When I look out the window, I see a gloomy haze of smog. The sun has barely attempted to rise; the nearby mountains may as well not exist. For several weeks, the pollution level has stayed unreasonably high. We stay inside with our air purifiers, spending as little time outside as possible.
In these cold, polluted days, the hazy darkness seems to have seeped inside me. When I look back, the hard times seem to rise up threateningly in memory. When I look ahead, I feel weary at all the life still to come. I am reluctant to call it by name, wishing to deny it a little longer. But I already know: it is the heaviness of depression stealing in again.
It is not a surprise; I know this illness will likely follow me through life in ebbs and flows. Right now I can manage. The dark lays heavy on me, but my mood lifts in the sunshine. I may dread going out, but I can still enjoy being around people when I do. My mind feels muddled by complex tasks like cooking, but cleaning still brings me peace and a sense of control.
With the darkness comes fear. Winter is always hard, but what if it just gets worse? What if I go down to the depths I have been in the past? My memories are of darkness and heaviness, the demons that chase me, my “thorn in the flesh.” The good times are hidden like our mountains; do they even exist?
It is hard to keep perspective when you cannot even trust your mind. I know the past included many good times, and the future will include many more. I cannot see the sun and the mountains through my window, but they are still there. The light and happiness are still there too, just temporarily hidden by the mental haze. This illness of the mind says the light does not exist, but I remember this: depression lies.
Of course I am ready for both the smog and the depression to lift, and it will. But while I am in this place, I realized that I don’t have to fear. I can face the memories of darkness. The burdens of the past did not crush me. I may have felt hopeless, but I kept on until I could find the hope again. In the moments (months, years) of my greatest weakness and weariness, God’s great strength carried me. Surely he bore my griefs and carried my sorrow.
I remember a time, just a couple of years ago, when restoration seemed impossible. What could ever pull me out of this hole? How could I ever be okay again? And yet, with time and intention, restoration happened. I entered a period of greater health and stability than I had known in years. I am still powerless to restore myself, but God is still powerful to work in me.
So I will not fear. I have walked this path before and come out the other side. I will keep walking through the haze until I reach the clear morning light.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Thursday, January 16, 2020
This Familiar Haze
Labels:
depression,
fear,
mental health,
mental illness,
restore,
Winter
Monday, December 31, 2018
One Word for 2018: Restore
I have never been into New Years Resolutions. In lieu of resolutions, a few years ago I jumped on the One Word bandwagon, where you choose one word you want to define the year. Some of my words have worked out great and ended up being a very meaningful theme of the year, like the Year of Grace. Other years did not turn out at all like I hoped.
I had a word in mind at the beginning of the year, but I didn’t ever fully commit. For one thing, we were in the middle of moving and transitioning back to the US for a year, and I had a few other things to think about. I also felt reluctant to commit myself to something that I wasn’t sure would happen. The word I flirted with was “restore,” but it was more of a hope than a resolution.
We spent this year in the US with the specific purpose of seeking healing and restoration, and we were committed to actively work toward this end. We attended a debriefing and renewal retreat that got us started in digging deeper into how we got to this place of depression, sickness, and burnout.
We saw dozens of doctors about various medical complaints, some we had put off for many years. I found a psychiatrist and began regular counseling, both a first in my years of depression and anxiety. Kevin had a break from the stresses of teaching and dealing with challenging school situations. In the fall I had a break from home schooling, and family provided a lot of help with the girls.
We were not passive in our quest for health. But at the beginning of the year, I had trouble believing that any of these things would actually make a difference. In the midst of depression, it is so hard to believe you CAN get better. When something is wrong inside of your mind, what can you do outside that would possibly heal you? We were so worn down after surviving for so long, we couldn’t see what doing well would look like.
It has been a slow process. I came back to the US this year thinking I was over depression, only to discover that wasn’t true at all. I reluctantly began to understand that depression will very likely always be a part of my life - hopefully something I will be able to manage well, but never something I can ignore.
I asked my psychiatrist if I would always need to be on antidepressants and she said, “Well, it depends. Do you want to go back to feeling like you did before?” Hmm. I really wanted to be a person who could stop taking medicine and be all better. It takes a mindset change to accept that for me, this is a chronic illness. But I also feel more hopeful. In understanding my depression I can give myself permission to get the help I need. I can open myself to the possibility – through medication and prioritizing mental health – that I really can do well.
This year we have enjoyed amazing physical health. Well, Kevin had a couple of hospitalizations. That was not amazing. He avoided the majority of the last couple of years of sickness, so this year was probably worse for him health-wise. And we had the usual sicknesses, but compared to the last few years it was pretty amazing. We had long stretches of time when everyone was healthy. Our bodies finally had the chance to recover enough to rebuild our immune systems. And nobody got pneumonia!!
We are not completely healthy and mentally stable and perfect, unfortunately. We have spent the last couple of weeks of the year with sickness and asthma flare-ups. Sickness is always discouraging, but it is part of life, not necessarily the start of another season of continual sickness. We are still striving to function better as a family.
However, looking back to where we were at the beginning of 2018, we have come a long way. Slowly, over time, we have built up the inner resources that were so depleted. We can look on the challenges and stresses that will face us in China and still want to return.
When I look toward 2019, I have no idea what it will be like. I’ve stopped trying to predict the future. We are setting plans in place for how to operate better in China. We are prepared to do what is in our power to stay healthy. We also know how much is outside of our control. It’s hard to live very long in China without adopting a somewhat fatalistic mindset.
I can’t see what the future holds, but I can look back and see where we have come. I picture Samuel, setting up an Ebeneezer stone and declaring, “Thus far the Lord has helped us.” We did as much as we could, but in the end the restoration was not in our hands. We can look back and see God was faithful to bring it about. We can walk into the new year with confidence, whatever it holds, knowing the Lord goes ahead of us and will continue his work of restorations.
I had a word in mind at the beginning of the year, but I didn’t ever fully commit. For one thing, we were in the middle of moving and transitioning back to the US for a year, and I had a few other things to think about. I also felt reluctant to commit myself to something that I wasn’t sure would happen. The word I flirted with was “restore,” but it was more of a hope than a resolution.
We spent this year in the US with the specific purpose of seeking healing and restoration, and we were committed to actively work toward this end. We attended a debriefing and renewal retreat that got us started in digging deeper into how we got to this place of depression, sickness, and burnout.
We saw dozens of doctors about various medical complaints, some we had put off for many years. I found a psychiatrist and began regular counseling, both a first in my years of depression and anxiety. Kevin had a break from the stresses of teaching and dealing with challenging school situations. In the fall I had a break from home schooling, and family provided a lot of help with the girls.
