When I don't even realize I'm struggling

You would think that by now I would recognize the signs that a quiet wave of depression has curled around me. But no. Yesterday, I had to laugh at myself for how I'd missed the obvious yet again.

When there is such big emotion hanging out in the background all the time, the more subtle shifts of mood don't always stand out in a noticeable way. If you had asked me how I was doing as the nine-month mark rolled around, I would have said that I was doing pretty well. It didn't take me down in a big way. I did not have a big, teary breakdown. I actually felt pretty good, which was such a relief.

A while back, I read that people often go into an emotional slump in the days leading up to a grief milestone. I want to take good care of my mental health, so I try to pay careful attention. In the week before this "monthiversary" I was taking my emotional temperature regularly, checking in on my mental state. My inner weather was a little bit overcast, but there were no big storms looming.

And then yesterday, when I washed my hair for the first time in four days, the lights dawned. Oooh. One of the easiest signs to read, to indicate that some level of depression has showed up, is when daily self-care starts to feel like too much effort. Right. I know this. But for all of my watchful care, I missed it. I thought I was doing pretty well, and in a way I was, but I overlooked the part where I just sort of stopped moving for all of Monday, and that while I had showered, washing my hair just seemed like too much work for a few days.

Apparently I was a little depressed as those hard days rolled around again. As we said back in the 80s, "Well, duh!" Of course the clouds closed in. Of course they did! I should be concerned if the days of Michael's death came around and it did not impact me.

So if you ever wonder whether you're dealing with subtle levels of depression, that's a tell-tale sign to watch for: that basic things like showering, getting dressed or making food for yourself just seem too hard to bother with.

If you do realize you're in that place, what can you do? For me there is a quick antidote that, while it doesn't "fix" the reality of my emotional state, does move me into a better place. It's simple- I go outside. Yesterday afternoon, as I was pondering this, the lady from the RV park office called to say that we had some packages to pick up. (Our Amazon orders have been rolling in. Yay!) It's a very short walk, but as I was on my way back to our trailer, I suddenly realized how much good it had done me. Just those few minutes of fresh air and sunshine had shaken me out of the rut. It gave me just enough of a boost to help me head in a better direction.

I love what a friend shared recently on Facebook. She had been depressed, so her daughter invited her for a hike. That's so perfect! Not, "You need to pull yourself together," but, "Mom, will you go for a hike with me?" What a loving way to reach out.

When someone is in that sinking state, big, energetic interventions may not be the answer. I did not have the energy or capacity for some high level of exertion or engagement. A simple, gentle walk, though. That I can manage. Gentle, simple things are the answer for me at that point. Take a shower. Put on clothes that lift me up. (Which involves getting out of the jammies!) Take a little walk. Eat something healthy but easy, like an apple and some nuts. Get hydrated. Put in a CD of pleasant, uplifting music.

Which leads me to a whole other face of this struggle. As with all of those practical ideas, the things that are vital for spiritual health also fall into that "just what I need, but so hard to manage" space. I know for a certainty that reading God's Word and talking to Him help me in deep and life-giving ways. But when the clouds roll in, those things, like all the rest, just feel too hard. A key for me, something that feels possible, is putting in a CD or playing worship music on my phone. Having those Jesus-focused words flowing into my space helps move me to a place where the other good things start to feel possible.

All of God's love and help is all around me, ready to comfort my heart and lift me up. I know that all I have to do is reach out for it...but depression makes that hard to do. Depression is like having layer after layer of soft wispy draperies drifting down over me. Their touch at first is imperceptible, but as they accumulate, they weigh me down until I can hardly move at all.

Maybe next month, when the 24th and 25th roll around, I'll remember to be prepared for the impact it will have on my basic ability to function. I won't have a big list of things that I hope to accomplish on those days, so I won't beat myself up for failing on the list. I won't expect myself to accomplish anything. I'll be sure that my favorite comfy, comforting clothes are clean. Maybe I'll plan to watch an easy, happy movie or two. Maybe I will have cooked ahead, so that I have easy, good options for meals already prepared on those harder days. Maybe I will write myself a note with a few simple reminders, like playing worship music to blow the clouds away and lift the layers that weight me down, . I will reach out and take hold of the hand of Jesus, and let Him help me. And I will go outside, even for just a few minutes, to breathe fresher air and feel the sun on my face.

