The bright side of depression

            Today, I was on Facebook (as usual) and noticed a sweet picture.  Tears flowed.  "Oh, how sweet!" I said to my Pug Frank.  A little later, I noticed a video featuring the Doctor and Rose.  I watched the video and tears flowed.  "Frank, how precious!" (Don't judge me--I live alone :) ).  On it went--I read a sweet post, tears flowed.  I saw a darling picture--tears flowed.  Finally it dawned on me--I forgot to renew my depression meds!
              Many people suffer from depression--I consider them my brothers and sisters.  To paraphrase the old saying--some of us were born with depression and some had depression thrust upon us.  I am a mixture of both.  Depression is part of the gene pool, so to speak.  I have always dealt with it and have seen family firmly in its grasp.  However, it blossomed and went out of control (sort of like cancer) after my multiple losses.  I was so entombed that I felt I could barely breathe.  I had to go to work every day, but I don't remember enjoying anything.  Life was one step after another until I could finally go to bed.  In the morning, the whole thing started over.  I began in severe depression and soon became suicidal.  I continued in that state for at least seven years, and I didn't receive treatment during any of that time.  My children were the ones who caught the brunt of my disease.  I remember asking my daughter--she couldn't have been more than 17--if she thought she could watch the baby if I were gone.  She and I both knew exactly what I was talking about.  I still cringe thinking about the hell that I put her and her brothers through.
               As the years passed, I finally realized that I needed help.  I finally asked for medicine, and I received the Prozac that changed my life.  I still was depressed, but it was infinitely better.  My life itself had many hard elements--being a widow, a mother of four, having a full-time job, and dealing with a son with special needs is not easy--but it was so much more manageable.  I found that life began to be interesting again.  I stopped being so self-absorbed and began looking outward. Life became something to look forward to rather than something to slog through.
               Before I started on the Prozac, I began to write.  My pieces were directly influenced by my mood.  Many things that I wrote during the darkest period were, of course, horribly dark themselves.  But here's the thing.  Many of the pieces weren't so much dark as very emotional.  I have been told over and over again that you can feel the character's pain, her joy, her anxiety, and so on.  I am sure that this was because I was so fully enmeshed in the character myself.  Reading the character, you were actually seeing me.
               Since I've come back to health, I notice that the characters haven't changed (I think) so much as that the process has changed.  It takes me much longer to reach the desired mood, and the mood itself isn't as deep as it used to be.  Going back to the beginning of the post, during the time this has been taking place, I was completing a book.  The book is a series of readings on characters drawn from the time of Christ.  The readings  flowed easily in the past few days--the emotion, the understanding of the feeling, and so on has been there, just as it used to be.  Well, of course!  I was off my meds, or at least the ones that seem to control the outpouring of negative emotion.  So emotion came at my command, and it was overwhelming.
              Now that I realize my problem, I'm determined to go back on my meds as soon as possible.  I don't like the whoosh of emotion that comes with depression.  I'm not manic--I used to think I was, but the few moments when I felt a "high" were actually the few moments when I wasn't depressed.  Life today is a series of small highs, small lows, and infrequent rushes of exaltation or despair.  I believe that's normal.  I wouldn't want to go back to the daily rush of despair.
              But is it a good trade?  I was speaking about this with my daughter today, and I believe that it's a valid question.  People live without their meds all the time because their meds make them feel like automatons (I think this is more true of people with bipolar disorder or schizophrenia, although I've heard it said by those with ADHD as well).  Mine don't.  However, it would be easier to write with the emotion I need if I were off my meds.  My daughter suggested that maybe I could lower the dose or go on an extended retreat while I'm writing and then go back later.  I choose not to do that, for the simple reason that the lows are so low that I feel that I'm walking through dark valleys--again.  I choose not to live that way, even for my art.  I have to work harder to accomplish the same thing?  So be it.  The alternative is not worth the reward.

my platform--a work in progress

I have fought since I was a child.  I have battled abuse, both physical and mental.  I have dealt with mental illness in the form of depression.  I have made horrendous mistakes and suffered because of them.  In all these things, I have been fortunate--yes, fortunate--because I have learned a valuable lesson.  That lesson is solidifying and becoming my platform.