We were not passive in our quest for health. But at the beginning of the year, I had trouble believing that any of these things would actually make a difference. In the midst of depression, it is so hard to believe you CAN get better. When something is wrong inside of your mind, what can you do outside that would possibly heal you? We were so worn down after surviving for so long, we couldn’t see what doing well would look like.
It has been a slow process. I came back to the US this year thinking I was over depression, only to discover that wasn’t true at all. I reluctantly began to understand that depression will very likely always be a part of my life - hopefully something I will be able to manage well, but never something I can ignore.
I asked my psychiatrist if I would always need to be on antidepressants and she said, “Well, it depends. Do you want to go back to feeling like you did before?” Hmm. I really wanted to be a person who could stop taking medicine and be all better. It takes a mindset change to accept that for me, this is a chronic illness. But I also feel more hopeful. In understanding my depression I can give myself permission to get the help I need. I can open myself to the possibility – through medication and prioritizing mental health – that I really can do well.
This year we have enjoyed amazing physical health. Well, Kevin had a couple of hospitalizations. That was not amazing. He avoided the majority of the last couple of years of sickness, so this year was probably worse for him health-wise. And we had the usual sicknesses, but compared to the last few years it was pretty amazing. We had long stretches of time when everyone was healthy. Our bodies finally had the chance to recover enough to rebuild our immune systems. And nobody got pneumonia!!
We are not completely healthy and mentally stable and perfect, unfortunately. We have spent the last couple of weeks of the year with sickness and asthma flare-ups. Sickness is always discouraging, but it is part of life, not necessarily the start of another season of continual sickness. We are still striving to function better as a family.
However, looking back to where we were at the beginning of 2018, we have come a long way. Slowly, over time, we have built up the inner resources that were so depleted. We can look on the challenges and stresses that will face us in China and still want to return.
When I look toward 2019, I have no idea what it will be like. I’ve stopped trying to predict the future. We are setting plans in place for how to operate better in China. We are prepared to do what is in our power to stay healthy. We also know how much is outside of our control. It’s hard to live very long in China without adopting a somewhat fatalistic mindset.
I can’t see what the future holds, but I can look back and see where we have come. I picture Samuel, setting up an Ebeneezer stone and declaring, “Thus far the Lord has helped us.” We did as much as we could, but in the end the restoration was not in our hands. We can look back and see God was faithful to bring it about. We can walk into the new year with confidence, whatever it holds, knowing the Lord goes ahead of us and will continue his work of restorations.
Labels:
#OneWord365,
anxiety,
burnout,
depression,
health,
mental health,
One Word 2018,
restore
Wednesday, October 10, 2018
What does a depressed person look like?
“Everyone has a story or a struggle that will break your heart. And, if you’re really paying attention, most people have a story that will bring you to your knees.” - Brene Brown
You may look around and think, “I don’t know anyone who is depressed.” Probably most people you know look normal. Functional. Together.
We all want to look like we have it together. It might be okay to struggle because of some obvious and outward and universally understood circumstance, but not too deeply or too long. We should be able to get over it and move on. If everything is going okay in our lives, we should be okay.
Except that the outside doesn't always mirror the inside. Even when we are barely functioning, we seem to cling to this social code. We smile and keep it together because that is the appropriate way to behave around others. And when we can't manage to keep it together, we hide away so nobody knows we are falling apart.
So what does a depressed person look like?
You may look around and think, “I don’t know anyone who is depressed.” Probably most people you know look normal. Functional. Together.
We all want to look like we have it together. It might be okay to struggle because of some obvious and outward and universally understood circumstance, but not too deeply or too long. We should be able to get over it and move on. If everything is going okay in our lives, we should be okay.
Except that the outside doesn't always mirror the inside. Even when we are barely functioning, we seem to cling to this social code. We smile and keep it together because that is the appropriate way to behave around others. And when we can't manage to keep it together, we hide away so nobody knows we are falling apart.
So what does a depressed person look like?
They may look successful. Maybe they have awards and scholarships and smiles. They may wonder what is wrong with them, what is this fatal flaw that makes them so desperately miserable.
They may look adventurous and daring, striking out on their own in the world. They may love their job, feeling a sense of calling and purpose. They may wonder if they are worthy of taking up space in the world.
Each one of these pictures represents a time when I was severely depressed. In only one of these times did someone else know that I was depressed. How is that, when I had friends and family - close friends even, and family who cared about me? It is because you can't always see depression from the outside.
When I look back on these pictures I feel the disconnect. I do have good memories. I did smile and laugh and do things with friends. I got good grades, taught well, was a pretty decent mom. And yet I also remember what I felt like inside. I remember the palatable darkness that threatened to swallow me, the gaping emptiness, the deep exhaustion from acting like I was okay. I remember questioning the will - or desire, or ability - to live.
How can this paradox exist? And how can we ever see what someone is feeling on the inside when we are so good at hiding it?
Maybe we can't see it. Maybe we have to hear it. We hear it because we are listening. We enable them to be open and honest because we have been open and honest. We fight down the urge to give advice or judge or swoop in and rescue; instead we just listen. We don't even encourage or offer solution or try to drag them out of the pit - not yet. First we step into their pain and sit with them. We say, "I'm here," and then we stay.
"In the deepest, night-blind fathoms you're certain that you're alone. You aren't. I'm there with you. And I'm not alone. Some of the best people are here too...feeling blindly. Waiting. Crying. Surviving. Painfully stretching their souls so that they can learn to breathe underwater...So that they can live."
- Jenny Lawson
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
This Weird Feeling of "Not Depressed"
The
other day I read a verse in Psalm 30:
I
will exalt you, Lord,
for
you lifted me out of the depths
and
did not let my enemies gloat over me
Lord
my God, I called to you for help,
and
you healed me.
It struck me that this verse was actually true. Of course it was true before, when I had read it with a kind of longing and reassurance that David understood being in the depths. I had read it with desperate hope that one day I would feel this way. Now I realized I actually did feel this way.
I can remember clearly two years ago being lost in the middle of those depths. I could not see anything other than a fog of depression, and I could not believe it would actually get better. I was calling for help but the healing was not happening. Last year I told our member care specialist, “I have come out of the pit just enough to realize how deep it is, and how far I have to go to get to the top. I am still really far from okay, but I can almost see what 'okay' looks like.”
When
we came back from China at the beginning of the year, I though I was
mostly better. I just needed to deal with the after-effects of these years of depression and surviving and burnout. We attended
a three week intensive debriefing retreat – three weeks
because we were that bad off. It was so helpful, but at the end of
three weeks I found out that I was still depressed. “High
moderate depression," my counselor and her little inventory described it.
