My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. Psalm 73:26
Okay, when is it going to feel like God is ACTUALLY and ALWAYS my strength and my portion? I’ve got the failing flesh and a broken heart down. No issues THERE. But Spiritual satisfaction, that ultimate inheritance and all that I need for eternity, my portion – where do I sign up FOR THAT? Right now God doesn’t seem to be ‘more than enough’ for me to get by. Is that sacrilege? Maybe. I’m complaining, lamenting really. I’ve been expressing my sorrow and asking for God to heal my heart – it’s a running prayer. It’s hope. It’s faith. It SUCKS.
Let me tell you a little about what I’VE been up to. It’s good to catch up, isn’t it? Keep reading if you’re interested. Trigger warning: Melancholia ahead. Have you seen that movie with Kirsten Dunst? It’s old now. My daughter wanted to watch it a while back, and listen, it is SO slow, and the music and imagery makes you feel SO woozy and anxious and heavy-hearted, you have to admit that’s some damn GOOD acting. Depression is well depicted. But I don’t NEED that.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty OKAY, which is good for me until we learned that our long awaited camping trip to Samuel de Champlain Provincial Park was canceled. It had been hit by a tornado. Yup. Seems about right. It’s next to impossible to find a campsite for our enormous trailer a MONTH before going, let alone 5 months early. We already played that game back in March. So, NO camping. No time in nature to unwind and BREATHE.
The day before our lease was up on the truck and we were in the midst of transferring to a ‘finance to own’ plan, just before it was scheduled to be safetied, and one day before the beginning of vacation, I BROKE the mother loving truck. Twisted around a pole coming out of the hospital parking lot. It was SO embarrassing. I saw the guy in the lineup behind me roll his eyes, so I got out of the truck and walked over to his window. He saw my clergy collar and screwed up his face. I apologized for the delay and asked HIM what HE thought I needed to do to get untangled. Always good to involve bystanders, get them to become invested in the effort rather than complaining at me. I drove home like a bat out of hell.
So, for our spectacular VACAY, we went to my parents house. It’s tucked into the bush in the middle of nowhere with a lake within walking distance. But I tell yuh, we SORELY missed the air conditioning and wi-fi in our trailer. Not to mention the house has iffy toilets and a mouse infestation. It was OKAY except it was so unbearably hot and humid. We were all miserable.
I’d taken the Sunday off (I’m a pastor), so we went to my home church. It was ALL WRONG. The pastor was away. My parents didn’t even sit with us and they left the building before we got through the greeting line. I THOUGHT going would make THEM happy. No such luck. In fact, the whole time we were staying with them, as lovely as it was to have tennis or game shows always in the background (with the volume at 79) and be able to sit with my parents as they slept – I wanted to go HOME. My mother’s dementia is difficult. I think us being there confused her. Oh, and, my old dog Tessa was unsettled by the mice. She heard a noise and climbed the stairs in the middle of the night, only to slip and fall down the ENTIRE flight. It was so awful. I hugged her LOTS.
Being home was just another kind of hell. One of my daughter’s gerbils, TED, got sick. We took him to the vet for antibiotics. He needed baby food to take the medicine so we stopped at the grocery store. When I came out I ALMOST got hit by a car, got flustered, and got into the WRONG truck. The driver was very nice. He thought it was great that I’d picked a Chevy instead of a Ford. The gerbil died two hours later. OOF.
So it took several attempts to get Andy (my husband) to bury Ted – HALF a hole was ready for a few days. The gerbil saga kept getting better. I enjoyed an ‘oat vs spelt’ tasting at midnight while preparing gerbil food for the remaining gerbil- WHY no labels Bulk Barn? My daughter had me messaging breeders in search of a new companion for BEN (the bereaved) – before he gets depressed. Enter AL. Gerbil world is like a bad Soap Opera. Now they have to bond. Fun times.
A couple days later my son gave Tessa her pills at the designated time and Andy, for a reason unknown, gave them to her a second time. She got really disoriented. We thought we RUINED her. She had a yucky tummy for a few days. I hugged her LOTS.
And then – here’s where my failing heart crashed and burned. One ordinary morning I went upstairs to get dressed and ready to take my Tessa girl for her walk. Shouting ensued. By the time I got back down the stairs she had ALREADY suffered a stroke. I can’t tell you how shocked we were. My son and I scooped her up and got her to the vet – where we made the decision to help her die faster – it was ABSOLUTELY TERRIBLE. My son picked up his dead dog and we took her home where I hugged her body LOTS. She’s been gone almost 3 weeks and I am no longer able to behave in an emotionally acceptable way – even at home I’ve been told to knock it off. I cannot. I hug myself LOTS
8We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.
2 Corinthians 4:8-9
Back to lamenting. Hard pressed? Check. Perplexed? Check. Persecuted (for crying too much)? Check. Struck down? Check. But contrary to scripture I ALSO feel crushed, despairing, abandoned, and destroyed. St. Paul says some stuff about how our weakness reveals God’s power. Sometimes I CAN’T hear this message. I want the hurting to stop. I don’t want to be shown death over and over again. I guess God knows we are forgetful creatures. We carry around the death and the resurrection of Jesus in our piddly human flesh so that WE KNOW what both mean and can truly live as if our own resurrection has already happened. If it’s true and God IS love, then I know Tessa is waiting for me through the gate – because God knows she makes me so happy. It wouldn’t be heaven without her.
