Why Is Everything So Heavy

I'm going to tell you ONE MORE story about church camp. I promise, after this I'm tapped out. I really did not intend for this to become a running theme, but what I have to say reminded me of this so strongly that I can't ignore it. If you haven't read those other stories, you can find them here and here.

I was 9 years old, so church camp was mostly about being away from home with my best friend, playing MASH, and eating junk food at canteen. On the last full day of camp we were all asked to participate in this spiritual activity - one that didn't resonate with me until just now. We were each given a big burlap sack and told to fill it with rocks. A very good use of resources, in my opinion. This camp was in West Texas, so if there's one thing we had in abundance - it was rocks.

These rocks were meant to represent the burdens of our sins. If it's a small burden, pick up a small rock. If it's a big, heavy burden, choose a rock accordingly. If you wanted to write the name of the sin on the rock, you were encouraged to do that. Then, you had to carry your bag of rocks on your back. All day.

Again, I was 9, so I was not particularly burdened by the weight of sin. Instead, I collected rocks that I thought were pretty. I found some really cool ones, too! I happily put them in my bag, excited about my new treasures, blissfully missing the point entirely.

At the very end of the day the entire camp went for a hike donning their burlap sacks, some of which were bursting at the seams with heavy, sharp, unattractive rocks. I remember one of the counselors walking in front of me had so many rocks that his bag ripped, and his sin burdens started tumbling out. He had to carry several of them by hand the rest of the way. Then, just as we were getting properly worn out, we entered a clearing that had a cross planted in the middle. The entire camp circled up around the cross, where we had a devotional. At the end we were told, when we felt ready, to dump out our sins at the foot of the cross. We didn't have to carry them anymore.

My very first thought was, "Do I HAVE to?". I liked the rocks I'd picked out. I'd made plans. I had a rock collection to add them to when I got home. I had no desire to just dump them back out on the West Texas ground.

All of the other people in the circle eventually approached the cross, dumped out their bags, and left behind their heavy burdens. They looked relieved as they walked away, one by one, making their way back to camp. I was just scared someone would catch me keeping my rocks. I never put them down. 

That was 9 year old me. Unfortunately, 27 year old me isn't much different. During my Great Depression I made so many poor, sinful, destructive choices. I would like to say that there were so many that I can't keep track of them all, but that's not true. There were so many that I can't stop recalling them. The second I manage to clear my mind of one, another appears in the spotlight to take it's place.

I've spent almost a year collecting rocks - heavy, pointy, dirty, ugly, burdensome rocks that I picked up in the wasteland of Depression and Anxiety. Now I walk around with a bag of rocks on my back, a few bags in each hand, a couple tied to my ankle, and one hanging around my neck. They make it impossible for me to stand up straight, be productive, move forward, or lift my head.

The solution seems obvious: I should put them down. I was told as early as 9 about the invitation of the cross. It's a place to dump your heavy sins, leave them behind you for good, and walk away unburdened and clean. I believe that. Don't I?

In the last couple of weeks I have latched onto two songs that feel like they were written about me, straight from my heart. I think it's no coincidence that both songs are entitled "Heavy". That's how I feel right now. I feel heavy. These words reflect so accurately what I'm experiencing that I believe God sent them to me to provide me with some sort of guidance.

Are you feeling sad cause you did a bad thing?
Leave what's heavy
What's heavy behind

Are you feeling fearful brother?
Are you feeling fearful sister?
Only way to lose that fearful feeling
Replace it with love that's healing

Heavy - Birdtalker

I'm holding on
Why is everything so heavy?
Holding on
To so much more than I can carry
I keep dragging around what's bringing me down
If I just let go, I'd be set free

Heavy - Linkin Park

Perhaps to the unburdened, these words don't mean much. To me these words feel tangible and alive with meaning. I think it speaks to the importance and truth of these words that one of the people who contributed to the lyrics, Chester Bennington, has since committed suicide. People aren't built to walk through life so burdened. It's unsustainable. Eventually the weight we drag behind us causes us to stop entirely, rendering us simply unable to keep going.

Let's go back to the cross.

