I told somebody

This was the first, and perhaps the most important step in my healing process.

During that season, my husband and I were doing an internship at our church. It was an amazing year of leadership development, hard work, and growth.

In the midst of this internship, just as my depression was hitting critical mass, one of our pastors taught a lesson on eating spiritual meat. The idea was that, as seasoned Christians and leaders-in-training, we should not solely rely on the Sunday morning message for our spiritual food. We should learn how to feed ourselves through daily quiet times in the Word and not hold anyone else responsible for our own spiritual growth.

It was good. It was truth. It taught me things that I am still using to this day.

But in my twisted, depression-skewed mind, I heard this: You shouldn't need spiritual help from anybody at any time for any reason. And if you ask for help - especially at the church and especially if you are a leader here - then you are a spiritual baby, and you are disqualified.

That is not what they were teaching. But that is what I heard. And it confirmed in my heart what I already knew - no one can ever know about my depression. Not my family. Not my husband. And especially not my friends at church.

If you skim past everything else I'm writing STOP HERE.  READ THIS. Read it again. Let it sink in.

Depression's greatest weapon - our enemy's greatest weapon - is shame.

Because shame tells us to hide. 

Shame tells us no one can ever know. 

Shame makes us run from relationships, and from God. 

Shame tells us we're all alone.

I was so ashamed. And I couldn't bear the thought of anyone ever knowing about my failures. I was terrified of the judgment, the stigma, the label that would be slapped across my forehead for the rest of my life.

And so I was alone.

For weeks - FOR WEEKS - no one knew. I was spiraling into the pit, and not one person knew.

Finally, on that one morning, when I hit rock bottom, I made the decision to tell three people. Only three people.

I needed someone to take care of my house and family while I took care of me. So I called my mom. Forever my hero, she drove the eight hours of highway between us, then cooked and cleaned and loved on my family and loved on me and basically rescued us.

Next, because my husband would be at work until late that night, I sent him a simple text: I am really depressed. I'm going to counseling as soon as someone will see me. Mom is coming to help.

Finally, I called every counselor in the book.

In the midst of looking for a counselor, I called our church and asked if they recommended anyone. Through a series of my own miscommunications, I filled out the wrong paperwork. I thought I was requesting a private meeting with  a counselor. But I filled out a pastoral request - asking for a pastor to contact me regarding my depression.

When I discovered the mistake, I was mortified. I had missed my internship class for the past two weeks because of my "back pain," and now they would know the real reason why. Would they ask me to "take a break" from the internship? Would they question my spirituality? Clearly, I was lacking faith and a strong Christian walk. And surely, that would disqualify me from any leadership position at the church.

I remember walking through the doors of the church, begging the Lord to spare me a run-in with the pastor who had received my request. But lo, and behold, there he was, walking straight toward me.

I bit my lip in an attempt to hold down the vomit - literally. He walked up to me, put his arm around my shoulders, and said something like, "I got your request, and I want you to know we're here for you." Only it didn't sound like a canned response. It was genuine, and concerned. He went on to say that he had passed my information on to a pastor-friend of mine, and she would be contacting me. I pushed back tears and mumbled something like, "Okay, that's fine. I'm fine. Yep. Fine." And then promptly went to the bathroom and threw up. (It's ugly, but it's real y'all.)

But in that moment, something broke off me. Because there was nothing except love and compassion and concern coming from my pastor. There was no judgment. No lecture. No shame.

No. Shame.

And in that one connection, I gained a little boldness. A little fight. A little courage.

Because that's the thing about shadows and darkness - the only remedy is light.

Over the following weeks, I told a handful of close friends about my struggle, and I was shocked to discover how many of them had their own struggles with depression and PPD.

The enemy would have me believe that I was all alone in my depression, that I was isolated in the darkness.

But the more people I told, the more lights came on, and the more I realized that I was surrounded by "so great a cloud of witnesses." People who had gone before me and battled the depression demons, people who had never faced depression but who would stand in the pit with me and give me a leg-up, people who loved me, who supported me, and who knew - even when I didn't know - that this would not be the way my story ends.