“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?” Matthew 6:25
“If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and night wraps itself around me,” even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you. For it was you who formed my inward parts; you who knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.” Psalm 139:11-14
“They don’t make dresses for sausages.” That’s what a dear old lady in my Mom’s church choir used to say. When I was a teenager, I thought she was a cute, little Finn lady with a great sense of humour. She was short and looked ordinary enough to me – but I get it now. She was right. They DON’T make dresses for sausages. I have entered my SAUSAGE ERA. I’m a jumbo sausage. More specifically, I am a HOT Jumbo, Great Canadian Meat, Gluten Free, HIGH protein sausage.
I should say I’ve been here before. I had a brief reprieve from jumbo life when my health required a very restrictive diet. For a few years, I was more of a CHIPOLATA sausage – small and skinny. However, I have reentered the Jumbo arena, and let me tell you, it sucks.
Body dysmorphia is a terrible LIAR. When I was super thin, I was convinced I should be even thinner. Whenever my pants size goes up, I think I’m too heavy. Either way, SHAME has me in its grip. I wish I could take what Jesus says to heart and not give a crap about what my body looks like or, like King David, be grateful to be living in it for the gift that IT IS.
Sometimes, okay – NEVER I think about my body as a gift from God. It’s hard to imagine why the DIVINE would find it a pleasing place to dwell, but God chooses it ANYWAY. It doesn’t work as well as other bodies. It IS worse for wear. I’ve treated it poorly. There are accumulated and genetic health issues I simply can not fix. Most days, I am angry at my body, actually angry at MYSELF, and I’m a very long way from forgiveness and healing.
A couple of months ago, while trying on my spring and summer clothes, I realized I had gained considerable weight over the preceding two years. They were times filled with EXTRA STRESS that affected my self-worth, my family life, my social life, and my work. I’d given up alcohol (long story) several years before, so I distracted myself with FOOD instead. Apparently, eating a WHOLE chocolate bar every night adds up, and menopause weight is no JOKE, especially when it comes to stress eating.
Depression is a reality in my little life. It ebbs and flows in currents that start as an ACHE in my heart that quickly takes hold of my brain. It turns me into an actress. I stop living and fall into the shadows of despair and self-loathing. It’s HARD to remember that the blanket of darkness that enshrouds me is NOT as it seems. The weight is a cosmic hug and a warmth emanating from heavenly light. This ISN’T just Bible Study stuff or things I HAVE to say because I’m in the God business. God REALLY knows me and you too. God loves me and God loves YOU. We don’t have to act, or change, or do ANYTHING at all. Be yourself! I am a living, breathing, hot, sweating, extra large creation OF GOD.
I’m good enough. I’m strong enough. And gosh darn it, people like me – (SNL – anyone? Personal affirmations in the mirror? Nevermind)
I’m an agent of my Maker. Even if I’m a shape-shifter like the blobby Barbapapas, I used to watch on TV. ‘Clickety Click, Barba trick’- their bodies morph into whatever is needed – thin, thick, tall, short, big, small, narrow, or wide. Who cares. God doesn’t.
The world needs us so very much to be loving. Love yourself so you can dig deep and find joy and peace in loving others with everything you are. No holds barred.
PS. I’m still going on a diet and beginning a new exercise routine. It’s a way to love my body. Chin up.
7 Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence?
13 For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.
23 Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. 24 See if there is any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.
There’s a part of myself I’d like to befriend, I empathize with her, but I don’t like her. It’s too hard. I haven’t forgiven her for the mayhem she causes, unaware, the relationships she destroys, the judgment she invites. These are irreparable damages.
She isn’t all bad. I mean, there are some wonderful and happy memories- and I’ve done the hard work to remember her innocence, her goodness. I get her. I underwent the testing, I did the research, I have weighed and analyzed my mental health issues. I talk about her in therapy – I understand – but it’s hard to accept all the things she did and does that I did and do that hurt and continue to hurt. It’s hard to shoulder this responsibility.
She feels so betrayed, used, and less than enough. She is always a part of me. She is inside my mind, and my gut- she reminds me how I routinely dissociate. She brings shame to the forefront. She is inconsolable. She takes me down to the depths, and part of me remains suffocated there. She tells me I did this to myself. She begs me to see her, to acknowledge her, to love her, to affirm and absorb her pain as it seeps through my mind at inopportune moments.
She is me, and I just come short of embracing her. I am not whole – because she needs my help to heal. That lonely, confused, misguided young woman who can’t find herself is still me. She is the me who feels worthless, who begs for attention. Who makes life altering choices in desperation. When I fall into depression, she washes over me. I succumb to regret. I believe the lies she takes for truth. I believe I have failed, I’m insignificant, unlovable, and too selfish to be dignified and respected. Even with evidence that this can’t be true, I still spiral down like a kite who has suddenly lost its supporting wind.
My hope: Isaiah 43:18-19
18 “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. 19 See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.
I was called back by a VERY pleasant lady who looked me up and down as she absently sorted through a clothes rack. She was fitting me with my DIGNITY. She removed a gown from its hanger. “THIS looks like it will work,” she smiled. “Well, that’s not REALLY a gown, now IS IT?” I scoffed. “She smiled, “well no, it’s a shirt.” “FINE.” I sighed. She pointed to a hole in the wall and directed me to, “Just step in there and STRIP everything OFF from the waist up. Then cover up with your gow–umm–shirt. You can leave your other things with your clothes.” She walked away and left me alone to stew.