I grew up hearing about the power of the cross and the forgiveness of sins. I can quote Romans 8:1, 1 John 1:9, and Psalm 103:12. I believe Jesus when he invites the weary and heavy laden to come to him. And still I'm dawdling around the perimeter of the cross, dragging around more weight than I can reasonably carry, wishing to be set free but refusing to let go.

This brings me back to the church camp story. The camp speaker didn't just point us to the middle of the circle and expect that to be that. He told us when we were ready, we could approach the cross and unburden ourselves. It's strange, but no one approached immediately. Many of the older campers and adults who seemed to have the fullest bags stood around for a long time before they moved. It actually took quite a while for the process to be over and for everyone to walk away. I remember I got bored waiting. Why would someone who's been carrying around a bag of rocks NOT be ready to put it down at the first opportunity?

I think I'm afraid that if I approach the cross in an attempt to leave what's heavy behind, I'll be falling for some trick. Sorry, there's a three bag limit. The rest you'll have to take with you when you go. And these two here aren't eligible for drop off. Which of these would you like around your neck for the rest of your life? I'm terrified that if I stop dragging around what's bringing me down, the circle of people around me will close in and stone me to death with the ammunition at my feet.

Thankfully, I believe that Christ is patient with us. He'll calmly wait at the foot of the cross and watch the broken pace back and forth trying to make the choice to step forward. He'll listen to the same confession for the thousandth time, even though any more than once is redundant. He'll extend his hand over and over again, offering to take our bags. Right now I'm just not ready - but I have faith that I will be.

Congratulations! You're Mentally Ill!

Last week I started telling you the story of my battle with anxiety and depression. If you want to read that story, you can click the link to read it here. As mentioned in last week's post, at age 16 I was given a prescription of prayer and church camp by a particularly ill-equipped Christian counselor in an attempt to cure me of my depression. Eager to obey "doctor's orders" I registered for two church camps back to back. Last week was the story of Church Camp One. This week's story begins at Church Camp Two. 

I had never before attended Church Camp Two, and didn't have any idea what to expect. On the first night there was an introductory assembly to explain the rules, meet the staff, and so on. At the end the camp director raised his booming voice and asked everyone, “NOW... WHAT'S OUR MOST IMPORTANT RULE HERE AT CAMP?”. Hundreds of cheerful teenage voices yelled back at him in unison, “BE HAPPY!”.

Welp, THAT'S not good.

I immediately and unintentionally made the most disgusted expression my face can make. I looked around as if I'd woken up from a nap to find out I had accidentally been inducted into a happiness cult that I wanted no part of. Before it occurred to me to keep my mouth shut, I blurted out with MUCH distain, "I can't DO that."

The girl next to me started laughing, thinking I was making some kind of snarky joke. To be fair, about half of what I say does fall into that category. This time I wasn’t kidding at all. I had unwittingly walked into a trap where I was incapable of being what they expected me to be. I didn't know WHY I was so incapable of being happy, only that I was.

Looking back, I think this story is hilarious. I see it in my mind in cartoon form. I picture all of those campers with wide, crazy eyes shouting, "BE HAPPY!" with one girl in the middle not participating. She's dressed all in black with hair hanging over one eye, wearing a Grumpy Cat expression with a thought bubble above her head that reads, "I hate everyone." It's funny now. In that moment I felt trapped, helpless, and desperately isolated - and I was stuck there for a week.

I'll admit, I didn't try very hard to glean much from Church Camp Two. Church Camp One certainly didn't cure me, and this place was even less likely to. I survived it, I went home, and I started seeing a different therapist.

I left the first session with my new therapist with a prescription for Lexipro, and a diagnosis: Depression.

I had known that I was depressed, but I had never understood that I had depression.

When my latest season of extreme depression hit me in November it came on stronger than ever before, and it brought with it an abundance of anxiety. This season of extreme depression (November - May) will heretofore be referred to as my Great Depression.

I had experienced anxiety before my Great Depression, and had even experienced several anxiety attacks. However, those attacks had always been a reaction to some kind of legitimate real-life stressor. I had them after my boyfriend of 2 years broke up with me. I had them when I was one week out from graduating college and didn't have a place to live. I had them when I was about to get married.

