Happy 2014

I think there is a tiny, small, minuscule (please read, LARGE) part of me that doesn't consistently blog because I don't like being tied to one vein of writing. My thoughts are all over the board most of the time and I desire freedom in sharing whatever.
I also dislike it because I like fresh starts. And writing the same blog means a continuation.

I think I often desire I could erase the past.

2013 was one hell of a year, wasn't it folks? I'm pretty sure I met Jacob when I did so that I wouldn't hit the erase button on the last year of life if I could. For while the worst was happening, the best was also unfolding. Griefs and joys in the greatest abundance.

There is deep grief inside me, clawing its way out. The sharp nails hit different part of my being and leave behind shreds which I am knitting back together, often with new yarn. I'm not the same. I'm patches. But patches are beautiful.

There is deep joy inside me, bursting forth. Dormant for so long, it's ready to spring forth and enter the world around me. I think that joy has become one of the most precious things to me. Being a survivor/sufferer of anxiety and depression has made joy a thing of wonderment. When I catch myself in a joyful moment it almost shocks me, it's so foreign.

I close my eyes and it runs it's warmth across my being making small goosebumps appear. Little goosebumps of joy. Little goosebumps of hope. Laughter tickles the corners of my mouth, daring me to hold it back. I sit with Lia in my lap and marvel at the little person she is becoming. I marvel at the love I was able to give her even though I felt so inadequate and desperate this last year. I marvel at the sweet, gentle, lovely, loving little person that I've been blessed to nanny. I hold the hand of a man so strong and soak in the perfection of a moment. I steal myself, sad that the moment ever has to end. As I look into his eyes I receive love and the safety of being deeply known and seen... seen at my very saddest, most afraid, extremely desperate, frighteningly panicked. I soak in the love of the only man I want to spend my panicked days and my joyful days with, the only many with whom I want to share all the minutes, important and mundane.

My life is rich and blessed and good. I could not even glimpse this two months ago. Weighed down by anxiety and fear and strife, I had no hope. Today is a new day and it's good to be here. Slowly healing, slowing getting there.

Sometimes I feel like I'm losing my religion. Not necessarily my faith in God. Just my religion.

Have you ever had those times when you just can't win? Like everything is going pretty well, but then you go to the E.R. for a low potassium induced panic attack... ah... and then about a month later a panic induced panic attack and you're right back in the room with the people looking pityingly at you because you're one of "those anxiety driven people." And then shortly after all of that you have a co-worker approach you in a sexually derogatory way and nothing happens when you tell certain people... people you expected to take care of you. In fact, eventually those people make you feel like you are blowing things out of proportion and they ask you instead to come alongside that sexually derogatory person in his healing process. Have you ever hated your job because you felt alone because people who don't know the whole story are encouraging you to be friends with the person who hurt you?

And then, because you live in an isolated place, away from friends, family, and your boyfriend have you ever felt so alone that you start focusing on the news? And then you realize what a wretched, broken, painful, harsh world we live in, and that makes you even more upset. And then you just figure... what the hell is even the point?

I will admit that I am naturally prone to depression. That this of course, plays a factor in my sadness and issues. But I really keep wondering when I'm ever going to catch a break.
I don't at all blame God. I don't even expect him to provide a way out of this brokenness in my life, at this camp. It's just a broken situation. And this tired old earth is one example after another of brokenness. It's not God's fault. It's not even the Church's fault necessarily. It just is messy and sad. We do wrong in the name of grace. We manipulate others in order to make our own work lives easier. It's self preservation at its grandest. It's life.

There are many Evangelical Christians out there that believe Jesus is coming back soon. I'm not one of them. I think it's a mess. The lives we are living are big piles of crap in a horse pasture. But it's not the end. It's not even close if you ask me.

I do know, that if you ask me. I'm tired. And weary. And while I can remember the good things I have going in my life, there are days, like today, that the pain outweighs the joy and it wins. It's called reality everybody. It's called depression. It's called pain. It's called, call it whatever the hell you want to, but sometimes it just sucks.