My thoughts raced. “Leave my purse which holds EVERYTHING that I could ever need to survive outside of my home? Set it UNATTENDED in a cubicle, on a bench almost TOO tiny to sit on?!’’ There was no lock, No Bolt, NO HOOK ON THE DOOR. I’d have to trust there were no cubicle THIEVES lurking about. “Oh God, I hope no one LOOKS behind this little door.” I cringed. I had worn my most comfortable, stretched out, ratty, stained, sports bra – because I didn’t want to FUSS around with anything more complicated. If someone peeked in they would SEE IT, dangling sadly from beneath my equally worn out t-shirt. And no doubt, they’d eye up my precious purse, my SHIELD that keeps my anxiety from bubbling over. Whomever looks would SURELY judge MY beloved bag as overstuffed and beat up. “What if they unpack it?! What if they SEE? What if some stranger I will NEVER see again FINDS OUT that I am most certainly weird with all my doodads and thingamajigs, first aid and crafting supplies, and chocolate, and some cookies for EMERGENCIES!” I was beginning to have an anxiety attack so I shuffled through my purse to find my happy pills for quick relief. (nothing illegal)
I put on the shirt. It was sufficiently LARGE. It took some time to do it, but I buttoned it right to the top. “Oh good. I get to stay hidden,” I thought. Then I stepped out and crossed over into the room with the MACHINE. The clamp, squoosh, and contort your boobies machine. “There you are,” sang an anxiety free voice. Come on over and stand here. I’ll need your right arm to come OUT of the sleeve so your whole right side is ACCESSIBLE. “So I should UNBUTTON the shirt, then?” “Yes, please UNBUTTON the shirt.” It took what felt like TOO MUCH time, it felt like undoing the buttons on my wedding gown. So MANY tedious buttons. I pulled out my arm. “Okay dear, come forward, get really close, put your arm around this side of the machine to BOOST you up a bit. Now I’ll just scoop you up,” that’s what she said, “I’ll just SCOOP you up,” like it was nothing, like this wasn’t embarrassing at all. She moved me around and let the machine grab me a few too many times. After we repeated the sequence with my other side, through which she repeated her cute little phrase THREE more times, “Now I’ll just SCOOP you up,” the procedure was complete. I sniffled.
“Okay. It’s time to button up. You’re done.” I frowned. “Why do you suppose these gown-shirts have buttons?” I asked. “Things would go much more QUICKLY and EASILY without them, don’t you think?” She laughed. “You’re right! I never really thought of it THAT way before. I guess it is to PRESERVE your PRIVACY as you cross the hall.” I was NOT smiling. I buttoned ALL the way up AGAIN and returned to my designated hole in the wall.
It looked like everything was STILL in order. I carefully UNBUTTONED that darn shirt one more time and slipped on my topside clothing and walked out, hooping the shirt into the laundry trolley and trying to look DIGNIFIED . “Oh the humanity!” I thought to myself. “Why did I have to struggle to button up and button down, and button up and button down in order to endure such a simple (and important) routine test. I mean, I could have just been given a regular hospital gown or a buttonless wrap-around to hold against myself as I crossed the hall, and from which my arms could be easily released. Fiddling with buttons with NERVOUS hands was NOT comfortable. But don’t worry, it’s OKAY. I re-emerged relatively undamaged. It’s cool. I’m cool. I survived. “Me, over here, I am COMPLETELY FINE with everything!”
Being UNBUTTONED is neither LESS than or EQUAL to being unhinged, unfastened, undone, unbound, uncaged, unfettered, UNLEASHED. The breeze was alarmingly TIT-illating (heh heh) under that stupid gown-shirt. My upper body felt a fleeting and awkward freedom. Isn’t that the nature of FREEDOM? It is a slightly UNCOMFORTABLE adjustment, not unlike exposing your highly personal BITS, only to be squeezed back into realizing the weight of what you are doing, and then the RELIEF of being released by from the vice of the mammography machine?
Being Canadian, I know I am particularly blessed that I CAN take a physical test that could be life saving. Upsetting as it may feel, access to doctors, nurses, technicians, equipment and medicine is part of our collective Canadian freedom. Being given the ALL CLEAR, or maybe more so, NAMING a problem, ultimately UNCAGES you. When you realize that YOU have been UNLEASHED you suddenly feel like you can rise to ANY challenge. “You see that machine? I CONQUERED that. You see that misogynistic barbarian over there? I will beat him, TOO. Any taste of freedom is a welcome one, be it personal, communal, national, or global. For me, being UNBUTTONED at my little appointment reminded me of all that I have to be thankful for. [insert awkward segue] As a Christitan, it reminded me of all that I want to heal and all the hurt I wish to unburden from you, from everyone. It’s easy to SEE the injustice in the world – we have moments when our FIGURATIVE restrictive clothing is unbuttoned and our bodies are freed – your boobs, your bellies, your appendages are TEMPORARILY LOOSED to hang as they are meant to. In the presence of others, our personal freedom can feel weird and uncomfortable. Sometimes following Jesus’ example is uncomfortable. He doesn’t tell us to FLASH people with shocking skin reveals. He simply invites us to walk with them. To steer each other toward the freedom of knowing we are worthy, valued, and loved whether we can unbutton quickly and effectively or not! This is good news! Can you see the potential our freedom has to free OTHERS? Jesus doesn’t promise that we will be spared from ALL discomfort, worry, or pain. He promises to SEE US THROUGH. To be our protective wrap as we cross the hall and the cover we need after any blow. We are invited to leave our satchels and extra shoes behind, abandon our baggage to travel light, to walk in THE light.
