 - self-soothing
 - self-care
 - household
 - computer
 - writing
 - my relationship with my body*
 - wanting
 - codependence
 - control issues

So, not much.  (Just kidding on that not much thing.)

The question marks were because I'm not sure if He and I think that is an area I need to work on this year or if it's just something I felt I should add (seriously, a moment of allowing myself to be directed by societal expectations; sheesh).  The asterisk is because I felt added intensity from Him on that one.

I know some of these may not make sense.  Some of them don't seem to fit.  But they do.  And they do make sense in my head and my heart, even while they are still left free-floating and undefined - waiting to be discovered.

Because that is part of the magic of choosing one word.  My year is spent in discovery.  How and why does my word apply in this situation, whatever the situation may be?  How does applying my word to this experience affect my growth and my happiness and my peace?  How will this word change who I am?

It's a wonderful journey for me.  Full of magic.  And wonder.  And inspiration.  And challenge.  And failure.  And growth.

I can't wait!

Sending My Daughter on a Mormon Mission

I got married when I was twenty.  Twenty years old seemed so mature.  So wise.  So ready for independence.  So ready to start my own life and choose my own way.  It seemed that way when I was the one who was twenty.

But now my daughter is twenty.  And today we took her to the MTC (Missionary Training Center).  And today twenty seems so very young.

Today, as I watched her walking away, I saw a five-year old girl.  The little girl she was walking into kindergarten.  Head tucked a little.  Shy smile.  Eager.  Anxious.  Trusting.  Quietly walking away to start something new.  Something so important for her growth.

But that day she came home to me.  This time I won't see her again for eighteen months.

One day soon my son will go on a mission.  He will leave for two years, to serve wherever the Lord calls him.  I've been preparing for this his whole life.  I wasn't prepared for my daughter to leave.

In the Mormon church, we are taught that every worthy young man should serve a mission.  And every young man should spend his life working toward this goal, making himself ready.  Young women are able to serve a mission if they feel so directed, but it isn't pushed the same way for them.

And none of my daughters ever expressed any interest in serving a mission.  Until last November.  My second daughter came to me and my husband, crying, saying she needed to go on a mission.  It had not been in her plans either.  She never had any intention of going.  Until God asked her to.

And being the person she is, she said yes.

She is my most shy child.  She is my most anxious child.  My least independent child.  But when God asked her to serve, she said yes.

I admire her.  I am so proud of her.  But, even though we dropped her off only five hours ago, I miss her terribly already.

Her mission will be eighteen months (for young men it's two years).  In that eighteen months we will not see her.  We will only talk to her on the phone (or Skype) on Mother's Day and Christmas.  The rest of the time we will exchange letters the old fashioned way.  And she will get to email one day a week.

We are giving her up for a year and a half.  She is giving a year and a half of her life to leave her world behind and serve God exclusively.

She will teach others about the gospel and about God and Jesus Christ.  She will tell them that they are loved and valuable.  That they matter.  That there is so much more to life than what the world has to offer.  That there is so much more to each of us than just this life.  She will perform many acts and hours of service.  She will give and give and give.

And she will grow.  She will learn to believe in herself and in her ability to do hard things.  She will learn to reach out to God when things are difficult (partly because we won't be there for her).  She will learn to lose herself in service.  She will experience miracles.  She will learn and grow in ways I can't yet imagine.

Our family will grow, too.  We will be blessed through her service.  We will learn from her letters and her experiences.  We will grow in some ways just because she isn't here.

And, as a mother, I will learn a little more about God.  He gave His Son.  In a way I cannot ever understand, He offered His child for me.  And for you.  And for all mankind.  This experience will give me a glimpse.  As I offer my child to Him, I will gain a tiny bit of understanding.  Like when I became a mother and learned a little about how He loves us.  I will learn more about God as our Heavenly Father.

There will be so many wonderful things that happen in our lives because of her willingness to serve a mission.  And it will get easier.

But right now, I just want to hold her in my arms.  It hurts so much.  Because a piece of my heart is gone and won't be back for eighteen months.

When God Isn't There

All my life I've felt God's presence near.  From the time I was a small child, as young as I can remember, I knew He was there.  As clearly as I can feel it when someone is standing behind my chair, I knew God was with me.  I knew He had my back.

I didn't do anything to seek Him out or work to have Him near.  It was just a gift.  It was a part of me.  Just the way I was made, like my green eyes.  Just who I am.

I think sometimes when we have gifts (of spirituality or intellect or athletic ability or whatever) we have difficulty understanding why those things are harder for other people.  Sometimes to the point of arrogance.  "They could do this, too, if they really tried."  Something like that.

I can admit I sometimes had that problem with my gift.

It was like I could see something standing right before both of us but you couldn't see it and I thought you just weren't looking hard enough.

As a child I didn't know not everyone experienced it.  As children do, I assumed everyone was like me.  I was often confused at the things people chose to do and say, wondering how they could do those things when God was so near. 

As I grew, I heard people describe their search for God.  What?  Um.  He's just there.  Why do you have to search?  I really couldn't wrap my brain around it.

Then I had long, gut-wrenching conversations with people who said they'd never felt God in their lives.  They'd never felt His love for them.  And, honestly, I wondered what they were doing wrong.  What gospel truth were they missing?  What were they neglecting?  These were good people; why couldn't they feel Him?  Why didn't they know Him?

Because He's just there.  Until He isn't.

A little over a month ago, when I got slammed with whatever mental health bomb hit me, I noticed I couldn't feel Him anymore.  He wasn't there.  I couldn't connect.  I didn't understand why.  I tried to reach out.  I tried all the things that have ever brought me closer to God in the past.  Nothing.

I didn't doubt He was still there.  I've had too much evidence in my life to the contrary.  I didn't believe He had pulled away and was refusing me.  I know too much about His nature to believe that.  But for whatever reason, I could no longer connect to God.  I was alone in a way I'd never been before.

It was such an awful state to be.  It hurt.  It was scary.  It was lonely.  It was traumatic.  It made my heart ache.

At first I just thought of myself.  I floundered like someone drowning, splashing and flailing trying to stay alive.  Trying to want to stay in this world that had suddenly become so dark.

Eventually I thought of others.  I sought for what this could teach me.  I questioned all those judgments I'd made throughout my life.

I had done nothing wrong, but I couldn't connect to God.  I was doing everything possible to find Him again, but I still couldn't do it.  Maybe the same was true for the people I'd judged.  Misjudged.

That was last night.  I started letting myself feel what others have felt without being afraid of it.  Without trying to make it stop.  I wanted to let it teach me what it could.  And when I prayed before bed last night (which has been very different and much more difficult without feeling connected to God) I accepted it.  I told God I didn't know if this was an assignment or just a coincidence, but I was willing to accept it and learn what He'd have me learn from it.  I spent last night and today trying to feel what all those people feel who haven't felt God.

