Steady

It's been six years since I did a New Year's resolution. It was my first new year as a married woman, and together my husband and I vowed to brush our teeth more often. It was the silliest of promises. I had been considering it lightly until I found electric toothbrushes on clearance a few days before January 1st, and then I was sure. It was a sign. 

I had never really been enthusiastic about resolutions before that, and haven't been since. Until now.

A few days ago on Instagram I revealed my resolutions. Essentially, I want to respect the artistic gifts God has given me by honing my craft and expanding my creative universe. I'm going to buy higher quality supplies and I'm going to attempt to "sell my wares" at an art/craft show. 

I didn't hesitate. But I did overanalyze it after it was posted. Had I been too easy on myself? Shouldn't a resolution be something that takes hard work and can change your life? And then, of course, I realized that to one person it might be easy to simply buy more expensive supplies or sell products, but to me it's part of a larger challenge.

So I decided to join another bandwagon--I chose a word for my year.

It's almost ludicrous that I haven't done this in prior years. I love words so much and yet I've never taken the time to choose one to cling to for an entire 365-day-period. Perhaps it's because I love a lot of words and so choosing just one is a challenge all by itself.

But I did it. And I chose the word "steady."

It's not fancy. I could have chosen something bold and worthy of a social media following like "illuminate" or "cultivation" or "unveiled." But I don't want to be, do, or have... any of those words.

I want to be steady.

There were mountains of synonyms which also deserved some attention before I made a final decision. But when it came down to the wire, I already knew I was faithful and loyal and responsible. And I don't want to be unchanging, or immovable, or simply dependable. And I thought about choosing "steadfast" instead of "steady," but the truth is that steadfastness is something that mainly benefits other people. It doesn't necessarily benefit me or change me. 

Being steady is something I've wanted but haven't had the words for, until now. A little over two years ago I began the journey of being medicated for my anxiety and depression, and up until that point the thought of being steady wasn't even on the horizon for me. A close friend once told me, "I like the way you carry yourself. You're so steady." And it didn't feel true at the time, but it haunted me...

I might appear steady. I might "carry myself" steadily. I give the illusion that I am certain about where I'm going or what I'm doing. Other people saw me as steady and that was good for them, but it wasn't very good for me because it wasn't real for me.

I don't want to just carry myself steadily. I don't want it to just be visible to others. 

I want to feel it on the inside too!

Attaching myself to this word, this feeling, hasn't taken very much time. I'm a woman of words, and once I like a word I don't soon forget it. I chose Merriam-Webster's first definition: 

"Direct or sure in movement."

This gives me a little bit of freedom. I don't have to be immovable or unchanging. I get to continue in the parts of myself that I love, and that other people love--the fact that I adapt to new situations quickly and don't struggle too much with transitions. It also gives me a new sense of purpose, that if I do move, if I am changing, it must be intentional. I'm going to try to cast off my tendency to be reactionary or impulsive, which comes from a place of anxiety or fear. I'm going to move with certainty. With direction. I'm going to be sure.

And so there you have it. My goals for the year. My word for the year.

I can't promise to write here more often, but I'm positive I'll be back to National Poetry Month in April. Some things never change. ;)

Happy New Year, ya'll. 

A Second Unapology

During the past year I have had some incredibly "interesting" responses to my public thoughts on having depression and anxiety. Most of the responses are positive--and I'll be brave and say that most of the people who respond believe their response is positive.

People really, really, really enjoy giving unsolicited advice. Have I talked about this before? I mean, I thought I had. Except, after doing a little research, I know I haven't, because the world also responds SO TERRIBLY when I say it out loud. I have written at least three posts about advice and never published them simply because the backlash would be ridiculous.

I did, in fact, go back to one of those posts and try to edit it to be tactful and gracious, but I am seriously no longer feeling tactful or gracious about this. 

And.... I'm not apologizing anymore. ;) Y'all are grown ups now, you can handle it.

So I'll start by saying a few important things to remember:

There is a lot of information floating around about mental illness, and how it affects different people, and how you can best support them. In spite of this veritable library of informative articles, books, etc. on the subject, people (and by people I mean you, and me, and everyone in between) still have some misconceptions about mental illness and how to approach it. What I'm going to write today will address both of these issues in addition to how you can properly/appropriately offer love and support to your friends with any sort of mental illness.

You might find reading this tedious, but that's only because most of what you read about this issue is objective and non-specific. It deals with the general idea of mental illness and doesn't pertain to anyone you actually know. There's nothing wrong with general information, but in order to really be supportive you have to understand that everyone needs something different--additionally, you also have to overcome your own misconceptions about mental illness in your own special way.

The most common misconception I encounter is that any mental illness is voluntary. Uneducated individuals often believe that if a mentally ill person would only do "_________" or stop doing "______" they would surely be healed from their ailment(s.) The phrases "happiness is a choice" and "you're just making yourself anxious/depressed" are frequently heard, and are about as helpful as giving a baby a wristwatch to aid in the potty training process.

But to really hit the nail on the head I'm going to tell you exactly what people have told ME, specifically, in response to my mental illness.

"Have you tried losing weight?"
"You probably just don't drink enough water."
"You don't exercise enough."
"You need to read your Bible more."
"I have this great health product you should try!"
"Well, it could always be worse. Count your blessings."

And here is my response to that load of crap.