Maybe, one day, the gown shirts will be fitted with velcro strips and the process will become less humiliating. Maybe, one day I’ll be strong enough to just REMAIN metaphorically unbuttoned and OPEN to whatever is coming and be UNAPOLOGETICALLY MYSELF, a beloved and precious child of God. I want to be an advocate for all who are bound. I want to preach the need for us to take care, and I seriously just want to SCOOP you all up so that you can see where you’ve been fettered and where there is room to LOOSEN the grip and be free.
PS. You are supposed to be weird. That’s how God made you.
Casual pleasantries are NOT my thing. I’d rather hold my breath and pretend I’m invisible than fill the silence with EMPTY words. I’ve been feeling super uncomfortable lately. For many months, actually. It’s just my present state of being. My inner and outer selves are exchanging blows. It’s QUITE messy.
When someone makes socially acceptable, lighthearted banter in my direction, perhaps cheerfully saying, “Hello. How are you?” I usually respond with an “I’M fine, how are YOU?” That should suffice, but it feels like I’m lying.
I feel uncomfortable, spiritless. I don’t know why. I just do. “Hello, how are you?” “ME? I am NUMB. How are you?”
13th century English is FUN. ‘Numbness’, is described by the word, ‘TOPOR’ (Latin: torpōr/verb torpēre) – to lack sensation. This word sounds UGLY and DIRTY, and just AWKWARD enough to express my spiritual and intellectual inertia. Torpid, torpidus, torpitude, torpidity, torpify. These word forms refer to the idea of tending or serving to MAKE something or someone NUMB.
“Hello, how are you?”
“I am in topor.
I am torpid.
I have been torpified.
I am in the depths of torpidity.
I am overcome with torpidtude.”
Or my favorite, “I TORP”.
I feel like a torpid frog. I am benumbed and stupefied. How are YOU?
We used to have a bearded dragon named Lightning. He spent weeks in biological dormancy. He stopped hunting, eating, and bathing. IN FACT, he stopped MOVING altogether and appeared NOT to breathe. In reptiles, this is called brumation. In other animals, it is hibernation. In the wild, it happens to protect certain animals from weather and starvation.
I feel like I AM a wild beast who has been forced into domestic living. I didn’t choose to torp, it’s just a part of how I SURVIVE. Numbness is often a part of mental disorders. It can be a part of dissociation, depersonalization, and derealization, or in my case, emotional dysregulation. It’s a COPING mechanism. It’s OKAY to feel torpid sometimes. Take some extra time for yourself. Focus on rest and goodness and trust that ‘HEALING WILL COME ON THE WINGS OF THE SPIRIT AND WE SHALL GO OUT LEAPING LIKE CALVES FROM THE STALL’. (Malachi 4:2) Too much? It’s okay. God holds you in times of joy and in torpidity.
“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.”
These could be the words to my theme song. I don’t have one, of course, but, if I did, it would be sung to tune 878787 PRAISE, MY SOUL, THE KING OF HEAVEN. Google it to hear the melody! It’s also Hymn #864 in the Evangelical Lutheran Worship book, if you have it.
MY EVER-PLAYING THEME SONG:
“Praise, my soul, the God of Heav-en; when af-flict-ed, struck down, scared. My soul shines since I am liv-ing, even when my heart despairs. Per-se-cut-ed, not for-sak-en, fazed I rise a-gain to praise.“
Catchy, ain’t it? Doesn’t it scream REALITY to you? I’ve done some family history, and I think I truly identify with the MANY women in my heritage who were lumped into the category of “LONG SUFFERING.”
Somehow they LIVED. They ran the race. They overcame, they carried on. When I feel the bone weariness of another depression washing over me, maybe I could sing a few lines and snap out of it. I CAN’T ACTUALLY SNAP OUT OF IT. Depression is UNSTOPPABLE even when you are managing it with lifestyle and medication. I have to sing this while I’m feeling OKAY to lay the BEDROCK for when I AM NOT.
BREATHE. Remind yourself that so far in your life, and so far today, you have NOT been CRUSHED into oblivion. Your worry and anxiety has not utterly DEFEATED your spirit. Despair is tempered because, LOOK, here you are – NOT forsaken and NOT destroyed. It’s good news EVEN if you feel like a truck has just hit you and there’s an elephant sitting on your chest. That sadness that separates you from strength and holds apart from relationships and community – it WILL eventually lessen and WHEN it does, you can sing my theme song with me. It will be the shield we wield on this earthly walk TOGETHER.
God shines glorious light into OUR hearts so we can see the divine TREASURE that is planted there, so we can know that even though death is always at work in us, we are also AFLAME with the extraordinary life of Christ.
I’ve been DOWN on myself through these many weeks of Christmastide. But a good friend reminded me that the judgement of others DOESN’T MATTER. It’s LOVE that matters. GOD is LOVE. Sharing love is good for what ails ya. Onward and Upward, friends.
My pastor father always waited until Christmas Eve to ALLOW Christmas music. On that long-awaited night, singing Christmas carols brought an uncontainable BURST of joy. At home, once we were tucked into bed, my parents would ‘play Santa’. We knew the GAME had begun when the sweet voices of the Medical Mission Sisters reached our bedrooms.