This time the depression and anxiety came out of NOWHERE. I felt like I was going insane. I knew there was no legitimate reason to be hyperventilating in a corner, but I couldn't stop hyperventilating in the corner. I would often feel like two separate people. One version of me was scream-crying in my bedroom with a razor blade held to my leg, while the other version of me beat against soundproof glass yelling, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG! WHY ARE YOU ACTING THIS WAY? STOP!". In those moments I honestly felt possessed by something other than myself. I knew there was a tiny, tiny part of me that was healthy and rational. She tried to subdue the other half, but she kept getting pushed out of the way. She kept getting beaten up. She kept losing. I became angry with her for not being able to make the other half of me cooperate by sheer force of will.

Then my current therapist (who is awesome) told me that I have Major Depressive Disorder and a severe version of Generalized Anxiety Disorder - and I've never felt so relieved.

Suddenly I understood that there was a real reason why I felt this way. I wasn't depressed. I have Depression. I wasn't anxious. I have Anxiety. That distinction matters. During my Great Depression when asked why I wanted to end my life the only answer I had was, "I don't know. I just do." I didn't have a "reason" for feeling so bad, but I also couldn't make it stop.

If you've been diagnosed and are struggling with the realization that you officially have a bonafide mental illness - I get it, it's difficult to hear that you're one of those people. You're mentally ill. Ugh, it sounds so icky. It comes with visions of straight jackets and people chattering to themselves facing the wall. 

My personal opinion, which I'll assume you're interested in since you are reading my blog, is that this is GREAT news! Now you have a name for what is happening to you! Now you can narrow down your search for solutions and make a battle plan. Now you can call this thing what it is and try to regain control. Congratulations! You're mentally ill!

Knowing something's name gives you power over it. We see this in scripture when Jesus, in order to cast out a demon, asks for it's name. We see this in literature like The Kingkiller Chronicles, in which someone can command the wind if they know it's name. We see this when parents are upset with their children and they summon the child using their FULL name.

Now I have a name for what is happening to me. Calling these things by their names has helped me immensely in gaining control over them. Now, when I feel like two separate versions of myself, I don't feel crazy. I feel comforted.

I know who I am. I'm Stephanie. The monkey on my back trying to convince me to cut myself again is Depression, and I have no problem beating Depression back with medication. I'll throw punches at Depression all day. The voice in my head that insists that everyone I love will leave me is Anxiety, and I have no qualms about getting in Anxiety's face and telling it to back off me. I interrupt it. I tell it to shut up. I don't owe Depression and Anxiety my attention. We are not friends.

Most days (now that I have the help of medicine on my side) I look at Depression and Anxiety and say, "I see you over there. I know who you are and what you're trying to do, and I'm ignoring you." On harder days I can't tell the difference between Stephanie and the others, so I enlist the help of my friends to determine what's real. They'll tell me, sometimes over and over again, that's not you, that's Anxiety, you don't have to listen to it. Then there are days when I really need back up. On a particularly bad day just last week I called out to God, "They're here and they won't leave me alone! Command them to leave!". Now, when Depression and Anxiety come creeping up behind me I recognize what is happening, I call it by it's name, and I fight it as best I can using the tools at my disposal. Sometimes I'm a champion in that fight, other times the two overpower me. That's going to happen, and I try not to be upset with myself about it. We can't win every fight.

If your diagnosis scares you, that makes perfect sense. Try, however, to reframe it. Remember that understanding your enemy makes you better suited to destroy it, and that knowing how strong your enemy is can help you spot where it is weak. Remember that knowing your enemy's name gives you the power to try and command it. Don't be afraid to use those ugly words to describe what's happening to you. You have Major Depressive Disorder? Call it what it is. Summon it like a petulant child and tell it to sit in the corner. Don't use a euphemism because your enemy's name is scary and found in psychology text books.