Tonight, I don't believe in Christianity. Tonight I don't believe this world is beautiful. Tonight I don't believe I can make it through tomorrow. Tonight I don't believe I can make it through the rest of my internship.

But I do believe in God. And I still cry out to him in my pain. And a peace transcends. What more can I ask for? He calms the seas long enough for me to catch my breath. Thank you God.

Live Like You Were Dying

Cue cheesy Tim McGraw song. But seriously.

Did you know that a side effect of anxiety is feeling like you are dying? It's interesting. You have to be PRETTY stressed out and worried to get to this point I think. Maybe not. I'm not an expert on it other than being an expert on the feelings of anxiety.

A day doesn't pass any longer where I don't feel like I'm dying. It's getting better. Yesterday, there were only two prolonged periods where I thought I was dying. So far today, only one. My anxiety, stress, and worries have diminished dramatically in the past month. I've even felt joy and hope and recognized beauty this past week. These are huge strides.

But why is there anxiety in the first place?

So, I no longer work at camp. A series of unfortunate events made it so that the poster child for camp ministry no longer does camp ministry for the time being. It was an extremely hard, yet ridiculously easy decision. Of course, because life is full of paradox.
This has been easily the scariest period of my life. I've been mistreated by someone I thought was a friend, not taken seriously by people I thought respected me, I carried the weight of being mistreated for six weeks until I could  no longer handle it. I do not have a job and my money is quickly running out. I again, pretty consistently feel like I'm dying. Life is strange.
Another strange thing about all of this? It's not being able to be honest with most people about what happened. I'm living in a town where a large majority of people I'll be interacting with are very familiar with the camp. And I can't explain the circumstances as to why my internship ended early. I can't be honest with people about my anxiety issues or the feeling I have that I'm going to die because that would open up a can of worms. It's rather isolating and I've been saddened with the realization that society expects victims to carry and protect far more than they should.

I'm not asking for pity. I know I had a part to play in the things that happened. I know I could have handled things different. I immediately apologized for the part I played to the person who mistreated me, to my boyfriend, and to others around me. I repented and asked God for forgiveness. My role in this feels minute... yet, I am forced to hide all the broken pieces to the world around me. Because as a whole, we don't talk about sexual harassment, we don't discuss victim's rights, we don't offer ways for people who have been hurt to heal. Instead, we make sure the victim knows the role they had in everything. Instead, we make sure the victim feels isolated. Instead, we make sure the victim has to start completely over. Cool. Good.

I'll admit I'm angrier today than I will be in a week, a month, or a year. I admit today that I'm more sad about this situation than I will be in a week, a month, or a year. I will even go so far as to admit that in a week, a month, or a year I could possibly see this entire situation differently. But right now, I'm in the midst of overcoming a personal tragedy with no opportunity to speak out. Thank you Christians, who in the name of grace, preserving the camp's name, and protecting the reputations of people involved have made me feel utterly alone. I appreciate that. (Please, note the sarcasm.)

I will choose to rise above because I believe in true grace. I will choose to rise above because I believe that God's love is powerful. I will choose to rise above because there is hurt and shame everywhere and if I allow it to continue to have control over me, my life will be a mere shadow of what could have been. I will choose to be strong so that I can help others. I will choose to be strong so that God can help me. I will choose to be strong so that one day I can teach my sons and daughters that true respect, true grace means, and true forgiveness might look differently than the cheesy prescription of a Christian culture gone awry.

May God have mercy on my soul. On all our souls.

The Things We Carry

There seems to be an endless supply of sadness in my heart these days.

It's a struggle everyday to wake up and get out of bed. Well not necessarily to wake up, I do that easily enough, but as soon as I do the anxiety rears its ugly head and I am fighting to breathe, remember that I'm not dying, and get myself out of bed to my job.

I have so many tears and no where for them to go. I have so much doubt and I don't even know if I want the answers to my questions. This place I'm in? It's ugly, slimy, sticky. It's the place we are ashamed to let anyone know we reside. It's a place it seems so many of us often end up in, one way or the other.

