I Am a Fighter

I've been thinking a lot about my previous post and wanted to write a follow-up, but just couldn't get my thoughts organized--until this morning.

Yesterday I woke up very melancholy for no particular reason.  Not "sad" per se, but a deep sense of dread that made me want to hide under the covers and cry all day.  I'm sure you have experienced the same thing from time to time when life gets hectic or overwhelming.  As a woman with depression, I have to be careful not to minimize those feelings because they can quickly snowball out of control.  I have to respond as if I am under attack and am fighting for my life.  I know that sounds overly dramatic, but that is how I've learned to manage my depression.  Medication is a helper, it is not a cure.  I have to CHOOSE to not let guilt and self-loathing take root for even a moment. 

My first line of defense is my husband, Herbert.  We have been married for 13 1/2 years and I wasn't diagnosed with MRDD (Major Recurring Depressive Disorder) until about 15 months ago.  He has slogged through my emotional muck--not understanding, just being there.  It hasn't been pretty and I am so grateful to God that Herb didn't give up on me.  My feet hadn't even touched the floor yet and I tearfully tell him that I'm having a rough morning.  "Do you want me to hold you for a while?" he asks.  Yeah, I do.  I curl myself up into his strong arms.  I resist the voice in my head that tells me that if I don't get up that second, my day will train-wreck beyond all repair.  For 10 glorious minutes there is just silence.  No judgement.  I can breathe again and I can start my day.  The point of sharing this personal moment with you is that I tell him what's going on.  I don't assume that he will figure it out or "should know me by now". 

I am also consistent about taking my medication.  It is really easy to think, "Wow!  I'm doing great!  I don't need that today." Well a day can turn into a week or even a month and before I know it I am in the bottom of a deep, dark pit trying to figure out how I got there.  It is not a sudden fall, but a gradual slide that is almost imperceptible until it's too late.  Depression is sneaky that way.  After we moved from Arizona to Tennessee this year I fooled myself into thinking that I didn't need my medication because it is so beautiful here (weird, I know, but that's how my brain works--looking at living green things makes me happy).  I was wrong.  It wasn't until I was on the phone with my sister lamenting about some issue that she said, "You don't sound like yourself.  Are you ok?"  It wasn't that I was venting, it was the hopelessness she heard in my voice.  I am so grateful that she pointed out what I couldn't see.  I got my prescription refilled and within a couple of weeks I felt like I was on an even keel again.

I practice "self-care".  Let me tell you how much I distain this concept.  I wanted to smack my therapist every time she asked me what I have been doing to take care of myself.  Bubble bath? Pedicure? Skipping through a field of wildflowers at sunset singing Kum-bay-ya? (ok, I just made that one up). I wanted to scream, "ARE YOU INSANE?! I have three kids with special needs and a husband who works hard to support all 5 of us so I can stay home. I don't have time to spend on such frivolousness!"  You see, I thought that "self-care" meant being selfish and depriving my family of the dedication and caregiving they deserved.  I also (mistakenly) believed that I had to do something that most women would consider pampering.  Well, I'm just not that kind of woman.  I like to be feminine, but I don't wear make-up and wear my hair long and straight.  I don't get manicures because I will wreck them while out chopping wood or clearing brush from the yard--so why spend the money?.  And I hate shopping.  I had to find something that lifted my spirits and also benefits my family.  Well we definitely moved to the right state, because I love yardwork.  Give me a leaf blower, lawn mower, chainsaw, etc. and a good podcast and I'm one happy girl.  I love the feeling of grit on my face and a sweaty brow as I look at the results of my hard work.

My second outlet is writing.  I love it and I find it very therapeutic to get my feelings on paper.  Unfortunately I thought spending a couple hours clicking away on the laptop was not a productive use of my time, a selfish privilege.  I had to be ok with taking this "me time".  When I write, whether by journaling or this blog, I feel refreshed and accomplished. 