I find that in my life, there have been three major types of trauma.  The first is the trauma in which I was a victim, the second is trauma which I was instrumental in causing, and the third is trauma in which nobody was to blame--things went horribly wrong, and I (and many others) suffered because of them. In walking toward wholeness, I found that all three types of trauma had to be handled in the same way:  go back to the event, forgive, and move on.

Seems simple, doesn't it?  Well, I can only recently claim that I am far enough in the journey to actually claim wholeness, and I started that journey in 1993, so I am pretty sure that my explanation is deceptive.  However, that is exactly what I did.  I went back to the event (sometimes over and over again), I forgave the people involved--including myself and including God--and I moved on.  Often, I found myself coming back again, and that's where this got interesting for me.  I was told over and over again never to revisit old wounds.  If I had claimed healing, then healing had happened, and I was giving in to a spirit of infirmity by going back.  I have come to believe that words like that are a lie from the pit of Hell itself!  Sometimes you have to revisit the same scene over and over again because you are unable to fully realize the healing.  Each time, though, the process is the same.  You go back to the event, forgive, and move on again.

Rereading this, I realize that there is something that I didn't mention yet.  In some ways, it's the most important part.  See where God is in this.  I know it smacks of visualization, but that's not what I mean.  I learned this from Father Mike Flynn, among others.  You can ask God to show you the scene and ask to see where God (or Jesus or the Holy Spirit) was in the enacting of it.  It can totally change your understanding of the situation when you do this.  For example, there was a scene that played out over and over again in my mind.  In that scene, I was totally helpless, and nobody came to give me aid.  I felt powerless and shamed, and I couldn't understand why nobody was sent to intervene on my behalf.  Then, at a conference led by Father Mike, we were led to ask the Lord where he was.  I asked, and immediately I went back to the same scene again.  But then I realized that the love of God was all around me.  Jesus was right there at my side.  No, he didn't stop it, but I do know that he was protecting me.

Some of you might be thinking that what I say is incomprehensible.  If God was there, why didn't he lead me out of the situation, or better yet, never let the situation start?  I can't answer that.  What I can say, though, is that I am here today and part of what I am was created in that moment.  I can honestly say that I don't wish it didn't happen.  I don't know why I had to learn the lesson I learned, but one thing that I do know is that many others have dealt with the same trauma, and I am proof that they can come out the other side whole and healthy.

After you go back and see the events, you have to determine where forgiveness needs to occur.  One reason you might find yourself revisiting an event is that you have not yet forgiven the people involved.  The person most commonly left out of the forgiveness step is yourself.  And even after you've forgiven yourself, you might find yourself coming back and forgiving yourself--or your abuser--or even God--for things that you hadn't even been able to consciously realize at the point you were at before.

After you have gone back and forgiven, you move on.  But you don't move on and leave that place empty.  You pray over the memory--you ask God to seal it for you and to leave it in the past unless and until it needs to come forward again.  You ask him to cover it with his mercy and forgiveness, and then if (when) it comes up again, you ask the Lord if he can take it away.  If he does, great.  If it doesn't, ask what needs to be revealed now.  And then go through the same procedure again--go back, forgive, and move on.

Of course, some of you are not at a point where you can do this alone.  Or maybe you've tried to do it and been thrust into even more darkness and depression--perhaps even despair.  Please don't try to do it yourself.  If you have been so wounded that it is life threatening (whether this means your ability to live a happy life or whether you feel that it's worth living at all), you need help.  Take the step and find it.  When my husband died, it was the third loss in 4 years.  I knew that my children couldn't deal with that, and I sought counseling immediately.  I should have sought it for myself, too, and eventually I did.  There is no shame in seeking help.

So this is my platform.  What do you think?