The Things We Carry, a beautiful book, much acclaimed, often read in school. What did these men carry into battle? Guilt, shame, M-16s, morphine, letters.

What is it I feel like I'm carrying? What am I carrying? Anger, fear, anxiety, jealousy. Scars from words that shattered my heart, both from the aggressor, then from the men who should have helped but didn't.

Do you see me?

Early on when I was first dealing with my panic disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, full time school, and being a nanny to a 7 month old 55 hours a week I would get overwhelmed and lonely. Weird, eh?

True story.

Another true story is that sometimes I would take little Lia out to a coffee shop, the library, Gymboree, or the store and just hope and hope and hope that someone would see us and talk to me.

A lot of the last year has been spent alone or with a little tiny bundle of joy and needs. It was alienating and odd. My life up to that point had been consistent with PEOPLE. And while being around people often triggered my panic attacks I still needed it. And sometimes it got unbearable. It felt like my life wasn’t real. Nobody saw what I was doing 90% of the time… was it even really happening?

And so, out I would go. Desperate for eye contact, a head nod, a “hello”, an acknowledgement that I was in fact a real, breathing, human.

Do you see me?

Do you see me?

Do you see me?

Today, a year later from when the worst of it all began I was walking around Fred Meyer shopping for dinner and I noticed how quickly people averted their eyes.

We don’t really like talking to each other. We don’t even necessarily love to say hi to a stranger. It can feel awkward, uncomfortable, forced. But today I was aware of how good, healing, and healthy it can be just to look at someone in the eye.

Because sometimes we just need to be seen.

She wiped the dust off, but to dust she returned.

Today was the day we remembered my grandmother, Helen Thorson. Grandma.

It was one of the more surreal moments of my life and I stayed on the surface of it all as much as I could. I laughed, I joked, I remembered, I spoke, I cried (briefly.) The things we do. The experiences that bind us. Today we gathered for a death, but talked of new life, new jobs, new engagements, moves, and more. Many of us had not been in the same place for years, by choice or by circumstance.

Over ten years ago we stopped gathering together for Christmas Eve. My family's story is.... complicated. It was always with mourning that my grandma traveled each year to different houses at different points to drop off her famous Norwegian lefse, cinnamon rolls, cookies, and more. Today I laughed with her... She finally got us altogether. She won, in the end. She kind of always did.

The past few years of her life were very difficult. Through credit cards and social security she supported a son of hers and a grandson, whom none of us particularly care for. The son is... borderline destructive and very intimidating. Always up for a fight. Thus, visits to grandma/mom slowed and dwindled almost to a stop. She was lonely, mentally unstable, physically declining. The great and terrible things of old age. It's hard to remember that. It's hard to realize that.

Today though, we came together and celebrated the absolutely amazing woman that my grandmother was. We laughed about her ornery tricks... scaring my long deceased grandpa by pretending he shot her while ketchup blood ran down her thighs, decorating the town's statues with Santa hats at the ripe age of 80. At midnight. We laughed about yard sales, long road trips, family gatherings. My grandma raised her children from the time of 1968 on, alone. She was a matriarch in the fullest sense of the word.

There are three words I used to describe my grandma today as I spoke before the gathered. She was stubborn, encouraging, and adventurous. These are three attributes I will expand on in coming posts. A woman who lived nearly 91 years deserves many words about her. This is only the beginning.

Let me tell you this.

Come here. Please.
Sit down. No, not there, the good chair. Are you comfortable? Good. Anything else you need? Water? Tea? Coffee? Wine?
Sit with me for a moment. Take a second to sit with me and hear my story.

But wait. Still sit. But... can I trust you? Am I safe with you? Will you be quick to judge? Quick to write me off? Quick to react how other have reacted, which sent me into panic attacks, anxiety attacks, rage? If so, maybe I'll wait. Bide my time. Find others to talk with. But. If you are ready. I will pull up my own chair and sit with you.

I want you to know. I want you to understand. I want you to understand me. But. I'm afraid.

Who are you? Who are you in my life? Who are you as a person? A Christian? I'm so. Very. Afraid.

With love,
Me.