I have struggled with depression for more than half of my life, and with anxiety for probably my entire life without being aware of it. It has been an ongoing issue, regardless of my body size, regardless of the money in my bank account, regardless of how many hours of exercise I get each week, regardless of the amount of Bible verses I read or gallons of water I consume.  I am an avid lover of vegetables and fruits. I grew up eating homemade food and home-grown produce. I have taken a daily multivitamin (or 2, or 5) most of my adult life. I have a membership to a gym and both of my jobs require a great deal of prayer AND physical activity. I'm have an extremely active church life and my spiritual health is quite stable. I have done all these things, I DO all these things, and anxiety and depression are still something I have, they are still something I deal with. It is present in good times and bad.

So, no. I would not like to try your expensive and unnecessary health product.

No, I do not want to read the article you sent to me about becoming a raw foodist.

No, going to an extra prayer meeting is not the answer.

Getting a different translation of my Bible is not the answer.

Going on a mission trip to a third-world country is not the answer.

Eating more kale, doing a juice cleanse, or practicing yoga is not the answer.

But most importantly, taking your unsolicited advice is not the answer.*

I'm not sure when it started, but at some point we decided, culturally, that offering advice to someone is the best way to help them, no matter what the circumstances. If they don't ask for advice, it doesn't matter--give it to them anyways! I could go into all the different reasons it's harmful to give unsolicited advice, but I'll let ya'll google it. People hate unsolicited advice. I promise.

Personally, I hate it for a lot of reasons, but I'll give you the most important one.

I must learn how to ask for help when I need it.

I must, at all costs, try something myself. I must fail, and try again, and fail, and try again. It's how I learn. (I'll tell you a secret--it's how we all learn.) It's what I need. I need to figure things out for myself, but I also need to know when enough is enough, to know when to let go of my pride and say, "Help!" I need you to let me ask you for help, instead of allowing you to force it upon me before I'm ready for it.

And I know it's hard not to give people advice. Like I said, it's part of our culture. If we see someone struggling, we want to tell them how to fix it. But that's not your responsibility. Your answer is not their answer. Your solution is not their solution. What helps you will not help me.

And what helps me will not necessarily help you.

So let other people fail, if you can. Help them, if they accept. And instead of forcing your advice on them, offer them this phrase: "What kind of support do you need from me?"

The answers may surprise you.

*****A Brief Disclaimer*****

1.When I say "advice" I mean verbal advice about an idea/concept/situation. I am not talking about immediate, life-saving advice, such as: "Don't walk over there, it's full of poison ivy!" or "You should go to the hospital because you have a temperature of 105." So don't get ideas about playing devil's advocate and claiming that I don't want help ever in my life because I said "no advice."

2. I'm not saying that all advice is bad. The Bible tells us to "seek wise counsel" and I agree. However, not every situation merits the "seeking" of counsel and, in turn, not every situation merits the "giving" of counsel.

No More Apologies

I have tried.

Over and over, with and without coffee, in the sunshine or the nighttime, I have tried.

Come, lord Jesus,
I have tried.

And the feelings come out but the words stay put, like there's nothing I could possibly say that would be considered an honest expression, or that would do justice to what I'm trying to convey. But I'll give it my best shot.

A year ago I was the most depressed I have been in many years. It is something I've dealt with for fifteen years this September, the worst of which was 2007-2008, with last winter in a close second. I've been considering that time in my life frequently because I'm approaching an interesting milestone: an entire year of being on antidepressant medication. 

Things have been going well. I will spare you the details of an entire year, for the sake of clarity and to save time, but believe me when I say that things have been going well.

I started listening to Christmas music on December 1st, but in the heat of the moment I forgot about that one song. And of course I was driving, over that exact same bridge, and in a flood of cold air and warbling voices I remembered last year.

Last year. Now my heart is / Returned to sister winter / Now my heart is / As cold as ice. Those lyrics washed over me and through me for an entire week, an entire year ago, and I drove over that bridge day after day and fought the urge with every breath not to drive off the bridge. A year ago, listening to the same angsty lyrics on repeat somehow helped me not careen into oncoming traffic, while also reminding me how badly I wanted to do just that.

Sure, it all sounds so dramatic now. But I said it then, and I'll say it now. As a teenager, I knew I could be overreacting simply because I was young and my emotions were often overwhelming. As an adult, with every imaginable support available, those feelings cannot be dismissed so easily.

And last year, in the midst of all that, I apologized. I said I was sorry for my behavior, although not for my feelings, because I didn't know how to handle myself. I spent so many years fighting these neurotic impulses, charging against my heart's desires to seek revenge or manipulate people or feign politeness just to be liked. I fought, and I lost, over and over. I was a sorry loser.

But now I'm done apologizing.

You see, before, I was fighting myself. I was fighting my dark side, the part of me that is vindictive and bitter and false. This is a part of all of us, it's human nature, but it is not always so loud.

I am no longer fighting myself. The darkest part of me still exists but it does not drown out all the other voices. Rather than a fight between my dark desires or good intentions, I am simply fighting for the truth. I am capable of sitting still and asking myself if my feelings are based on reality or fiction. I am capable of praying calmly at any time of day instead of screaming and crying to God because every moment is one of desperation.

So I can apologize for myself beforehand. I was not trying my best to be my best, was not trying to honor God with my life, because I spent all of my energy simply trying to be. 

In the aftermath, in my medicated life, I don't apologize--at least, I don't apologize for trying.

Some days I wake up and everything is fine. I am motivated. I don't have a headache. I go to work or go to the store and buy groceries, and I wake up after the first alarm and leaving the house doesn't require any mental exertion.

