Fighting Through Crazy

When I was in my late teens I watched the movie Schindler's List. It's a little over 3 hours long, but it took me almost 9 hours to get through it. I could only digest a chunk of it at a time because the overwhelming emotion and grief prohibited my ability to watch it straight through.
I had no personal understanding of the pain and suffering the Nazi's inflicted on others, I had no place to pull from to begin to comprehend the gravity of evil that devoured all but a remnant of a people hated solely for existing; and yet my soul broke as I watched the story unfold, and my heart ached to know the telling was of people's lives and not the dramatization of ones imagination.

I started a book last night called Crazy, by Pete Earley. I read the first page of the introduction and had to put it down. I couldn't catch my breath and my entire body went cold. It was a surreal feeling to read something written by another parent that I felt I could have penned myself. I've looked in books for years to find myself there, the sometimes hard to explain experiences and emotions I live as the mother of a child with mental illness. Our stories aren't the same- his son didn't have bipolar disorder until late in his college career- as is common we've come to learn- but his emotional trauma at watching his son suffer, and the ridiculous fight for health care was identical to mine. Usually, I'm a very fast reader. I devour books quickly and my ability to absorb what is being shared is fairly strong- but this book is forcing me to consume it in small bites. I'm both relieved and angry. I'm grateful for his candor, and and yet it sickens me that there are so many of us fighting like hell to get what our family members need only to be sent away, under serviced, dismissed, or forced to wait for something bad to happen before intervention occurs.

He titled his book Crazy not as a descriptive of his son, but as a statement of the 'search through America's mental health madness'. In a country where so much of our health care is reactive instead of preventative, it's no surprise that the mental health system is the same, but it never fails to shock and sicken me to be told to my face that 'there is nothing we can do until something bad happens'. I've sat in countless doctor's offices, ER examining rooms, at desks of program directors, counselors, psychiatrists, teachers, begging for help, support, something that would keep him and the rest of us safe- and give him a chance at the life he deserves. They have all told me the same thing that Pete Earley was told- until he does something big to hurt himself or others, there just isn't much that we can do. 
This is insanity. This is the life that those of us caring for people with mental illness have to navigate daily. I wish i could say that in my reading I'm finding respite and encouragement, but all I'm feeling is understanding, grief, and anger. It continues to fuel my fight for my son's life- and reminds me that I'm not alone, but it also disgusts me that so many of us feel as though we're fighting in vain to protect our children and allow their brains to be treated with as much dignity and compassion as they'd receive if they had a cancer diagnosis.
The truth is, we're lucky. I have fought long and hard to get my son the treatment he's needed and deserved and it's been a long, painful, expensive battle- but after residential treatment, where he was treated holistically, treated with love and compassion, and chose to dig in and participate, he's doing really well- better than he's ever done in his almost 17 years of life- but the fear lingers. He's manic right now. His sleeping schedule is off, and he isn't sleeping much at all. He's up most of the night, eating, watching videos, roaming through the house, playing his guitar, laughing loudly at funny things he finds on the internet- and I lie awake in bed a floor above him- grateful he's safe, relieved he's happy and here at home with me, but acutely aware of the fact that bipolar is a disease of sharp ups and downs- swallowing the anxiety that rises in my throat at the knowledge that we're at the start of autumn, the time of year he typically crashes into depression- depression that rots his good thoughts, causes him to either withdraw or fling painfully poisonous words my direction.
He's brilliant- as many people with mental illnesses are- and just like every other parent- I simply want him to have the best life he can; one where he's safe, healthy, doing something he does well and enjoys.

Depression that often results in holes in the wall, broken things, fits of rage, and days of sleeping. I prefer the mania to the depression, but even that doesn't mean health or stability. His brain is tired from the continual onslaught of thoughts and information rushing through it. He exhausts me with the flight of thoughts, and level of energy, but also makes me laugh with his crazy sharp wit and goofy antics.

I'm grateful I found the book nestled deep inside of a shelf in a used book store- it's a bizarre feeling to find myself in the pages, and I'm not sure I would have been able to read it just a few years back. I'm thankful other people are willing to pull back the curtain of their lives and expose places that most of us want to keep hidden- if only so that people like myself can nod in agreement whispering 'us too'. That's what drives me to keep sharing parts of our journey- the continual hope that someone else will find us here and link hands with ours as we fight to stand upright in violent waters.

If you have someone in your life who struggles with bipolar, or who loves someone with the disease- I recommend the book wholeheartedly. Together we must keep using our voices against the insanity of the system, determined to make some shred of sense out of the crazy making battle.