Next time--how I learned how to write again.

"Whose little boy..."

The middle-aged man strode down the boulevard.  He was in a particularly good mood.  Viv had been pretty chipper today.  Some days were better than others, of course, and on this day she seemed almost normal.  Almost.

As he proceeded on his walk, a child caught his eye.  No older than three, perhaps, he was nevertheless all alone.  He did not seem lost or afraid; in fact, he seemed to be waiting for someone.  He sat by himself on a retaining wall, and as the man approached, he raised his head.  He had the most beautiful blue eyes that the man had ever seen.

"Why, hello, Son!"  the gentleman said.  "Whose little boy are you?"

The boy didn't answer the question.  He said, "Play wit me!" and raised up pudgy hands.

"Do you want me to take you home?"

"Play wit me!"

So right there on the sidewalk, the man took the boy's hand.  They sang songs, the little boy starting. "Twinkle Twinkle", "Muffin Man", and "Deep and Wide".  Then they played clapping games.  "Pat-a-Cake" and "Ram Sam Sam".  Then they just joined hands and walked in a circle together.  A lightness began to fill him that he hadn't felt for years.  The boy said, "Lift me up!!"  He did as he was told.  The boy gave him an enormous hug and a kiss that smelled of milk and cookies.  "Bye bye!" he cried and ran off down the street.  The man watched him until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

Many years passed.  The middle-aged man was no longer middle aged.  Viv was no longer pretty chipper.  Viv was constantly on the verge of disaster.  One day she was drunk, the next she was sunk deep in depression, and another day saw her preparing her will.  She rarely spoke to him.  It was obvious that she blamed him for their misfortune, although he couldn't see how it could possibly have been his fault.

He walked down the lane, barely conscious of his surroundings.  To be honest, he was afraid of what he'd find when he came back home.  He nearly bumped into the boy before he realized there was someone else with him.

"Well, hello, young man!  Whose little boy are you?"  The boy, probably 10 years old, looked at him sternly.  "You asked me that same thing before!"  His blue eyes were piercing.  Somehow the man made the connection--that child he had seen so many years before.  He remembered those eyes.  What he hadn't noticed before was that his eyes were beautifully complimented by hair the color of an autumn forest.

"Are you from around here?"  asked the man.  He wasn't sure, really, what to say.  Viv had never been able to have children--not after that first disaster.  With no little hands to hold, he had filled his days with grown up pleasures.  Speaking with this child now was uncomfortable.

The boy ignored the question.  "You're sad, aren't you?  Why?"

He didn't know why he answered.  "My wife is very sick.  She's very sad, and it makes me sad that I can't help her get better."

"Give her this,"  the little boy said.  He handed the man a small package with a yellow bow.

"What's this?"  asked the man.

"Just give it to her.  She will like it."  The boy walked away without another word.

The man continued home, He couldn't get over it.  How could that boy have remembered him?  How could he have never seen him since that time so many years before?  It was so unreal.  He entered his house, looking for his wife.  It was not hard to find her.  Simply go to the couch, and if nobody was there, head for the bedroom.  He found her in the bed, huddled on her side.  It was obvious that she had been there all day.  "Viv, are you all right?  Vivian?"

His wife, once so beautiful and loving, looked at him and the hopelessness in her eyes broke his heart.  He reached out to stroke her hair, and the present caught her eye. "For me?  Do you really think that anything you could give me would help?"

He had totally forgotten that he was still carrying the boy's gift.  He said, "The strangest thing happened today.  I bumped into a boy while I was walking home.  Viv, he had the most amazing eyes!  They were so blue, so beautiful..."

"Jason had blue eyes, remember?"

Jason.  The son they'd named for him.  How could he not remember?  He had seemed normal and healthy when he was born, and he had a fuzz of red hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen.  Nobody could explain how it happened.  He was healthy and normal at birth, and then six hours later he was gone.  It defied explanation.