Other days it's more difficult. My medication often causes horrific nightmares, insomnia, or can make it nearly impossible for me to wake up. Sometimes I experience all three of those in one day. The nightmares can be especially difficult to shake off because they are very realistic, and thus waking up becomes work. I have to force myself out of bed, I have to pray for a forgetful mind in order to move on with my day, and at that point I have already lost time and must prepare for the potential anxiety of being late for events and the mental sluggishness I'll have later and of course... my favorite thing... trying to figure out how I'll explain my behavior to people.

How does an adult woman explain that she's late for church because she had a nightmare?

This is often the hardest part. Some people already know. Some friends understand my code words, the phrases that indicate I have recently struggled and need time to recuperate. However, there are still many who apparently don't get it --people who are insensitive to depression, don't understand it, and would respond badly if I said I was struggling.

And the truth is, I shouldn't even feel like I need to explain it to everyone. If I'm late for something, I shouldn't have to explain last night's terrible nightmare just so you won't think I'm lazy. If I bail on a responsibility (a decision that I do not make without a lot of thought), I shouldn't be afraid someone will chastise me publicly, or compare me to others.

When you dismiss my fears, when you call my trials "inconveniences," when you tell me other people are capable and they "have it worse," you are dismissing my entire journey. You are dismissing an entire year of trying to be the best of myself and managing the symptoms and side effects and using all my coping mechanisms. You are saying my attempts don't matter.

But even when I fail, because I fail often, my attempts do matter. For all of the fights I have fought, it matters most now that I try and keep trying and that I don't give up.

I communicate my efforts so that you don't assume I am ignoring my responsibilities entirely. I ask for help when I need it (another milestone.) I try to be honest, so you'll know what's going on, so that despite my failure others still feel respected and appreciated. I control my impulses and try not to be reactionary, and I think long and hard about decisions that affect other people.

For instance, when I brought another Christmas album into the car, I wanted to throw out that other CD. I wanted to take the Sufjan Stevens mix and toss it out into the icy air. I wanted to drive over it and hear it crackle. I wanted to smash it on the bridge that tormented me.

However, I cannot give it that much power. I will not be satisfied by simply destroying the thing that kept my depression in perpetual motion. "Trying" means more than just attempting to ignore the places I have been, the person I have been. I have to replace the bad with good.

So... I'm done apologizing for trying.

I might say, "Sorry I'm late!" but I won't say, "Sorry, I had a bad morning," unless I feel like you're going to show me some compassion and listen to my story.

If I'm struggling, I may tell you, "I'm sorry, I can't meet tonight," but won't say, "I'm sorry for bailing tonight, I'm the worst friend ever." I will not be self-deprecating when I'm really just practicing good self-care.

And in the next few days I'll make a new Christmas CD and throw out the old one, because I've thought about it for a handful of days, and I won't apologize. I won't be sorry.

Not even a little bit.

Hunger & Surprise

There's an old saying--be careful what you wish for, because it might just come true. So far in life this has not held any relevance for me. Nothing I've ever wished for has ever come back to bite me. (Although, as a child enamored with WWII fiction I romanticized the idea of a country at war. For a little while I thought the "War on Terror" might have been my fault. Don't judge me, I was 13.) 

In any case, I have seldom feared wishing or hoping for something simply because I feared receiving that thing might be bad. I have, however, feared hoping or wishing for something because the prolonged absence of my desire would be altogether too painful. When you hunger for something so deeply it consumes all your thoughts, being denied can bring only destruction. 

This is one of the truest sorrows in life. We dare not to hope, for fear our hopes will be crushed. We stuff our hope in pockets and hide it in closets and bury it in the backyard where it can't be found. Or worse, we hold our hope in shaking palms and then we crush it ourselves, just so someone else won't do it first. 

And yet, that thing we hope for, that thing we hunger for, cannot always be neglected.

And all of this was on my mind 2 weeks ago when I went to see my obgyn. 

It was  a routine supposed to be a routine visit. It had been rescheduled once already, like most of my visits to the obgyn. When I arrived I was informed I would need to get into a paper gown and wait, but the doctor wasn't sure what procedure she was doing yet. I brushed off my confusion and got into the paper gown, only for the nurse to come back and tell me they needed to do another test first and so I got out of the paper gown and back into my clothes. 

When I returned, the nurse had moved my belongings to a different exam room and said cheerfully, "The doctor wants to redo the EMB so I have some paperwork for you to sign. Then you can get back into the gown."

I was halfway through my signature when I realized EMB meant endometrial biopsy. 

Let me be honest: I had been hoping I was pregnant, and that I just didn't know it yet. I want motherhood so desperately that I am willing to suffer through a surprise at the doctor's office. I hate surprises, I am terrible at surprises, but I would welcome such a wonderful surprise if it meant my heart's desire would be satisfied. 

But they had already done that test. I was not pregnant. I could not be pregnant if they were doing a biopsy--a biopsy I had not prepared for. Usually I would take some painkillers beforehand and plan something relaxing afterwards to distract me from the pain. None of that happened.

The doctor came in, discussed the risks involved, completed the procedure, and all the while I lay there feeling completely enraged as my hope slowly died. 

Still, while I had hungered and hoped for a surprise pregnancy, there was another part of me, a logical part of me, that wanted to know if the abnormal cells would return. It had been almost a year since my last biopsy and as I continue to not be pregnant I can't help but wonder if there's a recurring problem with me.

There isn't, at least not a definitive one. The results were all negative--a blessing, for sure!--but they give me no answers about my unexplained infertility. 

So I have been pondering deeply, as introverted nerds like myself often do, about my hope and my expectations and how the element of surprise is so conflicting for me. 