And that was my first step out of  the pit. The moment I realized that I am not alone.

So tell someone today. Tell your best friend. Tell your spouse. Tell a counselor. Turn on the lights. And discover you're not alone. You. Are not alone.

........


"But you know happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, when one only remembers to turn on the light." - Professor Albus Dumbledore ;)

Tools in the Toolbox

At the end of last year, I wrote this post in which I shared with you the beginning of my depression story. In that one moment on that one night, after weeks of fog and confusion and suffocating despair - I had a divine moment of clarity... This is depression.

And I don't use that word "divine" lightly. I mean it. It was Divine intervention that shed a spotlight on the nameless dark that engulfed me. And in that moment, I knew I could no longer fight it on my own.

I told my husband. I told my mom. I called every counselor in the phone book until one said he could fit me in that day.

That began my journey out of the pit.

And it was a journey. A climbing, crawling, clawing journey. There was no Thunder Clap from on high that lifted me out and declared me whole.

There wasn't even a Voice whispering in my ear telling me which step to take.

There was silence. But there was His presence. And as I climbed/crawled/clawed my way out, I leaned on Him. We didn't speak. But He was there.

It was the most intimate of times.

And today, as I battle a new round of depression, He speaks to me and reminds me of those days. The darkest of days, when I clung to Him.

He reminds me of the tools I bought through that season. Tools He taught me how to use so I could pull myself out of the pit and build a sure-footed path.  I grappled and struggled and grasped for those tools. When I finally got them in hand, I hardly had the strength to lift them and fumbled when I tried to use them.

Now pick them up by their worn handles and wield them like a weapon against the PPD that's raging inside.

In the next few posts, I would like to share some of those tools with you. Because maybe you're in the pit today. Or maybe you're sliding down the slippery embankment towards the mire. Or maybe you have been knee-deep in mud and you're climbing/crawling/clawing your way out now.

Or maybe you've been in the pit before. Yesterday. Last year. Or decades ago. If that's you, won't you share too? What tools do you have in your toolbox?

A day with PPD

The thing about a day with PPD is that one can't trust one's feelings.

Because feelings lie.

Feelings are disproportionate to reality.

Feelings aren't real... no matter how real they feel.

In a day with PPD,  feelings don't matter nearly as much as actions.

I may not feel like getting up in the morning, or getting dressed, or getting my kids dressed. I may not feel like doing homeschool or fixing lunch or talking to people... to anyone. I may not feel like cleaning house or answering a crying baby.

But I did get up and get my entire family dressed. And though it didn't look like a "normal" homeschool day, my four year old found something she'd rather cut than paper shapes, and she finally learned how to use scissors. And my second grader pedaled two full rotations on a bike without training wheels. And they both gleaned wisdom as they learned to work out arguments and disputes in a Godly way, with life-giving words.

And they did eat lunch, even if it came from a box.

And I connected with friends via phone calls and scheduled some real-life interaction for the next two days.

And the dishes got washed.

And the laundry is going.

And my baby was comforted and fed and laid down for a nap.

And I put one foot in front of the other, and I deliberately smiled when my kids walked into the room, and I didn't lie down on the couch, and I petted the dog, and I swallowed the lump in my throat over and over again, and I did a million little things that - at one point in my life - I was emotionally unable to do.

And in the midst, my feelings tell my I can't do it. My feelings say it is too much to handle. My feelings are heavy and huge and real.

But, in a day with PPD, feelings lie.

Feelings are disproportionate to reality.

Feelings aren't real... no matter how real they feel.


Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. ⁸ Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. ⁹ But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.
2 Corinthians 12:7-9

It's Update Time

Ten weeks after my little Penelope June came into the world, and life is just now starting to level out. So as I resume some of the day-to-day stuff of life, I thought I'd pop in to say "hi" and fill y'all in on the goings-ons of the Thixton familia.

1. Penelope is perfect. I mean, really. Bringing a new baby home injects vibrancy into our family like nothing in this world. After the initial shock of sleep-deprived nights and spit-up-covered clothes, there is a warmth and excitement that affects every person in the household. She is a doll. We are all thrilled and in love. Can you blame us?