He was devastated, of course, but life continued for him.  He had his job, his life that took him to the office and adult companionship every day.  Viv never recovered.  She never went back to work.  She spent the first weeks after Jason's death in a confusion of denial, anger, vindictiveness, and pain.  It spiraled out of control, and it all ended with her being committed to an asylum for several months.  Finally, she managed to convince her psychiatrist that she would be able to deal with everyday life, and he was thankful to take her home.  At first, she seemed better.  The hospital had given them a tiny lock of their son's red hair and a picture, and Jason had gone to the jeweler's, bought a locket, and gave it to Vivian.  It had seemed to help, for a while.  But after several years, the chain broke and the locket disappeared.  Without it, she seemed to have lost what little connection she'd had with life.  She began to spiral downward again.  But they both knew that she wouldn't go back to the mental ward.  He would take care of her as long as he could.  After that...

"Yes, he did, Vivian.  The bluest eyes I'd ever seen.  So beautiful..."

Vivian reached out, and for a moment he thought she would take his hand.  But no, she took the present.  "You say a boy gave this to me?  Do we know him?"

"No, he just said to give this to you, that you would like it."

"How strange.  What did he look like?"

He described the boy to her, but no light went off in her eyes.  He was a stranger to her as well.  She took the box and opened it.  A locket fell out.  And a note.  And a photo.  She picked up the photo--a beautiful boy with autumn-red hair and piercing blue eyes smiled at her, daring her to come out and play.  She picked up the note,

"Mommy, please don't be sad.  I am so alive here!  There are lots of other boys and girls to play with, and Grandpa and Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa love me and tell me funny stories about you.  Please stop blaming yourself, and please don't blame Daddy.  I love you, and I want you to find a little boy and give him the love you wanted to give me.  You should know how special you are--not every little boy gets to come from Heaven and give his mommy a present, but Jesus knows you need this back.  You lost it at the mall.  I love you bunches and bunches, Mommy, and I promise that I will be the first thing you see when you get to Heaven.  But please, find my brother before you see me.  He is waiting for you, too!  Love, Jason"

Tears streaming, Viv opened the locket.  The lock of hair and the photo were perfect--just as she'd left them.  The chain had been repaired, too, and was like new.  She put the locket around her neck and reached out for him.  He lay on the bed with her and they simply held each other.

Later that year, Viv and Jason were on a walk, down that same boulevard.  "Right here, Sweetheart,"  he said.  This is where I saw him.  Wait, what's this?"

There was a pamphlet on the ground.  They picked it up.  It was a pamphlet stating the need for foster families, that there were many children right here in their own communities that needed parents to love them.  Jason looked at Viv, and they ran home.  A new chapter in their lives was about to begin.  They knew that it would end with a new son to love--perhaps not a baby, but definitely a brother for Jason.

The phone call (yes, even depression has its funny moments)

Hello, this is your doctor's office.  Please press "8" to speak to the nurse on call.

(Press 8)

Hello, this is the nurse on call.  If this is a life-threatening emergency, please hang up and dial 9-1-1.  If not, please stay on the line.

(Elevator music)

Hello, this is Piyali.  I am a registered nurse.  What is your problem?

Hello, I've been suffering from depression, and I'm wondering if it's possible to get a prescription over the phone.  (Notice that's a yes-or-no question).

Thank you for your call.  How are you doing today?

(I'm a little depressed, as you might have guessed from the call--)  I am okay.  I've been having some issues with depression and would like to know if it's possible to get a new prescription on the weekend.

Thank you.  Are you feeling homicidal or suicidal?

Neither, I just…

Thank you.  Have you been depressed for very long?

I suffer from depression.  I am taking medication for it.  I take lkjlkjkjlj and lkrj23wlkrjeldskfj.

I see.  And are you thinking of killing yourself right now?

(well actually I wasn't, but since I've been on the phone…)  No, ma'am.  As I said, I need to find out…

Yes, yes.  Have you taken the medication long?

Yes, the kjlkjlj for many years and the other for about a year.

All right.  Let me get your first and last name.