I can still only guess.  Even when it was all so dark, I had my past experience to rely on.  I had my testimony through experience to assure me He was there even if I couldn't feel Him.  I had my understanding of His nature to let me know He still loved me and would watch over me even if I wasn't aware of it.  And even with all of that, it was terrifying.

I can't imagine how anyone gets through this life without knowing God is there and loves them and watches over them.  I just can't process it.  But I have a glimpse.  And I am so sorry for all the times I've judged people as unworthy or unwilling to try.  I was so wrong.

I don't know why I had this experience.  It wasn't the medication because it started before I took anything.  I don't know if it was caused by the anxiety and depression or if it was the other way around.  Maybe they were triggered by the loss of God.

Tonight, as I was getting ready for bed, I thought about how lonely I've been without God.  I pondered on what I've learned.  I knew I had to write this post.

And as soon as I committed to write this post, His love came rushing back.  I was flooded with it.  Surrounded and overwhelmed.  Soon I was on my knees, sobbing, thanking Him.  Thanking Him for what I'd learned, but mostly for allowing me to be in His presence again.  To have Him with me.  He reminded me of our previous conversation, "You can't do the work I need you to do if you feel better."  I remembered accepting that assignment.  I reaffirmed my acceptance of it.  I will go through what He needs me to in order to do what He needs me to do.

I don't know if my latest mental health episode is over, but right now I feel peace.  So much peace it is almost overpowering.  And I am so grateful for it.

I know there are those of you reading this who haven't felt His love.  It makes me sad.  I don't know how you will find Him.  But I offer you my experience that maybe you can rely on it until you have your own.

God is real.  He loves you.  He is aware of you and your struggles.  He will reach out to you, in whatever way is best for you.  Watch for it.

A Year of Seeing

It's time to look back, just for a few moments, and evaluate how this year has gone.  Have I used it well?  Have I accomplished what I intended?  Have I grown and become more me?

I chose one word to guide me in 2013.  I chose the word SEE.  I knew what I meant but wasn't sure how to put it into words.  It turns out, words didn't matter all that much.  It wasn't about words.  It was about opening my heart.  My heart communicates very well, but it doesn't use words.

So let me tell you some of what I've learned.

I've learned that when I get caught up in the running around and getting stuff done mode, I don't see much.  But I've also learned that I can step out of that moment and into another one.  I can quit doing and start seeing.  And when I do I am more me.  My heart is more at peace.  I don't do it nearly enough, but it can be breathtaking when I do.

I've also learned that sometimes life does it for me.  Sometimes things come to a crashing halt and I freak out because things aren't going the way I planned.  But then I find that it's because I wasn't being true to me, or life wasn't, and the universe decided to put me back on the right road.  I mope and cry and kick against the pricks.  And then I sit for a bit.  And I look around.  And I ask, "What now then?"  And I find a way that is me.  And it's a happier path.

And sometimes, because I've expressed a willingness to open my heart even when it's scary, God pauses everything.  And He shines a spotlight on just one thing or one person.  And He shows me a little of what He sees.  Without my asking, He shows me things that are glorious, things that are divine, because knowing this and seeing this makes me more me.

It's still tough to put into words.  I hope I've come close so you can feel it a bit.  The next time you and I have a private moment together, I will try to communicate it to you if you'd like.  From my heart to yours.  I will take your hands in mine.  I will look into your eyes.  And I will open my heart.  If you're willing to hear it, I believe my heart can talk to yours.  (It could possibly result in tears and a hug.)

If you are someone I will never meet, please try to hear it.  I am sending it.  My heart is bursting with it.  And it's for you now.

Conversations with God About My Health

I have been hesitant to share this story, but I feel now is the right time.  Please know that it's a very tender story for me.

In the late spring/early summer of 2001 I went to bed for a year and a half.  So tired.  Barely able to care for my children.  Very difficult time for me and our family.  Over time I slowly pulled out of that darkness.  But I have been very low energy and fatigued ever since.  It's like I'm constantly running on batteries with very little juice.

Then, in July 2005, I got a severe headache that wouldn't go away.  MRIs and all kind of tests and treatments found/did nothing.  I still have the headache.  It varies in intensity, but it's always there.

So I am always exhausted and always in pain.

Most days I just roll with it.  It's my life and I've grown accustomed. Other days I get very sad and frustrated about all the things I want to do but can't.  This story starts with one of those days.

I had a friend who had gone through some similar health issues.  He'd tried many treatments and made many changes in his life.  And he felt better.  He found his way back to good health and energy.

Shortly after hearing him speak of how he changed his life/health, I sent the following email to a friend documenting my experience/feelings:

Last week I went in for my physical.  As I talked with my doctor he decided he wanted to add some extra tests to my blood work.  Basically, there were something like 5-10 additional tests he wanted to run.  Looking for the cause of my ever-dwindling energy.  This has been my primary concern.  I would gladly keep the headache if I could just feel better, more energy, like I could function.

So today my test results came back.  And there was nothing unusual in them.  They didn't show any problems.  No new direction to try a new treatment.

To say the least, I was frustrated and disappointed.  I began to get depressed.

I found myself in my room crying.  I asked why I can't seem to feel better.  Not really in prayer, just a thought.  I was answered.  "You can't do the work I need you to do if you feel better."

I'll admit I responded with, "That's stupid."

I got past that.  I was told that I can choose not to help with this work and I would be healed.  I would get better very quickly if I decided that I didn't want to do what He needed me to do.

Of course, there was no way I could do that.  I will not put my own comfort before the work He has for me.  I just couldn't do that.

I can, and should, continue working on improving my basic health.  Try to improve my habits.  I will not be healed before my role in this work is complete -- maybe never.  He has a plan for my life and I need to trust that.

There is a great deal of peace in knowing this.  I have felt an outpouring of love from Him.  I know that my doctors and I are not missing something.  We could look forever and try everything and I would not be healed.  My struggle is not about biology. 

I have also been in a state of mourning most of the day.  While I accept this and it helps to know, it is difficult to let go of what I want.

I do not see it this as a punishment or God hurting me for His purposes; I see it as a blessing, an opportunity.  It will take some time to adjust my mindset, but it will happen.

 
I am sad right now.  But I am at peace.

That was two and a half years ago.  I still get frustrated, but that conversation continues to bring me strength.

Some time after that initial conversation I found myself in a terrible depression.  I'd been working hard to take care of myself physically and emotionally.  I'd worked so hard in therapy.  I'd been depression free for a long time.  Then I was slammed back into the darkness.

And as I sobbed on my bedroom floor, curled up in emotional pain, I found my heart asking the question again, "I thought I had this beat.  Why am I here again, in this dark place?"

And I heard, quietly and lovingly, "You said yes."

