Last month I had a week full of the common aches and pains of life – a pulled muscle, a migraine, mild insomnia, achy knees… And I was grumpy. So very grumpy. By that Wednesday I figured I had logged at least ten hours in the kitchen over a three day span; I had picked up the house at least four times (because I’ve been on a mission to keep the house in better order, even though no one else is…), and I was tired and feeling funky. I’m sure hormones were a factor in the funk, but mostly it was a week that I spent taking care of the house and everyone else while ignoring basic self-care.

I was focused on the to-do list and not doing things that I need to maintain a little bit of sanity, like exercise, writing, and crafting with the tiny human. I plopped down on the bed and exhaled all of that grumpy as one long huffy sigh, and my husband asked, “What’s wrong?” Every time he asks this question, all of the things run through my head in an incoherent stream of consciousness jumble, and I want to say, “Everything. Everything is wrong,” as I try to list all of the mess in my head. But I pause to inhale and let the inner dialogue slow just enough to form a coherent sentence. “My head hurts; that muscle in my back is still sore. I’m tired because I haven’t slept well in a week, and I’m very grumpy.”

I would love to tell you that identifying the actual problems made me realize I should slow down and take better care of myself. That night I tried to go to bed earlier, and I felt better physically the next morning. Before we got up, my husband ran through a checklist. “How’s your back?”

“Mostly better, but still a little sore.”

“How’s your head?”

“Better.”

“How’s your grumpy?”

My grumpy was still going strong. Knowing that it was at least partially a hormone cycle issue made it easier to work through because I could tell myself there was a clear end in sight, but I had to focus on ungrumpification for a few days. Maybe I will always fight depression. Maybe all of us feel bouts of mild depression, and I’m more aware now when it happens to me. But my new found power of awareness is useless if I don’t take better, healthier steps to address my grumpy when it happens. With great power comes great responsibility. And we are responsible for taking care of ourselves, too.

It’s easy to forget when we are faced with taking care of family, taking care of work, taking care of home… I cycle through great periods of self-care and then long droughts. I struggle to fit everything I need and want to do in a day, so I let the “non-essentials” slide. Those things are what keep me healthy and strong, though, so they really are essentials if I want to keep my grumpy in check and stay productive. I’m working harder to keep the essentials prioritized so that I can tackle the task list without resenting the largely thankless work of housekeeping and parenting and work. It’s a work in progress; I think it will be a lifetime job.

How’s your grumpy? If it’s running amok, check in with yourself, and be honest with yourself about what you are doing to stay healthy mentally, emotionally, and physically. If you don’t have a single thing in your daily to-do list that strengthens your body and your soul, add something and do it first. I have learned that I will never exercise at night if I skipped it in the morning, so I have to do it in the morning. Same thing with Bible study and prayer time. Guess what the first two things in my morning routine are now? If you’re struggling to make that happen, find a friend to check in with who will lovingly hold you accountable for taking care of yourself. I have two such wonderful women in my life, and I trust them to tell me truth even when I don’t want to hear it and make excuses. I rely on their encouragement, and I try to be the same type of friend for them.

If you’re struggling to find a friend to trust, please let me know. Maybe we need to form a support group for grumpies. Find a way to keep your grumpy from controlling your days, and don’t do it alone. You are a precious Child of God, and he made you to be full of life and abiding joy. If you don’t feel full of life and joy more days than not (not all days will feel like that – crap happens to everyone), then your grumpy may be in charge. Don’t let it win. You are not your grumpy. You are beautiful and valuable and worth taking care of.

I love the Coffee and Sweatpants Facebook feed.  One of the illustrations posted last week said that if someone can live through something awful, you can at least bear witness.  (This is an unartful paraphrase, so go web search Coffee and Sweatpants.)  This idea has stuck with me since I saw it, and it reminds me of Job declaring that his redeemer would stand and recount his deeds, and he would be justified.  I think this is what funerals are all about.

We gather to publicly mark the passing of a life, to bear witness to the agony of the loved ones left behind.  We tell ourselves that we are comforting them with our food and our presence, and maybe we are.  But our words fall hollow in a mourner’s ears; nothing we say is going to heal their broken heart.  We can only bear witness to the tragedy and simply be present.