Really?  Maybe you should have listened when I gave it to you the other time ! Yes, it's Margaret Villanueva, I go by Meg.  The last name is V-I-L-L-A-N-U-E-V-A.

Thank you Mar-ga-ret.  I see by your chart they you are currently taking lkjlkjlkjlk and werjewkelrkjwel.  How long have you been taking those medications?

Um, 
lady, have you been LISTENING???  Yes.  I have been taking the first for several years and the second for about a year.  It isn't working, so I was wondering if I could get a prescription or if I need to wait and call the doctor in the morning.

Well, Mar-ga-ret

It's Meg--

Well, yes, Meg, it sounds as if you are feeling depressed.  Are you sure that you are not feeling even a little suicidal?  Have you had any urge at all to harm yourself or another?

Hmmm….now that you mention it, I can think of one person I'd like to harm… No ma'am, I just want to know if I can get a prescription this weekend or if I have to wait for Monday to speak to the doctor.

Well, since you are depressed, I recommend that you lie down in bed and curl up to comfort yourself.  I also recommend that if you have any other problems that you call back the nurse line.  And be sure to call the doctor in the morning.

So are you saying that you can't get a prescription on the weekend?

No, but don't worry, the doctor will see the message.  And remember, if you are feeling suicidal, please call 9-1-1 immediately.

This was the actual phone call that I made this morning after I found that I had to leave church early since I couldn't control my depression.  There was more to the call, but this was the gist.  No wonder so many people suffer from depression!  

how to cope with depression-or at least how I do it.

I know what you're thinking…
What?  Cope with depression?  Based on the earlier posts, I doubt she copes very well with depression!  Dear reader, I want you to remember that this blog is not only me trying to be a writer.  It's me crying out to those people who read, asking for prayer and hoping that I strike a chord with others who understand how I feel.  In fact, blogging is one way that I cope.

I have struggled with depression since I was young--probably since I was a little girl.  I was officially diagnosed in my 40's, but I knew that there was a serious problem much earlier.  When I was younger, every time depression cycled through, I became hurt, angry, bitter, judgmental, a victim, a user, and just a not-very-nice person to be around.  I'm sure that my depression was an important part of my being so isolated in school.  Yes, I was bullied, but so are many others.  Others were able to deal with the bullying and still have friends.  I was not.  The bullying entered into me, fed my depression, and made me both afraid to reach out and sure that I was exactly what they said I was.

When I was a young mother, I found out that I had hypothyroidism.  I received meds for that. Meds helped.  They helped a lot.  My children even remarked about it--I remember my son Val saying that I was mean mommy before, but I'm nice mommy now.  However, the meds didn't make the depression go away. Every once in a while, I would get really sad, really angry, get hurt really easily, just really depressed.  I saw my father going through the same thing, and I hated the way he handled it--manipulating us to try to get attention and help his perceived need.  I saw that he was driving his family away from him and I determined that I would never do that. What I didn't realize was that he probably had little control over his depression.  I don't know if he even saw it as depression.  I know that I didn't see it that way.  I felt that he was cruel and unfeeling to his children, that he tried anything he could do get attention, and that he never thought of others, only himself.  All of this was true, at least in part.  But with the wisdom of years, I can also see these behaviors in myself--with the important addition of feeling on the inside what he must have been feeling.  I now understand the sense of impending catastrophe that he must have been feeling.  The difference, though, is that I try not to feed on it and not to let it overflow onto others, at least not verbally.  It doesn't always work, but often it does.

