#Write31Days – Day 12

1/12/18 – Five Minute Friday Free Write

I wish my brain would stop
talking for a minute
so I could get a word in

Maybe I’d say something like,
It’s okay if you made a mistake today,
you’re only human,
or,
You’re enough even if you aren’t perfect
or,
Please don’t worry about tomorrow
today has fresh air and flowers and sunlight and
they’re all trying to smile on you
if you’d only stop to notice

I’d say such sweet things to myself
if my brain would let me

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#Write31Days – Day 8

1/8/2018 – “Muddle”

I haven’t been in my right mind in a
couple of days
My mind is in a muddle and
I can’t keep my thoughts straight
It’s a merry-go-round in here
of must-dos and should-haves
And I’m on the outside getting dizzy
trying to keep my eyes on one thing

Somehow my mental illness
followed me 10 hours to Virginia
It must have been an exhausting trip,
but no matter
That anxiety was up at dawn
ready for an adventure

And I’m just along for the ride
I have no say in all the ways
my brain tells me to panic
I’ve lost track of all the times I
said sorry for messing things up today
See, the chaos never quits but
there’s clarity in one thing:
I must have failed and
muddled up something

Author’s Note: Man, muddle is a hard word to use. Pair that with the fact that I actually did have a very bad day mental health-wise, it was hard to write anything today. This poem isn’t good by any means, but its proof that I’m pushing through even on the hard days. And I’m proud of that.

#Write31Days – Day 6

1/6/18 – “Silence”

There used to be nothing but silence
between us
An expanded canyon filled with
all the times you lied and
all the times I let you
I couldn’t speak over the echo of that silence,
the weight of it on my chest

Now you tell me to say how I feel
don’t hold anything back,
you can take it
You practice honesty and I
do my best to believe you

But sometimes
in the back of my mind
it still echoes, “Shh, shh,
you’re safer in silence”

In Honor of the Struggling

Two years ago, I wrote a blog post about conquering depression, about Christ’s power to overcome such things. I bragged on my God and how He saved me from that crippling pain, how I hadn’t been on medication for three years, how despite life’s troubles depression hadn’t ‘won’ since I’d become a daughter of God.

But what about when it does?

I have been swallowed by the darkness these past two years. I’ve become more acquainted with madness than I’d ever been before I wrote that post. I’ve ached for death, cried out for God to just end it because in my fractured mind I truly could not see a reason not to. Jesus, forgive me for those times, those moments sitting alone in my car sobbing for death, for the days I drove, bleary-eyed, ready and willing to crash into the nearest tree if that meant release from the torment in my darkened mind. I was so lost. There are still days where my blood stops running, my mind fogs over and my heart goes cold, and no amount of sunlight can draw me from my damp cave. There are still days when the madness wins.

So what about those days? Am I not a daughter of God then? Is Jesus not winning then? Have I not believed enough? Am I too weak? Am I cursed? Will I always bow down to the darkness instead of my God?

I am sorry for my misleading thoughts two years ago. There is so much I don’t know. There is so much I don’t understand. Sometimes I talk like I do, and then two years pass, and I feel like a fool.

Me and God, we run circles around these questions. I beg Him to explain to me where my depression stops being physical and becomes spiritual. I beg Him to tell me if I’ve earned this sentence, have I done something to deserve it? I beg Him to show me how to beat it. Am I disappointing you every time I swallow back the pills? Does He look on me with saddened eyes, shaking His head, and say, “If only you believed a little more, child,”?

But the more I ask the more He answers with insight only a Savior burrowed deep inside my soul could know: All I’m really asking is for Him to draw a line in the sand, showing me where my fault begins and ends. Show me where my burden of guilt is, Lord, how much of this is a pile of shame I should haul onto my back?

And He won’t answer that question. He only holds me. He only lets me cry for hours, soak through His tunic, shake His body with my sobs. And He says nothing. The darkness comes and He waits beside me until it passes, does not cast a glance at me as if to say, “Why’d you let it come again?” I shudder at the monsters trying to make friends again and He takes my hand, gets between me and the gory-faced beasts. He comforts me until the fear leaves. Quiets me every time I say, “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know a lot of things. But I’m sure about a few. So here are some truths for anyone else who may need them as much as I do, in honor of World Mental Health Day. In honor of us.