Nine Months Later

The actual day to remember is a little fuzzy for me. As Facebook would say, "It's complicated."

It is most likely that Michael died on Sunday morning, probably between 10:30 and 11. Nobody knew until the next evening, when his friend and co-worker went by his apartment to see why he hadn't shown up for work that day. We got the news soon after, I think at around 6:30 pm, when a local police officer knocked on our door.

So...which day do we mark? The 24th, when he died, or the 25th, when the terrible news hit us?

I kind of do both. Because they both matter.

When the 24th falls on a Sunday, it's harder than usual because I am doing the same things I was doing that day back in June- getting dressed up, going to church, sitting in the sanctuary, standing to sing... never knowing that a few hundred miles away, our sons life was ending.

The battles of the mind that I fight are different on the 24th than they are on the 25th.

On the one, my mind tries to tell me things about what was happening at that moment in time; ugly, hurtful things; pictures of the moment he died. There are toxic little guilt trips about how I was going blithely along in my day, oblivious to what was happening to my son. For example- did he cross my mind that morning? Did I think of calling him, only to brush it aside with- I'll do that later. I fight that with the only weapon there is, fixing my thoughts on Jesus and His great love for me. Focusing on Him is the only thing that fills my mind full enough to drive out those images and words.

On the day we got the news, the battle is different. It's more of my mind piping up throughout the day with, "This time nine months ago, you were still happy." That's not so bad. When it goes to, "This time, nine months ago, Michael lay dead in his apartment, and nobody knew," that's much harder. There is less of the guilt-trip aspect and more of the pure tragedy of it. Again, the only remedy that truly helps is firmly turning my thoughts to Jesus; to the goodness and love of God. Just "not thinking about it" is not enough. I have to forcibly fill my mind with the only thing big enough to fight the darkness.

So, how has it gone this time around, as we hit the nine month mark?

Yesterday, I debated whether to go to church. Would I have a big emotional breakdown in church, surrounded by virtual strangers? I prayed about it, and felt that it was right for me to go. I am so glad that I did. We were singing songs of worship when the fateful time rolled past, things like "Your grace is enough for me," and "Your mercy is all I need." Yes, I had tears during the singing, but it was not the full-blown meltdown it might have been. I felt cherished, held close to the heart of Jesus, and cradled in His love. That helped the whole day to be just...a day, and not a tragic, somber slog of sadness. It was actually a good day. I thought of Michael pretty much constantly, but it did not rip my heart to shreds.

Today has been....normal. Normal use to sound boring. Now, it is a surprising gift. I have thought of our boy many times today, but those heavy, torturous thoughts have not attacked me today. I am so thankful. I've rested, and gotten things accomplished- just housekeeping kinds of things.

A part of my mind is watching the clock, very aware that the hour when we got the worst news is about to roll around again...but that is not tearing at me. It's not making it hard to breathe.

This makes me think that people much be praying for me today. I know that there are specific people in my life who are very mindful of when these days roll around every month. I am so grateful for that. If you are someone who was praying for me yesterday and/or today- thank you so much. It is such a gift to have one of these "monthiversaries" roll by without being tortured.

I'm really....okay. Which is really lovely.

I am wearing one of Michael's flannel shirts- keeping him close. As soon as I finish typing this, we will take the dogs for their evening stroll, and then Lee will go to bed.

It all feels peaceful, which is a very precious gift.

Why God asks us to praise Him in the midst of the storm. It's so good!

Okay, so this interests me...

There are so many Bible verses that I've only really heard in extract form- pulled from their context and shared on their own or turned into song lyrics. These, for example, which I read yesterday morning: "Be exalted, O God, above the heavens! Let your glory be over all the earth!" Did your brain sing those as you read them? Mine did. :)

I have sung those words so many times in church. But do you know the context? I didn't. They're lovely words of praise, but in their proper setting, they take on a whole new depth.