Death isn’t the sole cause of grief, so we must be present enough in our loved ones’ lives to observe the invisible losses that trigger a shower of casseroles and floral arrangements.  Bear witness.  Be there.  “Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ.” – Galatians 6:2

What does it look like to bear witness?  I don’t know.  I conjure mental images of the chorus in a Greek tragedy, but this seems wholly impractical and loud.  As a practice in my life, I try to be what I needed when I was trying to cope with loss, but I also try to temper that with what I know of the person.  If you are crying, I will most likely hug your stuffings out because when I cry, I want to be wrapped up and held.  If I have never met you or don’t know you well enough to squish your guts out, I will go for the side hug and rub or pat your back until you can at least form sentences.  I will not leave you until you tell me to go away or I know that you are feeling at least a tiny bit better, even if it’s awkward.  I excel at awkward.

Bearing witness can be as simple as merely acknowledging what someone is feeling and validating their experience.  “I’m sorry you are experiencing this.  I know that you are feeling sad/angry/depressed.  I’m here if you need to talk.”  That’s it.  Nothing fancy – just sincere acknowledgement that sometimes life sucks and we don’t know why.  And then listen without interrupting when someone shares their pain with you.

You can’t fix it, and you won’t say any magic words that will take away the pain.  We so often want to say beautiful words as a balm for wounded souls, but in my experience receiving those attempts, they generally aren’t helpful.  So many of the “churchy” phrases we offer come out sounding judgmental or hurtful, even though our intentions are pure.  To bear witness is not to testify, so be simple and kind: “I love you.  I’m sorry this is happening to you.”  If words are not your thing, offer a hug or a cup of coffee or a casserole; food is a bona fide love language in the South.  Bottom line: be the witness you wish you had when you were experiencing tragedy.

A few months ago I had a tubal ligation.  Pardon the bluntness, but I feel there is no point in beating around the bush, and I can’t think of a witty introduction.  I effectively closed a miserable chapter in my life.  The surgical notes regarding the reason for the procedure indicated, “patient desires sterilization.”  I think “desires” is a strong word, but for the sake of insurance billing, I’ll let it stand.  The truth is, I did desire an end, a decision, a finality.

We decided after Engelberta was born that we were willing to try two more times to have another child “naturally” before we stopped trying.  Ni of ne months after Engelberta’s birth, we lost a baby, leaving us with one more try floating around in decision purgatory where it lingered for almost three years.  I felt like I was living with a noose around my neck that tightened each time anyone approached the topic until I couldn’t cope with the thought of another miscarriage.  The decision came down to emotionally and mentally unstable wife/mother or surgery, so we chose surgery.  I talked all of this over with my therapist, and just making the decision to quit felt like a physical weight off of my body.

I thought I might have more feelings about the ending my fertility, but I have yet to look back with any regret.  Maybe each miscarriage was a bit of a death of the opportunity to carry a child, and thinking about the procedure for months before we finally made a decision gave me plenty of time to mourn the loss before it happened.  It has only felt like relief and closure in the post surgical weeks.

I have added two new scars to my collection, and they seem to mirror some new emotional scar tissue.  I have talked about our lost babies in conversation several times in the last few weeks, and I noticed that a lot of the sting is gone when I mention them.  One person apologized for bringing up such a fraught subject, and I heard this truth come out of my mouth, “It’s our history now.”  It’s history that has finally started to feel more like a scar: tender to the touch, but not a gaping wound.

With each physical scar, there is a healing process; first scabbing, then physical therapy to strengthen and protect the weakened limb until it can function more normally.  My mind and heart have followed much the same process, and just like my body, my heart will never look the same – it is scarred.  It will never be what it was before the injury, but it is still somehow stronger, more able to recognize pain in another heart, more able to live in the moment because the past is untenable, more able to accept that I can’t control life.

Thank God for scars.

I have been asked my whole life as some sort of personality test whether I like the beach or the mountains better.  There are those who feel the call of the sea, and then there are those who commune with trees.  And then there’s me.  I feel most at peace in nature, no matter where that is.

I am writing this sitting next to the ocean, and right now I feel like I could be one of the ancient mariners whose heartsong was the call of waves crashing on the shoreline.  Standing at the shore and seeing only water and sky until the edges blur and they meet in a haze of blue, I feel how vast this small section of earth is, how small I am, and how eternally enormous God is.  The feel of the water lapping at my legs in a push-pull rhythm is timeless and echoed in my veins through the chambers of my heart.  Sand shifting beneath my feet and running back into the ocean like my spirit running after God even when I seem to be standing still.  I can stand there for hours facing the wind, lifting my arms to feel it rush by me and feeling grounded, connected to the universe, the sound of the waves encompassing my soul.