2. Having said that, post-partum depression hit me like a mother this time around. I felt it creeping around in the corners a few weeks before she was born, and it grew and deepened in the days after her birth. Seven weeks and three days after delivery, I woke up with that familiar sinking in the pit of my stomach and numbing ache in the middle of my chest, and I said, "Nope. We're not going there." Because I've been there. And I'll do whatever it takes to never go there again. A few prayers and pills later, and the world is rosy again. I don't mean to treat this lightly. Because it's not light. The stuff is dark, y'all. But my God is bigger. And I'm learning to accept that sometimes healing doesn't look like a "miracle." Sometimes it looks like wisdom. And compassionate doctors. And good medicine.

3. Homeschool is going swimmingly... now. The first few weeks were touch and go - I ain't gonna lie. But about the time I made the decision to get some help for my depression, Sweet Hubby and I also made the decision to kick our curriculum to the curb. I won't go into all the why's and what-for's in this post, but suffice it to say: it was the best decision we've made this year. Almost instantly, our house was more peaceful and full of life. Now the learning is getting done with no tears. And the church said, Amen.

That's it. Just three little points tonight. I have lots to say. Lots of words stored up from weeks of doing all things other than writing. In time, when there's time, I'll be back with more.

Until then, here are some blogs/articles on depression that I LOVE. Happy reading!

An Open Letter to Women Fighting Postpartum Depression - "And while I still battle depression demons, PPD taught me how to fight. So when they come – and they do – I say, bring it. Let’s party, Depression, because I have been through hell and back, and I know how to roll with you old-school. Okay? Hell hath no fury like a mother who has had PPD."

an open letter (not to Miley Cyrus) - "What I know now is this: It took more faith for me to take the anti-depressant. That is not the way I expected or wanted God to heal me. I did NOT want that to be a part of the equation. But it was."

Depression Part Two - "And that's the most frustrating thing about depression. It isn't always something you can fight back against with hope. It isn't even something — it's nothing. And you can't combat nothing. You can't fill it up. You can't cover it. It's just there, pulling the meaning out of everything."

Remembering

Three days from today, I will be holding my precious new baby girl in my arms. Three days from now, there will be laughs and coos and phone calls and facebook updates and a little warm body in my arms and tears on my cheek.

And I will look at her and know that there isn't another baby in the world as precious and perfect as she is in that very moment.

And I will thank God for this gift - the gift we have sought for almost three years now.

And I will cherish that moment even more because one year and three days ago, I lost the gift I had sought for almost two years.

For just a few short weeks, I cherished a life in my womb. And I lost that life. And so today, just three days before we meet Penelope face-to-face, I want to take a moment to remember the baby - my baby - whom I will only see face-to-face in Heaven.

An excerpt from my personal diary, written one year ago today:

This journal feels so familiar. Sad. Desperate. Grasping.

I'm not sinking in depression any more, but it is still present. A daily decision to NOT to let it rule that day.

I had a miscarriage. That's the way I'm supposed to say it, right? It's like saying, "I had an ear infection" or "I had tonsillitis." It's medical. Technical. Cold.

The truth is that I lost a child. I lost a future. The moment I saw that little faint blue line, my future changed. I could smell the top of his head and feel his warm breath on my neck. I thought about what a wonderful big sister Maple would be, and I wondered how much Chloe would be able to help. Was she big enough to hold him? Feed him?

She would so love being mommy's helper.

I thought about baby clothes and a painted bedroom. About strollers and coo's and the proud feeling that rises when another woman - at the church, at the store, anywhere - acknowledges what I already know - that he is a precious treasure.

And I alone mourn this loss. To everyone else, it was an illness, something that "happened." To me, it is happening. I am grieving. I have lost. I, alone.

And isn't it strange that in my loneliest moments, God's presence is strongest. He is truly close to the brokenhearted.

And I'm jealous - that He is holding my child, and I am not.

And I'm grateful - that my child exists and lives without knowing the pains of this world.