I was overwhelmed with God's love and support and gratitude.  He knew it was hard.  He knew I could do the work He needed.  He also knew it was worth it.

And that was enough.  It's still enough.  I still get frustrated and sad.  But I have never regretted saying yes.  So if you hear my story and ask how I can smile and be content with my life, now you know.

Going to War

There is a memory.  A memory that holds more power over me than anything else ever has.  A memory that has been there for as long as I can remember.  And beyond.  A memory that taunts me.  A memory that hides.  A memory that I sense but don't see.

It is strong.  It is elusive.  It is haunting.

And I am going to battle against it.

Most of the time, it lies hidden.  Tightly protected in its cage.  Just out of my reach.

But right now it is exposed.  And right now I am strong.  And right now I have an army behind me.

I am frightened.  But I am going to war.

Trusting in God's Timing

Here's the thing.  I do.  I really do.  I trust that He knows what He's doing and everything is going to work out okay.  Eventually.

It's the eventually thing that sucks.

Why can't it be now?  Why do I have to watch week after week as my husband goes through interview after interview and disappointment after disappointment? 

When my husband was laid off I wasn't worried.  Really.  Not worried at all.  In our twenty-three years of marriage he's been laid off eleven times.  He's good at finding a job.  He's highly employable.  He's a hard worker and a loyal employee. 

But it's been nearly two months now and my relaxed attitude is pretty much gone.

I love him and it's so hard on him to be rejected over and over.  He wonders what he's doing wrong.  He struggles with depression and feelings of low self-worth.  He tries to stay positive and keep his hopes up, but then those same hopes crash every time he's passed over for a position.

It breaks my heart.

I try to help him fight the depression.  I believe in him and tell him so.  I value him whether he's employed or not.  But that only helps so much.  He still questions his worth when he can't support his family.

And I've been really struggling with depression, too.

I feel so powerless.  I wish I could get a job and help out, but my health just won't allow it.  I really can't do anything to help him interview better or find better job opportunities.  All I can do is support him and try to manage our home.

And the stress of trying to keep our home afloat makes me feel like throwing up a great deal of the time.

We are receiving unemployment, which is less than half of what we were earning before.  We have cut every expense we can.  We have thousands of dollars in medical bills, some of which have gone to collections.  We have had to ask our daughter to help with some costs.  We've had to ask my dad for money.  And we've had to go to our church for food and help with the bills.

I am grateful that these things are available, but don't let anyone kid you.  It sucks to have to ask for help.  A lot.  Being an adult and not being able to pay your own way is a pretty major kick in the emotional teeth.

If I could just see down the road a bit, see when it's going to get better.  Then maybe I could focus on other things instead of obsessing about how I'm going to keep the lights on and the medical debtors at bay.

God's smart.  He knows what He's doing.  But I want what I want and I want it now!  I want my husband to get a job.  Now!  I want him to feel valued and productive again.  Now!  I want him to be proud of himself again.  Now!  And I want us to be able to pay our own way again.  Now!

And yet, when I pray tonight, when I converse with God and express my gratitude and ask for what I want, I will still include, "If it be thy will."

Because I do trust Him.  Even if I feel like throwing up while waiting.

Turning to God

My life is better today.

None of my major stresses went away.  Nothing big changed.  It was a small change.  The same one that's gotten me through a thousand other tough times.

I remembered to turn to God.

My life is always heaviest when I try to carry it alone.

Then something happens, like a reminder from a good friend, and I turn to God.  And he smiles and says, "No wonder it's so heavy; you're carrying it all wrong.  Plus, you're trying to carry all this other stuff that isn't even yours.  Let me help you figure out what you really need to carry and how it fits just right on your shoulders."

I'm grateful for a good friend that reminded me to turn to God.
I'm grateful for the power of the priesthood that allows me to receive the blessings I need in difficult times.
I'm grateful for prayer, which enables the conversations I need to have.

And I'm especially grateful for an understanding that I am doing a good job, that He is there, and that we are in this together.

Standing in Holy Places in Difficult Times

This will be a long post.  Please feel free to skip it without fear of offending me.  Also, it's a religious post.  It's taken from a talk I gave in church a couple of weeks ago.  It contains scriptures from The Book of Mormon in addition to scriptures from The Holy Bible.  It's based on a scripture from The Doctrine and Covenants (another book of scripture in the Mormon church):  D&C 87:8 "Stand ye in holy places, and be not moved."

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As we’ve discussed standing in holy places this year, we’ve talked about many important places.  We’ve discussed the temple and church.  We’ve talked about dedicated sites and memorials.  We’ve also talked about how we can make any place a holy place if we are striving to keep ourselves holy. 

I’d like to expand on that a little bit.  Sometimes a holy place is an actual place.  Sometimes it’s a state of mind.  And sometimes it’s a lot of work to find a holy place within myself during a difficult time.

To me, a holy place is anywhere I am physically or emotionally that allows me to connect with God.  A place that I can understand His will and strive to do it.

2 Nephi 2:25 says, “Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy.”

This life, this experience, is supposed to bring us joy.  God’s will is that we have joy.

Many people read this and see it as an excuse to play more.  Others read this and see it as a reason to not worry so much.  Still others read it and want to get into the ever-ongoing debate between happiness and joy to prove that “wickedness never was happiness.”

Sometimes when I read it, I take it as an assignment.  One that I have a tough time with.

I struggle with clinical depression and PTSD.  I have for most of my life.  And sometimes when I read that scripture – “men are that they might have joy” – I feel like a failure.

I believe this is because I’ve bought into four powerful lies Satan uses:

1.      It’s my fault.
2.      It’s beyond my control.
3.      I have to do it alone.
4.      I should be happy all the time.

The first one, it’s my fault.  I spent many years thinking I wasn’t trying hard enough.  If I were more righteous I would be happier.  I should be able to choose happiness (because everyone says happiness is a choice).  If I were only stronger or more positive, I could force myself to choose happiness.  I could have peace in my heart all the time.  I would no longer find myself trapped in the darkness.  I believed it was my fault when I went into a depression because I wasn’t a better, stronger person.

Please let me say, I do believe happiness is a choice.  Most of the time.  But I also know that our bodies are complicated things.  Chemistry is powerful.  And genetics matter.  Clinical depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder aren’t my fault any more than multiple sclerosis is someone’s fault.  It’s not a sign that I’m not righteous enough.  It’s not because I’m a bad person.  It’s not because I don’t have enough willpower to snap out of it.  Those are thoughts and beliefs from fifty years ago that just aren’t true.  It’s biochemical.  It’s physical.  It’s environmental.  Much of it is beyond my control.

But not all of it.  And that brings me to the second lie, it’s beyond my control.