Family Infected

Every family develops dynamics over time- based on birth order, personalities, external stressors, etc. when one of the members of the family has a chronic illness, the dynamics can be skewed in ways that can become unhealthy in the long run in order to operate in the immediate. 

Samuel is doing better overall than he's ever done. We've had rough days, days that stir up latent anxieties simmering below the surface that come hurdling into our throats when his mood or behavior tastes familiar, and we recall older days when the behavior was so unpredictable that none of us felt truly safe in our own home. But as a whole, he's doing so well. I force myself to remember some of the darker days to contrast how well he's doing now- but the dynamics, the structure of the family, the codependent tendencies linger- and pushing back against what has been our norm for so many years is a daunting task. 

For many years, life in our home was survival in a war zone. He was imprisoned in his illness and the rest of us became collateral damage by default. My younger children learned to both revere and fear him- never sure which mood would surface and if they might become caught in the crossfire. When he wasn't stable- not properly diagnosed, nor properly medicated and treated- his behavior was often violent and aggressive. My son Asher was often the focus of his rage, and if he wasn't, then I was. Many many days I would tell the younger three to run to my room and lock themselves in while I worked to calm the volcano of mood explosions and keep all of us safe. That kind of chaos means that simple family things such as delineation of chores and help never happened. I would create chore charts with all of the hope of a fresh spring day, and within days, the volcano erupted again, and the workload fell to me as the younger ones sequestered themselves out of the reach of aggression. 

The result of living in the moment day to day for years on end means that I didn't have practice parenting over time- I didn't learn as I went- to delegate work load, dole out appropriate discipline, and create strong boundaries. I've come so very far- we all have- but I am acutely aware that my kids don't support the running of the household at the level I believe they should. With Samuel's stability, I've been able to enforce more structure and more boundaries- but as foreign as it is for them- it's equally strange to me. I'm not used to living a life that is planned out past today's activities- save for doctor appointments, therapies, and the occasional fun outing. I have become accustomed to making plans and having to cancel them, or asking for help around the house only to be left doing it alone as everyone hides in their rooms. I want to get better at this- I want my kids to get better at this- I know it's my job to prepare them for life outside of my home, and when I think of all they have left to learn, sometimes I feel the crushing weight of failure. I remind myself that comparison of our family dynamic to the perceived dynamics of others is not only ridiculous, but toxic, and that we have struggles and hurdles that other families don't have to take into account- and to remember how far we've come, how much better we're getting at operating in a more healthy way- but it nags at me. 

I wonder when Asher will need therapy for feeling as though I didn't protect him the way he needed me to, or when Tucker will finally express that he feels that Samuel gets the most attention, or when Ivy will get angry at me for being exhausted at times when she wants my energetic attention. The reality is that we all fail our kids somehow- often in ways we aren't aware of- needs they have that they are unable to express that aren't met and create wounds- life is like that for all of us... so I try and talk to them- to let them know I'm aware of these dynamics, and aware that I haven't done it all 'right', or even to their expectations- that I see their hurt and fear, and that I've shared the same hurt for them, to acknowledge that life with a chronically ill sibling feels so unfair- and that it can be confusing to both adore and fear the same person. My prayer is that those conversations will go down deep and work as an inoculation against bitterness or anger festering inside of their souls. I want to believe that the struggles we've endured will create strong character and incredible compassion- but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried at times.

I think that this is an issue for all families with a chronically ill family member. It changes everyone. It alters the fabric of life for everyone woven into the unit. I have no answers other than to encourage those of you in the same place we find ourselves to talk and talk and talk. To choose to call out the pain and injustice and hurt- and give it a place to sit- without judgment, fear, or defensiveness. It's hard, it sucks, it's easier in the moment to avoid those conversations; but somehow, I believe that the ache of the conversations today is far easier than a lifelong sentence of bitterness and a fractured family. If you find yourself here- know that you're not alone, you're not crazy, and doing the best you can is the best you can. <3 

The Long Journey Home

This has been an incredibly difficult year.
I found myself drowning in depression.... listless, restless, emotionally ragged, gaining weight, isolating, irritable. I'd pull out of it for several days or a couple of weeks, and reengage with life in a more 'normal' way before sliding back into the inky darkness that has been covering my mind.
It's not shocking that I would find myself here eventually. The level of trauma I've experienced has been so high and lasted for so many continual years that I'd expect anyone to find themselves breaking. I feel like I had a buffered zone for a long time because my hard wiring is one of hope and optimism. I can almost always find something good in most anything and I believe this has served me well in preventing a total emotional breakdown.