I also had to face reality.  Our pastor in Tucson (quick shout-out to Josh Reich at Revolution Church--woot, woot!), said that when you say "yes" to something, you are saying "no" to something else.  For example, saying "yes" to working overtime could mean saying "no" to having dinner with your family.  Or saying "no" to taking on one more commitment means saying "yes" to less stress. Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying that working hard to provide for your family is wrong, just that there will always be something you have to give up to do it. 

For me, I had to say "no" to being Super-Mom--or at least the unattainable expectations I had for myself.  In my mind I could (and should) be able to do all the things "good" stay-at-home moms did:
Homeschool my children,  home-make everything, volunteer, keep a perfectly tidy and spotless house, etc. Add to that being a foster-parent (which I don't regret for one second) and life became more and more overwhelming.  When I couldn't keep up, I knew it was because...well...I suck.  I learned (and am still learning) it is ok to say "no" because the "yes" is worth it.

--Saying "no" to homeschooling meant saying "yes" to adoption.
--Saying "no" to foster-parenting meant saying "yes" to being able to give more attention to my children's needs.

Giving up these things was not easy for me.  They had become my identity and I felt lost and like a failure.  I had to grieve the loss of two things I am most passionate about.  I started thinking about going back to work but the more Herb and I prayed about it, God kept showing us that I was to be home, to be available.  Not to add more obligations to my schedule.

So now I spend my days attending to the mundane tasks of being a homemaker.  Not perfectly or obsessively (I am currently ignoring the pile of laundry that is giving me the stink-eye).  I am also conducting an experiment to see if the earth will spin off it's axis if I don't fold my kitchen towels--so far the data seems to indicate no impending Extinction-Level-Event. 

I also give myself permission to write. 

Looking back now, I can clearly see that I have limits and I need to show myself the same grace and compassion I try to show others.  Depression is not going to rob me of the life to which God has called me.  I am a fighter.


 

  

I am not a psychologist, psychiatrist, or licensed therapist.  I can only talk from my experience and what I’ve learned through my treatment process. There are many theories about depression, its causes and how to treat it. If you don’t agree, with something I’ve said here that’s fine.  In fact, I’d love to hear your opinion so we can have a free flow of ideas and possibly learn from each other. 

Prayer or Prozac?

In approximately 6 years, I have written exactly THREE blog posts; each one delving into a particular event (whether physical or spiritual) that had a profound impact on me.  The impact being so strong that I had to write about it while my memory was still fresh with the events.  I have had many more than three life-impacting events over those years, but for some reason writing became fearful to me and I denied myself something that has always brought me joy and comfort. 

As I read over those blogs, it was like visiting with an old friend.  Yes, I had written the words, but I felt encouraged and refreshed as if I was reading someone else's work.  I am very self-critical especially when it comes to writing, so I was pleased that my first instinct was not to re-write them in my head. The main reason I have never pursued writing more seriously can be boiled down to one simple, yet paralyzing word--depression.

This is a very hard topic for me to talk about. In fact, I prefer to just pretend it doesn't exist. So I'm going to take a deep breath and just throw it out there...

1.  I have Major Recurring Depressive Disorder (MRDD) with Anxiety.
2.  Yes, I'm medicated for it.

Whew! That's almost as hard to write as it is to say out loud.  If you think, "Oh, sure! Just pop some pills to make yourself feel better.", I hope you will stay with me a bit as I share my story of living with a disease that wants nothing better than to kill me.

At 47 years old, I can look back and reflect on the events of my life and I have come to the conclusion that I have suffered from depression my whole life, I just didn't know what to call it.  As  a kid I was subject to frequent bouts of melancholy or rage that seemed to come out of nowhere.  I imagine that I was just considered a "moody" kid.  My parents would ask me what was wrong and had no answer because there usually isn't a specific event that precipitates a depressive episode.  I would just feel sad, anxious, or mad for no particular reason.  As I entered the teen years, I pretty much blamed these feelings on PMS because my symptoms were exacerbated by the hormone surge of my monthly cycle. Also, there was a lot of chaos in my life from an early age, so it didn't seem particularly strange that I was generally not happy. 