I CAN’T wait until Christmas anymore. Years ago, I searched out, “Gold, Incense, and Myrrh” on CD. I listen to it as soon as the Advent season begins. My favorite song from the album is based on Isaiah 35: 1-10. The chorus is balm to my heart in ANY season.
“Strengthen all the weary hands, steady all the trembling knees. Say to all faint hearts ‘take courage’, for he comes the Prince of Peace.”
THIS is the blessing I pray reaches each of you, especially during this time of preparation and through Christmastide. It is a very difficult time of year for all who are experiencing any kind of loss. Anxiety related to health and financial security is augmented by seasonal expectations. Broken relationships sting. Loss associated with unrealized dreams, the absence of loved ones, especially due to the gaping pain of death and grief, EACH surface bittersweet emotions that are particularly deep during times that emphasize family and happiness.
As we wait for the Advent, the coming of Christ, which we recognize in the growing light of our Christmas preparations, I encourage you to be EXTRA kind to yourself. Relish in all the small ways the joy of Christmas touches you. You can give yourself permission to listen to your heart. Although pressure to DO things or FEEL ways that you don’t or CAN’T will surely arise, be gentle with yourself and make choices that bring you the most peace. It is FOR YOU, for all your beautiful and sacred humanity, for your hurts and your hopes, that Jesus, Emmanuel, God with us, is born. Lean on this wonderful Counselor, the very Prince of eternal peace, to strengthen you and bring you courage this Christmas and always.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in the passenger seat as my son learns to drive. I am NOT fond of driving. I don’t feel like I’m in control behind the wheel. It’s complicated. Although I trust my son, implicitly, riding in cars augments my ALREADY heightened feeling of vulnerability. I’m not an ideal driving teacher, so I sit quietly and try not to freak out unless, of course, we are about to die.
I was 17 when I was learning to drive. My FATHER thought I was doing well enough to give highway 401, the then BUSIEST and WIDEST freeway in North America, a go. Thankfully, G1/learner permit drivers are no longer permitted to take this RISK. We began navigating through the city of Peterborough, where we lived. I drove us down Highway 7, which had 2 lanes. Then I continued driving on Highway 115, which had 4 lanes. Then, I turned off onto Highway 401, which had 8 lanes. With each highway, my fear increased with the SPEED limit.
Once on the 401, I panicked. I desperately wanted to pull over. There is NO ‘safe’ place to sit on the shoulder of the 401. I started crying and screaming, and swerving. My Mom and my sister (it’s unfortunate they’d come along on THIS adventure) also began to shout. Somehow, my Dad talked me through it. (I’ve blocked out the memory). My panic, dissociation and almost total shutdown could have killed ALL of us. I avoid highway 401 as much as possible.
It’s little wonder that I took up pastoring in RURAL settings. I do okay in the country on the back roads, as long as they’re paved. Once, while driving a parishioner home, I crashed my car into a tree while TRYING to power through freshly laid gravel with my sports car. (Sunfire) Fun times. Night time driving in the country presents the constant danger of deer crossing. I hit actually HIT one and have avoided driving after sundown ever since. And then there is snow. Snow is ALWAYS scary.
Once, early in my ministry, BEFORE becoming a mother (I think this matters to my state of mind), I was driving through a rural, winter storm and slid off the road. That’s not accurate. I BARRELLED off the road, jumping the ditch and landing in a farmer’s field, just inches from a large tree. I’d been making pastoral calls and was not dressed appropriately for winter. Since this was a time BEFORE I had a cell phone, I got out and trudged through the deep snow to the nearest farmhouse.
There were little kids outside. The mother was wary of ME – wearing frozen blacks and a clergy collar. I steeled myself to IMPOSE until help arrived. I used her phone. I didn’t call the police but a nearby parishioner who pulled my car out with his tractor. My car thawed for HOURS in his heated barn. It was terribly humiliating.
This accident could EASILY have been avoided. I COULD have stopped pressing the gas. I could have TRIED to steer into the skid. But I JUST gave up. What possessed me? How could I NOT care? In a single second, I made a decision that ran contrary to anything I dreamed I would do in similar circumstances. I didn’t think about it for many years because, well, accidents happen. Only AFTER being diagnosed with depression and mental health deficits after years of ministry, after having children, after MY child was diagnosed with mental health disorders – then the UNRAVELING began.
Do we know what is in our hearts, hidden in our minds? What weighs on our subconscious? When I was a child I used to think SO hard about what ‘FOREVER’means that it made my head hurt. Still does. The idea of forever and, by extension, the idea of ‘NEVER ’, torment me. Forever and never are impossible to quantify. If I’m honest, the idea of eternity is FRIGHTENING. Will my racing thoughts EVER end? Ending permanently is just as terrifying. How can my thoughts STOP? How can I just disappear, just stop BEING?
Somehow, something in me knows it IS eternal. This sense grew exponentially when my brother died 13 years ago (today, actually). I can feel eternity IN myself, and it brings both comfort and fear. It’s hard enough to open ourselves to trust in the goodness of creaturely living, let alone the eternal life of our souls! WHEN will it be well with our souls? Do we, as we are, have to END to embrace it?
