Believe and Do the Hard Work

My mom is dying.  Not very gracefully, but that's her problem.  I've just spent a week at her house as she got out of a rehab unit.  She's been in and out of the hospital or rehab since August.  Since I live in a different state, this is the first time I've been able to spend some time with her.  And it was hard.  Talk about emotional whip-lash!  Several times a day I'd got from feeling sorry for her and compassionate, to being irritated and angry with her for not trying to make her own life better.  But, that's okay.  I'm always reminding myself that it is not my responsibility--I've done everything I can to help her find some reasons to work at getting better, but ultimately she is responsible for the decision to do the hard work and get better, or to suffer for these last few months of her life.  I’m okay with her dying and not really sad over having her gone.  That may sound cruel or unfeeling, but I think it's really just coming to peace with what I've had and haven't had with her. What I am sad about is that I never got the connection with her that I always wanted.  But no one did—not my sisters, not my brother, almost definitely not my dad.  The positive side of this, for me, is that I have created a very different relationship with my children.  

Whenever I feel myself slipping into depression, I remind myself how differently I interact with my kids.  I try to be open and honest with them.  I try to let them know what I’m feeling and how I feel about them.  So, even though my mom has failed in her relationships, I am doing better.  And I am not destined to have an end-of-life experience like hers.  During all of this--watching her get old, I've feared the aging process and what it will look like for me.  But it will be different.

My sister was talking to me about how different dad was at the end of his life.  He would go out walking every day, despite the weather, despite how fast he could go, despite how much he hurt.  And it dawned on me that even though I am like my mom in my emotional make-up, I am also like my dad—I have his persistence and drive to do the hard work.  I told my therapist about this and she commented that I have really gotten the best of both of them.  From my dad I have his perseverance and work ethic, but unlike him I am empathetic to people who struggle, particularly with depression.  From my mom I got the depression, but it has helped me gain empathy and compassion.  So I have the tenacity to keep fighting my depression, which my mom never has had, and I have the empathy/understanding, which my dad lacked.  He never understood depression and from what I can tell was never sympathetic to my mother’s state (at least while I was around; maybe he tried to be sympathetic early in their marriage but didn’t make any connections with her, who knows?).  Anyway, I feel good about it.  I feel good about what I’ve learned from both of them.  I feel good about the strengths I’ve gotten from both of them.  I feel proud of myself.

I was thinking about my fear of becoming like my mother—how my depression has scared me and how my knee-jerk reaction to difficult problems is to think “I can’t deal with it.”  But I’ve stopped myself long enough to realize that even though my initial reaction is to feel overwhelmed and like I don’t want to deal with anything, I don’t let that stop me.  Yes, it has taken me a long time to overcome some of my depressive episodes (this last one in particular).  But I did it.  I didn’t give up.  Even in my darkest moments, I was aware of my depression, I was aware that I could eventually change things, I was wanting to change things.  Even when death seemed like the most preferable option, I kept persisting, if only for my kids’ sake. But I found a reason to keep working and trying.  I was always grasping at ways to deal with my depression better than my mom did (Hell, my mother isn't even aware of how depressed she is--funny side story:  I mentioned something to her about how I knew it was hard to do things when you're feeling depressed and she said "you think I'm depressed?"  My jaw dropped.  I said "mom, you lie in bed all day and stare off in space.  I think that is a really good indicator of depression."  She is completely out of touch with her own feelings! It is astounding!).  Anyway, I will be the first to acknowledge that I wasn’t always super effective in dealing with the depression and some days were definitely worse than others, but I never stopped trying, even when just getting myself out of bed was the most effort I could muster.  That persistence and awareness is what sets me apart from my mom.  I don’t have to be afraid of being like her—I am nothing like her.  I am strong, I am honest, I am a hard worker, I am empathetic to other people and their struggles, I am aware and continually trying to be a better person (to be the best I can), and I don’t give up and expect everyone around me to cater to my pain. 

 

I can’t quite explain how important this is for me to recognize, and to really believe.  I feel like I’m at a turning point in my healing process—I’m finally believing and knowing that I’m not like my mom.  I feel myself being freed from that fear.  It’s a really good feeling.  I’m not expressing it very well, but it is profound.  I’m feeling it in my bones, not just on an academic level.  So I guess that despite the difficulties of dealing with my mom and siblings and the end-of-life process that is so tricky, I am benefiting from it all.  Maybe this is what it was going to take to help me recognize that I am a very different woman than my mom, despite our shared experience of depression.  I feel like I am being freed from the fear that always bound me to her.  It’s exciting and refreshing and comforting.  

It has taken a long time to get here.  It is something that my therapist and I have talked about and worked on for the last 8-9 years!  Yikes, that’s a long time, but at least I’m making progress.  My persistence has paid off.  And I am really beginning to believe my therapist when she talks about all the hard work I’ve done to get where I am now.  It has been hard work, and I have done it.  No one can take that away from me and I’m better off for it.  And my family is better off and my relationship with my husband is better off. 