When I'm depressed, really depressed, nothing seems to help but time.  I have to do the daily things everyone else also has to do--go to work, go to rehearsal, go to church.  But I try to be as quiet as I can about my depression.  I know that I look like I'm hurting--there's nothing I can do about that, other than take the day off work or  stay home from rehearsal, etc.  When I'm in a situation and not talking about it, the worst thing that you can do is try to talk me out of it.  Nothing you can say will help, and many things you say can really make it worse.  I am amazed by those who decide that they have the right answer and are able to fix another person.  If I ask you for advice, that's one thing.  But if you come up to me while I'm trying to stay out of the spotlight and thrust me into it, you deny me the ability to deal with my pain and force me to listen to you.  While others might benefit by this treatment, in me it revs up depression into either anger--bad--or despair--worse--or hopelessness--worst.  I am in a public place not to make you feel bad for me but to a) do my duty (or my job) or b) try to get some contact.  What I need is the freedom to be.  I will appreciate a friendly smile and maybe a hug far more than your words of wisdom.

Sometimes, however, I do come to a meeting or public place with the specific goal of trying to get help, or at least to make my voice heard. This morning was an example.  I came to a meeting where the three of us all talk about our issues and how we dealt with them over the week.  I was asked to go first, and I thought for a second about hiding my issue and saying something neutral.  Rightly or wrongly, I didn't. Having opened up, I then received both friendship and advice.  That's fine--it's the proper venue.  But if you give me advice, no matter how good it is, please don't expect me to act or respond to what you say with any sort of emotion or gratitude.  It's not that I'm angry at you or refuse to take what you've said seriously.  I don't respond because I need time.  I sometimes can't push out of my depression far enough to give you the socially acceptable response.  That's one reason I try not to be in these outlets unless I know the people involved and feel very comfortable around them.  This morning, I was advised several things, one being to lay on the floor and ask the Holy Spirit to indwell me.  I couldn't get to a good enough place to acknowledge the wisdom of that remark--but I did try that when I got home.  Did it help?  Maybe.  And that leads me to my next point.

Don't expect depression to come and go at will.  At least in my case, it cycles.  Something might start it, but equally often it just comes.  When it comes, I pray that I recognize it.  I have come to realize that I can recognize it when it comes out of the blue; I can't recognize it when it comes as the result of another issue.  For example, my depression really started this year because of tiny little triggers.  I caught a couple, but they kept coming and coming and I stopped counteracting them.  It became overwhelming, and at some point I lay down and let it bowl me over.  It didn't happen overnight and it won't go away overnight.

Having said all that, maybe at this point you're thinking that depression is too overwhelming and hopeless to deal with.  That's not the case.  Here are some things that I know to be true.

• Depression can be managed, at least in part, by medication.  If you don't have a reason for your depression and you are depressed anyway, you should talk to your psychiatrist or doctor and see if you need something to take the edge off.  Again, though, you have to be realistic.  The commercial with the girl who has coat on or the rain cloud over her head shows truth:  the coat is near her, the rain crowd is off to the side at the end of the commercial, but they never go away.  Medicine will not save you from depression--it will help you control your depression.

• You need to be self-aware, not self-absorbed.  When I'm depressed, I look at myself to figure out if there's a reason.  If there's a reason, I try to understand why I'm depressed because of that reason.  Usually I can, and usually that helps.  However, please don't think that the reason I give you for my depression is the only (or even the most important) reason.  Unless you are my counselor, I probably won't tell you the full story.  I might even give you the least offensive of reasons that I'm depressed.  I'm just like everyone else.  I don't want you, my friend, my family member to see how someone's actions have set me off--especially if they're your actions.  Again, the difference between depression and getting your feelings hurt or needing to confront is vast.  I sometimes have to get the depression to a manageable level before I can begin to work with what is bothering me.  When I do, what is bothering me might stop bothering me.  I can only realize and properly deal with its smallness when I'm free of the cloud of depression that was its companion.

• Find an outlet.  Yes, it can backfire.  Right now, Part of my situation is fueled by issues regarding my avocations.  That does not mean that I should quit my avocations.  The fact that I continue in spite of the depression is a sign to me that I can continue to function in spite of myself.  The fact that I can blog through this very significant depressive episode gives me hope that next time the episode will be less.  Yes, I have thought about quitting.  No, I am determined not to.
• Finally, take care of yourself.  I want to do nothing but eat and sleep when I'm this depressed.  So right now I'm chewing gum at the computer. I did go to Burger King and take a nap, but I refuse to let my weak moments define me.  I'm up now. I'm not eating now.