But in the mountains, in the woods, I feel the same tug on my soul.  Sunlight dappled forest floors hint at the marriage of leaves and branches.  The rush of the wind through the trees sounds as big as the ocean, but I can still hear a twig snap and a single bird chirping.  I can trace the line of ants crawling across boulders bigger than me that form mountaintops I have to lean back to see.  Minutia and magnitude in one glance.

That’s God: eternal and present, everywhere and with me, an infinite depth of wonder to study for the rest of my life.

When I confessed my depression diagnosis last week on the blog, I know it surprised a lot of people – maybe not that I would share it, but that I was struggling at all with depression. If you know me, you know I love to laugh and take care of other people; it may have been a shock to think that you missed something or you should have done a better job taking care of me somehow. You may think I hid my symptoms well, but if you spend much time with me you know that I am pretty much an open book. So what did you miss in noticing that I was in need of therapy?

Nothing. Unless you were in my head or living in my house, you probably wouldn’t notice anything was off. I still loved to laugh and to help people and to do artsy fartsy (as my husband describes them) things. I still mostly functioned in my assorted roles in life. You couldn’t have known that everything made me cranky or just how high my stress level was. You couldn’t hear how terrible and critical my inner voice was. You couldn’t have known that lots of days I had to make myself get of bed or that the effort of just making it through the day was exhausting so much of the time. I could have told you, but after days and weeks and months it just feels like whining. And constant anger feels like a moral failing or a recurring sin problem.

I’m not much for wearing masks, but I’m also not one for constant oversharing and/or incessant whining, and I felt like most of the things I was struggling with were things I could improve by changing my habits and thinking more positively and being more consistent with my Bible study and prayer time. I didn’t even know that I needed more than just some habit changes and an outlet to process my feelings until the week I couldn’t form sentences in the therapist’s office when he asked how the week had gone. It’s actually a pretty funny story now.

I had a ridiculously terrible morning that involved dressing a cranky toddler (if you have never tried to put clothes on an angry octopus, you’re totally unprepared for parenthood…), limping through the morning routine with a knee immobilizing brace, dropping the cranky toddler off late at preschool which made me late for work which made me late for the toddler’s last week of school picnic from which I had to leave early to make it to the therapist’s office to which I cried most of the way because I felt like a horrible person. I attempted to pull it together enough not to sob while I walked in, and then responded to the question, “So, how has the week gone?” with a blubbering mass of attempted sentences. The therapist listened patiently and heard enough to gently offer, “You know, last week we talked about possibly trying some medication to help out for a while. I think maybe it’s time to try that option.” Granted, the week had been a mess that included tearing my ACL, putting our cat to sleep, and dealing with some tough life decisions, but I felt like I had capsized and would drown at any moment. Now that my head is back above water, replaying that conversation is a little hilarious; it plays back like a scene written for a sitcom, and it makes me laugh when I tell other people about it.

I read a few articles last week that I think fit my situation pretty well. One described their mild to moderate depression as “walking depression.” The other described “high functioning depression.” (I am arguably not “high functioning” in the way that you would describe a type A personality, but I manage to accomplish things beyond the daily grind every now and then.) Both articles described feeling depressive symptoms but not so severely that it kept them from functioning in a way that other people would see as normal. You couldn’t have known how hard it was for me to get out of bed that day because I did get out of bed, and I did get myself and the angry octopus child dressed and out the door. From that point on, I was just focused on getting through the rest of the day and wouldn’t have mentioned the extreme “uggghhh” I felt at the thought of starting the morning. And because I was still moving, I tried desperately to keep Newtonian physics on my side, so I tried to focus forward and avoid dwelling on how bad I felt. And because it is extremely impolite to yell a lot and kick people in the shins, I kept a decent lid on my irritability in the presence of other people and just screamed a lot in my car or simmered in silence. Given that controlling anger is a spiritual discipline, I largely assumed that I lacked the discipline to control it and prayed even harder for God to replace that emotion with gentleness and show me better coping skills. But I couldn’t pray it away. And even though it was something I occasionally mentioned to a few people I trusted to pray for me, it wasn’t something I thought of as an issue I needed to talk to anyone about until it felt out of control.