That was pretty discouraging because I had just had three weeks of
daily individual and group counseling and I was still depressed!
When I thought I was doing better!
I
came to realize that now and in the past what I thought of as
depression was actually severe depression. If I could
function and didn’t want to die, I figured I wasn't really depressed anymore.
Apparently "better" looks like something higher than that.
This
past month, after continued counseling and a new medication, I
have remembered what not being depressed feels like. There are times when I feel what I presume is normal baseline – is this what people really
feel like? - like I can handle life and I think that good things
might actually happen in the future. I feel stable. It’s a
weird feeling. I have been able to enjoy my kids, even to enjoy this
stage and not wish they would please just grow up more and not need
such constant help and attention.
Obviously
there are still times when I don’t enjoy them – when Nadia is
clinging and screaming, when Juliana is whining and stomping around,
when Adalyn has to be prodded every single step of the way to do
every single task. But this is the normal counting-down-to-bedtime stuff of parenting. These days, I rarely feel like my head will explode. When no one is screaming, I can actually enjoy this stage with these little people.
Of
course there are still emotional times, frustrations and
disappointments, the discouragement of sickness and poor sleep. But
the amazing thing is, I can feel grieved or discouraged and then I
can get over it. The next day I may feel pretty good again. I am
not dragged down into an endless downward spiral.
When
my psychiatrist first suggested a mood-stabilizing drug, I was a bit
skeptical. “I’m not sure my moods are unstable. Everyone has
ups and downs. By the way, what do stable moods look like?”
Apparently they look like ups and downs but the ups are above the
level of depression and the downs are something you can recover from.
Apparently it is not feeling like you are crazy all the time. How interesting.
I
do feel more stable now. I can see yellow paint or 80’s décor and
not feel like everything is really weird and the world is an unsafe place. I can be in a strange or unpleasant situation but when I
am out of that situation, I can shake it off without it tainting my whole day or week. One night I was talking with my family about a
possible suicide/murder in our town and about a childhood friend with a
terrible disease. You know, pleasant bedtime conversation. I felt sad and disturbed but I didn’t even have
any terrible dreams that night. And I have had a lot of terrible
dreams in these past months.
In
fact, dreams have come up several time in my counseling because I
have had so many disturbing ones. One of my less disturbing but frequently reoccurring
dreams, second to stressful travel dreams, are out of control
elevators. I’ve had these dreams for years. I get on an elevator
and it never goes where I want it to. It shoots up to dizzying
heights or drops deep into the ground or veers sideways into different
buildings. I can never get where I want to go.
A
few weeks ago I had another elevator dream. I got in an elevator and
realized there were no buttons. All it had was a big lever you had
to pull at just the right time to stop on the right floors. In my dream I was
able to pull the lever and stop at just the right floor - twice! I
was excited by this dream because it was the first time I had
ever been able to control the elevator. Even though it wasn’t
easy and didn’t function like I expected, I was able to make it
work! I think this must be what it is like to not feel
like your life is out of control.
Even
though so much of our lives are out of our control. We cannot
control if we will be able to stay in the city to which we have grown
attached or in the country where we have lived for 13 years. We
don’t control what apartment we will live in or who we can have
over to our home. We don’t control when our heat comes on and turns
off and we have no thermostat to adjust. The other day Juliana, so
cutely and innocently said, “Wouldn’t it be great if they
invented something where you could make the temperature anything you
wanted – hotter or colder if you needed?” My sister said,
“Um...they actually already have that.”
We
don’t know how long the local public schools will continue to
accept foreign kids or how long our area will continue to accept
foreigners. Who will be the next among our friends to have to leave?
Sometimes we know months in advance with time to say goodbye.
Sometimes it happens suddenly, even overnight, and our global circle means friends we may
never see again.
We
can influence but not control our health. We can prioritize but not
control mental health. We know that all manner of situations might
force us to change our country, our homes, our jobs, our friends, our
schools, our way of life – all in one fell swoop.
But
I digress. There are so many circumstances of life we cannot
control, maybe more than ever before, but somehow life doesn’t feel
like it is spiraling out of control. A sickness feels like a regular
event that we will recover from. A change of plans is inconvenient,
even stressful, but it is manageable. I can see that it will
probably not throw our life into utter chaos and alter the entire
course of our lives.
I
have this weird thought that life may actually work out. I have
moments when I am downright optimistic. (No fear though, I don’t
really thing lasting optimism is in my nature, whereas my witty sarcasm clearly is.) I have these moments
when I realize I feel happy, just effortlessly happy in the midst
everyday life. Is this what normal feels like? Is this what it
means to be truly okay?
I
forgot what this feeling was like, and it might take a while to get
used to, to believe it is not just a fleeting phase. It will
definitely take a while to work through the habits and thought
patterns carved out by years of depression and anxiety. I realize there were
many times in life when I thought I was all better but depression and
anxiety were still having a profound impact on my life. I am trying
to look back and sort out what was depression and what was me. I am seeing the
ways that God has brought healing through counseling and medication
and a lot of time.
I am climbing out of that deep, dark pit, and the view is looking pretty good up here at ground level.
Labels:
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counseling,
depression,
dreams,
generalized anxiety disorder,
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hope,
mental health,
mental illness
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
How Crazy is TOO Crazy?
I
write a lot about mental illness because 1) I have many years of
experience with it, 2) I am very interested in mental health and plan
to get a counseling degree one day, and 3) I think stigma is stupid
and I want to do my part to dispel it.
I
know I appear to have very little filter, but I actually do reign
myself in a bit. If I write something that makes me seem too
unstable, then I back off a bit and write about something a little
more normal next time. I want to remind people I am more than my
depression and anxiety.
When
I write about my experiences I do worry that readers will think,
“Crap, she’s much crazier than I thought.” I want to reassure
people that I am not actually any crazier than I have been for the
past 20+ years. Actually I am in a better place now than I
have been in quite a while, and definitely more stable than many
points in the past.
The difference is I didn’t talk about it before. So don’t worry
- nothing new here.
But
I do wonder, how much crazy is too
crazy.
Many people deal with depression and counseling is not too unusual.
Everyone feels anxiety sometimes, even if they don’t have an
anxiety disorder, so the rational aspect of that makes sense (maybe not
being disturbed by yellow paint).
But
what about schizophrenia? That’s pretty weird, right? What if
someone has a panic attack in the airport? So awkward. What if
someone needs shock therapy? Uncomfortable, 1900’s stuff. Can we
talk about suicide, or will that freak you out? Nobody judges you
for a stay in the hospital, but a mental hospital is a whole
different matter. We are allowed to be physically sick (although
chronic illness and invisible illnesses are probably made
up, right?),
but mental sickness needs to have some boundaries. We are allowed a
certain amount of crazy before we turn to hushed tones and sideways
glances.