Mostly I feel silence. No movement in my womb. No sickness in my stomach. No excitement in my chest. None of the signs of new life that were present only a few days ago.

And blood. There's a lot of blood. Days later and there is still blood - a constant reminder of the death of my child. That part doesn't seem fair. In any other death - even a violent one - one only sees blood at the time of death. For me, I see blood everyday, all day. Constantly reminding me that - even in my womb - my child was not protected from the curse of the garden.

And through it all, there is some kind of secret strength that arises inside of me. Below the emotions. Below the silence. Hand-in-hand with the emptiness, there is a stillness. Still waters.

I feel as if I have joined a secret society - one in which women who have lost unborn children walk in a silent acknowledgment of each others' pain. I see women I know who have lost, and I know in my heart - I am one of you. We are the same. We are alone, and in our loneliness, we are the same.

God is close to the brokenhearted. He is close to me. And He is teaching me how precious and fragile life is. And I will learn, and I will cherish the treasures that I have. And I will hold them tightly in my arms and loosely in my heart - because they are not mine. They are the Lord's. And He will do as He sees fit. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Yaweh.

Parent on the iPhone Rant

Okay, dearest readers, I've been holding back on this little rant for a while. This blog post,  entitled "Dear Mom on the iPhone," came out back in November of 2012 and has led to a huge response - both positive and negative - in the blogging community.

I don't mean to single out this one post or this one blogger's opinion, as there are articles everywhere regarding the detriments of choosing our electronics over our kids. Like this one in the Washington Post that discusses the psychological ramification of too much screen time in parenting.  Or this doozie of a blog, that calls it outright child abuse.

So can I give you this humble blogger's opinion?

Seriously. I get that some parents are too plugged in. I get that, being attached to some sort of screen 24 hours a day is too much, especially for parents of young children.

But I also think that raising children who expect our 100% undivided attention 100% of the time is crazy irresponsible.

First, it sets them up for unrealistic expectations of personal relationships. Do you know how miserable my marriage would be if I expected my husband to be completely focused on me and my needs all. the. time.? What about friends? Teachers? Bosses? My job as a parent is to raise God-loving, compassionate, independent, socially-aware, functioning members of society. NOT co-dependent, emotionally needy, high-maintenance adults.

Second, it limits their imagination. Some of my best childhood memories were created after my grandmother (who cared for me, my brother, and my cousins in the summer time) would say these words: "Get out of my sight and hearing!" It was a silly but certain reminder that it was not her job to entertain us. So we played outside. And built tree houses. And rode our bikes. And we were spies. And super heroes. And ninja turtles. (I was the only girl in a yard full of boys - can you tell?)

For my own wee ones, they have "free play" every morning after breakfast. Depending on our day (and how well their free play is going), this can last anywhere from 30 minutes to 3 hours. That's right: Three. Hours. Basically, from breakfast until lunch. And they love it. And I love it. I love hearing them mimic events in their life: movies we have watched, books we have read. I love hearing them play "mommy and baby" and listening to my words come out of their little mouths as they replay bedtime or bath time or even time out. Even more, I love hearing the stories they pull out of thin air and pure imagination.

And do you know what I'm doing in the meantime? I'm carving out "mommy" time. I have my devotions. I sip my coffee and enjoy breakfast. I check facebook. I blog. I catch up on texts. I catch up on housework.

Which leads me to...

Third, it teaches them that it's wrong to take care of themselves. As these tiny people grow into those God-loving, compassionate, independent, socially-aware, functioning members of society that I mentioned earlier... they need to know that it's okay to take time for themselves. Whether it's creating a Healthy Me for a Healthy We in their marriage, or setting healthy boundaries in their friendships, or simply realizing that an emotionally sick person cannot change an emotionally sick world - I have to teach them that taking care of themselves is an important priority. And I can start teaching them by setting the example: "This is mommy time. Go play." 

I am their mommy. Their first line of defense. Their best friend (for now, at least). I am their playmate and their chef. Their chauffeur and their counselor. Their teacher and their advocate.