  1. Jesus will not ever leave your side. Start picturing Him beside you when you’re walking and each step feels like a burden. He’s there. Start imagining Him in the passenger seat, driving with you as you sob to that song again. He’s there. Start remembering Him when you’re frozen on the couch, too lost in your thoughts to move a muscle. He’s sitting next to you. No matter how dark your thoughts get, how angry you are, or how many times you’ve pushed Him away. He promised never to leave you or forsake you. He won’t.
  2. It’s okay if you’re on medication for the rest of your life. Don’t let ANYONE tell you you’re less than, or weak, or not trying hard enough because you take medication. I’m still working through my anger on this subject, so personally my suggestion is to just punch them in the face. Alternatively, you can remind yourself that Jesus accepts murderers, rapists, cheaters, heathens, and hypocrites without batting an eye. He definitely accepts you, medications and all.
  3. This is not a punishment. In all honesty, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why some of us have depression or anxiety or bipolar disorder or obsessive-compulsive disorder or eating disorders or any other mental health issue and others don’t. I do know it’s a result of sin in the world, just like any other illness. It’s not what God intended. But I really, truly do not believe it’s ever a punishment. The few occasions that Jesus was faced with a “why was this person born blind?” question, He never attributed it to any fault of their own. Jesus said that He came to give life and life to the full. He didn’t come to hand out depression sentences. Amen.
  4. You’re not alone. In addition to the fact that Jesus is always with you, you’re also surrounded by people who understand. Anxiety disorders alone affect 40 million adults in the United States age 18 and older. 40 million people. And I can tell you, as someone who participated in mental illness support groups, that regardless of what the illness is, the experiences are all very similar. Someone beside you on the bus knows how you feel. The person checking you out at the register has sobbed themselves to sleep. Your classmate could be your ally, if you let them. Also, if you’re reading this, it means that you now know me and have me to reach out to, too. When you feel horrible because you must be the only person thinking these “insane” thoughts, please know that this is not true. You’re not horrible. You’re human, like the rest of us.
  5. Which brings me to my last point: This is not your fault. We always want to blame someone, don’t we? And when the issue seems to be “all in our head” the only one to blame is ourselves. But no. Banish that belief right now. You didn’t ask for this. Stop looking for a line in the sand, because the answer is none of this is on you. You’re struggling. It’s not always easy to shower. It’s not always easy to keep up. It’s not always easy to want to keep breathing. And the statistics of mental illness prove that this is not uncommon. You didn’t cause this. Just like a cancer patient doesn’t will their tumors to grow, you didn’t forcibly develop your own mental illness. Put down the hatchet. Stop whipping yourself. You can’t blame yourself and try to heal at the same time. You’re just a broken human being living in a broken world. We all are. It’s okay. Admit when it’s too much. We’re all in this club together, and we need to stop treating it like Fight Club and start TALKING about it. Life is hard. Sometimes it’s harder than it should be, harder for some people than it is for others. But it’s no one’s fault. And you don’t have to take the burden of guilt, because it’s already been borne on the cross by Jesus two thousand years ago. Stop trying to pick it back up, and just breathe. That’s all that’s really expected of you. Just keep breathing. Everything else doesn’t matter.

I rambled. But someone needed to read this, and even if they didn’t, I needed to write it. My name is Carla Ramsey, and I have (several) mental illnesses that I battle all the time. It’s not my fault. I’m not alone. I take medication and that’s freakin’ fine. I’m still a child of God, and no one and no thing (not even the big bad depression monsters) can take that away from me. Jesus, my Jesus, will never leave me in the darkness, will never blame me for struggling with it. I’m safe to hurt, safe to cry, safe to struggle.

If you feel alone tonight, hold on to this scripture, which I recently rediscovered. Your pain is precious to God:

You keep track of all my sorrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book. Psalm 56:8

So, here it is. My amendment to the post from two years ago. It’s not perfect, just like its predecessor. I’m not perfect. And that’s okay, because my Jesus loves me even if all I ever manage to do is breathe.