So
one of my fears in writing about my own mental illness is scaring
people off. I don’t want people to talk in hushed tones or wonder
if I’m about to go off the edge. Because if I am about to go off
the edge, I want to be able to be honest and get help to pull me
back. What I deal with is not actually that uncommon, most people
are just pretty good at hiding it, like I did for many years.
Some
statistics for you: The
World Health Organization estimates that over 300 million people
worldwide suffer from depression. The CDC states that tens of
millions of people in the US suffer from mental illness and estimate
that half receive no treatment. A 2016 study by NIMH found that
6.7% of all U.S. adults have had at least one major depressive
episodes. An estimated 31.1% of US adults experience some
type of anxiety disorder in their lifetime. We’ll talk more about
suicide in
the future,
but the same study found that 4% of US adults had suicidal thoughts
during the year 2016. If you enjoy statistics, here’s a bunch
more: https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/index.shtml
The
main take away is that mental illness affects a lot of people. It
undoubtedly effects people you know, probably many people. And a lot
of people don’t get help, likely for various reasons. The cost of
healthcare, for example. While our insurance covers counseling, the
ever increasing deductible means I will be paying for it out of
pocket, and counseling is not cheap. I feel like it is worth
spending the money on, but for many people it is just not possible.
Some
people don’t even realize they are dealing with mental illness. In
high school and even college, I didn’t understand what the problem
was, I just knew something had to be wrong with me since I couldn’t
seem to handle life like everyone else. I didn’t tell anyone about
my suicidal thoughts partly because I didn’t know how to. Even my
most recent 4th
period of major depression took me a full year to recognize, and I
“should” know by now what depression looks like.
When
I was younger I also didn’t talk about my depression and anxiety
because I was afraid of people thinking I was really weird or weak.
The stigma may have lessened but it is still very real, and like in
most things, adolescents are probably the most susceptible to being misunderstood. I am fortunate now to know a lot of people in the mental
health field – and a lot of people with mental illness – who are
willing to talk about it. This makes a huge difference in my
willingness to be open, and many people don’t have that.
For
the one struggling
If
you struggle with mental illness, here are some things I want you to
know. You are not alone. Once you open up about it in whatever way
you feel comfortable with, you will undoubtedly find other people who
are struggling too. Find someone you feel safe with, who will listen without judgment and try to understand you. If you are having a hard
time, it is okay to protect yourself from the constant news cycle and
overwhelming information. Expect less of yourself for a while,
because dealing with the rough periods takes a lot of energy.
Get
the help you need. This is not selfish – this is important to your
health and wellbeing. This is not weak; it is brave. Maybe you would
find counseling helpful. Find a counselor you connect with and that
actually helps you. Sometimes medication is really useful, because
sometimes your brain chemistry needs some help. There is nothing
wrong with taking medication!
Recognize
that you are a spiritual, physical, mental, and emotional being and
that all these areas are affected. Addressing the spiritual
component is helpful but “thinking the right thoughts or praying
enough” does not address the other areas, and puts a lot of guilt
on yourself that maybe if you had a strong enough faith you would be
joyful or anxiety-free. This does not make any more sense than
someone telling you that focusing on truth and praying enough will
cure you of cancer or high blood pressure It is just not true.
Realize
that a lot of people truly don’t understand what you are going
through, and if you say, “I am dealing with anxiety,” that
doesn’t necessarily mean a lot to them. Talk about the specifics
of what you are struggling with: “I feel like my chest is tight all
the time and I can’t breathe or think clearly.” Give them some
grace as they try to understand. But again, talk to people who are
trying to understand. For your own sake, avoid sharing too much
with people who are just critical or give unwanted advice.
For
the one supporting
For
those of you who are close to someone with mental illness, try to
listen and understand instead of giving advice. Recognize there is a
difference between “feeling down” and clinical depression, between feeling worried about a problem and anxiety disorder. A counselor tried to
explain the difference to us like this: If you are feeling down,
maybe you should take some brownies to a neighbor because doing
something for someone else is a pick-me-up. If you are clinically
depressed, this won’t help. You don’t have energy to make
brownies in the first place, and even if you did you don’t want to leave the house to see the neighbor.
You
can encourage things like exercise (“Why don’t you meet me to
walk once a week?”) and self care/getting out of the house (“Let’s have coffee this week.”) but also realize in themselves, these are not
solutions to serious problems. In fact, carrying the weight of another person's problems or trying to be their sole support is draining on you and unhealthy for both of you.
Encourage your friend to seek
help. Finding a counselor or support group can be
overwhelming, so if they are open to the idea, help them find some
resources and possibilities. When I was really struggling in China,
our member care specialist helped me to find resources within China.
She called them to find out details, costs, and how to get in contact
with them. It was a huge help, because a task like that was
completely overwhelming to me.
Learn
what you can about what your friend or family member is dealing with.
Knowledge often takes away some of the fear. Ask them what their
experience has been like. Ask questions like, "What does depression feel like for you? What are some things that trigger your
anxiety? What things have you found helpful or not helpful in the past? What are some areas of daily life you struggle with most?" Recognize that a person might not know what they need or may
have trouble accepting help, so instead of "Let me know if you need anything," you could try, "I’m going to make
food for you this week – what day is best? Let’s meet for coffee
and a good talk - what about Wednesday?" Ask about specific ideas like watching the kids or helping to find possible counselors in the area.
In parting I will share a few words from Jenny Lawson, an author who writes hilarious books about mental illness. If you are mentally ill, are not afraid to snort-cry-laugh, and are not terribly put off by a lot of swearing, check her out. She is amazing.
When we share our struggles we let others know it's okay to share theirs. And suddenly we realized that the things we were ashamed of are the same things everyone deals with at one time or another. We are so much less alone than we think. - Furiously Happy by Jenny Lawson
Labels:
anxiety,
counseling,
depression,
generalized anxiety disorder,
mental health,
mental illness
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Hello, My name is Ruth and I have a fear of yellow paint.
Every morning when Juliana went to school or when Kevin took the
girls somewhere, I would wave goodbyes and wonder if they would die
before I saw them again. I didn’t obsess about it or feel paralyzed
with fear; it was just a daily, automatic thought. “Goodbye, hope
you don’t die before you come back!”
My
sister and I recently had a conversation about worrying that people
will die. That was when I realized I had stopped wondering if my
family would die every time they left home. It had been a daily
thought for such a long time, I had failed to recognize that perhaps
it wasn’t entirely “normal.” When I told Kevin about it he
looked at me very strangely and said, “Really? That’s terrible!”