The verse before, Psalm 57:4, says "My soul is in the midst of lions; I lie down amid fiery beasts-the children of man, whose teeth are spears and arrows, whose tongues are sharp swords." Sounds like a time of intense hardship! The author is suffering; under focused, personal attack. And then, verse 5- "Be exalted, O God, above the heavens! Let your glory be over all the earth!" And again, in verse 6, "They set a net for my steps; my soul was bowed down." Wow. This expression of praise was not the inspiration of a light heart on an easy morning, with sun shining and sweet fragrance drifting in on a gentle breeze. Those words were poured out from a heart in deep distress, in the midst of heavy persecution and suffering. And yet- "Be exalted, O God."

This reminds me of the words "sacrifice of praise." (Hebrews 13:15) Again, words I've sung often in church, buy never considered, until the past year, the weight and depth of them. When is praise a sacrifice? When it is the last thing you feel like doing! Praise and thanksgiving are sacrifices, holy offerings given beyond human capacity, when they come from a place of pain and lack and weary suffering. I can speak from personal experience now, in a way I never could before, of the deep sacrifice and determination it takes to praise God in the deepest pain, with the heaviest heart.

Praise is a choice. It is an act of sheer will and determination to praise and thank God when every part of you lies shattered and bleeding on the cold, gritty floor. And that is a precious, beautiful thing in the eyes of our God. <3 <3 He asks us to praise Him in the hardest times, not because it makes Him feel important, but because it is the best thing for us!

What God asks of us is always, always the thing that is the deepest, highest best for us, for our souls, for our hearts.

"When you walk through deep waters, I will be with you. When you go through rivers of difficulty, you will not drown." Isaiah 43:2

In every single moment, God's perfect, inexhaustible love is poured out to us. In the midst of intense suffering, He is with us in deep, sustaining ways. He never abandons us to suffer alone. And He asks us to praise Him, and to thank Him, in the hardest moments, because it does incredible, good things in our hearts and minds and souls. It is good for us to choose praise in the midst of our suffering. It is the best possible thing to lift our eyes to Jesus, even as we lie bleeding, and fix our minds on His goodness and His love. And what happens when we do that?

Philippians 4:6 "Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God." And what happens? "And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." YES!!

[necessary disclaimer- all the added emphasis of italics and bold print is mine- because it is just so intensely good!] Moving on...

When we look to God, with trust and love, in the midst of our pain, it opens the door for His priceless peace to flood in. I love that phrase, that His peace will "guard our hearts and minds." When our minds lie shattered and our hearts are ripped to pieces, His peace guards them- picks them up, pieces them gently back together, puts them in a safe and sacred place, and His holy fire then stands guard all around them while they rest and survive and heal.

<3 <3 <3 Can I get a Hallelujah?!! :D :D

It's not a mask...it's survival

We are all hanging in there, in the wake of Michael's death. We are, the best we know how, leaning into the love of God and moving forward through the storm. Because we are making such a concerted effort to meet life head-on and walk in grace (a.k.a. not vomiting our pain all over innocent bystanders) we look normal to other people. We seem just fine, most of the time.

Underneath, though, is a whole different story.

It's not a mask we wear, pretending to be okay.
It's not that we're avoiding the reality of what's going on.
We are not faking or being inauthentic.

This is gut-deep survival.

This is the only way we know to be able to carry on with life while our hearts lie bleeding on the floor.

Life, as I have said before, goes relentlessly on. No matter how brokenhearted a person may be, life demands that they keep doing the normal life things.

How? How can we possibly carry on with the mundane tasks of daily life? How can our kids carry on with work and school and other commitments, when their hearts are breaking, repeatedly breaking? They have to. We have to.

How?

One: lean hard into the arms of Jesus.
Two: wear a face of normalcy and put one foot in front of the other

The first is Life itself. That inner wellspring of love and comfort and help is the main reason any of us is sane and breathing and remotely okay.

The second is purely survival, and purely necessary.

There are other options, of course. In the face of such sudden, tragic loss, going completely to pieces is a highly reasonable response. This pain is enough to drive a person insane. It really is. Numbing the pain away with a variety of substances is also completely understandable. The pain is just unreal. I "get" in a way I never did before why people bury their pain with alcohol or drugs. The pain is exhausting and relentless. It pounds at you every moment of every day, whether you are thinking about it or not. It never stops.