Many people hesitate to see a therapist because they are afraid to be told that they do in fact have a mental illness. For about six months too long I refused to take medication, insisting that my Great Depression wasn't a disorder, but just an uncommonly long string of very bad days. When we are afraid or ashamed of what is happening to us, we are less likely to seek proper help.

Don't be afraid of the name. Recognize it for what it is - something other than you - something to be fought, tamed, defeated, and silenced. To quote Albus Dumbledore, "Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

And you don't deserve to be afraid. 

The Raging Wind and Tempest

I first realized that I had depression when I was 15. It grew bigger and bigger, and by the time I was about to turn 17 I was anorexic, cutting myself, and planning my suicide. How I went from being a normal high school girl to being mentally unstable is a long story. There was a cute boy, several mean girls, and a medication with side effects in fine print that I probably should have read more carefully - but those things don't really explain why this happened to me. I still don't understand why I suddenly became so overwhelmingly sad. The annoying thing about depression is that it doesn't have to have reasons. Sometimes it just shows up, wrecks you, and refuses to leave.

What ended up thwarting my plans to kill myself was a fortuitous phone chain. I spoke to someone I wasn’t very close to and said something that to them indicated that I was in danger of killing myself. That person called a person a little closer to me, who called a person a little closer to me, who called a person a little closer to me, and within 30 minutes my mom and dad knew.

I was promptly taken to a Christian therapist. A very bad Christian therapist.

I showed up for therapy suicidal, angry, closed off, sick with prolonged insomnia, and refusing to eat more than a hearty 300 calories a day. 

After assessing me her suggestions were these: Pray, and go to church camp.

Neither of these suggestions seemed particularly helpful, but I was 16 and didn't have any better ideas, so I prayed and went to church camp. Two church camps, actually. I figured the extra dose couldn't hurt.

My week at Church Camp One was miserable. I still couldn’t sleep, and at camp they actually MAKE you get out of bed. Depressed people hate getting out of bed. I panicked at every meal about the calories I was consuming, not having access to labels to read and scrutinize. I was forced to spend time with people I didn’t know and who didn’t know me or understand why I looked so pitiful all the time. I had a tightly scheduled day that didn’t have built in time allotments for things like panic attacks, crying uncontrollably, or sneaking off to bathrooms to try my hand at bulimia.

I tried to make my church camp prescription work for me. I listened attentively to every lesson, searching for that secret nugget of knowledge that might cure me. I reached out to my counselors, who thoughtfully patted me on the back and translated "I want to kill myself" into "I just don't like high school very much". I prayed. I had been praying passionately for months. I still don't know why my therapist assumed I'd never thought to try prayer. I had. I prayed more earnestly than I ever had before. I prayed on my knees for the very first time, physically brought low by my burden. I prayed that God would repair my circumstances, and then I prayed that he would make me happy in spite of the circumstances. Then I prayed that he would just end my life for me and take me home to be with him, since I knew I wasn't supposed to do that myself. I prayed through the Psalms. David seemed to get me. I even had a journal in which I transcribed the Psalms that really spoke to me. I've written these words from Psalm 55 over and over again.

My heart is in anguish within me;
the terrors of death have fallen upon me.
Fear and trembling come upon me,
and horror overwhelms me.
And I say, "Oh that I had wings like a dove!
I would fly away and be at rest;
yes, I would wander far away;
I would lodge in the wilderness;
I would hurry to find a shelter
from the raging wind and tempest."

That brings me to the last night of Church Camp One. The evening lesson was about Matthew 14, in which Jesus, and subsequently Peter, walk on water.

I've heard this piece of scripture spun several different ways. I've heard lessons focused on the preeminence of Christ, using this story to illustrate his dominion over the elements. I've heard lessons focused on the faith of Peter, which encourage us to trust God and "step out of the boat". Recently my friend Dennis presented a completely new idea about this passage that was insightful enough that it deserves it's own blog post for another time.

That evening at church camp the lesson was about Peter, drowning and afraid in the midst of the raging wind and tempest, calling out to the Savior who, "immediately reached out His hand and took hold of him". The speaker drove home this message: When children of God call out to Him, He saves them. If you're in trouble, ask God for help. He will not forsake you. Why haven't you already asked? Don't you trust Him?