I often don’t see it coming.  I am good one day and the next I am so completely not.  My heart is overtaken by a darkness so deep it seems to swallow me whole.  Or I am fine one minute and the next I am filled with fear and have no idea why.  I want to hide, even from the people I love.  Even from the people in my life I know are safe.   It is so intense, so powerful when it overcomes me.  No matter what I’ve tried, it keeps happening.  I believed the only choice I had was to surrender and wait for it to pass.  I spent years thinking it was beyond my control because I didn’t know how to stop it.

But the fact that I didn’t have any answers didn’t mean there were no answers to be had.  I still can’t stop it entirely, but sometimes I can make it less powerful.  I can do things to protect myself.  Let me tell you what I’ve learned.

·       The most important thing I need to do is plan.  I need to write out a plan when I am well.  Because when I am not, it’s too late.  I can’t think clearly enough in those moments to choose well.  But if I have a written plan of healthy coping strategies, I have something to direct me, to help me make better choices.  Choices that will help me heal, not make me feel better for a moment but ultimately drive me deeper within the darkness.

·       I also need to take care of my soul.  D&C 88:15 says, “And the spirit and the body are the soul of man.”  I need to take care of my body.  I need to eat healthy foods.  I need to get enough sleep – for real.  I need to stay hydrated.  And I need to exercise.  It’s easy to think that these things are less important than working on what’s in my mind, but depression and PTSD affect the whole soul.  I can’t neglect half of it and expect to be well.  I also need to take care of my spirit.  This means reading scriptures, praying, attending church, fulfilling my calling.  The basics.  It’s easy to think that working on therapeutic things are all I need to do to feel better.  But my spirit is part of my soul.  If I am not taking proper care of it, I will not be strong enough to continue the fight.  And I will not be close enough to my Heavenly Father to receive the help I need.

And that leads me to the third lie I bought into, I have to do it alone.

We live in a society that glorifies independence.  And I’m not just talking about the world.  We in the church sometimes get this wrong.  We teach self-reliance and think that means we shouldn’t have to ask for help.  If we’re doing everything right, we shouldn’t ever have to ask for help.  We help others.  We give.  We serve.  But so often we are ashamed if we ever have to receive.

We are meant to be with others.  We need each other.  We are supposed to.  How selfish it is to only serve and give but to never open our hearts and lives to others and let them serve us.  How prideful to only show the wonderful things in our lives to the world and to never let on that we have weaknesses, too.  What a loving thing it is to occasionally show the dysfunction in our lives so others know they are not alone.

Thinking we have to do it alone is one of the most dangerous lies we can believe.  It is a lie Satan uses to keep us from leaning on our Savior and partaking of the atonement.  John 14:6 reads, “Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

Without the atonement we are lost.  We would all remain in a fallen state.  Always separated from our Heavenly Father.  Satan pushes the idea of independence on us so that we will not turn to God or to one another.  How dangerous it is to think we can do it alone.  How grateful I am for the struggles that have shown me this is a lie.

We are not meant to be independent.  We are meant to be interdependent.  To do all we can for ourselves and then turn to God and to each other.  We are told to "gather together oft" (Alma 6:6).  We are constantly asked to strengthen each other, to lift each other up. 

·       Mosiah 2:18 “Behold, ye have called me your king; and if I, whom ye call your king, do labor to serve you, then ought not ye to labor to serve one another?”

·       D&C 88:118 “And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another”

Would we be told to serve and lift each other if God wanted everyone to “pull themselves up by their own boot straps?”

We are frequently prompted to turn to God, to ask for help.

·       Proverbs 3:5 “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”

·       JST, Matthew 7:12 “Ask of God; ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Would God tell us these things if He wanted us to become fully independent of Him?

We are meant to turn to each other and to God.  In my case, turning to God brought me further wisdom and more resources.  I was directed to therapy.  And to my bishop.  And to trusted friends.  Sometimes we don’t know the answer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.  Asking God doesn’t always mean He will give us the answer.  Sometimes He will direct us to the person who knows the answer.

And sometimes, even after all of this, I am still not happy.  Sometimes all of this still isn’t enough to fend off the darkness.

That brings me to lie number four, I should be happy all the time.

This is a world of sorrow.  Sad things happen.  Grief is important.  And sometimes biochemistry takes over.  Being sad in a moment, or for a few days, doesn’t mean I am doing something wrong.  It doesn’t mean I’m choosing poorly.  It might just mean this is my time to be sad.

The beautiful chapter of Ecclesiastes 3 (vs. 1) says there is a “time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Even, “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”  There are times to be sad.

And sadness has led me to some of the most holy times of my life.  Sadness drew me to my Heavenly Father when my heart was breaking and I didn’t know how to go on.  Sadness drew me to the Savior and to partake of the Atonement as I learned to forgive others and myself.  And those times when I am able to visit with someone whose heart is breaking, who thinks their life is over, who sees no light through their dark world – those are some of the most holy times of all.  Sitting with a friend on my healing porch as her soul aches is a very sad time.  But it is also a very holy time.

Because sometimes it’s time to be sad.

I am not trying to discourage anyone from seeking happiness.  I am encouraging you to forgive yourself for being sad sometimes.

This is a tough world.  But it is also a holy place.  This world has a divine purpose and we have a divine purpose in it.

I am a happy person.  I have a wonderful life.  And even in those moments of darkness, there is peace because I know God is there.  I know He has a plan for me.  I know He loves me.  I know He knows me well enough to send exactly the right trials to strengthen me, to make me who I am meant to be.  I am grateful for depression and PTSD in my life.  They have taught me important lessons I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.  They have kept me connected to God.  And that is a holy place.

Your trials might not be the same as mine.  But you will have trials.  And I hope that no matter what they are, you will find a holy place within yourself to help you through them.  I hope they will bring you to God.  I hope you will allow them to change you and strengthen you.

And please remember verse five of the thirteenth psalm, “Joy cometh in the morning.”  The joy will come.

Tell Me What You Know About God

Or what you believe.  Or think.  Or understand to be true.  Or wonder.

And then I'll tell you what I know and we'll both be better for it.

If I tell you what I know, and it's different from what you know, will you take offense?  Will it cause bad feelings between us?  Will you feel judged by me?  Will you feel superior to me?

If I tell you what I know, and you are unsure about God, will it make you feel insecure?  Will you feel like I'm trying to convert you?  Will you feel like I'm trying to tell you what to believe?

If you tell me what you know, will it be because you want to convert me?  Will it be because you feel it's your duty?  Will it be because you have truth that I should have?  Will it be because you care for me?  Will it be to condemn me?

If I tell you what I know about God, will it make you uncomfortable?

If you tell me what you know about God, will you try to use it to control me?

I'm fascinated by the beliefs of others.  My faith (the faith within me, not my church) brings me so much joy.  I wish everyone could experience it.  But I don't believe my faith is the only way to find joy.  I believe truth brings joy.  I believe there is a lot of truth out there that I don't know yet.