Depression
is my primary nemesis, but depression and anxiety often like to
tag-team. I don’t talk about anxiety as much because I find it
harder to figure out. I recently read Wil Wheaton describing his chronic anxiety and depression. Even though I have years of
experience with these illnesses, it was reassuring to realize
someone else understands what is going on inside your head. I have
also realized that I can say, “I struggle with depression and
anxiety,” but those words might not mean a lot to people who
haven’t experienced it before.
So I
will attempt to give a picture of what anxiety has meant for me, knowing that each person’s experience is different. Anxiety
is a normal part of life, but generalized anxiety disorder (GAD)
makes you feel anxious about things that don’t even make sense. As
I thought back on some of the things that have caused me anxiety over
the years, here are some examples:
-
Pale yellow paint: The doors in my first apartment in Yangzhou were
covered with peeling yellow paint that reminded me of a 1960’s
mental institution. It was very disturbing.
-
Marshes: All that innocent looking grass covering up sinister water.
-
Certain patterns: It’s hard to explain, but some repeating patterns
look like disease or tiny eyes or are just trying to make your eyes go crazy.
Why would they do this?? |
Creepy, right? |
-
Furniture pretending to be decapitated humans: My sister says this
would be anxiety producing for most people, so maybe I’m totally
normal for feeling like legs should stay attached to humans.
This lovely piece of work was in the neurologist waiting room. Do you think they are trying to mess with people's minds? |
You
can see why it is hard to explain anxiety. When you say, “Yellow
paint is upsetting to me,” people who struggle with anxiety
understand. But other people look at you like they wonder if
you were ever abducted by aliens.
The
problem with anxiety and other mental illness is that the illness
itself skews your perception of life. I have a hard time wrapping my
mind around anxiety because it is just not rational. Depression
feels almost logical. Your mind says life hopeless and everything is
only getting worse, so naturally you feel depressed. But anxiety
makes you feel crazy, like you are literally losing your mind.
Because honestly, who is afraid of 80’s décor??
Of
course there is something behind the crazy, even when you can’t
explain it. These irrelevant things bother you because something
about them is not right. You get that creepy feeling like
when you are in a dark parking garage (I also hate parking garages)
all alone and someone is following you. For some reason 80’s décor
looks like the scene from a horror movie. A part of your mind cannot
get over the fact that human legs should be attached to bodies not
furniture. So your mind screams, “Danger! Something is off here!
Pay attention to this sinister feeling!” Because your brain refuses to believe that tissue boxes are not threatening.
During
my first year in China at 22, I went through periods of
unintentionally waking up at 4am. I would head out on solitary bike
rides at 5am, when only the street cleaners were out. I did not have
a cell phone and nobody knew where I was, but I wasn’t worried
about that; I was more afraid of being in my apartment alone. I was
confident enough to travel all the way to China, but I suffered an
unshakable dread of making copies in the little copy shop. I was
living on my own in a foreign country, but I was terrified of the
dark. I knew there were no monsters under the bed; what I feared was
much more sinister and oppressive.
Sometimes
the subject of anxiety is logical, it is just obsessive. Every day I
carried Nadia down the stairs from our 5th floor
apartment, I pictured myself tripping and dropping her on those hard,
concrete steps. I continually calculated how likely my children were
to die in a particular situation. When Juliana sat on her bunkbed, I
pictured her falling off head first. When I took Adalyn outside, I
pictured her running out in the road and getting hit by a car. I lay
awake at night thinking how I would save my children in a fire.
These were somewhat reasonable worries, but I could not get them out
of my head.
My
worst period of anxiety was the year Kevin and I returned to the US
for a year to get married. I decided that the middle of a bunch of
life-altering transitions would be a good time to stop taking my
antidepressants. In hindsight, it was clearly a bad decision. My
depression had improved, but I didn’t realize that the medicine was
also helping my anxiety. I didn’t even realize I had
anxiety.
I
nearly had a nervous breakdown the summer before the wedding, but I
thought it was just all the adjustment. After we were married, I was
upset whenever Kevin had to leave me. Sweet newlywed stuff, right?
Except I also dreaded going to work each day. I dreaded hanging out
with friends. I was exhausted all the time. I hated driving on the
freeway at night because all the lights and movement made me feel out
of control. I wanted to stay safely inside our little apartment,
until the walls started closing in and I couldn’t breathe.
I
curled up in bed, a crushing weight on my chest keeping me from
getting enough air. My heart pounded and the world spun out of
control. I was completely alone. Even when Kevin was with me, we
may as well have been in two parallel universes: Kevin sitting on
the bed in our apartment, me being sucked into a formless black hole,
all noise and darkness and chaos. It was my first experience with
panic attacks.
The
panic attacks became more regular and I realized this anxiety was
becoming crippling. I finally saw a doctor and started back on
medication. The anxiety and panic attacks decreased, and eventually
a solitary session of EMDR therapy stopped them completely.
My
anxiety has ebbed and flowed over the years. Lately it has been a
lot better, but the triggers are unpredictable. Anyone who struggles
with anxiety can tell you it is tough. It is exhausting. It is
confusing. But it can get better. One day, hopefully, you will be
surprised to find you no longer wonder every day if your children are
going to die. You are not losing your mind. Or maybe you are, but
at least you are not alone.
And
in case you are wondering, it’s not your mental illness:
decapitated human legs pretending to be furniture is not
normal.
Monday, April 9, 2018
Group Therapy
Our family is currently attending an intensive counseling and renewal program for overseas workers called Alongside. So far we are learning a lot about how we are even more messed up than we thought, which is always fun - but I think it will be pretty transformational.
I sat down at
orientation feeling, well, disoriented. We arrived late from our
road trip and our bags were still in the car. As the director
introduced the program, he said, “You may be looking around
thinking, ‘I know why I am here, but why are they
here?’” I had to laugh because that was exactly what I had been
thinking. I knew nobody was here because their life was smooth
sailing, but everyone looked so normal, so together.
Do you know what
hurting people look like? A lot of times they look just like
everyone else. They smile and make jokes, at times. Maybe they wear
makeup or fashionable boots. They may look like they could easily
step up into a pulpit or battle the wilds of Africa. Hurting people
just look like people.
But we have started
to share our stories. Loss, trauma, transition, incredible stress,
and so much pain. In a safe place the pain, so carefully controlled,
comes flooding out. We are normal people, and we hold so much pain.
Group therapy. Just
the thought makes some people shudder – or laugh. It sounds
cheesy, all that feely stuff. We start each day with, “today I
feel...” so at at least one point during the day, we recognize and
verbalize what we are feeling. This is harder than it seems, when
you aren’t used to identifying feelings.