I have never reacted badly to a surprise. Yes, I was full of anger in the doctor's office, but I didn't show it. I could have said I wouldn't do it, I could have thrown a fit and ripped apart that stupid paper gown, but I didn't. I simply signed my name and put on the gown and tossed the paper towel blanket over my knees. I cooperated. I said I was fine. I didn't ask any questions. 

I believe my fear of surprise is not in the surprise itself, but that I will have to be dishonest in response to the surprise. Kind of like when someone gives you a terrible gift. "Oh, thank you, I love sweaters with embroidered geese!" What I really hate is not the surprise, but the politeness required of me afterwards. 

In light of this realization, I have been thinking about other situations in which I claimed to be afraid of surprises, afraid of not being prepared or not getting what I hope for, when in reality I am simply afraid of who I will be in the middle of that surprise. The best and most recent example I have is my women's huddle.

My church calls Bible studies/small groups "Huddles." I think it's an endearing and intimate title. It brings to mind images of friends huddling together around a fire, or huddling together for protection, or huddling in order to share a secret and then giggle quietly about it. It covers all the different aspects that I often found so absent in other Bible studies--it gives space for vulnerability and intimacy and true connection with others. 

However, I loved the name first and the experience second. I completely avoided the first huddle that was available to me. It was nearby, and people offered me rides, and I was even part of the group-text sent out each week, but I didn't go even once. I have a combination of good reasons for why I never went, but mostly it just didn't feel right. 

And then a few months ago a women's huddle was going through a transition period, and I was asked to join their group. 

This was a transformative moment for me, for several reasons. To begin, I have sought and hoped and hungered so long for a church like mine that the mere existence of Christian Neighbors Church is truly an answer to prayer. Second, I was keenly reminded that I had beloved friends in this church, and they wanted me.

But I was still my introverted self. I was still afraid of being surprised. I was still uncertain about who I would be in that setting, that intimate and huddled environment that emotionally seemed warm and inviting but caused me mental anxiety. As the first meeting approached my enthusiasm waned and fear had its way with me. What if I came across too strong? What if I said too much? What if I said too little? What if it was boring? What if the thing I hope for is denied and I am crushed by disappointment?

The day we finally met I had been fighting the urge to cancel completely. My personal experiences were that tainted, and therefore my fear of the surprise--or who I would be in the wake of the surprise--was that much stronger. 

And then I didn't cancel. And then we met. And then we spent an evening devouring each other's words and stories. There was no awkwardness. There was no fear. I was not anxious, and I was not polite, and I didn't say with insincerity, "Oooh, I had a great time!" 

The last several months of our meetings have been such a rich blessing in my life. As we grow closer to God and to each other through our conversations, I am continually in awe. I believed I was hoping for a non-awkward Bible study group, but what I was truly hoping and hunger for what a deep connection with other women.

In the same way that I believed I was only hoping for a surprise pregnancy, but the surprise I received was also something I needed.

I am reminded that sometimes what we hope for is a surprise. And sometimes the surprise is what satisfies our hunger. 

NPM 2016: Day 27 {The Reward}

The Reward
April 25, 2016

Resist the temptation
to satisfy your desire
with fires that die
and colors that fade
and stones
which will not gleam
as time marches.

Prepare your body
to suffer
and your soul
to lay down in the road
because it may be
death
or it may be
rest
but you don't know what's coming.

And there may be daylight
when you feel it in your bones
or a final dusk
in the moment you arrive
but there is an end.

So prepare the inside
like an empty vessel
to be filled
and prepare the outside
like a door to welcome in
that calling night
or beckoning day
whichever mercy gives
as the reward.

A New Season

I've been absent from the blog for over three months, so it's safe to say a new post is long overdue. Of course, you're all in luck, because it's almost my favorite month of the year: April! And we all know what that means. (In case you've forgotten, April is National Poetry Month, which equals a post/poem for every single day.)

Ahem.

Before I prepare you all for the wonder and joy of NPM, I should give some  updates, since my last post was somber--for good reason--and slightly ominous. I re-read it very briefly, to review my state of mind at the time, and couldn't get through it because things have certainly changed since then.

I'm not the first person on the internet to divulge details about depression and anxiety. I know that. I didn't expect to get an onslaught of sympathetic notes or anything. But part of the tragedy of depression is that we so often, for a multitude of reasons, feel as if our depressed state is something to be hidden or dismissed. I have been among those secretive people, deciding that I am fine and behaving as if I am fine to the best of my ability until I simply can't handle it anymore. I chose to express myself in a blog because it seemed to be the most honest way of admitting I needed assistance and also explaining why I had to make some difficult choices.

In any case, it has been an interesting three months.

For the first time since I was 19 I started an antidepressant. The first round was fascinating, especially the first week. I considered blogging the first week to talk about my extreme exhaustion due to the medication and wanted desperately to talk about my vivid dreams. My favorite side effect is definitely the vivid dreams. I've written previously about how realistic my dreams are, but these are on a whole new plane of fantasy. Usually I'm able to tell myself while dreaming if something is real or not--for instance, if something really terrible has happened or I'm scared, I can calm myself down and convince myself that it's not real and eventually I will wake up. But not anymore. Unicorns? Totally real in my dreams. Rainbows? They actually taste delicious. And don't get me started on the people I've dreamed about. Basically, I have no way to differentiate between subconscious concepts or reality. 

Other than the dreams, the exhaustion, and the incessant jaw-breaking yawns, it has ultimately been a successful experience. 