Both of those roads, though, bring terrible consequences. They lead to places of more brokenness, more loss.

The alternative? Grab hard onto the hand of Jesus, lift your head, stick out your chin, and walk straight into the face of the wind.

This is the only way we saw to come through this with some semblance of wholeness, and with our lives and our family intact. By the grace of God, in the deepest sense, we are doing this hard, hard thing together, as a family.

To anyone who is not right up close to us, we seem pretty normal. We talk and laugh and listen and care and do the things that need to be done. We carry on.

It is not an act. It is real.

But the other truth is also real- that behind this face of normalcy is a deep well of sadness and loss. Sometimes, the waves of pain grow smaller and quieter and fall into the background. Sometimes, they rise up and knock us flat without warning. Every day is fraught with peril, like a grassy meadow full of forgotten land-mines. We never know when the next step will trigger an explosion that leaves us bleeding and breathless.

Life does not leave a lot of room for that; not much time for catching our breath after one of the big hits. Thankfully, God has given each of us, in some of those hardest moments, a little space, and the kindness of people who help carry the load for a few steps.

When I hear the stories of how people have loved on our kids and helped them when they struggle, my heart overflows with gratitude. That means the absolute world to me.

Oh, and a critical #3 on this road to survival: Get help. For heaven's sake, get the help you need! Find a good counselor, a grief support group, an online group of others walking the same hard road. We all, every one of us, need real help to make it through this. We do talk with one another about the real things of our grief, but it also helps, tremendously, to talk to someone who does not have a personal emotional investment in what you say, and in every shift of your feelings. There is no shame in seeking help; it is not a sign of weakness. It is pure common sense, and necessary for survival and for healing.

Have grace for yourself. Let yourself be where you are, feeling what you feel.

One of the most important things I have learned in the eight months we've been on this hard journey is to have deep grace for others, and for how they are dealing with their own hard things. We are all, every one of us humans, just doing the best we know how. We should have so much grace for each other. One of the worst things to do to someone in pain is to imply that they are somehow failing at grief; that they are doing loss or suffering the wrong way. How on earth does that help?

In the past, I might have been that person. I have a tendency to give off the message of, "you're doing it wrong" to the people closest to me. It's not nice. I'm working hard to learn better ways. I am having a stiff education on having grace for myself and extending it to others.

I love that meme that has gone around the internet in various forms; the one that says, "You never know what someone is going through, so be kind...always." I have also seen a quote attributed to Socrates, which is probably the root of the modern variations. "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

It's so true. We never know what private pain there is behind someone else's facade of "normal."  What if we all just assumed that every other person is carrying a hidden hurt of some kind, and extended grace and kindness to one another, all the time? What a difference that would make.

We have no alternators

An analogy came to me this week, and it fits so well.

It also makes me happy, because it is just so manly and mechanical, which is really not me. Mechanical and technical things are a clouded mystery to me and usually leave me feeling bewildered.

Here is the analogy, which is a very apt explanation of how we are functioning in this hard journey:

We are like cars that don't have alternators, and which have old batteries that can't hold a charge.

Now, for those like me who might not know what that means, here is my best explanation...

The way I understand it, an alternator is the thing in a car that works to recharge the car's battery while you drive. Without it, the charge in the battery would get used up, and the whole thing would just quit.

See that?

This is what it is like to be me these days.

My little battery doesn't hold a charge very well, and there is no alternator. It sounds as if our kids are experiencing the same thing. I think Michael took all of the alternators with him.

Anyone who does not have an energy-compromising health condition, or who is not walking a road like this, may not grasp how precious a commodity energy is.

It is the very stuff of life. It is the reason you are able to do anything that you do.

Without it, you literally cannot do anything.

Even before Michael's death this was an issue for me. My health issues, especially the issues with my adrenal system, left me with very limited energy resources. Adding catastrophic grief on top of that magnified those issues incredibly. I have very, very little to give. I have to manage my energy output, physically, mentally, socially and emotionally, with great consideration and care.

Sometimes, I can seem almost like my old self- cheerful, energetic, enthusiastic... but that has real limits. That only happens when I have had a very good charge poured into my battery, and often I have to do a lot of recovery afterward.