Anyway, I’m emotionally exhausted, but I’m also confident I can get through this.  I’m confident that my husband and I can work through all of this together, that I’m not alone.  He and I have also spent the last year working on our relationship--we were both so very unhappy, but now we're more connected to each other than ever.  It is really difficult to explain how significant knowing that I'm not alone and that I can work through this is.  I’m in such a different place than I was a year ago.  

I wish I could say there was a magic moment or a specific thing that has helped me relearn happiness.  But really it's just been a collection of moments.  It's been persisting, not giving up, trying over and over to find the right anti-depressant combination, being willing to try a variety of avenues to reach a healthy place.  It's been continuing in therapy, starting daily exercise, and having a small but significant network of loved ones, friends, family, therapist, that didn't give up on me either.   If you're reading this and in the middle of a depressive episode, I hope that my experiences will give you confidence, or even just a glimmer of hope, that things can get better.  Just don't give up.  Believe and do the hard work.

Holding On vs. Singing

Today, with my gray thoughts, I’m reminded of one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver—I Will Try (posted on the side bar). It is a fantastic poem that matches my feelings so well.  I love these lines: 

 [a woman] who thinks now, too much, of roots

and the dark places

where everything is simply holding on. 

That is how I feel most of the time—thinking of dark places and simply holding on.  But she goes on:

But this too, I believe, is a place

where God is keeping watch

until we rise, and step forth again and—

but wait.  Be still.  Listen!

Is it red bird? Or something

inside myself, singing? 

At times I feel like there is something inside myself, singing.  But it sings so quietly, sometimes it’s hard to hear.  I like the idea that “God is keeping watch.” I don’t usually feel that way, but I want to believe it.  I just love poetry.  How do I move from simply holding on to singing?  I want that, but it is hard.  I seem to fluctuate so much.  Lately I've just been cruising along with a very mild depression.  It's the dysthymia, I think.  And it's okay; it's doable.  But I want something more.  I want to feel like singing.

Staying Still

I’ve started reading a new book called Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis by Lauren Winner.  Wow.  That’s all I can say—wow.  I had no idea that someone else has gone through a very similar experience (although I’m not sure why I should be the only one).  She has an amazing way with words and I’m finding it all very moving, validating, helpful, and it expresses so well things I’ve been thinking/feeling about the absence of God.  It has been such a relief to read this.  I’m only a little way into it, but it has been a balm to my troubled soul.  I can’t say that I feel any closer to God.  She doesn’t suggest that her book is a self-help book or that it has any “how-to’s” to get through the middle of one’s faith.  But just having someone so eloquently express the feelings is valuable.  She mentions several poets that I want to look up—Anne Harvey Sexton (whom I’ve heard about before) and W. S. Merwin.  I love poetry.  Lately poetry seems to be even more meaningful to me. 

Here are some things she’s said in her chapter “ode on god’s absence”

When you find that God is absent, you do many things. . .You wonder if you have invented the whole thing: maybe it is not that God has removed himself from you; maybe, simpler, there is no God. . .You are growing a carapace, to protect yourself from this absence. You being to turn your attention elsewhere, to any elsewhere that might pay you some attention back. . .One thing you do is wonder at your own sin. You understand that the most straightforward explanation of this, God’s absence, is that you have sinned. . .Another thing you think, when you have come to God’s absence is this:  it is not God who is absent at all, it is you who are absent. . .you read that for crustaceans to mature, they regularly have to shed and regrow their carapaces.  You read that when they are molting, they are most vulnerable to attack. . .Later, later on in God’s absence, in God’s silence, you think: I cannot cajole God back.  You can try to effect your own return, but you cannot cajole God.  God will return, or not, as God’s own freedom dictates, as the whims of God’s capricious grace directs. . .Later still: maybe this silence, this absence, is a gift.  Maybe what began as punishment is being converted to gift, maybe that is how God works.  Maybe this absence will become an experience of God’s strangeness, God’s mystery.  You think:  Maybe I am being shown something here, if  I would look, if I would see.  You think of these words from the prophet Zephaniah:  He will shout with joy for you, He will jump for you in jubilation, He will be silent in His love.

Wow, isn’t that amazing?  I love that last line—He will be silent in His love.  I don’t know what it means, exactly, but it seems to ring true and to be full of possible meaning.  Ms. Winner is a lot like me—she turns to books first, for answers; any type of book—“a book on gardening, though I do not garden, but maybe everything would be better if I did.”  I am so infused with something, the spirit? Emotion?  Relief? Anticipation?  And I’m only 27 pages into the 198 paged book.  I want to devour this book; I want to slowly experience the vast myriad of flavors.  I’m anxious to keep reading and I’m holding back so I can contemplate everything that I’m reading.  Here are some more quotes, from her preface:

Some days I am not sure if my faith is riddled with doubt or whether, graciously, my doubt is riddled with faith. . .Faith, after all, is supposed to sustain you through hard times—and I’m sure for many people faith does just that.  But it wasn’t so for me. . .God had been there.  God had been alive to me.  And then, it seemed, nothing was alive—not even God. . . You may arrive at the spiritual middle exhausted, in agony, in what saints of the Christian tradition have called desolation.