I can't describe to you the joy of being physically calm and mentally calm at the same time. Don't get me wrong, there are still plenty of stressful things in my life and moments filled with anxiety, but they no longer overwhelm my body and brain. I am completely astounded that I have not had any serious side effects and am thankful that this treatment is actually available to me.

Due to this blessing, as strange as it may be to call it a blessing, I have felt more like myself than I have in years. I have been painting a lot. (Sidenote: I redid the blog's design, and the background is one of my fun watercolors!) I have been able to read and draw and develop relationships new and old. I have been able to focus on the good things and handle the bad things.

I'm not going to say I'm happy. Happiness is a temporary, insignificant feeling. My goal is not to be happy. My goal is the ability to find contentment in every circumstance.

Of course, sometimes that circumstance involves going to the beach... and feeling happy.

More later. The next time I write here, it will be a poem. The time after that, it will also be a poem. Because National Poetry Month is coming. So watch out. ;)

Tis the Season

At the end of every year there is a burning light, and throughout each month the distance from that light becomes less and less as we trundle towards it. When we reach the end, the world is dark--we have passed through sunrise, daylight, and starlit nights, and the flame is nearly gone. We blow it out or watch it fade just in time. Somewhere on the horizon someone strikes another match, another flame blazes into the darkness, and we start over again.

But for me, this year, I never seemed to get any nearer to the light. Despite how I anxiously scrambled toward its glow, it was snuffed out before I got a chance to reach it. When this happens, reaching the next light is rather impossible. It hasn't been lit. When this happens, there is a great deal of wandering in the dark without any guidance or sense of direction, and we may not even see the next light when it is lit because we get lost.

If this sounds familiar or resonates with you somehow, there's a chance you've experienced depression the same way I have.

I have written, albeit briefly, about my depression a handful of times on this blog. I prefer not to talk about it on this platform because in spite of the decreasing amount of stigma surrounding the issue, there are still individuals who are not "safe" people to tell. There is the person who once told my eighth grade English class in a reprimanding tone, "Happiness is a choice." In addition, there are still people who will respond to another's depression with comments like, "It could be worse," and to add to their blithe statements, will often give examples of people who have it worse.

In any case, this post is not written for those people.

This post is written, first of all, for the people like me: The people who get it, who have been there in the dark too. However, it's also for the people who may have stood back and been confused by my irregular temperament. It is for those who were shocked by aggressive words or ignorant statements, by my impulsive actions or dramatic reactions, or even periods of what looks like laziness. If I seemed overly sad about something you thought was insignificant, if I was so excited about something I appeared agitated and ill-composed, or if you ever thought that my behavior was out of character--this year, or any year--it is likely because of depression.

I am not going to apologize for my feelings. They were real to me, even if they weren't realistic. I am only going to apologize if my behavior caused pain, confusion, or distress of any kind. You don't need to let me know if I hurt or disappointed you; just know that I am sorry, and I hope you will forgive me.

I have been able to cope with this, most days. I have a fairly reliable support system and people who will talk me through things. Sometimes the support system is there before I do something regrettable, but sometimes they are simply there for me in the backlash. And for the last several years I have not been overwhelmed by the depression that was so terribly consuming during high school and the year after. I felt relatively stable until this year, and following my surgery this February I realized that things were slipping out of place. I had a stressful spring and summer, and over the fall months it worsened until it suddenly came to a peak and I realized that for the first time in my life...

...this is real, and even with the proper support system in place, it is not going away. 

As a teenager the tumultuous experience of depression could have been blamed on an awful boyfriend or ridiculous hormones. As an adult I am distinctly aware that this is not how things should be. I have walked toward the light at the end of this year and watched it go out, and I know I do not deserve to wander aimlessly through the darkness.

Happiness is not a choice. Happiness is not even the goal. Happiness is a temporary, fleeting thing--and it is not the thing I want.

Yes, other people have it "worse," but that does not mean anyone has the right to dismiss my pain or decide that I am the antagonist in my own story.

I have taken steps to find healing and new ways to manage my depression, but it will be an extremely difficult first week. (My doctor essentially told me I should expect to feel varying degrees of awful.) That being said, I do not have time for those who refuse to respect the severity of this issue, or for those who won't acknowledge how imperative it is that I receive the support for which I am asking.

So I am taking a break this week.  From the people and situations which have hurt me, knowingly or not. From the people who don't understand. From the mindless, desensitized, media-driven world.

From Sunday, December 13th through Saturday December 19th I will not be on Facebook. You can feel free to text or call me (only non-advice conversations), and I will do my best to respond to messages on Facebook. There's a chance I will use Instagram and I might be present here on the blog (both automatically send updates to FB) but I haven't decided yet. Mostly I just want to avoid the senseless scrolling and the following fogginess.

And there you have it. Even writing this made me anxious... I worry that expressing my feelings and being vulnerable here will somehow have terrible consequences. Anyways. Thanks for taking the time to read this. I would appreciate any prayers you can offer, and encouraging notes/messages/calls/etc. are definitely accepted. As I said before, I'll do my best to respond if I'm feeling up to the task. Hopefully I'll be back in a week with a new light. :)


-K

As We Wait

This was one of those "middle"-ing weeks, a seven-day stretch of less important things between more pressing matters. Last week was brimming with birthday activities for Joey, including a Star Wars marathon and a liquid cheese debacle (his idea, not mine) for the birthday nachos. And next week I have "the doctor's appointment."