It's been said that depression is anger turned inward. This is resonating with me in a powerful way. I've been angry for a lot of years.
When my kids were younger, I would yell at them; throwing my fear and anger and lack of understanding and control about my world around in irritated tones, frustrated huffing, and a lot of resentment. It wasn't safe for me to direct those emotions to my (then) husband as I was subconsciously aware that it would cost me somehow, and my friends didn't live in our house, so my kids were the ones who heard my hurt... buying me temporary protection from depression but also carrying shame and guilt to my heart while inflicting pain and sadness onto theirs.
As they got older, my approach changed. I learned to accept that my family is different than the one I imagined years ago, and I threw myself into getting all of the support and help I could for them- determined to give each of them the best chance of happiness, health and success in this world. The anger was no longer outwardly evident as I'd stopped yelling, began truly enjoying time with them, and felt free from the rust of anger in my soul.

I've worked through a ton of emotional baggage and hangups over the last few years. Rebuilding my life authentically, learning who I am as a woman and mother on my own, surprising myself with how strong and resourceful I am, and enjoying my friendships in a way I wasn't free to when I was still married.

But now, the anger has begun to seep out.  Anger I haven't been aware of  has risen to the surface as a kind of heavy cream no longer able to sit at the bottom of my consciousness out of view. I've realized within the last few weeks just how very angry I am at the sheer level of effort, energy, consistency and sacrifice it takes to parent children with mental health issues. Not angry that I have to do it for them, angry that I have to do it alone. I began to recognize the massive weight of responsibility that sits on my shoulders- and I worry about something happening to me, leaving four kids without their touchstone.  I've been angry that they have to face mental health struggles at all- complicating their lives in ways that feels unfair and unjust. I've been angry that I've allowed myself to become the essential one in their lives because I didn't ask for help from their other parent, but also angry that the other parent doesn't ask how he can help not only relieve some of the pressure on me, but help to nurture them.
Ugly, dark, pulsating anger that no longer fits inside of my chest but is forcing its way out. Anger that has scared, embarassed and humiliated me. 

What exacerbates this is the shame that seems to be a sibling to anger and depression. It suffocates me further isolating me from the world. Shame because I know this season of depression has hurt people around me. I can see it. I taste the disappointment, hurt, confusion and rejection of those who I love and who love me.... and feel powerless to heal it. I've pulled deep into my cocoon - to preserve what little emotional energy I've had as I've navigated a year of residential treatment for my son and finally finding space to pursue support for my other kids.
Your texts and emails and voice mails go unanswered. Plans aren't made. I've worked to become invisible at some level- because the weight of my sadness has felt too heavy to carry into the space of others. The very few who sit on the inside of my circle have borne the brunt of my intense moodiness, me testing the waters, and anger misplaced. It's been an ugly fall and winter for some of those who care about me deeply.
I know I've been angry, and I've chalked it up to the grief cycle I've experienced in an ongoing loop for the past 14 years. But this is different. I melted down last night and the toxic hurt that poured out like acid left me sobbing on my bed in the fetal position. This morning, I felt the quiet whisper of God... when are you going to let me take it? Heal that hurt? Trust me to do it? The tears came again and the hot shame of the wretchedness I'd thrown around washed over me. As I drove, I pressed the gas pedal down hard and slipped into the cathartic world of a pounding bass line and fast driving.... but the thoughts swirled, and I began to see. The only way back to me, back to a place of health with my loved ones, a place where I once again have the energy to connect like I used to.. is to let the anger go. I can't stand up under its weight any longer, and I want to be free.
So today, I plan on buying some thrift store dishes, and will find a place to smash them one by one. Symbolically destroying the thoughts that have poisoned my mind. I've also committed to myself that I will be outside this evening, and build a fire again; returning to some of the routines that feed my soul. This evening however, I'll be writing each ugly thing that has burned me up on the inside onto slips of paper that I'll drop into the fire and let them be consumed on the outside.
The cycle of depression (for me at least) seems to be fueled by guilt, shame, and anger. I'm taking every bit of courage I have left to stand up against it and say.. no more.
If you love me and I've let you down- please know I know already. That's part of what has hurt me too. Knowing how my effort at survival has bruised others through my isolation. Please know that this is only one short chapter in my life. I hate it in so many ways, yet find the comforting irony in knowing that as a mental health advocate who'd never struggled with depression before.. this has been an incredibly rich education. Don't count me out yet... I'll rise again... each time as a freer, healthier me.

Should......The Other "S" Word

 Last week my oldest child turned 16.

There was no party, no used car bedecked with a flouncy red bow sitting in the driveway, no begging for a new video game, paint ball with friends, or plans for homecoming. There was only me, my three younger kids, a birthday teen several hours away, and deafening silence.