I guess my first clue should have been that my paternal grandfather committed suicide when my dad was just 13 years old.  My mom implored my sister and me to not talk about it because it might upset my dad, so this just became a historical family fact--end of story, suck it up and move on. 

Except there is no "moving on" with depression.  Unlike the little rain cloud floating above Eeyore's head, depression envelops you and weighs you down like a wet woolen blanket.  Oh, there are some times you get a respite, but mostly you end up dragging this burden around while trying to act and feel "normal".  But what was normal? I saw friends happy and succeeding in school, work, or relationships and I just assumed there was something inherently special about them (or wrong with me) that prevented me from experiencing the same things.  This resulted in me living a very reactionary life.

I was convinced that I was just a victim of circumstance and really had no control over my life.  I spent a lot of time searching for what would finally make me happy.  I had the "when-s"...

I'll be happy WHEN...

...I have a boyfriend
...I graduate college
...I get married
...I have kids...etc.,

Get the picture?  Well the problem with the "when-s" is that once that prized event happens, it NEVER fills that empty place.  The sun shines for a while, but sooner or later the clouds roll in, the sky darkens and you just can't stand who or what you are.  You either learn to live with it and give up hope for the life you want, or you give in to the darkness and take your own life. Yes, I have had those thoughts and have entertained the notion that everyone would be better off if I just wasn't around to be such a burden.  Life is to hard.  I don't want to hurt anymore...

Instead, I decided that I was the one in control and could change from pure will.  I didn't like being introverted and insecure, so I started to mimic the personality of those around me who I thought were secure or confident.  My earliest memory of this behavior was when I was in second grade.  There was a girl in my class who was blonde and cute and had lots of friends.  I wanted to be JUST like her.  Well, she also had a lisp--half way through that school year I ended up in speech therapy.  Not the result I had hoped for. Even now I wonder if I am really me or just a Borg who has assimilated enough other people to create a collective personality.

Another way I thought I could feel good about myself was to not speak out and just "go along" with the crowd.  It really isn't accurate to say that I was influenced by "peer pressure" because there was no "pressure".  I just did whatever my peers did even if I felt in my heart that it was wrong.  My biggest regret is that since I had been the victim of bullying in grade school, I made friends with a bully in middle school.  Well actually I was more part of her entourage.  I didn't agree with what she did, but I didn't want to be on the receiving end of her abuse, so I said nothing.  Just thinking about it brings waves of shame and regret. And so it went throughout high school and into my early adulthood. My "following" had moved on to smoking, alcohol and drugs.  I thought that was how I was supposed to behave even though it wasn't any fun.  By my early 20's I had given up those things but still didn't have any sense of self. 

At 28 years old I was a year into a bad marriage when I felt like my whole life was spinning out of control and there was nothing I could do to stop it.  I was in college at the time and had to drive half an hour to campus every day. I know it was divine intervention that lead me to listen to Dr. Charles Stanley's teachings during my commute.  I learned about how much God loves me and how Jesus died for my sins. No one wants to admit that they are a "sinner".  I mean, it sounds like you've committed some horrible act like armed robbery or murder. My spirit was still hardened, but I continued to listen every day.

It took about 6 months, but I finally yielded to the Holy Sprit and understood that I was broken and needed a Savior.  God's plan for me was far better than anything I could imagine--I just had to let go and trust Him in a way I couldn't trust anyone else.  It was April 21st, 1996.  A glorious spring morning. I sat in my truck and cried out to God.  I admitted that I was (and still am) a sinner, that I wanted a relationship with Him, and accepted the gift of salvation he provided through Jesus' sacrifice on the cross. I knew my life was never going to be the same, but not in the way I expected. 