In our travels so far, we have seen very few of our people along the way. Partly, this has been a time apart for Lee and I to just be together. We needed this so badly. On the other side, it is very much about this energy issue. Most of the time, what we are doing is literally all that I can do.

We had a wonderful evening with wonderful friends back in December. That evening was a gift of grace straight from the hand of our loving God. What a blessing. We talked real things about our journey through the death of our son. You know it's God when you can spend an evening talking heart-deep about suicide and come away feeling peaceful, and like you've had a wonderful time.

Here's the thing, though. The only way I was able to do that evening was because I had sat in my recliner and rested all afternoon long. If we had gone for a hike or run errands in town (which would include casual social encounters) I could not have been engaged and present for that evening. I would not have had anything left to give. I had to stop moving and let my battery build up a charge, so I could have that wonderful time.

We saw some friends when we were in Arizona, which meant lovely, wonderful social time over the course of two consecutive days. These are friends who have poured deeply into my life over the course of many years. It was such a rich gift to have time with them. And then....I spent two solid days doing almost nothing but sleeping and resting. I have to charge my battery in preparation, and I have to take serious recovery time afterward, to restore my resources.

The time with all of these dear friends was so precious, and I am so thankful to have had it, but what it takes to make that possible is something I can't afford very often. 

It can be very hard. There are people I genuinely care about, who would like to be in closer contact, talking on the phone, encouraging one another and praying together. I want to be able to do this. And I simply can't. It hurts to not be able to engage with these women who matter to me, but I have to budget my resources with such care.

If I know that I'll be chatting with one of our kids in the evening, I don't do other phone calls during the afternoon. If we have been on adventures during the day, which means output of physical energy as well as casual spending of emotional energy, I don't have the wherewithal to sit down in the evening and write a blog post or a letter, or answer an email. It means the world to me, to hear from my dear people. I read their text messages and letters and emails eagerly. I am blessed and feel loved, and care deeply about what is happening in their lives....but sometimes it takes me a while to reply because the energy to do so has been used in other ways.

Partly, this is because my life right now is a life of constant togetherness. Lee and I have never had this kind of free, unlimited time together. It is such a blessing. It also means that I am with another human being nearly all of the time, and am investing social and emotional energy in interacting with him. It is good and right that he should have the lion's share of my time and energy right now. It is just a fact that this means less energy to invest in other things and other people.

I want to be doing so much more, but as my friend Teresa would say, "this is not your season for that." This is a season of rest. I have been taken out of my context, away from many dear people, away from my time commitments and involvements, and set aside in a quiet place. Why? To rest.

This is what I am beginning to see. My purpose right now, my highest priority, is to sit in the presence of my God, to curl up on His lap and be carried by His love; to be fully engaged in this precious time with my sweet Lee; to sit in quietness and to rest.

"For thus said the Lord God, the Holy One of Israel, 'In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.'" Isaiah 30:15

Seven Months Today: A Perfectly Displaced Plan

A while back, I wrote on the "beauty of disrupted plans."

I have seen that beauty again today.

For weeks now, I have been needing a massage. I really carry stress in my body and when I don't get professional help for it, it can get pretty uncomfortable. If it goes on too long, my jaw starts dislocating slightly or I lose the ability to open my mouth all the way, or to turn my head, or use my shoulder, or....you get the idea.

For several weeks, we have talked about the need to get some work done on me. We have looked up possible places to go and made tentative plans, but something else always preempted those plans. For example, when you have an elderly dog in somewhat fragile health, and you're able to get her a vet appointment...that does take precedence.

But all along, God knew exactly the right time for me to get this much longed-for massage.

I have learned so much, this past year, on how to just let plans be what they will be, and to not get too wound up when things don't go the way I had hoped. This is a very large change for me. Having little wrenches thrown into the gears of my plan used to really throw off my groove.  Now, a lot of the time, I am able to assume that God knew better than to let my plan happen exactly the way I wanted.

Like today.

Rather than having a massage last week or the week before, or even yesterday, when my appointment was originally scheduled, I had it today. The massage therapist's family got sick, so she had to push my appointment onto today... which means that....