We share our
stories. And let me tell you, there is nothing cheesy about it. This
is the story we usually share only in pieces, only behind a shield of
humor or stoicism. I shared my story – the themes of depression and
anxiety that have ebbed and flowed throughout my adult life, years of
sickness and survival and burnout leading us to this place.
We entrust each
other with our deepest pain, believing that we will not be ridiculed
or belittled, and we aren’t. Nobody says, “Think positive. It
wasn’t that bad – it could always be worse. Here is how
you could be healthier/less depressed/live a better life.” Instead
they just listen and say, “I hear your pain. I feel sad for you.
That shouldn’t have happened. Thank you for telling us.” Their
tears have allowed me to cry – and I hardly ever cry – instead of
withdraw to my analytical “safe” zone.
I am surprised that
the small group has been so healing. As an introspective introvert,
and one who tends to turn inward in pain, my go-to is writing or
maybe talking with a close friend. I would never have thought that
sitting down in a group of six strangers would have opened me up and
allowed space for processing.
Of course, the group
is a bit special. Nobody came in with pretense – we are here
because we need help. We have parameters for not giving advice or
platitudes but just showing understanding. Even though each
situation is different, we recognize each other’s pain. It is a
safe space, where we experience the power of community and shared
pain.
You may not have a
group, and you may not need therapy. Apparently some people are
emotionally healthy and not even mentally ill, crazy right? But on
the off chance you have or will ever experience pain in your life –
find your people. Find your safe people who can share that pain with
you, who can resist trying to fix you, who can enter in and sit with
you. Because really, everybody needs group therapy.
Labels:
Alongside,
anxiety,
burnout,
community,
counseling,
depression,
pain,
stress,
therapy
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
One Word for 2017...with 5 days to spare
I am in the anti-resolution camp. I was trying to figure out why.
Maybe it’s because I am too pessimistic and cynical. Maybe it’s
because life has seemed so out of my control in the past few years.
Maybe it’s because my failure meter is too high – I already know
I won’t meet up to my standards this year, why set up something to
specifically remind myself of how I don’t measure up? I understand
the purpose of resolutions is to actually meet them, but how often
does that truly happen?
Although I don’t make resolutions, the past few years I have
started doing one word for the year. This has its own hashtag
#OneWord365 so you know it is a real thing. The idea is to choose a
word that you want the year to encapsulate or that you want to focus
on.
I thought about my word last January. I thought of choosing Light.
I was thinking a lot about light, being so surrounded by darkness,
but it seemed too abstract. I thought about Restore. I knew we
needed restoration and I thought that we had passed the worst part of
depression and sickness and surely things would start looking up
after the new year.
Then I spent most of January and February completing our “world
hospital tour.” The flu in Cambodia, a terrible stomach bug in
Thailand, another stomach bug in Myanmar. When we finally had a
month of health, I realized that despite the relief antidepressants
had brought, I was still having trouble completing simple daily
tasks. We took a trip to Beijing so I could get a few days of
counseling, because that kind of help is 500 miles away. Then we
came back and I got pneumonia and the semester ended in a fog of sickness that reached ridiculous proportions.
So I forgot about choosing a word for the year. I’m glad I didn’t
choose a word last January because once again the year has not turned
out at all like I would have planned or hoped. This was not a year
of restoration, more of demolition. Although I have realized that
the mess of tearing down is often the first step of building up
something new.
But now, five days before the end of the year, I would like to choose
my word for 2017. The timing seems entirely
appropriate for the year it has been. Despite the ridiculousness and
difficulty of the past year, as I look back I realize it hasn’t
been terrible.
It’s funny that I would think this because I also feel that most
things have not gone well this year. Way too much pneumonia and
asthma and flu. Crappy discipline, too much anger, and out of
control children. Little contact with students and sometimes with
the outside world in general. Not enough exercise and too much
stress eating. Pretty much nothing that would be described as success.
The other day I got an email from a wise friend who understands.
She said, “There
is a lot that I don't know about my identity right now, but I do
know that I have been faithful... And that is what the Lord asks of
us…"
And
despite all the failings, all that was out of our control and didn’t
go how we wanted, this is what I see
looking back on this
year. We have been faithful.
We
stayed when things were hard and
we were just trying to keep everyone alive another day,
trusting that God would care for us and provide what we needed. And
he did – not at all in the way I would have asked for it. We
sought
help when we needed it. We have made the difficult decision to
uproot
our family for a year
for the sake of
our health
and well-being,
trusting
that God will work out all the overwhelming details - details like
where we will live and work in America and where we will live and
work when we come back.
More
than
that,
God has been faithful. He has sustained us when I wasn’t sure I
could carry on. In faithfulness he afflicted us, even when it didn’t
make a lot of sense at the time. In faithfulness he has torn down
the old and dying things inside
us
to prepare a way for something new. In faithfulness, he has given us
more of himself – his strength, his consolation, his grace – when
we had nothing left in ourselves.
Sometimes
I
think we have been faithful because we had
to rely on God.
I feel like Peter when he said, “Lord, to whom would we go? You
have the words of eternal life.” It’s
not that I have great faith. I don’t even feel like a very good
Christian sometimes. But I don't know how to live without God. His story is
so wrapped up in me and in this past year, I couldn’t begin to
unravel it. I couldn’t tell you where the ordinary ended and the
sacred began. It seems that more often than not, the terrible and the beautiful danced hand in hand.
So
my word for the year is Faithful. When I look back, I see a LOT
of sickness, a lot of trials, a lot of surviving. But over it all I
see that we stayed faithful to the One who was faithful to us. Oh, we
have not been successful, but we have been faithful. And I think,
actually, that has been enough.
Labels:
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One Word 2017,
pneumonia,
resolutions,
sickness,
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Monday, December 18, 2017
Joy Belongs to Us
We were healthy the entire first week of December. Adalyn and I had just recovered from the stomach bug that wiped us out after Thanksgiving, and we made it all the way until the evening of December 7th before Adalyn came down with a fever.
That first week of December, we put up our Christmas decorations. We had a magically calm cookie decorating experience. We lit our first advent candle, the candle of Hope, and I felt hope that our life could actually be manageable. I sorted through the girls clothes, and our jumbled medicine stash, and eliminated unneeded kitchen items. We couldn’t really pack anything yet, but I did what I could to get rid of anything we didn’t really need. Purging brings me inner peace.
But the feeling of peace did not last for long. The day we lit the second advent candle, the Peace candle, Nadia was already down with a fever. “It shouldn’t be too bad,” I thought. Adalyn only had a few days of cough and congestion, so I expected something similarly mild.