I couldn't post on FB. I always post photos and sweet comments about each child's personality on their special day, but I couldn't do it. I don't often struggle with the comparison factor that drives people to quit social media to avoid the steady diet of carefully edited words and photos- but last week? I could barely touch the blue F icon on my phone to open the endless stream of daily fodder and initiate the familiar scrolling that has become part of my mindless routine.

Last week was hard. Hellish. Ugly. I'd had a phone call earlier in the week from a no-nonsense nurse at the facility where he's living who delivered news to me that literally knocked me off of my feet. I fell to the ground in sobs, aching, as her perfunctory words ravaged my heart. Supposedly he'd been in an altercation with another resident. It had become one person's word against the other. The few details I was given stole all of the breath from my body. As I struggled to draw enough oxygen into my lungs between loud sobs under the still, starry, autumn evening, she asked if I had any questions. I know her job sucked. I know hearing my hurt was difficult, and I'm quite sure she wanted nothing more than to complete the task she'd been given and hang up the phone. But it stung. I managed to laugh sarcastically through tears and tell her that I had none. "I can tell you're teary, so I'm going to let you go now. Have a nice night". <click>
 I must've looked like a character out of biblical times- wailing in the dirt, my forehead pressed into the cold ground as I rolled over into the fetal position. I'd been burning leaves before she called, and was covered in soot and ash- a fitting backdrop for the rending of my heart and spirit in lieu of my clothing.

I was broken. My precious son, who'd been making such progress, seemed to have had a big setback. I was reeling. He called moments after the nurse escaped my crying, and once he realized I was upset, made sure to tell me the incident 'never happened'. I tried to maintain hope. To entertain the possibility that the story I'd just been given by the nurse was flawed. But our difficult history, and the long list of circumstances where he'd been dishonest, or manipulative, or sneaky, washed over any ember of hope I was carrying and left only grief, loneliness, and hurt in its wake.
I tried to reassure him I was processing. But I knew my words were hollow and fell flat. I hadn't had time to process what I'd just heard, much less get myself to the place where I could encourage him in the mess. He changed the subject to his birthday- secure in the knowledge that he was telling the truth- but I couldn't follow him in the happiness; and I broke some more. His 16th birthday. A big one. The last big one before 'adulthood' in the eyes of the law. A birthday we should be celebrating, enjoying, anticipating... and I only felt robbed. Shortchanged. Angry. Alone.

The short version of the story is that he was telling the truth. It never happened. The longer version had me barely breathing through grief for days, carrying hurt and sadness around that I had no idea what to do with.
I called him on his birthday. Too broken and weary to sing loudly- which I would usually do. Guilted and shamed for my inability to rally myself in the moment for a milestone event the world tells us we should celebrate.

 A grocery store sheet cake in a conference room on Sunday in place of his much loved homemade coconut cake. A few simple gifts which he was excited about, lots of hugs, and then games in the cafeteria for a couple of hours. Enjoying ourselves, sharing some laughs and smiles, and time together- but hovering over us was the weighty cloud of our circumstance. One I'm grateful for and angry about at the same time. A circumstance few people in my life can begin to comprehend- and one I work hard to not think about much. I ached as I watched him- the small child almost gone, being replaced by a tall, muscled man who talks with his large hands, charms with his stunning blue eyes, and entertains with a keen sense of humor.

My life has become very small again. I move in and out of this space in relationship to the level of stress and grief present in my life. There are times I'm carefree and have the ability to engage with a larger group of the people I love, and who love me, and then there are times I retreat. Unable to talk or expend the energy to engage. There is nothing left in me after work, kids, life.. to give anything else to anyone.

One of the hardest parts of raising a child with a chronic illness- whether physical, mental, emotional... is the grief that is never resolved. There is no closure for anyone. There are victories and progress and surprising strides made- and then, like the 16th birthday that came and went without fanfare- there are those times where the stark reality of this life is laid bare against the vibrant, technicolor idealized life I anticipated; and I feel punched in the stomach, sent stumbling backwards, trying to steady myself again.

My counselor said what I already know. The grief comes because there are still places in me where I hold on to my idea of what 'should have been'. This is nothing new to me, and often, I'm able to embrace the difficult, painful, beautiful, rich life we have- in spite of its opposition to the life I dreamed I'd have. But sometimes, I get angry. I want to punch someone or something for denying us the 'normalcy' I long for: The mundane, typical, frustrating teenage angst so many parents wrestle with. I want to apologize to him- beg him to understand how the mental illness, the autism- none of it is his fault. Instead, I keep walking forward. Screwing up royally, falling short over and over, frustrated at myself for not being further along, then reminding myself of how far we've come. My counselor reminded me quietly through my tears last week- none of us are really living the life we thought we 'should' have. It's different for everyone, but the truth is that we don't get to leave the confines of this planet at the end of our lives without having experienced pain and disappointment. While that doesn't offer much solace to a broken mother's heart, it gives me pause. It's my choice. I can succumb to grief and shatter into a devastated shell of a woman, or I can grieve and be gentle with myself. Patient in the process. Real about the hurt and disappointment, and guarded in how I spend my time... protective of my heart and state of mind.