We carve out time in each day where they have my full and undivided attention. We have story time. And early morning snuggle time. And evening talk time. And lots of little moments in between.

But we also have time apart. Time for them to develop into individuals - and not just attachments of their parents.

They have their time. I have my time. And everyone - EVERYONE - in our house is better for it.

Operation Sanity Part 2B: More Drops of Sanity (Out of Sight, Out of Mind)

If you missed parts one and two of this little series, be sure to click on the links below to check them out.

Without further ado, here is another little tidbit of sanity we have added to our home in the past couple months:

5. Out of sight, out of mind. This point requires a post all unto itself because it has completely changed the look and feel of our house.

I super duper love little organized and labeled containers. Sweet Hubby makes fun of my housekeeping because, while the room itself may be covered in clutter and dust bunnies and unfolded clothes, the closets are immaculately organized. Matching baskets, labeled plastic shoeboxes ($.99 at WalMart and my absolute favorite size/style storage box. I seriously might own 50.) So in my perfect playroom and child's bedroom, there is a shoebox for Barbies. One for Legos. One for doll clothes. One for small figurines. One for cars. One for tea sets. One (or five) for doll house accessories. And they would all be neatly labeled - preferably with pictures of the items contained. Ahhh...

But my kiddos are less inclined to utilizing storage containers, and more inclined to dumping out every. single. box. to find the one toy that doesn't match any of the labels. And even more inclined to just throwing the toys back into any random box they see fit and completely ignoring the labels that were so painstakingly photographed, laminated, and decoupaged to the box.

I'm not bitter. Really.

So after multiple attempts at what felt like brainwashing (you will love the $.99 shoe boxes... you will admire and respect the labels...) I gave up. Toys now go in a central location that looks like a dump but that can be hidden by a door or lid. See more about that process in part one.

And once my storage-container-loving heart grasped the amazing awesomeness of the "out of sight, out of mind" concept, great things began to happen.

Examples:

- I hate doing dishes at night. Seriously, when dinner is over, the table cleared, baths given, bedtime stories read, water delivered, covers tucked, and kiddos asleep... this mama is DONE for the night. So every morning, I wake up to a sink full of dirty, crusty, day-old dishes. Ugh. The quick fix? HIDE the dishes in soapy water. Out of sight, out of mind. Mountains of soap suds are actually pleasant to look at, and the dishes are so much easier to wash the next morning.

-   Ok, Friends fans, remember Monica's closet? I totally have one of those. It's for items that don't have a home or whose home is in our attic. Like the big glass Santa Clause plate that somehow missed the departure date of all the other Christmas paraphernalia. Or those last few items of winter clothes that were in the bottom of the dirty clothes basket when all the other winter clothes were neatly stored in tidy, labeled boxes and put in the attic. Or decorative items we don't actually need and I will eventually take to Goodwill. Or the random cables and cords that we haven't used in two years but that I'm sure, upon throwing them out, we would discover are indispensable to the use of some valuable appliance or electronic. All of these items (and many more) were constantly floating around my home, in random boxes or under random cabinets. Now they are in a central, unorganized, chaotic location... that is completely unseen behind the solid wood door. Once every couple months, Sweet Hubby pulls out the items that belongs in our attic and puts them in their appointed boxes, thereby clearing space for any other random pieces of junk household items that need temporary storage. In the meantime: Out of sight, out of mind. Perfection.

-  When having people over for dinner, dishes that were dirtied in the cooking process go in a plastic bin on top of the fridge to be washed after the shindig is over. She cooked this huge dinner and has no dirty dishes in her sink? How does she do that? Out of sight, out of mind. That's how, friends. (Note: Just don't forget you put them up there, only to remember a week later when you're wondering what that smell is and you can't find your frying pan. Ya know, not that I've ever done that.)

I have a plethora of other examples, but I think I have exposed my home's hidden places enough for one post.

What about you? Do you have any "out of sight, out of mind" places in your home? Do you love them or hate them? Tips? Comments? Random bits of trivia? Let me know!

Catch Up:

Operation Sanity: Girl Stuff (part 1)

Operation Sanity Part 2A: Little Drops