Science says that electricity, energy NEVER burns out. I imagine that means THIS aspect of our little lives remains viable in the universe. THAT part is recycled. Stardust. Our bodies decay and contribute to NEW life on EARTH. But what of our soul? What happens to our individuality, our thoughts, our loves – are they simply LET GO? As a Christian, I look to Jesus, but he doesn’t give ANY satisfying answers, just more puzzlement. He says things like: there will be NO marriage, we will be like angels and belong ONLY to LOVE(God). After bodily death, being with family won’t be the primary activity. Worshipping Love ITSELF will fill our time, and ALL will be ONE family. We’ll even meet NEW family. (Matthew 22-30) St. Paul says that we will be closer to one another than we are NOW, but not in the same way. (1 Corinthians 2:9) So – we won’t be alone, but all of this still scares me. Also, the relief of letting go, giving my brain a rest, equally entices me.
The decision I made in that snowstorm was probably LESS a decision than it was a product of my Borderline Personality- emotional dysregulation. I can be overwhelmed, impulsive, and reckless when I feel threatened. That was a recipe for disaster BEFORE starting medication to curb these symptoms. I take better care of myself now. Our personal self care has benefits for EVERYONE we love.
Our brains are wired to survive, even in trauma. There is an INNATE awareness that life now IS important. It is important to LIVE IT. FEEL IT. SAVOUR IT. The richness and depth of ALL human emotion come from opening our hearts to love a little bit each day. Because of our capacity for love, I trust that WHATEVER is next is GOOD- because LOVE is good. I believe that Love will embrace the best of us UNTO eternity. All this confusion, learning, joy, and shit, ALL of it – is somehow WORTH the effort.
I work hard to remember to weigh my thoughts before acting. Every day, I give thanks for the GRACE to live THIS life. Life leads all of us into a deeper knowing of our souls that will somehow transform us into ONE and give us the PEACE that surpasses all of our current understanding.
Things have been rather heavy around here. By around here, I mean in my head. I’ve just nearly recovered from a WEIRD laryngitis in which I learned I actually talk A LOT. I had no idea.
It was good to pass on a few voice-necessary tasks to others for a few days. It was restful, I guess. Except for the anxiety it created in my deep tissue. Asking for help ALWAYS has me bracing for judgment while others simply do the favour as if it ISN’t a life-altering burden. I’m learning.
I was SILENT all through the US presidential election. Even though I’m Canadian, it made me feel like I was drowning, like the waves were battering my heart and the current was dragging me under. But we all made it through anyway. The day passed. Morning came again.
I wanted some time outdoors, to breathe in nature and exhale my stress. I was feeling pretty healthy, so yesterday my friend and I spent some time at the water’s edge. It was a dull and VERY windy day with a tiny bit of drizzle. Lake Huron was absolutely WILD. As we looked out over the water I suddenly felt a terrible dread begin in my gut. There was a person out there in the enormous waves. Stunned, we asked each other, ‘They couldn’t be swimming, right?’ I mean, it’s November – unseasonal weather, but still. Are they drowning? Panic gripped. Another head bobbed above the water – there are two of them. Did they have a boat? Did it capsize? What were they thinking, boating in this turbulence? We were about to lose it when I suddenly realized they were wearing wet suits. Oh – were they scuba diving? In the murky, churning deep?
It took us some time to understand. The men were tethered by their ankles to paddle boards. One would stand up and try to surf but get knocked down by the incredible waves – some of which looked to be as TALL as the men! I’d lose sight of one, then both, and WORRY- but they kept turning up, bobbing, going under, or lying flat on their boards, letting the waves carry them. One of them came ashore. He walked out of the wildness holding his board. His face was slathered with some kind of thick cream – to protect his skin, I suppose. He said, “Now it’s YOUR turn!” with a grin. I told him he was amazing and completely OUT OF HIS MIND. He walked briskly to the pier, up to the end and jumped off, back into the waves for ANOTHER go.
Those guys would be NO help to one another if anything were to happen. They were TOO far apart and the water was too fast and too POWERFUL. My friend and I would be of no use either. I shuddered at the thought.
As we watched I relaxed a little and began to ADMIRE the freedom these guys must be feeling. IMAGINE IT. Thrill seeking is scary and can be really dangerous. Despite this, these guys were clearly enjoying themselves and not concerned. Maybe they were strong swimmers or trained for these conditions. Whatever the case – THEY were NOT in control of the waves. They did, however, get reprieve from the battering by clinging to their boards and staying afloat as the waves crashed through them. I remember being in a wave pool. It was pleasant. It was even kind of fun. It could NOT compare to what I was seeing.
Precariously relying on a wetsuit for warmth and a little tie to a floating board to keep one safe while within an expansive, violent body of water, knowing your life was out of your hands but choosing to live it anyway – AWESOME.
Life is precarious, isn’t it? There are no guarantees that we can ever control what is and could happen to us or to the people we love. The world is TUMULTUOUS and POWERFUL. We are powerless to control it. It’s also amazing and beautiful. Choosing to live in the face of uncertainty, making the most of every moment, not letting fear hold us back from goodness – is AWESOME.
As the guys were floating atop the crazy waves, I imagined how it would feel to move with the flow, to accept the power that engages and envelops, to look up at the big wide sky just as the sun was peeking through the clouds, It’s glittery rays hitting the water, being ONE with unspeakable beauty. It made me so very thankful to have been witness to this. My friend and I walked away full of appreciation for life, as it is, as it will be, always awesome, always mysterious, and always mysteriously presenting gifts of goodness and glimpses of freedom in the most fantastically unexpected ways. Thanks be to God!
