72 Hour Psychiatric Hold

Okay, let's just let it all out.
"What the H-E-double hockey sticks do I have to lose?"
People say that I am unusually transparent
...I may as well live it to the fullest.

There was a time when my behavior led me through the doors of the Hospital's Emergency Room and then up to the "3rd floor" for a 72 hour hold. 

Yep, 3 days in a pink room with twin beds and bars on the window. My mirror was made of metal and there was a shared shower room with clear plastic shower curtains. Just like camp, but, completely different.

I shared my room with a dark eyed girl whose bra straps seemed to continually be trying to escape from under her shirt, landing on her upper arm. She had dirty hair and she kept all of her things in a brown paper bag and carried it with her the whole weekend. We had meals in a common room with people who were truly struggling. There was a young man in camouflage clothing who insisted on keeping one of his arms up over his head at all times. He made no attempt to talk to anyone, he just walked around looking at what the rest of us were doing.  There was another man that stood all day by the locked doors to exit. Just stood there. All day.

There were others who seemed more like me and we sat together and made paper collages for craft time. For years, my son would keep one of my collages hanging on the bulletin board in his room. I don't know what it meant to him, but it was a constant reminder to me of where I had been. There was a TV in the common room that played music videos and, ironically, one of the videos that played a couple times during my weekend stay was Matchbox Twenty's song, Unwell.

I remember knowing the whole time that I was there, that I didn't belong there and I was fully aware that that I had made many small decisions that had led me to this place.  I remember being incredibly fearful that my being there was going to cost my husband and my children greatly. I remember holding onto the guilt of those 72 hours for a long time.  Even now, I am getting tears in my brown eyes for the pain that I caused.  

My selfish thoughts and behavior led me to a place where my obsessive nature took root. I became completely overwhelmed with my environment and I had a strong, strong sense of needing to accomplish MORE. I felt failure in just being me, I had to be more in order to matter. I longed for a way out of my situation--and a way to find joy.  Peace eluded me even in my sleep.

Pretty ugly, huh?

The good news is...they didn't keep me. 

The other good news is...I don't reside in that place emotionally either. 

The bad news is...I could.

I could go back to that state of emotional crisis in a New York minute. I could become completely drawn into competition and allow that to guide me down the path of obsession. I could fixate on things of the world and not on things of the Cross and become so absorbed with how others are "seeing" me that I wouldn't be able to see anything clearly. 

Even with this outlet of blogging...

I could become driven. 

I could become desirous. 

I could become determined.

I could allow the disappointments in what I lack to dictate how I respond to what I have.

And it could happen in one quick click.

So, how do I avoid another 72 hour hold in a Psychiatric Hospital? I have to keep pulling back from certain things that I naturally am drawn to. I have to pull back on the reigns of competition and self promotion. I have to find JOY in my now. Not, joy in what might happen one day, but, joy in my today as it truly is.

Deciding to see the Beauty in Simple things...

• when a text message, from my daughter, wakes me to say that she has created a blog
• when the conditioner for my hair falls into my palm-- in the shape of a heart
• when my kitten chases a lizard under the patio table {go baby lizard!}
• when the wind walks with us down the street, as we go to buy ice cream
• when a cup of coffee is delivered to me as I write
• when the one delivering the coffee is a son, who has turned into a man

And Deciding to discover Joy through Disciplines...

• with a bible verse to meditate on..read it in my shower, read it on my mirror, engrave it on my heart.
• with a book, written before I was born, that requires me to "think"
• with a walk up the steep hill near my house--to the top? To the top!
• with a friendly timer to call me away from my computer. Enough is enough.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 

We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; 

perplexed, but not in despair; 

persecuted, but not abandoned; 

struck down, but not destroyed.

2 Corinthians 4:7-9 

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell.  

I know right now you can't tell but stay awhile maybe then you'll see

a different side of me.

I'm not crazy I'm just a little impaired 

I know right now you don't care

But soon enough you're gonna think of me and how I used to be...me.

--Unwell by Matchbox Twenty

J is for Prayer

Well, really it is, "J is for James". But, considering the day that it is, and the verse that is spinning in my mind, I decided to change the titile. So, in honor of James, the brother of Jesus, 

J is for Prayer

"Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective." James 5:16

Being that today is the National Day of Prayer, which was established in 1952, when  A bill proclaiming an annual National Day of Prayer was unanimously passed by both houses of congress. President Truman signed it into law. It required the President to select a day for national prayer each year. I cannot help but ponder this verse, and wonder about its author. 