I'll admit, it's been a strange and overwhelming week of waiting. I am comforted by long phone conversations and snuggles with my dog. I took one day and went into town while the husband worked so that I could have coffee with friends and browse some craft stores. I have rested my mind with documentaries, a piano app on my phone, and writing and writing and writing. I have done all this, and other meaningless things I can't recall or mention, in order to prepare and try to keep myself calm for the appointment on Tuesday.

But among all those things, attempts to find some sort of peace or at least anxiety-free moments, I found these videos.

The first one includes stories from three women who discovered, at varying stages in life and for various reasons, that they weren't able to have children. I resonated with all three of their stories, the mystery of not knowing why, the struggle of feeling like you can't offer to the world what you want to, and the decision to tell the world.

It's not easy to just come out and say it. I spent nearly a decade thinking I had PCOS, and I didn't say anything most of the time because I was ashamed. I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner, because I feel like it would have been even more of a victory when I finally realized I didn't have it.

In the second video a woman describes her experience with having a miscarriage. I have never been pregnant (yet!), nor have I had a miscarriage, but she also explained that she had a D&C (dilation & curettage). This is the same procedure I had during surgery back in February, and what happened to her only happens to about 1 in 500 women. However, the perspective is helpful--now you know what I was up against. The scarring from a mistake like that (you know, puncturing through someone's body) can lead to infertility.

While both videos were heartbreaking in their own right, and watching them could have led towards a depressed mindset, they were truly more beneficial than harmful. As I prepare for yet another uncomfortable and painful procedure next Tuesday, it is so good... so good to know that there are other people, other woman, with stories like mine.

It seems so odd that the appointment is finally here, and I still feel as if there is not enough time before it happens. It was the beginning of March when I went to see my oncologist for the first time, when I first started the drugs, when I stood in the waiting room and stared in befuddlement at the receptionist who said, "You need an appointment three months from now? Okay, let's see... July 28th." She handed me the little reminder card and I thought, I know I'm an English nerd and not a math genius, but this is almost five months away.

FYI, I just paused my writing to play with bubble wrap. This sort of thing also helps.

Often life hands us situations where we don't know what to expect. However, I find that those situations usually involve a handful of possible outcomes, perhaps a whole list of options for things that may or may not happen. Right now I don't have a handful of outcomes. I have two. I just don't know what they'll lead to.

They're going to do a biopsy. (When I say "a" biopsy, I really mean it's a singular experience, because there are actually about 6 biopsies taken.) I don't need to tell you I'm not looking forward to it, but I'll say it anyways. I'm really not looking forward to it. Once it's done, I'll wait a few days for the results.

Outcome #1: All the cancerous cells are gone!

Outcome #2: The cancerous cells are still here!

There is nothing in my mind or body that knows how to move forward from either of those circumstances. I think I know what the doctor's want, if all the cancer is gone. They want to put me on birth control (barf) for a few months and "see how that works." I am not on board with that plan and if I can conjure the courage I will tell them, with all the fierce facial expressions I can come up with, that I want to skip the birth control and get straight to the fertility drugs, since that's our end goal anyways.

I'm all about efficiency, you know.

But if the cancerous cells are not gone, and I don't know why they wouldn't be, I have absolutely no clue as to what the next step is. More of the same drugs? Higher doses? Different drugs? Something scary, like chemo? Something terrifying, like a hysterectomy?

These aren't things you can prepare for. I can barely prepare myself for the biopsy, something I'm already very familiar with.

So it essentially feels, all the time, like I'm waiting for something in order to wait for the next thing.

I'm waiting for Tuesday so I can go to the doctor and wait in the lobby, then wait uncomfortably on the table with the stupid paper towel blanket, then wait for the procedure to be over, then wait for the doctor to shut up and leave, and then wait for the results. And heaven knows once I get the results I'll have to wait for another appointment to figure out what we'll do next.

And whatever we do next, I'll have to "wait and see" if it works. Or doesn't.

Waiting is hard. Sometimes it's the hardest part of life. Sometimes it's the only thing you can hold on to--I don't know much, except that I'm waiting. I don't have what I want, but I'll keep waiting until I do. And most of the time we wait because we don't have a choice, or because choosing to wait is the right thing to do, even if it's the most difficult.

And while I'm waiting, while we wait together and work long hours and agonize over what will happen, we still have hope. We hope for and imagine the joyful sound of that bursting heartbeat, a reluctant first cry, tiny hands grasping for us, a pair of enormous blue eyes. While we wait, we hope, we walk aimlessly through the baby section at Target and sometimes it makes us sad... and sometimes (like yesterday morning) I walk through, proudly and courageously touching tiny baby shoes and admiring innovative baby toys, because my hope is bigger than my fear.

These are so many hopes and dreams rolled into one and it is the thing we strive for, regardless of how implausible it might seem. I hope for this and ask for what I want. I could simply ask for health. I could be waiting just to "get better." I could hope that my body would be healed and never expect more.

I'm scared, but not so scared that I'll hope for the lesser things. I'm brave enough to know what I want, and to ask for it, to really beg for it, brave enough to hope for it... because it makes the waiting easier.

Imperative

Last week when I asked for prayer and sort of announced I was having surgery, I don't know what I expected. But I was overwhelmed with love and support, and it was incredible. The prayers for the pre-surgery issues were at least a success. It's scheduled for tomorrow, and I'm all ready to go. But getting to this point was like climbing a mountain while wearing roller skates--clumsy, and uncomfortable to watch OR experience, and felt like I was getting nowhere most of the time.

I did get here, and that, at least, is a blessing. But it was so difficult I actually feel compelled to retell the last several days.