I've spent my whole life surrounded by people who were almost all members of the same church as me.  I used to think that meant we all had the same perception and understanding of God.  As I've grown I've learned this is not at all true.  There are some general things most of us believe, but there are also differences.  We know different things.

Because you can study and research and ponder every word that has ever been written about God and not know Him as well as a little girl who prays when she is scared.  This little girl who feels something outside of herself that makes her feel safe.  This little girl who feels a strength beyond her own.  If all you do is read and study and ponder, she will know more about God than you do.  Because she will know God.

Maybe you've felt something, sensed something, been aware of something beyond what you can explain.  Maybe you aren't ready to call that God.  Or maybe you call it something else.  I'd love to hear your story.

Or maybe you've never had a sense of anything beyond this world and think others are deceiving themselves.  That it's a happy fairy tale we use to make this world a little less scary.  I'd love to hear your story, too.

A few simple truths I know about God.  My truth.  (People say truth is truth and we can't have different truths, but I don't believe that.  Because our truth isn't just about what is true.  Our truth is also based on who we are and how we can receive it and process it.)

God is aware of each of us individually.  He was once like us.  He experienced mortal life on a world like ours.  He is now God because of the way He lived that life.  He earned it.  He is the Father of our spirits.  He has a physical body but not like ours.  His body is perfected.  And as His children, we have the potential to become like Him.  To do wonderful things after this life.  And hard things, too.  To continue to grow and progress and become.

As our Father, He hurts with us.  He allows difficult things to happen but almost never causes them.  He knows the best us we can be.  He knows hard things are how we get there.  He knows we are strengthened by the resistance of trials.

He knows me.  My life is better when I turn to Him and let Him guide me.  He does not control or force.  If we want Him to be a part of our lives, we have to choose to invite Him.  He waits for that invitation and it brings Him joy to answer it.  We are His purpose.

These are some of my truths about God.  As I grow and learn and experience some of them might change.  Some of my truths will be expanded upon.  I might see others from a different angle.  And some of them may no longer be my truths.  It will be fun to see.

Now I've told you some of what I know about God.  All those questions I asked in the beginning, I'm asking again.  Do you feel threatened by my truths?  Do you feel judged by my truths?  Do you feel superior to me because of my truths?  Do my truths align with yours or challenge yours?

I would love it if you'd share some of your truths with me.  Or just thoughts or feelings or questions.  Questions we can ponder together.  Tell me what you know about God.

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I welcome all opinions and viewpoints, but if you are unkind or abusive or disrespectful I will delete your comment.

My Daughter's Brain Surgery

It's a strange thing to be sitting in a waiting room, kind of bored, knowing my daughter is just down the hall with someone cutting open her skull and possibly removing parts of her brain. 

This man that we met once.  Talked to for fifteen minutes.  Holds my daughter's life quite literally in his hands.

The last three weeks, since her diagnosis, have seemed like a year.  It's taken forever.  Mostly because all we had was a diagnosis, no information specific to her case.  Then, last Thursday we finally met with the neurosurgeon.  We learned what her situation was.  We learned his plans.  We scheduled the surgery for the soonest possible date.  The last four days have flown by and dragged.  You wouldn't think they could do both, but they did.

And now we are here.

Pre-op was a bit tense.  Knowing it was just around the corner.  Sam was quite anxious, which added to my anxiety.  Then pre-op was done and we waited.  It was about an hour and a half of waiting after pre-op was done.  We got bored again. 

Then someone walked in, told her it was time to go, and the fear returned.

And they took my baby away.  Nineteen or not, she's still my baby.

I'm actually ridiculously calm.  Except for this underlying anxiety that I feel every time my children leave my presence.  Just kind of magnified.

I believe the surgeon is skilled and knows what he's doing.  I believe things will go well.  But there's still that part of me that holds a constant prayer in my heart that she will come back to me.

I wonder if that will ever go away or if I will just always have that small alert in my heart.  No matter how old they get, I wonder if I will always have that sense that they are vulnerable to this big, bad world and I need to protect them.

I can't imagine doing this without faith.  While I believe everything will go well and she will heal and finally feel better, there is a tiny chance that things could go not well.  That she could have permanent damage of some kind, have a successful surgery but feel no relief, or even die.  All of those things are possible.  But I am still much more calm than not because of my faith. 

I know that I am not the only one worried about her and watching out for her.  I know that she was His child first.  I know that no matter what happens, she will be okay.  We will be okay.  There is great comfort in knowing that.

But it doesn't mean I'm ready to give her up yet.

I imagine she'll come out and we'll have a rough go for a few days with a consistently upward curve of healing.  I imagine that within a few months, the only evidence of today will be the six-inch scar up the back of her neck and skull.  I imagine she'll be up and running, back to usual, before we think she should.

But right now a doctor has her head splayed open and is working on her brain.  And we wait.  And it's scary.

Why I Go to Therapy (and write about it)

Sometimes I get the perfect question at the perfect time.  This is one of those times.

Today I received an anonymous comment with a question.  I wanted to reply immediately with a long, detailed email; but since it was anonymous I couldn't.  I thought about responding via the comment section, but that didn't feel right either.

Normally, I would ask someone's permission before ever using their words.  In this case, I hope it's okay that I forgo that.  The question was structured beautifully and I don't think it contains any information that would reveal who the questioner is.  But the question is important.

"Miss Robin,

My partner and I are struggling with the realization that there may be a hidden traumatic event in my partner's past.  We hope not, but we both agree that there is anger, which comes from hurt that is being directed at the opposite sex in general and at me most in particular.

My partner is very afraid of the possibility that something very bad is there, but is probably more afraid to find out that there is nothing other than verbal and emotional abuse.  That would maybe be worse because then why so much negative energy attached to it.

The biggest concern is that my partner doesn't believe that anyone he/she knows has been helped in any lasting way by therapy, in fact it usually seems to only get worse by opening those deep wounds.

This session of yours makes one wonder.  Can you help by offering your best reasons as to why a person should be willing to subject themselves to such intensive introspection and the resultant pain?"

I can't begin to express how honored I am to receive this question.  Any time someone is willing to open their heart and share their fears, I am in awe.  It is such a difficult thing.  This question moved me to tears.

First, let me say emotional and verbal abuse are very serious things.  They are incredibly damaging to the soul, often more so than being hit.  If you are anywhere near my age or older, you were probably raised with the "sticks and stones" mentality.  Generation after generation perpetuated this lie.  Words can hurt you.  We are finally getting to a point as a society that we recognize this.  This is why things like online bullying can now be prosecuted.  But if you are like me, no one in your life ever tried to help you heal from verbal assaults.  In fact, you may have even been told by your abuser (as I was), "There's no such thing as emotional abuse."  This is a lie.  The sticks and stones mentality is another way to punish the victim for being hurt, as if it's their fault.