If you also suffer from depression, I'd love to hear from you.  Many of us suffer alone, and I know how hard that can be.  I am determined never to allow that to happen to me again.  I know that there will always be depression in my life, but I have decided to always allow sunshine in my heart as well.  So if you want to talk further, email me at meggiev7777@gmail.com or comment.  We are a brotherhood, and there is strength in numbers.

bleeding inside...

Okay, no more poetry.  Sorry, Nanowrimo, but I can't do it.  There's too much pain and hurt for me to try to bring my thoughts into neat little lines.  So )()(*I)(* it.  I can't do it today.  Not today.

You might ask why?  What's happened? Why are you so hurt/sad/depressed?  Lots of little things all together.  I thought that I was bigger than this, but I guess I'm not.  I can usually deal with things (nothing is all that big, after all), but too many little things all pushed together becomes a big ball of stress and hurt lodged in between my throat and my heart.  It's too much.  I can't bear it.  And yet, who else will, if not me.

Please don't say "God".  It's all well and good to say that, but you know what?  I LOVE God.  I have known him and loved him since I was FIVE.  But sometimes it's not enough.  Don't tell me that means that somehow I'm not letting him in.  When I get like this, I just have to fight through it and realize that he's behind me, pulling for me.

It's times like these that I realize how very alone I am.  I feel sorry for my son--he shouldn't have to see me go through this stupidity, but he's good about it.  That's something, at least.

So if you want to help me, pray.  My problem, at the core, is that I'm too stressed, too tired, have too much to do, and feel that I'm letting people down.  I know that's stupid, but that's how I feel.  Just in writing this, I know what I have to do.  I have to write to the person that I feel that I'm letting down and explain that I'm doing the best I can and she's going to have to deal with it.

I feel better already.  Not.  But at least now I know what I have to do.

write what you know

I went to a day-long (if you consider 8:30-2:00 day long!!) training for Stephen Ministries today.  It was cloudy and rainy, grey skies, and inside the training was on grief, suicide, and depression.  I was fascinated by what I heard.  The women who led the training sessions had all experienced the things that they were talking about, and they spoke from the heart.  I was especially struck by the second woman, who spoke on suicide.

Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues.  She was very interesting--at a professional level.  I was interested but not absorbed.  Then Vicki spoke.  This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting.  She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing.  One thing that she said struck me to my very core.  It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down.  But it's fairly accurate.

"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her,  (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself.  This is what I know.  This is what I do."

Yes.  Finally I understand my own calling.  For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am.  I have dealt with loss from before I can remember.  I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death.  I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family.  I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins.  My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81).  My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26.  On and on it goes.  But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35.  I did not recover from that for many many years.  You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief.  You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away.  Nor would I want it to.  He was my husband, and I loved him.

So what does all this mean?  Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day.  Most days, especially now, are pretty good.  I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again.  But it also means that I am different than many of you.  I come from a different place.  And I would not trade places.

When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents".  This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family.  We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's.  One meeting in particular stood out for me.  We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin.  The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back.  It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.

That's me.  I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one.  Not a single one.  If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience.  God became real to me in the pain.  I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time.  It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery.  Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared.  I keenly felt the loss of my husband.  As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway.  As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away.  It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated.  Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant.  I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery.  I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it.  I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it."  Down we went to the operating room.  I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.

When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered.  For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God.  I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community.  I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time.  I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence.  But I've never felt so alone.

Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again.  As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself.  Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself.  I'm thankful for that.  And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.'  And what I know is pain and loss.  So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.

That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things.  God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that.  I enjoy dissecting things.  I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time.  I love exploring ideas.  All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.

But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma.  Write what you know.  But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff?  Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair.  No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted.  And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.

Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out.  We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds.  I see both my writing and my ministry as that:  staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone.  That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.