My stress level was like that, too. I finally put words to it in a therapy session: most days I am doing okay with stress, but it’s like I’m at capacity. If something unexpected happens or an extra project comes at me, I am easily overwhelmed. So facing down the future of reproduction in my life plus knee injury plus dying cat equals stress and irritability overload. I discussed each of the things that were causing me extra stress with family and friends, but probably nothing in those conversations made anyone think, “You know, I think Anne is really just depressed. Perhaps she needs medication.” You may have thought, “That’s a lot to deal with at once. She may be overreacting a little, but I’d be stressed in that situation, too.”

I called this post “Show and Tell” because you can’t always see depression in a loved one. You can only know what they show you and tell you. I never tried to hide any depression symptoms, but I didn’t really see some of them myself. I am also pretty good at talking to family and friends when I need help venting or need guidance, but I didn’t know I needed to tell anyone more than what I did. I realized that I had several issues that really needed an outside and professional review. Sometimes family can be too emotionally invested to help make a rational decision; this isn’t bad or wrong – it means they want the very best for you and want you to be happy. I am blessed to have that in my life, and now that my depression symptoms are largely under control, they are who I turn to first to help me cope when crazy happens. Now I need less professional therapy and more time invested in relationships that keep me glued together. Now I know what to show and tell if things feel out of control again.

After putting off going back to counseling for months (really, honestly, years), I finally went to see someone to talk about the depression I am living with and the extra anxiety I was feeling about some rather large life decisions that felt fraught with Impending Doom no matter what choice was made. I am excellent at putting off my feelings so that I can make it through the day (week, month…) of urgent tasks and then I can feel all of the feelings. This is a terrible idea, by the way. I may accomplish a few things on my list, but I am cranky and angry and want to eat every ounce of chocolate and cheese within a mile radius. This only serves to heighten the emotions of guilt and sadness and anger, which in turn only serves to squash any motivation I had left for the rest of my list, thus rendering it as useful as toilet paper and adding everything left on it to the dogpile of anxiety and guilt and sadness I was already trying to avoid.

This is a horrible way to live, yet it’s been my life at least several weeks each month. Then I’ll have a good week or two where I stay on my diet plan (not so much diet as just not eating metric tons of crap), keep the house from looking like a complete disaster, keep up at work, maintain patience with the toddler, and actually exercise. I feel like Superwoman. I forget how awful I felt the week before because I am coping so well with life. I even managed to keep the kitchen clean and clear the sink for a whole week and a half once. Until something happens – I miss a step in the schedule and start to feel overwhelmed; the tiny human is hangry and/or sleepy, and I am all done with patience for the day; someone I love announces a pregnancy or birth or Mother’s Day happens, and I am overwhelmed with all of the things that depression holds for me all over again. I am by default a “bootstrapper,” as in I largely believe I can fix myself by just working harder at it. For the most part, this has worked in spurts for me. I mostly function, but not always well and almost never the way I would like to.

The truth is, bootstrapping may be a good coping mechanism for mild and intermittent depression, but the cycle I am in is neither one of those things at the moment because it is interfering with my life. I finally felt enough out of control of my emotions that I knew I had to do something else if for no other reason than that my daughter deserves a mommy who won’t correct every move she makes or yell over stupid things, so I finally called to schedule a counseling appointment.

Having a professional help review those Impending Doom decisions was huge; it was the main reason I quit stalling, but it gave me a diagnosis for my endless cycle of angry/sad, eat, guilt, repeat. It means that what I’m feeling is bigger than what my bootstrapping can fix, which lets me acknowledge that it’s not just me being cranky or occasionally feeling blue; I have an actual illness that needs to be addressed and treated. My irritability level is a symptom of depression, which doesn’t let me off the hook for being a jerk, but does help me give myself some grace. It also lets me feel less guilty about putting exercise on my schedule and pushing other things out of the way to make it happen – it’s not just me being vain and wanting to lose weight, it’s a necessity for my mental health. I can feel a little less guilty that my lack of motivation isn’t just lack of discipline, and maybe it will get better.