Friday was when I called the nurse hotline to ask about the blood tests I would need to get done, and it wasn't until this Monday I was informed I wouldn't be getting them done until the day of surgery. While on the phone I said, "Oh, okay," and moved on. 

On Monday night I felt differently. On Monday night and then again on Tuesday morning, I remembered some important details. 1. My veins literally move around after a phlebotomist finds them. In order to compensate for my sneaky veins I drink approximately 60 oz. of water before I donate blood or have blood tests taken. 2. The times I have tried to donate blood/have blood tests while not hydrated have been horribly painful and I end up looking like someone beat me up because my arms are covered in bruises. 3. I am not allowed to drink or eating anything after midnight tonight, therefore. 4. Getting blood tests done tomorrow morning before surgery, while hungry and dehydrated, would be a terrible experience.

I had two anxiety attacks thinking about how awful it would be. I was scared. And angry. The nurse had also told me that, despite the hospital's letter explaining I would need the tests done a week prior to surgery, my doctor "is new to this hospital" and "we're just getting used to the way she does things." It seemed backwards and nonsensical. 

Tuesday afternoon the nurse called me back to confirm my medications and other details. It was then that I told her about my concerns, and she said I could call my doctor's office to change the time for the blood tests. I did, gladly! And I went to get them done today.

Of course, it couldn't be that easy. I drank my 60 oz. of water and felt great when I got to the lab. They didn't immediately mention I needed a urine test, so when I asked to go to the bathroom they let me go. A few minutes later my nurse read the entire chart and, YES, I did need a urine test. AND... they needed to take blood from both arms.

Wait, what?

Yeah, that's right. Both arms. I didn't ask them why because all the explanations they were already giving were WAY over my head. I was tired (because I'm also not allowed to take my vitamins for a week prior to surgery) so I just told them how difficult it would be to use both arms, but they could try.

So here I am. I have cotton ball/masking tape bandages on my both arms. I am exhausted (because no vitamins) and stressed (because I'm at work and trying to get everything ready for my absence) and really, really... excited.

When I was teaching 6th grade language arts we had long discussions about the different types of sentences--declarative, interrogative, imperative. They could never remember the last one because it didn't have a matching word. Declarative sentences declare things, interrogative sentences interrogate, but imperative sentences don't imper... or perat... or anything. So they just had to memorize the facts: if it's imperative, it has to happen. It's a confusing word but it is so important. 

And this feels the same way that word must have felt to those 12-year-olds... It's so confusing. And it's hard to remember the facts. There are all these other things that make sense, all these other things I can remember and wrap my head around. And this is baffling, the process is making me tired and cranky, but it has to happen. 

When it's over, I can't wait to find out if everything was successful. I can't wait to hear the results of all this exhausting work. I can't wait for what comes next, the following step in this very incredible life I have been given. 

Thirty Thanks, Day 24 & 25: Kids & The Bright Side

Yesterday was a lovely Monday. I was tired, and there was snow. Beautiful, beautiful snow. I bought a peppermint mocha/hot cocoa from a gas station on the way to work. When I got there I prepared for kindergarten, and then we made adorable Christmas ornaments for an hour.

I don't have a lot to say about it, because I've already discussed how I'm thankful for my job. But I am thankful for those kids. I'm thankful for their silliness, their giggles, their creativity, their willingness to try new things. Sometimes the most stressful days can turn around because a four-year-old likes your sparkly pipe-cleaner snowflake.

As for today... it was not a lovely Tuesday.

We're leaving for Wisconsin tomorrow to spend Thanksgiving at a friend's house, so a lot needed to be done today. We set the alarm for 10 but didn't wake up until 10:30 when the maintenance men knocked on our front door. I went to the door in my pajamas (yikes!) and made them wait a minute while we composed ourselves and Joey took the dog out. The men came in, replaced our smoke detector, and left.

We ate breakfast quickly, and watched a few minutes of 'Up' on the Disney channel. Then Joey went to do laundry and I started making a pie crust. I'm making apple pie to take with us... and will soon be preparing the apple filling. More on that later.

After he returned from the laundromat we got everything ready to go. Once again we stopped at the gas station for coffee. I went and taught kindergarten. I spent an hour and a half planning for next week. And then I intended on going to the craft store.

I did not make it to the craft store. No, instead I spent half an hour trying to start the car. When it started, I decided to go straight home instead. Then I remembered I hadn't eaten all day and my husband had suggested I get a pizza, so I stopped at Little Caesar's. I turned the car off, then tried to turn it on again (just in case) and spent another thirty minutes trying to start the car. I made the same mistake again, just trying to figure out if maybe I could start it without any trouble.

The best part is that the Little Caesar's is literally a five minute walk from home. I could have gone home, gotten warm, except that I couldn't leave the car in the parking lot all night, especially since my husband wouldn't be around to turn it on (because he knows how) until after midnight. So I called roadside service, and bought a pizza while waiting for the two truck. It didn't take long for him to arrive and only took thirty seconds to get home.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it took thirty seconds to drive me home. Watching him jerk and pull my car up onto the ramp was fascinating. Because of the problem we have with the car, it couldn't be put into neutral, so part of me feared the car would just break apart when he pulled it. It didn't.

Getting into the tow truck was also an adventure. I'm 5'3. And my legs were numb from sitting in the car for two hours in 21 degree weather.

I did finally make it home. I ate some cold pizza. I warmed my numb legs. It was a hard, stressful day. But in the end.... I am thankful for the bright side of this day. 