Should have been will kill us if we let it. Suffocating the beauty found in the what truly is. I've not yet come back to the place of joy and energy I enjoy inhabiting- but I know it will come. I've learned to not try and force it anymore. To recognize that the pain is a tool, a teacher, a refiner. Nothing is wasted, and I've no doubt this most recent dance with grief will do the work it's meant to do. In the meantime, I've pulled inward to preserve my emotional energy. If you've wondered where I've been- now you know, it's not you.. it's me. And I promise I'll rise once again, <3

Speak now, or forever hold your peace

I've been going through Beth Moore's Breaking Free study with a couple of friends over the last few months. It's been a good place to examine myself; how I operate- in relationships, in my expectations, and life in general. It's been hard, and painful, and beautiful. (I highly recommend it!).  I'm in the beginning of week five, and the last couple of weeks have had us digging into our backgrounds to discover hard things passed down in our families as well as the really beautiful things. All of us carry both within our families of origin, and all of us will continue to pass on good and bad to the generations coming after us. The goal of the study is to discover, with intention, those things you desire to grab hold of and continue, and those things that have created difficulty, struggle, pain or dysfunction and in identifying those things- let them go.
Interestingly, I watched the video kicking off week five on Friday night. (start at 45:40 for the clip I'm referring to). The night that hate descended publically on my hometown of Charlottesville and made a blatant display of evil personified. The video addressed what Beth considers the most poisonous 'legacy' of many families: Racism. 

She does a great job of calling it out without mincing words, and without painting an ugly, insidious 'tradition' with sugared words to help us digest them. She calls it an abomination. A sickness based in fear and ignorance. She calls us to stand against it- with courage. Knowing for some, standing against the covert and overt racism in family relationships will cost something. She passionately argues that the ideology of being 'color blind' is a disservice, a farce, laughable. I'm with her all the way. She says when we are raised to believe that we are different because of skin color, then by default, it means someone has to be better. Yep. Amen. All things I am on board with. My only disappointment came when I realized she missed an opportunity to make another powerful, needed point. I would add this to her message:
Serving a creator God means we believe He has created all. All creatures, humans, plants, living things. Calling them good. As women, we frequently remind society that when we were created we were also deemed good, and also created in the image of God.
So... for my brain, for my logic, for my reasoning.. this seems a simple analogy. None of us look at the gorgeous blue butterflies flitting around our lawns and think "Man. Those blue butterflies are so much more important and valuable than the orange colored Monarchs. In fact, we should really try to get rid of those Monarch butterflies because they are in the way and annoying me by trying to get all of the nectar from these flowers! Dont they know they don't belong here?! We should make them go back to Mexico." We don't visit the animal shelter and tell the staff that all of the yellow dogs shouldn't be allowed to be adopted because they aren't as good as the other dogs; becoming incensed that the yellow lab is taking up space they could use for a chocolate lab and getting violent when told we are off our rocker for using such warped logic.

This is an overly-simplified analogy, stripping history and pain and wounding from the subject for a moment; but my point is this: Especially for those of us who love our creator God- why would we even consider the thought that skin color determines levels of value?! God is creative. Artistic. Intentional. We have no problem accepting that in the animal world, and with various plants and flowers- yet we stop short of offering the same effortless acceptance to the creatures called humans that He has created in.his.image. 
Beth Moore is correct. In many families of every color (especially here in the United States where our history is marred with horrific crimes against humanity based on skin color), there has been a passing down of racism at some level. It can be difficult to look at. She speaks of her grandmother who faithfully served others, loved her church, spent time in her bible every day and then spoke disparagingly about a group of people- made in the image of God. It's based in fear and ignorance and continues through generations with the subtle (or not so subtle) rhetoric of : if we are different- then someone has to be better. 
Pastor John Pavlovitz posted on his website this weekend calling those of us with white skin to speak up. To call out racism for what it is. To call out our white counterparts engaged in this disgusting display of fear and hate and brutality. To refuse to stay silent in our protected lives, and largely disconnected communities. His message is powerful and necessary- and I want to push it a step further.
I have heard many of my friends of color say that they are tired. They are no longer afraid- knowing God holds them. But they are tired of fighting. Of trying to speak out to deaf ears. Ears deafened by the noise of ignorance- never having faced ugliness directed at them or their families or communities based solely on skin color. Ears deafened by the rally of voices around them telling them that 'the American dream is available to all- if they would just work harder'; or 'black on black crime is worse than white on black crime.', or 'they need to get over it. I never owned any slaves and I don't understand what their problem is. I have tons of black friends.', or the more "accepted" statements such as; 'black people are so much better at sports than white people'; tossed out as though it is a compliment and should be received with gratitude. What about,  'well, he had been arrested before, so I'm not surprised'; and the ever-present: 'why do they have to say black lives matter?! Don't they know ALL lives matter?!'. Those continual sound bites.. perpetuated in our communities, churches, families, friendships, social media, television... they drown out the voices of the oppressed crying out to be heard.
They're tired of competing with the hum of words soothing the nagging worry in those of us with white skin who dare to consider that all of this is so horrifically, terribly wrong... and that maybe, somehow, we have played a part.