She quotes Mary Oliver!  “O Lord of melons, of mercy, though I am not ready, nor worthy, I am climbing toward you.”  Reading this just reinforces my deep desire to sit and ponder, read, and write.  I feel like I’m at a critical juncture in my life, a place where great growth is happening; but I want to cocoon myself up while I’m going through this transformation.  I want to immerse myself in thoughts and ideas.  I want time to really ponder things, without interruptions.  Maybe my not finding a job right now is a gift of time, time to do this very thing. 

After recently going through many days of despairing, of struggling to keep my thoughts from taking me back down, this book is giving me hope.  I’m even feeling anticipation for life; whereas 3 days ago I was wondering “why life?”  Persistence pays off (although the pessimist in me says “this too shall pass;” you won’t stay up for long).  But when I’m feeling good, I keep thinking that all of this—the ups and downs, the confusion and clarity, the hope the desolation—all of this is important and ultimately worth it, if I can just hang in there. 

Learning

It has been a looooong time since I put something up on this blog.  Thanks Birdie, for asking.  I’m not sure why the hiatus, exactly, because I’ve been doing so much better and feel like I’m actually relearning happiness.  At least I’ve been re-experiencing happiness.  But more important than happiness is the hope I’ve felt.  Since my last post in February a lot has happened, but most of it has been internal.  I’ve spent many hours, days, months, just thinking, reading, and writing (journaling). My therapist said that I am the healthiest she’s ever seen me.  I’ve felt that way too. I think I’ve actually been experiencing life the way “normal” people do—some ups, some downs, but generally doing all of life’s requirements haven’t taken much thought or energy.  It’s been so long since I’ve felt like that, and I’m enjoying it.  However, I’m still very introspective.  I live a lot in my thoughts.  And I haven’t had much energy for people other than my husband, kids, and a few close friends.  But I’m allowing that to be enough.  

I’ve been reading many good books, a lot on relationships.  One author that I’ve found very inspiring is Brené Brown.  Her focus is on the power of being vulnerable.  Someday I’ll write a post on my thoughts about vulnerability.  She’s given a great TED talk which you can learn more about here:  

http://www.ted.com/speakers/brene_brown

This summer my family went on a 50 mile backpacking trip over 6 days.  It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done!  None of us had prepared for the trip, so I think it was physically harder than it had to be.  There were days I was sure that I could not make it.  I wanted to sit down and cry; at one point I even considered turning back before I got too far to turn back.  But I kept putting one foot in front of the other—what else could I do (stay in the mountains and live on huckleberries?)?  There were also wonderful, magical, moments (especially when I was able to ignore the 6 blisters and toenail that was coming off).  We ate wild huckleberries, saw wolf tracks, swam in the Selway River, and I loved checking out all of the plants.  

I know this is a worn-out metaphor, but I thought a lot about how life is like that 50 miler I was on.  There are moments of dragging yourself up hills/mountains; there are moments of spectacular views; there are moments of pain; there are moments of refreshment; there are moments when you feel you can’t go on; there are moments of feeling proud (even amazed) that you did go on; there moments of being cold and also of being hot; there are moments when you think the trail will be easy but it turns out to be the hardest part of the hike; there are moments when you need the support of your hiking partner; there are moments when you need to give support to your partner; there are moments when you wish you never started the damned hike; there are moments when you are so grateful you did. Yep, it’s a lot like life.  The only difference is that in life we don’t know where the end of the trail is and we can’t be sure there will be a hot shower and ice cream waiting for us.  But we can hope.  

It’s all about hope.  One of the most difficult things is that during the dark days of depression, hope flees.  During those times I guess we just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other—what else can we do? 

I am learning to accept the moments of hope and happiness, without worrying about how long they will last.  I’m learning to just “sit” with my anxiety, depression, fear.  I’m learning to let go of worrying that I’m slipping into depression every time I have a down day (I am still vigilant about slipping back into depression—I want to do everything I can to proactively keep myself healthy).  I’m learning to let people in and accept their help and to trust.  I’m learning to embrace the reality that I’ll never get things perfectly, every time—to embrace mistakes, to embrace the ebb and flow of emotions and of relationships.  I’m learning to sit with the reality that my children will experience pain in life, no matter what I do to protect them.  I’m learning to want my children to experience all of life, the hard, the good, the scary, the wonderful.  I’m learning to accept life as it is.

Most importantly, I’m learning to accept what is in my life and what I can give to life as enough.  Our culture is constantly telling us that there isn’t enough, that we are not enough (some of Brené Brown/’s ideas).  It is so pervasive—I wake in the morning and the first thing I think is “I didn’t get enough sleep” and by the time I go to bed I’m thinking “I didn’t get enough done.”  I never really realized what a strong hold that idea/mantra has on me and my thoughts.  So, I’m learning to live with a belief in abundance, that there is more than enough of everything in this life; that I am enough. And this post is long enough!  :)