I'm so sorry you and your partner are struggling (because we struggle together).  I don't know if there's a traumatic event buried.  I don't know how to tell you to find out.  I'm not a therapist or trained in any of this.  But I do consider myself somewhat of an expert at going to therapy, so I'll answer that.

Traumatic events are like slivers.  We can try to pretend they aren't there, they may or may not work themselves out, but usually we have to remove them in order to heal.  We can ignore them for a while, but something will happen that causes us to bump one and it will hurt.  Especially if it was serious and it's now infected.  We knew it should be taken care of but thought we could tough it out.  Or we didn't want to make a big deal out of it.  Or we didn't want to seem weak.

The only thing I regret about therapy is not starting sooner.

I was scared.  I was fairly certain after one session the therapist would tell me I was making a big deal out of nothing and didn't need to come back.  I was embarrassed.  I felt like a failure.  And I was terrified that if I opened up and let go of the white knuckle hold I had on things I would fall apart.  I'd accidentally opened things up once or twice before and it was horrific.  I couldn't shut it down and it controlled me for days, weeks, or longer.  I was afraid I'd find some horrible memory and I'd have to confront someone about it and it would get ugly.  I was afraid of being weak.  I was afraid of needing someone else.  I was afraid of trusting someone else.  I was afraid of feeling again, because then I'd be vulnerable.

But that's not what happened.  The therapist listened and validated me.  I felt safe in a way I hadn't ever felt before.  My feelings were honored. 

Working with a trained therapist is different than talking with a friend about a problem.  When I start to get to an unsafe place, a friend will hug me and cry with me but doesn't know how to stop the avalanche of emotions that's pulling me under.  A therapist does.  He can talk me through it.  He can teach me how to find my own way through it.  It's kind of like walking through a dark house when you're scared but having a cop with a gun and night-vision goggles as your guide. 

It is hard to open up.  And it's still scary for me sometimes.  But I have never regretted it.  Not once.  I have regretted telling someone else in my life, someone I thought was safe who turned out not to be.  But never have I regretted sharing anything with my therapist.

Traumatic experiences mess us up because our brains don't know how to process awful things that happen, especially if we were children when they happened.  Through therapy a memory can be brought out, looked at, re-framed, and put away neatly.  I know it doesn't make sense that just talking to someone can make things better, but when it's the right someone who knows what they're doing it works.  I promise.

Does your partner need therapy?  Do you?  I don't know.  What I do know is that it's been wonderful for me.  Without therapy I would no longer be married.  Without therapy my husband could very well be in jail due to ramifications of his rage.  And without therapy I would live in constant fear and stress.

I am stronger.  I am gentler.  And I have much more peace in my soul.  I feel more complete.  I feel more content.  I believe in myself.  My heart is lighter and more open.  My life is easier because I went to therapy.

Even after my last session, when things went badly, I highly recommend therapy.  My therapist is just a person.  And as with any relationship, sometimes there are communication problems that cause pain.  The key is whether or not you can work through it.  We are.  The amount of calm I felt after his phone call amazed me.  No matter how often I am healed through a therapy session it still amazes me.

Listen to your heart.  If you are religious, pray.  And listen.  You will know if therapy is a good choice for you (your partner must decide for him/herself).  Chances are life has caused you to doubt your own intuition, but your heart knows.

If you go and don't connect well with your therapist, I suggest trying someone else.  One bad experience doesn't mean therapy won't work.  It might just mean you didn't fit with that person.  There are lots of therapists out there.  You need one you feel comfortable with, because therapy is an emotionally intimate thing.  Don't think one session will fix it all.  It takes time. 

And if it doesn't feel right, you don't need to continue.  I have a friend who says therapy didn't work for her.  She had to work it all out with God.  I think of myself as a pretty spiritual person with a good relationship with God and I couldn't do it that way.  I needed therapy.

I hope this answers your question satisfactorily.  Please feel free to ask more.  And thank you so much for being brave enough to offer the question.  I am honored.

I Have a Voice. And I Have Courage.

As long as I can remember my mother has been comparing me to my father.  "Of all the children, you are most like your dad," she would say.  I have probably heard this from her more than a hundred times.  And I hated it every time she said it.  Especially when I felt controlled and demeaned by my dad.  When I saw him as loveless.  Unable to care.  Mean.  I hated that she saw me this way.

But that isn't what she meant.  This past week, as she spent two hours talking about awful things in her life and I listened, I finally knew what she meant.  She saw me as strong.  She saw me as courageous.  She was so proud of the fact that I can speak.  She is amazed that I am able to say what I want.  She envies that I have learned to stand up for myself.  And others.

That, I'll take.

It's been hard work, especially in the issues with my dad.  Learning to stand up to him has been more difficult than I can express.  Learning to speak when I know others may not want to hear what I have to say has been tough.  Even now, when I do it so much more, it's still hard.

But I believe speaking and courage are gifts I have.  I believe it is my duty to use these gifts for the benefit of others.  That is why I have fought so hard to develop them.  I am still better at using my voice through writing, through the safety of my own home, but I am getting better at opening my mouth and speaking when it matters.  And when it's wise.  (Teasing a snake isn't brave; it's foolish.)

Today I feel compelled to use my voice to share some truths.  It's much easier to say I believe than to say I know.  Today I must share some things I know.

I know that you are important.  I know that your tiny presence in this world matters.  I know that you affect more than you know.  I know that you are worth many times more than you believe you are.  I know that you deserve a good life.  I know that the hard times in your life strengthen you, even when you don't see it.  I know that you have a good work to do.

I know that I matter.  I know that speaking truth matters.  I know that I have strengths and wisdom I am unaware of.  I know that allowing God to work through me makes the best use of these strengths and wisdom.

I know there is a God.  I know that He is our Father.  I know it as surely as I know that I breathe.  As clearly as I feel air enter and leave my lungs, I feel His presence in my life.  I have two-way conversations with God.  I speak.  I listen.  He speaks.  He listens.  He strengthens me that I may continue to do hard things.

I know being kind matters.  I know our hearts are happier when we exercise them more, when we love openly.  I know strengthening others strengthens me.  I know lifting others lifts me.

I know God is aware of me.  I know He loves me.  I know He is aware of and loves you, too.  I know He communicates with us even when we don't hear Him.  I know it's worth it to keep trying to hear Him.

I know He is there in the darkness.  I know He would take away all our pain and suffering and trials if that were best for us.  I know He allows our hard times because, like a loving parent watching a child receive an inoculation, He knows more than us and knows what will help us combat all that life has in store.

I know that whether you agree with me or not you are so important.  I know you have the ability to change the world.  I know your voice matters.

Please don't think this was easy for me.  It's difficult to testify.  I have been ridiculed and punished for my beliefs many times in my life, often by people I loved.  But the fact that it's hard will not stop me from speaking.  Because it matters.