If you are struggling with depression, please seek help – professional help if you can afford it. Any physician can prescribe an antidepressant, but you should tackle the root and not just the symptoms. If you are afraid to go see a therapist because you fear the unknown, here’s a rough idea of what to expect from talk therapy. You will likely have an hour appointment, and the first meeting will involve introductions and lots of questions about your background and your immediate concerns. Of course it is cliché, but you should expect to explore “How does that make you feel?” More than that, however, a good counselor will explore beyond that to help you manage your feelings and learn new behaviors to cope with the issues at hand. Be honest. You are dealing with a professional who has probably seen a lot of messes, and they are bound by client-patient confidentiality unless you pose an imminent threat of harm to yourself or another person. My counselor gave me “homework” topics to think about and answer at the next session. We also began with a plan for forty-five minutes of exercise at least four times a week to help mitigate my depression symptoms. Within a few weeks, it was obvious that I was more overwhelmed than exercise could handle, so we added an antidepressant medication. Most medications take several weeks to really show any measurable effect, so stick with it if this is your plan.

I finally feel more like myself. My first reaction to everything isn’t anger, and I feel a little more motivated to live my life instead of just survive it. For the first time in months, maybe even years, I don’t feel like all of my energy is being sucked into just getting through the day without kicking someone, and I’m not dragging myself through the week. I have energy left over to actually enjoy playing with Engelberta and working out and knocking things off my to-do list. Now that I’m not always in desperation mode, I’m going to have to relearn how things look from a much healthier perspective. It’s a good place to finally be.

I find myself in a terribly awkward stage of motherhood. As an older first-time mom, I tend not to fit in any “regular” crowd.  Most of the parents with kids Engelberta’s age are younger and are still adding to their families.  A smaller group are maybe the same age (but still mostly younger) who also have older kids.  Most of my peers have kids that are teenagers even if they have younger children, too.  As a parent, I should have most in common with the younger parents, but they are on average at least a decade younger.  This tends to put me in the seasoned pro age group in spite of my lack of experience.  I am simultaneously old and new.  It’s weird.

Weirder still is hanging out as a parent in the preschool hallway surrounded by moms who have one or more little people and seeing that they have another on the way. The odds that I will join them are slim to none.  It’s painful.  It’s so hard to feel unbounded joy at being the mother of a living child (who happens to be amazing!) and depthless sorrow at knowing it will never happen again.  So I watch the endless parade of baby bellies walk by and try not to feel jealous because I really am happy for my friends.  But I am really sad for me.  And no matter how I work and pray to fight it, I feel petty and resentful.  I have a hard time spending time with this group of amazing moms because I have nothing in common with a twenty-something woman with two kids and one more on the way; it is a completely foreign way of life to me.  I don’t count myself among their number and tend to fall into teaching or leadership roles to avoid feeling inadequate.

I also feel awkward about how much we give Engelberta in the way of big birthday parties or toys. I don’t get into the “Mommy War” mess, but sometimes I feel like I accidentally contribute to the comparison games.  We have had big birthday parties every year for Engelberta, and someone always comments along the lines of, “Oh, now I have to step up my game,” or, “Of course you made a huge cake.”  I hate feeling like I should justify having a party.  Here’s the bottom line: as long as Engelberta wants to invite half the world to come and eat and have cake, we will keep doing it.  We have one shot at having parties because we will likely only have one child.  We are more settled financially than most young parents, so we can afford to make a big cake and serve lunch.  I am sure we have too many toys, but it’s hard not to buy things knowing that we will have one chance to experience this stage of development and play.  We do discipline Engelberta, and we teach her empathy and respect.  We are teaching her that things are just things, and you can’t have everything you want just because you want it, and people are infinitely important as creations of God.  And none of those are things I should feel like I have to say, except that I am not immune to the guilt common to the “Mommy Wars” or to comparing myself to other moms.

I have a whole lot of awkward and not a whole lot of confidence to overcome it. If you are one of my fellow mothers of a tiny human, please forgive me if I exhibit the emotional maturity of my toddler in the face of my awkwardities (as you forgive that mash-up of awkward and absurdities…).  I am trying really hard not to cry when I see your new baby bump and really hard not to explain why we invite a gazillion people to our house for cake and really hard to figure out where I fit in.  I feel like I’m back in middle school just trying not to be too weird all the time.  So bear with me; it’s just a phase.