Instead Nadia’s fever continued, and she lay listlessly in our arms, half asleep. On Wednesday, I was worried enough to call the pediatrician. After Nadia submitted to her examination without any resistance, the doctor said she had pneumonia and a double ear infection. Her fever, heart rate, and breathing rate were all high, and her oxygen levels were low. The doctor had us start her on a high dose of antibiotics and keep a close eye on her. “If she gets any worse, she needs to go to the hospital for oxygen.”
It was appropriate that this was the week of Peace, because I felt anything but peace. I was so anxious I couldn’t think straight. I tried to count simple numbers to figure out her breathing rate, but I could not make sense of them. I kept reminding myself to breathe. My head was pounding from headache and fear. Over the course of one hour, I sent 20 emails back and forth with my mom and doctor-sister trying to figure out what to do. I have never been so worried about one of my children before, as I listened to her struggle to breathe, as I watched her oxygenation numbers, as she lay listlessly across my chest.
At the hospital the next morning, the children’s waiting area was overflowing with sick children: babies crying, children coughing, some sounding even worse than Nadia. Dozens of parents and grandparents watched us curiously, ever the spectacle, but we were all in this together, worried and waiting.
We were happy to return home after a few hours, but we almost headed straight back when her oxygen levels dropped dangerously low that afternoon. What relief to see the difference albuterol made! After an exhausting morning, carrying Nadia all around the hospital, the rest of the day and night were still stressful, monitoring her breathing, trying to decide if she needed to go back to the hospital. Late that night her oxygen level dropped disturbingly low, and we were already out the door to the hospital when her breathing improved dramatically.
We lost sleep over worry about her breathing, over waking up frequently to give her medicine during the night, and over the effects of the medicine – Nadia was so hyped up she was running around crazy at midnight. Instead of napping, she has been climbing out of her crib. But finally she was breathing. Her fever dropped, she started eating some, she played and danced and climbed on the washing machine to explore the medicine cabinet and grabbed a cleaver in the kitchen. Back to the normal worries about keeping her alive.
Yesterday we started the week of Joy. I struggle with joy more than the others. I am grateful for the promise of hope, I easily recognize the need for peace in the midst of my panic, but joy feels like a pressure. I should feel joy.
Joy belongs to those other people – the ones with the matching Christmas trees and prettily wrapped presents and smiling children. The ones who like the happy carols instead of the wistful ones, who run around doing fun Christmas activities, who are full of optimism.
Not the ones ready to sweep all the clutter straight into the trash, or the ones who whisper-yell at their children, “Go. To. SLEEP. Don’t you dare wake up your little sister!!” with angry eyes in the dark. Not the ones still scrambling to get presents ordered, or the ones with lights burned out two-thirds of the Christmas tree. Joy doesn’t belong to us.
Last week I thought, “You know, this December has still been better than last year.” Which just goes to shows how terrible the last one was. This time last year, as I sat covered by the blackness of winter and sickness and depression, I wrote about waiting for the light. I certainly wasn't feeling the joy; I was just hoping to survive a few more weeks.
And I remembered again: we aren’t the ones who have to make the joy happen. Anymore than we are ones creating peace or hope. A star bore witness to generations of hope finally fulfilled. Peace was not a silent night and an anglo-saxon baby who didn’t cry; He himself is our peace. The angel didn’t say, “Hey shepherds, get your joy on!” No, he came to tell them that joy had already arrived - joy in the most ordinary form of a newborn baby.
Next week is the week of Love. And for you and for me it may be a week of whining and snapping and arguments and comparison and imperfection. We can be pretty bad at loving one another. What relief to realize Christmas is not about our love, it is how great the love the Father has lavished upon us.
Sometimes we feel the joy and warmth and love. Sometimes we wait for it. At Christmastime, as nights reach their longest, the darkness seems to be winning, and some years the darkness steals straight into our hearts. But there is a Light that shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
We are the ones who wait. Expectantly, imperfectly, empty.
Joy belongs to us.
He did not wait till the world was ready,
til men and nation were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady
and prisoners cried out for release...
We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!
~ Madeleine L'Engle, Miracle on 10th Street
That first week of December, we put up our Christmas decorations. We had a magically calm cookie decorating experience. We lit our first advent candle, the candle of Hope, and I felt hope that our life could actually be manageable. I sorted through the girls clothes, and our jumbled medicine stash, and eliminated unneeded kitchen items. We couldn’t really pack anything yet, but I did what I could to get rid of anything we didn’t really need. Purging brings me inner peace.
A surprisingly peaceful cookie decorating experience |
But the feeling of peace did not last for long. The day we lit the second advent candle, the Peace candle, Nadia was already down with a fever. “It shouldn’t be too bad,” I thought. Adalyn only had a few days of cough and congestion, so I expected something similarly mild.
Instead Nadia’s fever continued, and she lay listlessly in our arms, half asleep. On Wednesday, I was worried enough to call the pediatrician. After Nadia submitted to her examination without any resistance, the doctor said she had pneumonia and a double ear infection. Her fever, heart rate, and breathing rate were all high, and her oxygen levels were low. The doctor had us start her on a high dose of antibiotics and keep a close eye on her. “If she gets any worse, she needs to go to the hospital for oxygen.”
Sad, listless baby |
At the hospital the next morning, the children’s waiting area was overflowing with sick children: babies crying, children coughing, some sounding even worse than Nadia. Dozens of parents and grandparents watched us curiously, ever the spectacle, but we were all in this together, worried and waiting.
The children's injection room at the hospital |
She finally got an inhaler like her sisters |
Yesterday we started the week of Joy. I struggle with joy more than the others. I am grateful for the promise of hope, I easily recognize the need for peace in the midst of my panic, but joy feels like a pressure. I should feel joy.
Joy belongs to those other people – the ones with the matching Christmas trees and prettily wrapped presents and smiling children. The ones who like the happy carols instead of the wistful ones, who run around doing fun Christmas activities, who are full of optimism.
Not the ones ready to sweep all the clutter straight into the trash, or the ones who whisper-yell at their children, “Go. To. SLEEP. Don’t you dare wake up your little sister!!” with angry eyes in the dark. Not the ones still scrambling to get presents ordered, or the ones with lights burned out two-thirds of the Christmas tree. Joy doesn’t belong to us.
Last week I thought, “You know, this December has still been better than last year.” Which just goes to shows how terrible the last one was. This time last year, as I sat covered by the blackness of winter and sickness and depression, I wrote about waiting for the light. I certainly wasn't feeling the joy; I was just hoping to survive a few more weeks.