My grown kids scoff whenever I remind them that I could fly. Not airplanes. I am NOT a pilot. What I am is accident prone, CLUMSY. My kids often tease me that ‘it’s too bad I’ve forgotten how to fly, maybe then I’d save myself some bumps and bruises’. Funny. Laugh as they might, it IS true, I COULD fly … I really BELIEVED it was true, once.
I clearly remember having to run to work up some speed and then DIVING forward into a flying hover, just a few feet above the ground. I’d fly like that ALL the way to school, eating cherry tomatoes from a sandwich bag while my head and chest kept me on a steady course. No one around me seemed to care, or maybe they didn’t notice. It was GLORIOUS. I could reach down and touch the dirt. I could put my arms out and feel the rush of the wind on my skin and through my hair. It was a fantastic feeling. FREEDOM. I also remember failing the take off, hitting the ground and feeling the road burn – so what does that tell you?
I doubt I’m the only person who thought they could do it. Flying memories must be pretty common because the experience so often turns up in literature and media. Flying is a wonderful escape to another world for Peter Pan and the Darling children. In the magical world of Harry Potter, flying was a given in the game of Quidditch. Flying is COOL and EXCITING. Kids’ imaginations are limitless and so vivid that the veil between memory and fanciful tales can be hard to discern.
BEFORE I knew about Narnia or even what a ‘wardrobe’ was, my closet was a special place. Actually, it wasn’t a closet at all. It opened into a vast, ever-changing space that belonged ONLY to me. Sometimes it looked like one of those sunken living rooms, an entertainment area from the 70s (it WAS the 70s after all) – but bigger – expansive. It kept going and going, like a vista of memories mixed with hope and glimpses of freedom beyond my wildest dreams. It had EVERYTHING I could ever need or want. It was delightfully different each time I visited – something new, something exciting, something GOOD. Having a secret place or an imaginary world – provides a safe place to practice being grown up, to try out new skills, and to build self esteem. Make believe is an important piece of childhood learning. It’s an escape, a respite from being too little, too weak, too quiet, too undereducated, or too inexperienced to do mysterious grown up stuff like being in charge.
In my closet I had a variety of my ACTUAL special dresses on hangers – I would carefully choose which one to wear whenever I took a ride in my flying machine. OH YES! My flying machine! It was docked SOMEWHERE in that secret place, ready to take me wherever my heart desired. It was rectangular and stood upright. It was made of dark wood, and had carved spindles binding each corner. It had a tiered, rounded roof with a ball and spire on top. It was open to the air, and there were two little benches facing one another. My flying machine wasn’t much larger than a telephone booth. I SWEAR that this was BEFORE I knew about Dr. Who or the Great Glass Elevator in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory!
MY flying machine would take me over parades, over people I knew from school who would look up in admiration and wave, and CHEER, “There goes NADINE! She looks like a PRINCESS in that dress!” I could EVEN bring someone aboard if I wanted to. I could welcome kids who usually paid me NO mind and gain their friendship because of my secret room. I could come and go whenever I wanted. I could do whatever I wanted. I got to make ALL the decisions. People really, really LIKED ME. I felt FREE as a bird. It was sensationally FUN.
I never invited my family to see it, though. It was ONLY for me, myself. It felt safe and affirming, a place where I wasn’t ever teased, humiliated, or alone. Where I wasn’t ever angry, or afraid.
Often, when I left the closet, I could hear voices out in the kitchen. I’d get excited, thinking my family was having a hoot of a good time and I didn’t want to MISS it. But, then I’d wonder – WHY didn’t anyone tell ME? Didn’t they notice I wasn’t there? I’d run out to look. ‘Here I am!’ But EVERYONE was tucked into bed and asleep. It was the middle of the night. It confused me terribly. How LONG had I been in the closet? What DID I miss? WAS I missed? Did they forget about me and go to bed? Did they hear me coming and DISAPPEAR on purpose? I still wonder about those voices.
This is where everything gets a BIT uncomfortable. Even the wonder of my imaginary world, full of freedom, acceptance, and friends would not console the feeling that I had been somehow ABANDONED. It was clear that NO ONE really cared about me. These persistent feelings, no doubt, sprouted from something unpleasant and unfair that happened to me and have haunted me my entire life.
If you’ve read any of my stuff, you know I’m the queen of OVERSHARING. Here it comes. Beginning at a very young age, my self-worth has always been based on the APPROVAL and ACCEPTANCE of others. I’m prone to intense DEPENDENCE on my select favourite people. I have terrible, sometimes debilitating ANXIETY. I am petulant, some might say I’m a little self-destructive. It’s true, I am easily frustrated, I CAN be convinced that the world might be more cruel than it is kind, I often ooze with self-LOATHING. My moods and emotions are unpredictable. I struggle with feelings of EMPTINESS, SHAME, PARANOIA, and ABANDONMENT. I am impulsive, I need acceptance and attention. Can you guess my DIAGNOSIS? I don’t think any LABEL is a perfect fit, but in mental health language, I have Borderline Personality Disorder. No two cases are ever the same, so this unique MANIFESTATION is mine alone – even so, I’m sure there are points that will resonate with others for whom emotional or mood dysregulation are everyday concerns.