Yes, John Pavlovitz. We must speak. It's our turn. It's the responsibility of those of us with white skin to tell our friends and brothers and sisters with brown skin that 'we've got you'. You don't need to keep fighting. You can rest. We will fight FOR you. In love. In honor. And to tell our white brothers and sisters, no. No. We won't stand for this. It's evil.
To my white brothers- your voice carries the most weight. You have the 'in' to those who perpetuate this violence of word and deed. You have the highest probability of being heard by other white men- because you look like them. You have to be brave. Selfless. Honorable. Bold. To call out the coworker who makes a joke that turns your stomach. To challenge your child who makes a blanket statement about 'black people' that he picked up in the lunch room. To tell your family- No. That's not true. And it's hateful.
You have a huge responsibility to use your unearned place of privilege for good. Not to apologize for it, to feel guilty about it, or to try and deny it. No. To use it. For such a time as this.
To whom much is given, much is required. With great power comes great responsibility. Please. For the literal love of God and those created in His image. Use it wisely.

Bring It

Facebook has the 'memories' feature where it shows you things posted on this same day throughout the years. Sometimes this is a fun app, other days it can be a bit painful, and on days like today, some memories prove powerful.
One of the photos that showed in my memories feed was this one from 7 years ago.

When I saw it, I gasped. I don't know this person. Obviously, it's me, however I don't recognize me in her at all. It's a hard photo to look at- So much was gong on under the surface- and a lot of it I only felt the negative energy from- but I had no idea what was truly happening in my life. No tangible evidence had been uncovered to release me into the awareness that the crazy I was feeling wasn't me at all... That would come a couple of years later. If you had asked me how I was at this time, I would have told you that life was challenging, but I was happy. I'm not sure that I believed that, or wanted so badly for it to be true that it became my mantra. And when life was painful- I bowed to my conditioning and believed I was the problem.

I believe I was depressed, and broken, and completely lost. I felt like a total failure as a mother, and my marriage simply existed; it didn't have the beauty, safety, fulfillment or growth I'd always assumed I'd experience. I had no idea who I was, how strong I could be, nor how wildly capable. I'd bought into the lie that I was crazy, incompetent, 'too much', inadequate, and a nuisance. What kills me the most though, is that I absorbed all of that- and began to believe it. And it shows. My eyes are tired and sad, I'm heavy, I look timid, and I only remember many weeks and months of survival and simply getting through one grey day after another.

This weekend is my 40th birthday. It's a strange thought, as I don't feel what I thought 40 would feel like- and yet, I'm also aware that in more recent years, 40 has become a poster child of renewal, rebirth, authenticity, and health- and if that is what 40 means now, then I welcome it with arms open wide. Some friends and I talked about turning 40 when we were in our late 20s and early 30s. We would talk about how we wanted to be better at 40 than we were at 25- and I can honestly say..... I did it. When I look at this recent photo- I see peace.

 Acceptance. A woman who knows her worth and just how incredibly strong and competent she truly is. I see a woman who recognizes places in her that need growth, and yet celebrates places where she has busted out of cages of expectations to prove to herself and her children that she can do anything she puts her mind to. I see freedom. A warrior who has taken the stones life threw at her face and instead stacked them under her feet. I see someone who no longer fears what others say because she knows her heart and her value and what she has to offer the world. I see a woman who rests knowing she is truly, fully loved by her God... no longer shrouded in shame from self-inflicted condemnation. I see life. I'm proud of this girl. I'm amazed by her. Sometimes I sit back and marvel at how far I've come and the ways in which I've grown and risen to each occasion. So I've decided not to fear this culturally labeled 'milestone birthday', instead, I'm going to grab 40 by the horns and make 25 look on with jealousy.