Why I Asked for Support

A few days ago I wrote a post explaining that I was in a dark and difficult place and asking for prayers and happy thoughts in my behalf.  I am so grateful to everyone who responded and all those who offered prayers, happy thoughts, positive energy, and love.  I believe greatly in the power of all of these.  I have felt lifted in so many ways.  While I do not believe I am out of the woods just yet, I am improved.

It was a rough month.  Two back to back episodes of PTSD followed by a major depression, all while experiencing a new health struggle.  It was a seriously dark place I was in.  And, as is the nature of depression, it was a little too comfortable.

But there was a tickling in the back of my mind that said, "It doesn't have to be this way.  You can be happy.  You like being happy."  All of those things are difficult to remember when I'm in that dark place.

And asking for help was hard.  I grew up in a home where we were taught fierce independence.  We help others.  We don't need help.  We don't discuss our problems with others.  We don't complain.  We suck it up and get back to work.  We push through it.  I lived that way for many years.

That way is a lie!  I want to scream it from the rooftops.  That is not what this life is meant to be!  In our society, independence is praised and revered.  But independence is only a stepping stone.  True mental health is interdependence.  This needs to be said more.  This needs to be taught in our schools and homes and churches.  True mental health (and spiritual health) is interdependence.  Interdependence means we do everything for ourselves that we possibly can and ask for help when we need it.  It means we know enough to see when we're over our heads or in unfamiliar territory.  And we ask for help for those things we can't do for ourselves.

As a religious person, I believe that independence is a beautiful lie to keep us from relying on God and turning to each other.  A lie focused on the importance of self.  I believe we are meant to be interdependent with our fellow man AND with God, not just one or the other.

One strong person can do a lot.  Many strong people, interconnected, can change the world!  No wonder the powers of evil want to stop it.

Those are the underlying reasons I asked for help.  Mostly it was because I was in such a bad way and needed to feel the strength of others.  I needed to not feel so alone.  I needed to see the goodness of the incredible people in my life (including my cyber-life).

And it was because I want to practice what I preach.  I want to know when my friends and family are struggling.  I want to be a support to them.  I want to pray for them.  I want to reach out to them.  I want to tell them I love them when they need it the most.  I want to hurt with them.  I want to cry for them.  And I can't do any of those things if I don't know they are not okay.

It would be hypocritical of me to ask others to tell me when their world is dark if I am not willing to do the same.

My world is brighter today.  My burden is lighter.  Because of the light and strength offered freely by others.  Thank you so much for that.  And thank you to those who open their hearts and share with me when they aren't okay.  You are brave and strong and I am better for the time we have together.

Seeing in the Dark

A couple of weeks ago my PTSD was triggered.  Enough that it was making my life difficult.  I was putting on a good front, but inside I was in turmoil.  There was intense fear, uncertainty, lack of direction, inability to communicate, and an overwhelming desire to hide.  My mind was obsessed with thoughts of an experience from my past.  It was trying to process things that still aren't clear.  And I was in a state of panic that I couldn't get out of.

I spent a couple of days in this state.  I tried to relax my mind and focus on other things.  I tried to distract myself out of it.  I tried various calming techniques, including meds.  But it wouldn't go away.

And in the back of my mind I kept thinking, "Maybe you should try to see this."

My word for the year is see.  While I did my best to define it in that post, there is more to it than I was able to say.  There is an element that can't be explained but is understood in my heart.

Finally, on the third day out, I decided I was ready to try.  But I didn't really know how.  When I'm trying to see a positive moment I try to be more present.  More in the moment so I can see and feel the things I was missing that I want to experience.

But the memory that triggered me was something I didn't want to be more present in.  It was something I didn't want to experience more.  How could I see it?

When I know I'm headed in the right direction but am not sure how to proceed, I pray.  I ask Him to help me see the next step.  Then, whether I understand or not, I take that next step.  It's worked beautifully for me many times throughout my life.  But I only ask if I am really willing to take the next step no matter what it is.  That's why it took me three days.  I wasn't ready until then.

This is a deep and powerful experience for me.  I will try to share it in a way that is honest but also respects the sanctity I feel about it.

I knelt in prayer and conversed with God.  I told Him I was afraid but was willing to see and know what I needed to in order to heal.  I opened my heart in willingness to learn more and take whatever step was directed.  I expressed my fear.  He expressed His love.

And I saw that past experience with new eyes.  With new understanding.  It only took a few moments with God to find the peace I'd longed for. 

It doesn't always work this way.  Often my prayers are one-way communication, usually due to my rushing and being disconnected.  Sometimes prayer after prayer seems to go unanswered.  Or I don't see the answer.  But other times I open my heart enough that we are truly together in conversation.  I pour out my heart and then He fills it.  This was one of those moments.

I was filled with calm.  I knew I was on the right path.  And he told me something I needed to hear, "Your role is so important."

I think that will get me through just about anything.

A Moment in Church

As I've begun this year trying to see more divinely, I've found that it has very little to do with my eyes and a lot to do with my heart.  In fact, with my whole soul.  I don't know why there isn't a name to describe what it means to feel something with your whole soul.  I know I'm not the only one who's felt it.  There should be a name for it.

Yesterday, as I sat in the chapel and the meeting began, I remembered to see.  I paused a moment and had an inward conversation with God and asked Him to help me see these people around me the way He sees them.  I opened my heart.  And He began to open my soul.  Just a tiny bit.  And I was flooded.  Intense and overwhelming love doesn't begin to describe what I felt in that tiny peek.  It was so intense that I shut my heart.  I had instantly started to cry and knew this was just a taste.  I wasn't ready for the display I might cause if I kept my heart open and allowed Him to continue pouring.

God, being who He is, respected that.  He found another way to teach me.  To give me a bit of what I was yearning for but I was ready to handle.  As the meeting progressed I was filled with the love the people in the room have for each other.

I am Mormon.  We don't search until we find a congregation that fits us.  Our church is divided into wards (congregations) based on boundaries.  Areas are divided up and we are assigned to a ward.  This means we go to church with our neighbors.  As I've written before, my neighborhood is amazing!  I wish I could explain it in a way that you could understand.  Someone who has moved away read that post and remarked that she missed our neighborhood because it was as close to Mayberry as she'd known.  That's a pretty good comparison.

The thing is, we are a family.  Like any family there are some people who don't always get along.  There are a few black sheep.  But mostly, we love and take care of each other.

And yesterday I felt that love in a way I never have before.  Instead of just feeling love for them, I felt everyone's love for each other.  All of them.  All at the same time.

In the Mormon church, the first Sunday of the month is Fast Sunday.  We are encouraged to prayerfully skip two meals in an effort to draw closer to God and donate what those meals would have cost to the ward.  This money is then used to help our neighbors as deemed appropriate by our bishop (pastor).  And on Fast Sunday we have testimony meeting.  Instead of our regular worship service where two or three members of our ward or stake (a group of wards) delivers a talk they have studied and prepared for, the pulpit is open to everyone.  It is a time when anyone from the congregation can get up and share their testimony with us.  Share what's in their hearts.