 

Author’s note: I don’t disagree with any of the things I said in my old post, exactly. I just wanted to pour a little grace on top. 

If anyone is struggling, please do not hesitate to talk to someone. And if there’s no one in your life that you feel safe talking to, the people at these numbers are trained and happy to be a listening ear or a resource for help. God bless.
Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255
Crisis Prevention Hotline: 1-800-273-8255

 

How God Feels About You: A Reminder, Courtesy of Pixar

So last night I was watching Pixar’s Inside Out again (because sometimes you just want to make yourself cry, you know?) and I came to the scene where Joy and Bing Bong have just fallen into the Memory Dump. Everything has gone downhill. Joy and Sadness are both lost from “headquarters,” and without them, all Riley (our protagonist whose head we are inside of) can feel is Fear, Anger, and Disgust. She’s also missing her “core memories” which are what make Riley who she is. Without them, she is losing her love for family, friends, hockey, silliness, and honesty. She is losing herself. Because of this, Riley has just decided to run away from home. Joy knows this, but has no way to get back to headquarters to help save the girl they all love so dearly. Riley’s emotions are shutting down altogether, and she is becoming lost in a state of hopelessness and depression. In this moment, Joy is overwhelmed with the love she has for Riley and her desperate desire to help her.

Here is the scene, if you’ve never seen it:


As Joy picks up different memories of Riley, she recalls the special things about her that she loves so deeply. Looking at a little Riley coloring, she says, “Do you remember how she used to stick her tongue out when she was coloring?” And holding a memory of Riley telling silly stories, she earnestly adds, “I could listen to her stories all day.” Finally, looking at a memory of young Riley laughing joyfully and feeling overcome with sadness herself, Joy cries, “I just wanted Riley to be happy.”  

It struck me as I watched this scene that there are people in my life who feel this way about me. Chiefly my parents, but I know there are others too. Probably more than I realize. People who look at me and recall memories and feel love for me simply because of who I am, people who want joy for me. And then I was openly sobbing on my bed because I realized, God feels this way about me, too.

More than she represents anyone else in my life, Joy represents God in this scene. I picture Him, the Lord of all Creation, weeping over my heartbreak. I picture Him holding memories of a young Princess Jade and smiling sadly, because He just wants life for me. He just wants joy for me. God is holding little globes of my memories and whispering, “Do you remember how she always tried to catch lizards? She was so unafraid of the world.” He picks up another, “I could read her poetry all day—even the ones from middle school. She put so much life into them.” Another, “Her laugh is so full, so loud. I miss that sound.” He picks up a glowing blue memory and holds it to His chest. It’s me, a puddle on the floor, wracked with sorrow, crying out for someone to help me. And God loves me as deeply in that sad memory as He did in the joyful ones. He loves me for every single one. For every part of me, even the ugly memories that I’d rather forget. And He cries, “I hate it when she hurts,” He says, “I died so she’d have freedom and life. I just want her to have life.”

That’s real. That’s not make believe. That’s not a Disney movie. That is real life, happening right now. God feels that way about you right now.

God despairs for us. He feels pain over our pain. He aches for us to have joy and is jealous when we seek it elsewhere. God is looking at memories you can’t even remember anymore and loving you for them. He knows every single inch of your brain, has the blueprints memorized, can recall every single detail there is to know about you down to the number of atoms in your body and the amount of blood in your veins, and HE. LOVES. YOU. He knows you, and He loves you. And He desperately, desperately wants you to let Him save you.

Watch the video again. And this time, picture God instead of Joy, and you instead of Riley.

And believe it. It’s real.

Sitting in Sorrow

Author’s Note: Dedicated to my dear friend, James. Jesus is right beside you in this, my brother. I love you.

I love the band Flyleaf. They are unafraid to sing about raw pain in the light of their Christianity. They don’t pretend that sorrow doesn’t exist as a Christian, but instead describe Christ speaking into our grief.