America's Greatness Depends on Us

I love where I live. I have more than an acre of land, a beautiful home, a great neighborhood and neighbors of all ages, races and cultures. I love the area. It's less than an hour south of DC (if you're lucky on 95S-ha!) and it is wildly diverse. My church has people of all socioeconomic standings, ages, colors and cultures. I feel safe here and I feel the level of overt racism isn't as thick as it is in other places of our nation.
But, I have felt the shift.
I felt it keenly when I stood in line with my neighbors as we waited to vote. I could feel the divide in ways I haven't felt since living in the rural deep south. I saw people of color looking to us with their unspoken questions- Will you stand with us? Will you vote against us? You're our neighbors, but do you really see us? I was pained. The quiet tension was broken when a young African American girl looked up at her mother and said "I'm so excited to be here!" The mom smiled down at her and I caught her eye. "I love that attitude. You're a good Mama for bringing her." The mother smiled back and we returned to our quiet thoughts. My face flamed. I wasn't excited to be there. I didn't take any of my children because I was ashamed of our choices. I had thought I was voting third party all the way up to the morning of the election. I changed my mind that morning when I decided I wanted Trump to lose more than anything else. I've never felt that way before. I'd never felt forced to vote against something instead of for something. But I couldn't darken the bubble beside his name and return to look into the eyes of so many people I love who are people of color. Immigrants. People who tirelessly battle mental illnesses. I made the choice to vote for Hillary as a stand against Trump.
My circle of friends and loved ones is multi-cultural and varied. It always has been, and I'm grateful for this as I know many white people don't share my experience. I had to vote for them.
I know my choice is surprising to many of those whom I love who have skin the color of mine. I have heard the reasoning, the desperation to explain why they chose him over her, and the ongoing talk of asking what God would have us do. None of those who I love who voted for him did it with celebration.

Let me be clear. I'm not a Hillary fan. I don't begin to pretend that we align on much of anything regarding political standing- but I was hyper aware that this wasn't an election where POC were championing Hillary as the perfect choice, rather the opportunity to reject Trump and his incessant hate from creeping into the oval office.
When I woke early on wednesday and checked my phone for the results, I was shocked. I sat up in bed and sobbed. I sobbed because I knew that many people I loved were feeling hated. As the last week has unfolded, my sadness has been confirmed.
Many of my friends who are POC have reached out to me. Grieved that blatant racism was ushered into office. Afraid for their families. Feeling rejected and disconnected from their communities of faith. I went to church on sunday, and couldn't help but notice that many of the regular faces were missing. POC had stayed home. As the texts and messages came in, I didn't have words of comfort to share. I listened, and as one of my dear friends shared her pain, I told her that the gift of hearing her heart was holy ground. I was honored that she allowed me to hold space in my heart for some of hers.

What's grieving to me is that as white people, we're still missing it. This wasn't an election about policy, or conservatives vs liberals. To POC, it was an election about awareness. Equality. Unity. About seeing them and their worth. About seeing ourselves inside of them. Humanity. About the opportunity for white america to open our arms and say we won't stand by and allow our next leader be someone who silences you, pushes you out, or sees you as worthless. We are equals and we want our leader to represent that all of us together is what truly makes America great. It was the moment when many POC collectively held their breath while waiting for us to see the expectation and anxiety in their eyes as they wondered if they are safe with us. And we failed. What is crushing is that in this monumental, horrendous election year we have come again to a deep divide. I don't think we white people saw how the gravity of his victory would affect so many of us. How his victory would sour after the political ads stopped and the realization that he really did win and oh my gosh, what have we done?!

Like so many others, I don't have answers. I am tired and weary of the ugliness this year has exposed. However, I've also been told by many of my friends of color that they feel the reality has been unveiled and while it has been painful, they also have resigned themselves to the realization that they know where they stand.
I guess my 'advice' to all of us would be this- We need to listen. Pay attention to things outside of our small circle of influence. We have much to learn, and we don't learn by talking and defending and justifying. We learn by studying. Listening. Making time to spend with people who have different life experiences than us. Hearing hard things we want to avoid but staying because ...love.
I'm not sure what the next four years will look like. But leaving it to one man and his staff to decide for us isn't an option I'm comfortable with. We have the opportunity to wake up and join our lives with others. We have the obligation to strive towards the greatness of America by working to ensure all Americans truly are treated equally as we have been created equally. If this awful election year can spur waves of powerful, lasting, healthy change in racial reconciliation- even as an act of rebellion-then not all was lost.

Living Outside the Chaos

I’m really quite good at managing chaos. I’ve had lots of practice, and have become a warrior of survival. I’m proud of this, and have learned not to fear much as the confidence in my ability to weather massive storms keeps me in peace.
But.