On this day, which is seven months since Michael ended his life, at almost the exact time that it happened...I was lying on a warm massage table, while a kind, competent lady gently worked out the stiff knots that were lodged in my shoulders and neck. 

God is so wise. And so kind. And so full of love.

He knew the exact hour and day when I would most need this restful care.

Again- the frustration of my plan was only so that my loving Father's much, much better plan could fall into place. 

The Code: how I talk about hard things, without really talking about them.

I have a sort of “code” that I use, in speaking about hard things, and this is part of the complex answer to the question, “How do you do it? How are you surviving this?”

Here is part of my code:

“Had a moment” …As in, “I was going through a box of Michael’s things, and came across the Christmas stocking that I made for him.” (part of a set of four, one for each kid, and probably the most beautiful things I have ever sewn) “Finding that, so unexpectedly…yeah, I had a moment.” 

               

 -had a moment = code for: tears streaming down my face, choked by deep, wrenching sobs

Interesting…when I cry for my lost son, it’s unlike any crying I’ve ever done before. Not the depth of it- I have sobbed deep sobs over other painful things. I think that when I cry over him, I sound sort of lost and bewildered and…hurt. It is the sound of deeply wounded disbelief, coming from the place in my mama’s heart that still can’t really understand how this can possibly be true.

“Hazardous”- also- “Risky” -also- “Fraught with peril” …As in, “Going through papers can be hazardous.“ Or “Picking up the mail can be fraught with peril.”

-any of those terms = unexpectedly running across anything to do with Michael.

It is like being gut-punched. It is shocking, and especially painful, because I was not expecting it, not prepared, my guard was down. 

Like…picking up the mail and coming across anything with his name on it; especially a bill from that one company that just won’t stop.

Like…going through cards and letters and coming across a print of the last family photo we took together, taking one look at the handsome, smiling face of our son who is now dead, and dissolving in teary, shaking sobs. (part of why I didn't sleep well last night)

Like...looking over my to-do list and being reminded that I still need to send a death certificate and copy of the obituary to that one life-insurance company, and that the attorney still needs my notes on what bills I’ve paid from Michael’s account, and...

Hazardous. Risky. Fraught with peril.

I ran into a man we know at the post office once, just after I had picked up the mail. He asked how I was doing...so I told him the truth. I told him that I'd just been sucker-punched by the mail, with envelope after envelope addressed to Michael. It was obvious that I was in such pain. He was very kind, and we had an honest conversation about deep loss, but still, seeing my actual raw naked pain is hard on people. 

I spoke in an earlier post about using “Cousin George” as code when our hearts are too raw to speak Michael’s name. That has been another very helpful tool.

[The Cousin George Construct- posted in October of 2018, on this blog.]

All of these are coping mechanisms that help to keep me sane. All of them are needed, because my skin is fragile and the pain of this loss is a raging inferno.

If I spoke of these painful things in a serious way, I would come undone. I would “have a moment.” 

Survival, for me, for us, often looks like stepping very gently over the surface and not looking too closely at the terrible reality beneath our feet. Because the reality is that we are shattered in the deepest way…and yet we have to keep functioning and doing life.

Things we have understood from the earliest days of our shocking loss:

- Life grabs you by the face and drags you forward

Life just does not stop. People still have to eat and think and have clothes to wear and do mundane things, and make petty decisions, and make immense, impossible decisions…despite the fact that the world has fallen to pieces. Life does not stop and politely wait until you’re ready for it to start again. It grabs you by the face and forces you to keep doing basic daily things and making decisions and just…living.

- You have to, so you do.

               

 I actually thought of having a t-shirt made, with this on it. So many people have said variations of “I don’t know how you’re surviving this,” and the only real answers are, “Jesus” and “you just have to, so you do.” 

It reminds me of those years of bleary, staggering exhaustion when the kids were little, and maybe I’d had two hours of sleep because someone was puking all over their bed in the middle of the night, but the reality was that there were four little people who still needed feeding and care, and I was the grown-up on duty, so I had to… so I did. 

It’s a very similar feeling now, of being absolutely beyond any hope of being able to handle things, and yet, somehow life goes on and things have to be handled, and we are the people who have to handle them, so, somehow, by the grace of God, we do.