My memory tells me I had a wonderful childhood. On most counts, I REALLY did. My parents, my whole family, were the BEST. No family is perfect and we aren’t, by a long shot. But, I thought we really set the standard for how families SHOULD function. That’s the narrative, to this day. We love each other. We set the bar. I was loved, I was cared for. I still needed a safe place to be alone. I longed for understanding, freedom and acceptance. I had MASSIVE tantrums, I felt injustice wielded against me. I worried about death and, I worried about going to HELL – A LOT. I was angry, sad, and fearful about being left alone. My imagination was a soft place to land.
I recently took a course about trauma informed care in which the instructor suggested that Borderline Personality Disorder as well as several other mood and emotional dysregulation disorders might fall under a NEW umbrella called Complicated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. CPTSD. As you know, PTSD can develop from an ACUTE trauma, something that happens to you or something you witness, maybe a car accident or a shooting – a SINGULAR event beyond your control. CPTSD can develop from ONGOING trauma, something that repeatedly happened to you over a long period, or something that CONTINUES to happen to you or something you witness over and over again, including physical and emotional abuse, and ESPECIALLY in early development and adolescent years. I find this new blanket term less negative. It carries HOPE. Maybe it ISN’T my fault. Maybe I can accept who I AM a little bit more, maybe confusion can be relieved, and inner conflict resolved. Maybe I DON’T HAVE TO FEEL so alone, ashamed, and consumed by my disorder.
Trauma responses vary greatly between people, even between those who share the SAME experiences. Why do some of us develop disorderly symptoms? It’s a good question! CPTSD is caused through a combination of genetic, neurobiological, psychological and psychosocial factors. I learned this in “The Neurobiology of Everyday Life” course I found online. It taught me so much about the way our brains work. Our brains are uniquely influenced by these categories and each category in a disordered condition can factor in at different levels of responsibility. In a trauma workbook, I discovered that my disorderly mind is a result of roughly 30% neurobiological/genetic and 70% psychosocial. I don’t know if the numbers really mean anything – but it takes some of the onus off me, personally.
Does mental illness run in your family? Maybe you have a genetic predisposition. Did you know that depressive disorders, eating, and substance abuse disorders often coexist? This is true for people with CPTSD symptoms. How does your brain manage emotion? Behaviour? Long Term memory? Motivation? Learning? How does your brain deal with the effect of substance use? Brains that display mental health stress develop symptoms in the limbic system (which processes and regulates our emotions and memory) . Did you have adverse childhood experiences that you may have been unable to process in a healthy way?
When I was seven years old my family moved to a new town. My closet didn’t come with me and I NEVER felt it’s magic again. I had memories of my time in my sanctuary, but had nowhere new to turn for comfort. My life became more and more difficult for me, until, ‘KABLOOIE’ – I was a young adult, loose in the world with all the same old shame weighing me down. I was impulsive. I felt empty and angry. I did things that could have caused me great harm. My closest relationships were terribly unstable. (I hate you, don’t leave me!) My sense of self was largely distorted toward the negative. My emotions were so intense I would dissociate, completely detaching myself from them. Girding this all up was my fear of abandonment.
Too HEAVY? Yup, sure. There’s an upside. My children helped me to REIGNITE that sense of wonder and trust in myself that I used to find in my bedroom closet. Creativity is an outlet for taking what’s locked up inside and letting it out by expressing it. It’s a safe way to rehearse and address difficult thoughts and emotions. Try something new sometimes. Take some small risks. LEARN your heart. SPEAK with your soul.
Psalm 139 is one of my very favorites. Did you forget that I’m CHURCHY? Here’s a small sermon for you. Although I CAN’T escape who I THINK I am or think I HAVE to be, I also cannot escape from God’s LOVE. God’s love is inescapable both on my best days and on my very worst days. I tell myself to BREATHE about it – for me breath is the same as prayer. Maybe these words will be helpful to you, too. Note that the word ‘Sheol’ means something like ‘darkness- as found in what, for some, is the presumed abode of the dead’. Okay, From Psalm 139:
1 O Lord, you have searched me and known me. 3 You…are acquainted with all my ways. 7 Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? 8 If I ascend to heaven, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there. 9 If I take the wings of the morning and settle at the farthest limits of the sea, 10 even there your hand shall lead me, and your right hand shall hold me fast.11 If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me, and night wraps itself around me,” 12 even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, 13 For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. 16 Your eyes beheld my unformed substance. 17 How weighty to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! 18 I try to count them—they are more than the sand; I come to the end—I am still with you.
Whoever you ARE, whoever you THINK you are, God, LOVE, the Ground of ALL BEING, the Creator, knows YOU and loves YOU. You were made in LOVE’S own eternal image. God knew you before any chaos, trauma, disorder, or illness entered your life. LOVE knows your whole Self – the physical and the spiritual. And, God is with you NOW, dwelling in your heart, and will remain with you ALWAYS. You are NEVER alone. God will NOT abandon or shame you. You are worth EVERYTHING. Our task is to walk in this truth, this hope, and this meaning that compels us to KEEP ON trucking on, and bring light into the lives of all who suffer likewise – because everyone is touched by human pain. The good news is that everyone is also touched by eternal JOY.
As an adult, I realize that all the make believe and imagination in my young life was a gift. Today, when I’m not daydreaming, I have found comfort within myself, the self I know best in solitude and in nature. My BEST self whom God already knows. Self-care is soul-care. Be well my friends, and walk in peace.
Nuanced Niddy 