I’m not good at managing the manageable.

I’ve written about my oldest son and his battle with mental illness. He’s 15 now, and the ebb and flow of his sickness has lasted for more than 13 of those years. I have 3 other children, all younger than him. We have lived in the shadow of his illness for the entirety of their lives. 

Things are better now. While we still have situations that knock the wind out of me (as recently as earlier this week), the violent chaos that was normal in our home for more than a decade has waned. With his maturity has come some ability to push back against coping skills of aggression and destruction. I’ve come to a place of trusting my ability to parent him well, and rather than lean into the storm and exacerbate it with my own fear and anger, I’ve learned to utilize authority and boundaries in a healthier way. The last nine months has been the longest peaceful stretch of my parenting career. Even during this most recent drama, there has been no violence or aggression. 

Yet, I’m struggling.

I’ve been dating a man for the last two years who has seen the dynamics of my family, who has seen the shocking aggression that can pour out of my beautiful first born, who has seen the fear in the faces of my other three, the sometimes unhealthy attachment that has been forged between me and my kids, and who has seen me cry and work and do everything I can to help my family. He’s bided his time, and occasionally he’s spoken up- asking questions and exposing what I already know: I am not good at managing the manageable. Over the last year there have been conversations that he’s initiated that have left me angry, sullen and sobbing. (Never his intention, and always a direct result of the wounds it picks at.) They say that the truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
Last night was the second time we had a conversation where the things coming from his mouth seemed to be directly from the heart of God- piercing my soul, shredding my heart in the knowing, and rendering me silent as I knew it was sacred. My flesh wanted to rise up and scream in defense, but my soul knew it was everything I needed to face; and I was grateful to have someone willing to face it with me in love. Beauty doesn’t equal pain-free. Love doesn’t mean avoiding hard places. I ached. I sobbed. I heaved with grief and fear and disappointment.

The difficulty now is that while living in a constant state of chaos, I have never learned how to live in the normal. I did everything around the house while trying to keep my kids safe. I never had breathing space to teach them simple chores or provide a structured schedule. And now, I’m exhausted. My children rely on me to do everything. They don’t pick up after themselves, or only do so with my prodding and their attitudes. There isn’t much structure, and what is there, revolves entirely around me. It’s not healthy for any of us, and it’s not feasible for me to keep this up. But the reality is this: I have no idea how to do it. I didn’t start small, with toddlers who were pulling chairs up to the sink beside me to learn how to do dishes. I didn’t have homework time at the kitchen table in the evenings because many evenings were spent fighting darkness and aggression, and sending children into my room to stay out of the path of their brother. I don’t have a family-known set of rules, expectations and consequences because my oldest (who, by default, sets the example for the others) is not motivated by either reward or consequence. Parenting him has been a continual shifting of what might work for this day, this situation, this mood. It’s left the others wondering what the constants are… and, to my grief, they come up empty.

I look at our dynamics, the lack of maturity and skill in my children, and I feel despair. JJ spoke these things- things I’ve already known- things I would rather run from- and called me to action. Part of me wanted to launch myself across the table to shove him to the floor, and part of me wanted to run away and leave the work to someone else, and part of me was broken… but part of me was grateful. His delivery was kind and raw. He reminded me of my strength and ability and asked why I didn’t infuse this situation with those characteristics. I dropped my head into my hands and sobbed. I could barely speak and he had to ask me to repeat myself several times. I don’t know how to fix it. I know the way things are right now is not good for anyone. I know that you telling me I work too hard at home doing things the kids should be doing is true- but I’m telling you I’m afraid, lost, and honestly, I am not sure I believe in myself as much as you do.

I have allowed things spoken to me when I was younger to take deep root and affect my ability to parent the children God gave to me- with my personality, skill set, strength and energy. I can tell you that logically, I know I have been paired with these children for a reason. That they have things to teach me, and I them, but the strangling vines grown from words once thrown into my soul have siphoned off the nutrients meant for healthy growth. I hear Failure. Flaky. Impulsive. Flighty. Unable to finish anything. Easily Bored. Lazy.

My love language is words of affirmation, and I haven’t loved myself well as I’ve given head space to words of destruction instead.
 

So next week, I return to counseling. I’ve given years to stabilize my son, while waiting for the right time to seek stabilization for myself. I can no longer delay that process. His well being and the well being of the others depends on my health. I can see where the cracks are and need help processing the junk that is preventing me from doing what needs to be done. I need someone to help me pull out the vines and learn how to live in the space between chaotic events.
I’m nervous at the level of emotional energy this will take, but I’m ready to move into it and out of it in order to live well the life I’ve been given.