I stood up before worship had been dismissed and ran angry and confused from the worship pavilion back to my cabin. Once inside I sobbed on the floor and yelled at the ceiling. ARE YOU NOT HEARING ME? AM I NOT BEING CLEAR? THIS IS ME ASKING FOR YOUR HELP. WHERE ARE YOU? I'M DROWNING! ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE ME OR NOT? WHAT DO I NEED TO DO TO GET YOU TO LISTEN TO ME?

That went on until I was completely drained of energy. Then I waited, crumpled on the floor, for God to respond. 

I'd love to tell you that this is the part of the story when I felt an overwhelming sense of supernatural peace, or that right at that moment a person walked in the door with words of wisdom and comfort that changed my life. That's not what happened. I received no answer from God - at least not an immediate or tangible one. Nothing happened except that worship was dismissed up the hill and the rest of my cabin mates started to file in, happy and chattering, to collect their belongings for the evening activity. After camp I continued to lose sleep, lose weight, lose friends, lose interest, and lose hope. I didn't get better for a long time, and it was a slow process at that.

At the time, the perceived lack of response from God was devastating, but for the sake of this blog I'm glad it worked out that way. I hate the notion that if people with depression just loved God more they would find joy in him and be healed, or that if people with anxiety disorders trusted God they would be able to sleep at night. I resent the suggestion that faithful prayer works, and if your prayers aren't answered you must not be doing it right. I'm glad my story doesn't perpetuate that narrative. In full faith I begged God to answer me, and he was silent. Sometimes he does that. Ask Job, or David, or Paul, or Jesus in the garden. Maybe this describes you right now.

It's important to realize that silence from God is not indicative of a lack of faith on your part, or a lack of faithfulness on God's. God is good, and capable of working in silence.

God, in his silence, has given me a voice I might not have otherwise had. His silence tested my faith, building it into something stable and strong enough to survive the raging wind. His silence made me listen harder, being quiet just in case an answer did come. His silence gave me an experience that not everyone can understand, making it possible for me to be a bridge for those who understand all too well, and a window for those who want to understand but don't. I didn't get the answer I asked for, but I did get a story - hopefully a story that can serve a purpose for him.

If what you're getting from God right now is silence, please know that you're not alone and you're not being ignored. Continue to earnestly plead with God for deliverance, trusting that your petitions are being heard - even if what you get in return is silence. Trust that a story is being written that may not make sense right now. Trust that when cures are not given, strength is.

Also know that it's ok to need more than prayer, and that doesn't mean you're doing it wrong. It's ok to need medicine, and therapy, and time. It's ok to not be ok for a while. Lots of us aren't ok. You're in great company.

Someday I'll tell the story of Church Camp Two. Don't worry, it's a funnier story. 

There's a Lizard

Every wedding is different. They each have their own random, special moments. It might be grandma busting a crazy dance move at the reception. It might be a moment that happens during the toasts, or some accident that happens during the ceremony. I LIVE for those moments. They are what set each wedding apart and make them uniquely beautiful. 

For us it was the lizard. Half way through saying our vows I spotted a little green lizard snaking around Kyle's feet. I completely interrupted him and just said out of nowhere, "Hey, there's a lizard." We stopped everything, looked at the lizard, and busted out laughing. It took a minute for everyone to recover and for Mark (Kyle's dad) to continue with the ceremony. I don't know why I even said anything. I could have ignored the lizard - no one else had noticed. I just couldn't help myself though. I thought he was cute and thought about catching him to have as a pet - but I had a wedding ceremony to get back to.

Leaving A Legacy

I make legendary chocolate chip cookies. It's true. I love that these cookies are not only a way for me to connect with the people in my life now, but they are also something I can pass on. I'm excited to someday tell my kids, or even grandkids, my chocolate chip cookie recipe. Hopefully making these cookies can be something we do together, and something people remember me by. 

In the same way, I love that photos leave a legacy. Not only for me, but for my clients. My clients can pass their wedding photos on to generations to come. Their kids can look at their wedding album and see the happiness, the love, and the (by then) super outdated styles. :)