I was listening to one such song, aptly titled ‘Sorrow’, when the following lyrics struck me deeply:

Sitting closer than my pain
He knew each tear before it came

Right now I am going through a period of time where I frequently find myself sobbing in my car at random intervals. I am unashamed to say it: I am suffering from massive mood swings. And because of this many of my days are knit with deep, intense sorrow; the battle against depression is being waged yet again. So when I heard these lyrics they echoed in my head, the question reverberating through me for days afterward, “How?” How could Jesus be closer than pain that felt etched into my very being?

So that Sunday, I decided to ask Him. Desperate and aching with helplessness for my life, the lives of my loved ones, the world at large—heavy with the darkness surrounding me—I reached out. The following is the prayer that I wrote to Christ in that moment, unedited in its rawness:

Jesus,

Do you really sit closer than my pain? You know what it looks like. You can describe it so much better than I can. It’s so large and monstrous. It looms over me, breathing down my neck and soaking me in fear and panic and uncertainty and anger and hatred and self-loathing and depression and lethargy and hopelessness and I can’t see passed the fog it surrounds me in. It’s black smoke, so thick it’s almost solid. Almost like a pitch black box that I have no way of getting out of. If it’s all around me, how can you be closer than it? I don’t understand… Are you in the pain, in the smoking darkness? Are you in me?

Where are you, Jesus? Make it clear to me.

I don’t want to question your presence. Reveal yourself to me. Where are you in the darkness? Please. I need to know I’m not alone here in this haunted place. Are you behind me, watching my back while I grope around helplessly? Are you a light that I just can’t see? Reveal yourself to me, Lord.

Are you closer than my pain? Get between it and me. I want to feel it and know it’s there. I don’t want to numb it; I just don’t want it to take me down like it has been. I’m pinned to the floor, heavy black smoke upon me, choking me. Get between us, Christ.

Help me. Help me. Help me.

I put my notebook down. I listened to the sermon, took fervent notes, the black smoke still on my back. Though I sat in a chair surrounded by Christians, what I pictured was a haunted house. Colorless. Whispering voices, staring eyes, hungry growls coming from every direction. No windows, no doors. Just a huge, putrid, decrepit house that I was hopelessly lost in. And no matter how quickly I ran, the heavy, daunting black smoke followed me, always at my heels. And in that moment it had caught me and I was pinned to the floor, tasting ragged carpet and being taunted at every angle by the voices, the eyes, the growls. The black smoke covered me until it seemed that maybe it was me—me and my pain, merging so that I would never be rid of it again. How could Christ be closer than a pain that felt like it was all around me and inside me?

After the sermon we took prayer requests from our small number of members. As we bowed our heads in prayer I folded my hands together, because I sat alone. But in that moment I felt a hand over my own, holding it as we began to pray. In my mind I lifted my head and saw Christ sitting to my right, smiling with tender eyes. I heard Him whisper, “I’m here. Silent tears slid down my cheeks as my brothers and sisters prayed on around me, unaware of my communion with Christ. In my head I stared at Him, eyes wide, and answered quietly, “You’re here?” I felt then the closest hug I had ever felt, the arms of my Savior surrounding me and pulling me into Him. I melted, sobbing, “You’re here.”

And suddenly I was in the haunted house again. It looked the same. The whispers and eyes and growls were all present, and the black smoke still sat over me, my body pressed to the floor with no power to move. But when I turned my head I saw, lying on the floor beside me, my God. My Savior. My Christ. He laid pressed low just as I was, under the weight of the black smoke just as I was, holding my hand in His own. At the sight of Him I sobbed, tears pouring over me, shaking with emotion. He whispered in the face of my pain, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m right here.

Jesus squeezed my hand, the two of us together in my pain. I’m always here.

In my chair at church, frantically writing the experience in my notebook, I penned, “He’s already here. He’s in the pain with me. I’m not alone, I’m not alone, I’m not alone.”

The black smoke of my pain pressed down on me, fearing the power of my God. I cried, “Please don’t leave me!”

Christ answered, holding my hand tighter, silencing my fear, I never will.

All praise be to the God of Light. All praise be to Jesus Christ, who took the burden of our sin so that we would never be alone in our sorrow again.

He sits closer than our pain. He shares it.