There were some beautiful testimonies shared.  But more than that, there was so much love.  It was the brave woman who talked about her recently broken home and asked for help.  She asked that we bear testimony to her children to strengthen them.  It was the woman who followed after her saying that if we'd been asked to give food to her family we wouldn't have hesitated; she asked that we not hesitate on this.  Several who testified pledged to support her and testify to her children.  It was the parents who bore testimony directly to their children so they would know their parents believe.  It was the awe mentioned by many as a young man we've all watch grow up passed the sacrament for the first time.  The love and pride we felt for him and his parents.  It was my dear friend who talked about living far from her family and her husband's family and reminded us that we are her family.  It was the dear sweet little six-year old girl who stood and testified that prayer is good and it will help us and make us happy.  And so much more.

I cried and cried.  The love my neighbors feel for each other is almost always evident.  We are a tight group.  But this day.  This day it was more.  It was palpable.  It filled the room.  My soul was swimming in it.  And God said, "It's kind of like that only better."

One day I hope to be able to let Him teach me the whole lesson.  For now, I'm grateful for the glimpse.

My Collapse-in-the-Shower Moment

I've been putting off writing this post.  I'm anxious about it.  I worry I won't capture this important experience properly.  That you won't understand.  And I'm scared to find those feelings again, to be in that moment of intense pain and fear so I can write it.  But I must.  It needs to be told.

Seven years ago my life was very different.  I was working.  A lot.  My kids were younger (7, 8, 10, 12, 14) and involved in many activities.  My husband and I were in therapy.  I was just going through life, trying to stay afloat.  My husband finally saw that he was abusive and was trying to change.  He was questioning the church and trying to decide if he believed in God.  I was learning how to set boundaries and choose for myself.  I was trying to figure out who I was.  Who I truly was and who I wanted to be.

And then I got a headache.

I'd had headaches before.  Bad headaches.  Headaches that lasted for days.  A headache that made me go blind.  And headaches that weren't severe but just made life hard.  Headaches were nothing new.

So when I got this headache I figured it would be like the others.  I would wait it out, treat it with Excedrin, and eventually it would go away.  But it didn't.  Some days it was so bad I couldn't work.  Some days my vision and dizziness were so bad someone else had to drive me home from work.  Some days it was more subtle and I could go on.  But it was always there.

After a few weeks, my husband started to think I was faking.  He even said so.  No one has a headache that long.  You're just using it as an excuse so I have to do everything.  I'm so sick of this stupid headache excuse.  Yeah, me too.

After I'd had it six weeks, two of my toes went numb.  This made me nervous.  When you get a headache that doesn't go away that long, there is a tiny tickling in your mind that says, "What if it's a brain tumor?"  That tickling got stronger.

I told my husband.  He freaked out and immediately made an appointment for me to see the doctor.

We went to the doctor together.  He did a regular work up.  Then he did a neurological screening.  Looking for signs that it might be a brain tumor.  He didn't find anything that pointed that direction, but he was bothered by how long I'd had it and the numbness in my toes.  He talked to me about migraines and said that's what he thought it was; they can cause numbness, too.  He gave me some meds to try and said if it didn't break in a week I needed to come back.  After this appointment Bill said, "At least I know you're not faking."

It didn't break.  I went back.  He repeated the neurological screening.  He still didn't find anything, but he was concerned.  He suggested we do an MRI. 

By this point I was getting nervous.  My headache should have broken by now.  I'd never had a headache like this.  What if this is for real?  What if it's a tumor?

We couldn't get in for the MRI for a few days.  Waiting for that was so hard.  And that's when it happened.

It was the night before my MRI.  I was taking a shower so I'd be all ready in the morning.  And all the walls I'd been putting up to protect myself and my family from the fear came crashing down.  What if it is a tumor?  What if it isn't something that can be fixed?  What if I die?  What about my children?  What will happen to my children?  Although he was finally aware of being abusive, my husband was still mean a lot of the time.  He was learning to be more kind, but his natural tendency was still to strike out when he was stressed or angry.  What would happen if I wasn't there to protect my children?  If I died, they would be alone with him.  Who would protect them?  And I knew he no longer believed in God or going to church.  How would my children remain close to God?  How would they be taught all they needed to know without the gospel in their lives?  How would they know how precious they were to God and how powerful they were and what they should do if I wasn't there to teach them?  I was living with a man who'd made our lives hell for so many years.  These children were his.  I didn't trust him alone with them.  How could I go away and leave them to him?  This is too much for them.  How can they go on without me?  He would put the older ones in charge, make them assume many of my duties.  They would no longer be able to be children.  This isn't fair to them.  It's too much.  If I'm not here to guide their lives, they could become lost.  My death would push my husband to a very dark place; what if he takes it out on the children?  What if he goes into a depression again?  How will they deal with it without me?  How will they get through it?  Who will take care of my children?  Who will love them?  Who will make sure they know they are God's children?

The weight of all of this overwhelmed me.  I crumpled to the floor of the shower in a ball.  Hugging my knees.  Rocking.  Sobbing.  In so much emotional anguish.  In so much pain for my children.

I began to pray.  I wanted to beg to be spared, for my children.  I wanted to plead for my life.  But that wasn't the prayer that came to my heart.  I knew the prayer I needed to offer.  And it was the hardest prayer in my life.  I couldn't do it.  I couldn't say it.  I knew I needed to, but I just couldn't.  The wrestle in my mind and heart was great.  I fought with all I had.  Until I could finally say it.  And mean it.

"Please.  I want to live.  I want to raise my children.  I want to protect them.  I want to love them through the difficulties of life.  Please.  But . . . thy will be done.  If it is not to be, if I am not to live, I know that they are thy children.  I trust that thou wilt love them and protect them.  I know you want the world for them, too.  I know you love them in a way I can't even understand.  As much as I love them and want to stay, I trust thy will."

Meaning it was so important.  In that moment, I fully surrendered my will to God in a way I never had before.  I understood that all would be well even if I weren't to live.  I understood, more than I ever had before, that He watches over and cares.

There was still some fear of what would come.  But there was also an underlying peace.  A knowledge that my children wouldn't be alone.  An understanding that if I couldn't be there, He would bring others into their lives who would meet those needs.  He loves them.  He watches over them.  They are His.

And to this day, that is a knowledge that gets me through.

**********

Update:  My husband went to therapy for a long time.  He's doing much better.  He still slips occasionally, but we both know how to handle it in healthier ways.  There is no tumor.  They still have no answer for my headache, but all tests indicate it isn't life-threatening.  Yes, I still have it.