I'm thankful I didn't have to work all night, or sit at the computer and wait for my husband to get off of work. I'm thankful that I have a car, and that my husband knows how to start it. I'm thankful for car insurance. I'm thankful that we have free roadside service. I'm thankful for the really nice tow truck guy (although he was wearing way too much cologne.) I'm thankful for cheap pizza and my warm apartment and for the wonderful task of making an apple pie at midnight.

Thanks kids, and thanks bright side. (And thanks two-truck-man.) You're all incredible.

A Decade of Deciding

This is the third year in a row I've taken fall photos at the Wright Woods. I figure since I just wrote about fall I could write about this place, but I've got something else on my mind. It's the sort of thing that happens to me when I think about "how many years it's been" since something. 

And of course, I realized, 10 years ago I was 16 and it was fall and a whole mountain of memories crumble down and crush me. Right now I am this 26-year-old person dealing with all these un-26-year-old issues because when they happened, I didn't even know what they meant. Or if they meant anything at all.

Ten years ago, in 2004, I turned 16. I was a sophomore in high school. I had a "surprise" birthday party. I went on my second missions trip. That same year I decided my favorite color was green, and no longer orange. One of my best friends moved to Texas. I went on my first real date, with a guy who actually liked me. I was accused of being a lesbian by the new girl at school. I was a TA for the biology teacher. I met another best friend, and began a relationship based on a shared love of music and chocolate muffins. The new Relient K CD came out. I had one of the leads in the school play. My brother-in-the-NAVY (which was how I referred to him back then) got to come home for Christmas. I had really long hair. I started wearing make-up more often. I read a lot of Shakespeare. I wore a lot of scarves. Took a lot of photos with my parents' old Nikon. My dog was born, and was given to me the week before Christmas. The guy I was in-like with, the guy I went on my first real date with, actually became my boyfriend for a whole month and six days. (He then dumped me, the second time that year. We dated for 11 days when I was 15.) 

And it's been ten long years but some of these things still steal my breath from my lungs--as if the impact of them still shocks me, and I still can't believe it all happened. I still can't believe I was that person for a whole year and, believe it or not, it was the one year in high school I did not find myself faced with any serious depression. I had bad days, of course. But overall? Sixteen was incredible.

You must understand, however, that I had to decide every single day to make it incredible. I am never going to tell you that happiness is a choice. Aside from the fact that "happiness" is overrated and inconstant, depression is more complicated than choosing how to feel. But I somehow managed for an entire year to simply tuck it away. It takes a certain strength to take your sadness, your depression, your anxiety and fear, and put those things in your pocket while you go about your business. These days I'm pretty good at it, but I couldn't begin to explain how I do it currently and certainly couldn't tell you how I did it then when my brain wasn't even fully formed.

But I can tell you what it felt like.

When I made a new friend, I felt like I was "enough." Having finally reached a healthy level of confidence, I was able to reach out and introduce myself to people. If they didn't like me, I wasn't crushed--and that was difficult to do in a school with only 150-ish students. If something was truly upsetting, I knew I had people to talk to. 

When I chose a new favorite color, it was a near-physical manifestation of moving away from the angst of being 15. I still loved orange, and still do today, but at 15 it was like my armor. I had this hideous orange sweatshirt and imagined myself protected from the world by it. It both drew attention to me and protected me by setting me apart. At some point I must have realized I didn't need it. 

When I foolishly fell in love, my whole world did not tilt on its axis or cause me to stumble. He was a friend, who became a boyfriend, who became a friend again. It wouldn't be the last time we tried being "in love," but the time when I was 16, it didn't break me apart. When it was over, I was sad, but felt no real loss because I knew had better support and better friendships in other places.

Essentially, I was not overcome by my weaknesses, but rather I discovered my own strength and was not afraid to use it. I didn't fear it would leave me in a moment, or a day. I was not anxious about people seeing my strength and calling me aggressive, or arrogant, or obnoxious. I chose to show it off. I didn't need to hide under a baggy sweatshirt, or an ugly color. 

I have been many versions of myself in the past 10 years. And even though, when I see this girl, I ask myself, "Who is she? What makes her so strong?" I know I can still find her in me. I can decide to use her strength at any moment.

NPM: Practice

A poem written in the moment, for my husband, this 23rd day of March  April. National Poetry Month is quickly ending. I feel like it was swept away from me, and it seems like it lasted so much longer last year. I also believe I'm challenging myself with a higher quantity of "rhyming" poems this year, which is something I can be a little proud of. Joey probably won't read this poem (because he hardly ever reads my blog) but if you read it and you think it's awesome, go pester him on Facebook and tell him to read it. :)

Practice.

From the open bedroom door,

hum my husband's hands at his guitar,

deep and a little low,

soft and a little high,

and the sound drifts into me 

not too shallow, not too far.

My fingers at the keys here,

hands hard at work but heart hearing,

breathing deep and low,

feeling soft and high,

and patience grows within me

where anxiety left a clearing.

We will live from wall to wall,

hearth to hearth and heart to heart,

loving deep and singing low,

speaking soft and laughing high,

and time will weave inside us

until we can't be told apart.

NPM: The Light on the Wall

I can tell this room is not a square
because the ceiling tiles don't match up
and the overhead fan isn't centered,
and the fluorescent light doesn't have
enough air around its dangling fixtures.
I can tell that the roof is not flat
because these pipes slant downward
toward this strange space
where windows used to be and
in the winter the snow slides off
into frozen barricades around the building.
And I can tell that the light on the wall
is much like the anxiety in my body,
or perhaps what I wish it was like,
in that despite its label--FIRE--
the thing itself is not fire,
the light itself is not fire,
but in fact a simple indication
of some other fire's proximity.