It has taken almost 20 years for me to truly understand grace, forgiveness, and that God loves me no matter how broken I am.  He can't love me any more or less than He already does.  But I still have depression and that is a conundrum that has baffled me for years.  If I am truly saved, how can I be depressed? Why didn't God take away this burden even though I had begged him repeatedly to do so? Was I REALLY saved? Was there a special prayer, Bible study, or group that would "fix" me? I've heard countless times from the pulpit that all you have to do is rebuke your infirmity in the name of Jesus and you will be healed. That wasn't my experience, so I felt scared and ashamed.

I knew God was punishing me when I chose to end my marriage after 5 years of living through hell.  Christians aren't supposed to get divorced, right?  During that time I did do a lot of work with the help of a Christian counselor to be more confident and to speak up for myself (much to the chagrin of some who liked the passive and pliable Ericka).

After that I began to live my life the way I thought would please God.  No, I can't be perfect, but if I at least showed Him that I was trying my best, He would answer my prayers for healing.  I was able for the first time to start living my life outward-focused.  I went on short mission trips and volunteered at my church.  I was learning that serving and putting others first does not make me a doormat.

However, my theology was flawed and even though I was doing God's work, I was still trying to earn His approval.  With great devotion, I began to build a house of cards. I believed that my Christian life was solidly built on rock of Jesus, but I alone was holding up the walls while treading in quicksand.  If I felt myself sinking, I would fervently pray and tread faster because I didn't know what else to do.  I was bound and determined to keep everything level and plumb through my own efforts.

Now I was remarried, a mother of a child with special needs, homeschooler, foster-parent, and soon-to-be adoptive mom of two siblings--also with special needs. I soon found myself way over my head, overwhelmed, angry, and despondent.  One day, a little bit over a year ago,  I started crying and couldn't stop. I knew I was drowning, and that I needed help. 

I thought I would spend a few sessions with a counselor, pull myself together and no one (besides my beloved husband, Herbert) would know how close I was to a complete mental breakdown.  Instead, I spent months talking about painful events from my past that I thought I had dealt with. I was diagnosed with MRDD and put on two anti-depressants.  I HATED the idea of being medicated and was afraid that it would affect the pending adoption. 

But a funny thing happened, I started feeling better.

No more bouts of uncontrollable crying. No more fits of rage.  I also could think clearly and I was like, "Wow! Is this what it feels like to be normal?"  No, the meds did not magically cure me.  I had to learn new skills to recognize and fight a depressive episode.  For the first time in my life, I could really hope for happiness. 

Another amazing thing happened.  I could see how I was preventing the Holy Spirit from working in my life.  It is like hiking with a very heavy backpack.  You are exhausted and there is someone there who is offering to carry your burden.  You say, "Yes!", but you don't give it to them.  Somehow there is security in holding on.  The pain is almost unbearable now.  "Why aren't you helping me?!" you cry.  Your knuckles are white because you refuse to let go. Your friend is not going to forcibly take it from you--you have to give it up willingly.  When you finally do, there is freedom.

I had to let go of the idea that I could be all things to all people.  Because our family had grown and my younger children had significant needs, I had to give up homeschooling and being a foster-parent.  This left me feeling like I once again had no identity--who was I now?

I grieved.

I also began to pursue God more fully.  I found a new desire to read His word--to get to know Him.  I feel closer to God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit than I ever have--even more than that day I first gave my life to Christ.  I'm not living a shame-based life and I no longer have the "when's".  I can live in the moment, whether that moment is good or bad.  My life has not magically become easy or stress-free.  I still have three children that have challenging needs and a husband who needs my time and support too.  But I can feel the presence of Jesus and I know that no matter what happens next He will always be with me.

I also felt ready to write and share my story.  I will always need my medication, and will need to see a Psychologist from time to time because I can still become very overwhelmed with the struggles of life.  But now I feel no shame.