Adalyn Lucia leading our St. Lucia Day procession last week. Lucia means "bringer of light." |
Next week is the week of Love. And for you and for me it may be a week of whining and snapping and arguments and comparison and imperfection. We can be pretty bad at loving one another. What relief to realize Christmas is not about our love, it is how great the love the Father has lavished upon us.
Sometimes we feel the joy and warmth and love. Sometimes we wait for it. At Christmastime, as nights reach their longest, the darkness seems to be winning, and some years the darkness steals straight into our hearts. But there is a Light that shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
We are the ones who wait. Expectantly, imperfectly, empty.
Joy belongs to us.
He did not wait till the world was ready,
til men and nation were at peace.
He came when the Heavens were unsteady
and prisoners cried out for release...
We cannot wait till the world is sane
to raise our songs with joyful voice,
for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!
~ Madeleine L'Engle, Miracle on 10th Street
Labels:
Advent,
anxiety,
Chinese hospital,
Christmas,
depression,
hope,
joy,
peace,
sick,
sickness
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Sick
Once upon a time I thought that sickness meant being sick. You feel
gross, you take medicine, you press through when you have to and get
extra sleep when you can, you get better. Then I had children. And
my children got sick all the time. And I got sick all the time too.
And I realized that sickness effects everything.
Sickness is exhaustion. It is baby waking up every 10 minutes
because she is too miserable to sleep. It is baby “sleeping” on
top of you, elbow in your face, knees in your side, moving
restlessly. It is middle of the night throw-ups: wiping faces,
changing pajamas, stripping sheets, settling a pale child back into
bed. It is daddy putting on new sheets while mama deals with crying
child. It is the washing machine going in the middle of the night.
It is lying in bed with children climbing all over you because you
are too tired to get up in the morning.
Sickness is nursing and nursing and nursing. It is wishing you had
stopped nursing by now. It is being so glad you are still nursing,
when your baby or toddler won’t drink anything else and is looking
increasingly less pudgy than a few days ago. It is nursing your
almost 2 year old in the middle of the night, even though you finally
got her night-weaned months ago, because she is so miserable and just
needs comfort.
Sickness is an everlasting fever chart. It is peering confusedly at
the medicine record, bleary eyed in the middle of the night. It is
feeling that telltale hot forehead and knowing it is starting all
over again. It is finally throwing out the fever chart and then
reluctantly starting a new one the next day. It is owning 6
thermometers because somehow they never seem to work.
Sickness is trying to keep track of who is supposed to have medicine.
It is managing to get your children properly medicated but realizing
you forgot to take your own medicines, again, even though you really
aren’t supposed to miss it.
Sickness is vitamin C and elderberry, probiotics and apple cider
vinegar and essential oils and hand cleaner...and wondering if they
will do any good against germs coughed directly into your mouth.
Sickness is toddler who won’t leave your lap coughing into your
food at every meal, and wiping her nose on your shirt, and drinking
from everyone else’s water bottles. It is children who remember to
cover their mouths...sometimes...and who use tissue to wipe their
noses...when you remind them.
Sickness is coming down with your own sickness when already worn down
from nights of comforting and days of carrying around a fussy, clingy
baby. It is planning your day around possible naptimes. It is not
having enough voice to read home school. It is dragging yourself out
of bed to make chicken soup. It is children watching too much TV.
It is everything you own exploded all over the floor.
Sickness is slowly getting better – itching to clean that mess
which is driving you crazy, catching up on home school reading with a
scratchy throat, dealing with the dire laundry situation. It is arms
so tired, hanging up the clothes. It is dizziness. It is the
decision whether to press on or to lie down and rest.
Sickness is trying to listen to your body, when it says you need to
rest or you might fall over and die. But sometimes your body says,
“What you really need is coffee. Lots of coffee and sugar and
carbs.” And sometimes it says, “I hate you. Why are you so mean
to me? How would you like some double pneumonia,” and you don’t
need that kind of crap right now.
Sickness is wondering why there isn’t more public recognition of
the monumental milestone of “learning to throw up in a bowl,”
because it may be second only to “sleeping through the night.” It
is when everyone has been throwing up enough you start to hear
phantom throw-up sounds.
Sickness is toast and crackers and electrolyte popcicles. It is
rejecting any food or drink. It is ravenous hunger before you are
allowed to eat. It is excitement over the first real food – an egg
or that blessed first peanut butter sandwich.
Sickness is asthma flare-ups and extra inhalers and that barky,
croupy cough going on and on.
Sickness is lying in bed looking out the window at the waning sun,
darkness falling over your room like a weight, like depression. It
is the knowledge that you have spent almost all day in bed, and bed feels like a prison. It is summoning energy
to get children to bed amidst the evening fever rise, feeling stale
and dirty but too weak to shower, looking ahead to another sleepless
night.
Sickness is the disappointment of canceled plans. Missing a rare
party or your child’s performance or a date with a friend. It is
staying home with sick children during the holidays. It is having to
tell your child that she won’t be able to go to the party she has
been talking about all week. It is your toddler insistently bringing
you her shoes wondering why she never gets to go outside anymore.
Sickness is confinement. It is days without stepping outside the
confines of the apartment. It is well-children going stir crazy,
because you can’t even send them outside to play. It is
well-children missing school because you don’t want to take the
sick children out in the cold and pollution.
Sickness is anxiety. It is looking helplessly at your listless child
who has hardly sat up in two days. It is listening to your baby’s
rapid heart rate and labored breathing. It is the dread of having to
go back to the local hospital. It is self-prescribing. It is
finally going to the hospital...waiting in lines and lines with sick
people who touch your child’s face. It is the 30 second check up
and antibiotics you hope are actually warranted. It is the fear that
it could be something serious. It is searching Google, even though
it will try to convince you it is cancer or TB or the plague.
Sickness is kids who act like jerks, even when they aren’t the sick
ones. It is being an even bigger jerk than your children, when you
are supposed to be thirty years more mature. It is taking a while to
even feel bad about being a jerk because the whole world is stupid
and deserves your full wrath. It is parents snapping at each other,
even though we know we are both just tired, so tired and not feeling
well.
It is hoping your kids forget the jerk-mom and remember the one who
put a cool washcloth on a hot forehead. It is cups of juice with
bendy straws and crackers to nibble. It is making meals you are too
sick to eat. It is realizing your baby would sleep if only you stood
rocking her for the next 10 hours. It is little heads drooped on big
shoulders, little hands wound through hair. It is finally seeing the
shine return to their eyes.
If, of course, you aren’t too sick to notice.
Labels:
anxiety,
asthma,
baby,
Chinese hospital,
cross-cultural parenting,
depression,
disappointment,
extended breastfeeding,
mothering,
nursing,
parenting,
preschooler,
sick,
toddler,
toddler breastfeeding
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