I fell in love with the book of James this summer, when I challenged myself to read it through in its entirety every day for one month. For 30 days, I read the book and I wrote nothing down. I wanted to be saturated with what the scriptures were telling me, and not my own thoughts. This is one of the verses that has penetrated my mind since then.  The verse has a courageous willfulness to proclaim the power of prayer, which I love, but it also can leave many people feeling frustrated as they look at their own lives and question the lack of healing they are experiencing. 

Just yesterday, I had someone share with me that she has been "attempting to forgive" someone (who is now dead) for so many years, but the lack of forgiveness she experiences holds onto her heart. This "sin" of not forgiving is confusing to her, as she feels it distance her from the person she desires to be. She wants to be healed from, what she feels is a sin of  bitterness.  She has confessed it, but she doesn't feel she is experiencing the change in her heart. 

And, what of the healing. Is it merely a feeling? Is there healing that comes that isn't attached to our feelings? It's alarming to me how much of my faith, and the faith of others is built on feelings; such an untrustworthy source of discrimination. 

J is for James.

The author, himself, was the brother of the one they called Christ. What was that like? To grow up with someone, and then as an adult, have them proclaimed, "God". No one who has ever had a brother can blame him for doubting. I remember hearing an interview, in 2003, of another James, Jim Carey, when he was proclaimed, "The Funniest Man Alive". He was asked what his siblings thought of his career. He said, "It's really sad. They don't think I am funny at all." This has stuck with me, because I think of my own brother, also named James. When my brother, who I still call, Jimmy, tries to be funny, I just want to smack him. I want to say, "You are not funny, you're my brother". I cannot imagine what it would be like to grow up with someone for my whole life and share many meals and chores, and then one day watch him die on a cross for my sins. Would I be wise enough to buy into it? Or, would I be like Jim Carey's siblings and still remember all the stupid faces he made growing up?

James, the brother of Christ, had a reputation of being "an unusually good man". {Hailey's Bible Handbook}  He wrote the book of James late in his life, after he had been the pastor of a Judean Church for 30 years. (Side Note:  It is amazing to me that he had been the pastor of a church, without the book of James to refer to! How did he encourage people to serve? ;) He believed in the teachings of his brother, and after Jesus had ascended to heaven, James became a man known for prayer. I read that James, "spent so much time on his knees in prayer that they became hard and callous like a camel's knees", which is another amazing thought to imagine. The longing for his God. The longing for his Saviour. The longing for his brother. All attainable through the fullfillment of the Holy Spirit. 

James was martyred sometime about the year 62 A.D. or 66 A.D., when he was brought before the assembled Sanhedrin, and commanded that the "brother of Jesus who was called Christ" proclaim from one of the galleries of the Temple, that Jesus Was Not the Messiah. Praise God for the hours spent in prayer, because as James stood in that temple, he cried out that Jesus Was the Son of God and the Judge of the World. 

The testimony of the brother of the one we call Christ. So, this is my "J" on this day of Prayer.

That Was Yesterday

This is the 16th Anniversary of the day that Molly didn't wake up. I have been through this day 15 other times and each one is different. Unique with the passing of time and especially with the aging of my other children. In the beginning we would have a "Molly Meal" where we would eat only Molly's favorite foods for dinner. We would spoon Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, homemade mashed potatoes, and Cheerios onto our Wedding china. That was all we would eat. It worked for several years, and then the children grew older and one year they looked at their plates and said, "Where's the chicken?" They had outgrown the "Molly Meal".

When we lived near the cemetery there were years we could go there and visit Molly's grave. The kids would choose a toy from their room to be able to leave something for Molly. It was very sweet to watch them struggle at first with the idea of giving up a Happy Meal toy while they looked around their rooms and then to see the transformation when they arrived at the grave sight. They were eager to place it on the headstone in the perfect spot and to now go home without it. My mind's eye still sees my elder son very clearly, bending down to kiss the headstone of his little sister before we loaded back into the minivan. But, life has gone on without this little 19-month-old Angel, and now there are no more Happy Meal toys in the rooms.

Then there was the awful year that I forgot to get sad. It was a Sunday morning and I was busy getting my children ages 9, 7 and 4 ready for church (being married to a Pastor meant that on Sunday mornings I was a "Single Mom"). I was so frantic in our grooming that I didn't catch the "date". I made my way into the sanctuary, with the church bulletin in hand and settled into the service. Then I looked at the bulletin and there was the date. January 31, 1999. I jumped up and practically ran to the Ladies room, holding in tears of shame. One of my closest friends followed me (Don't you love women?) and was ready to know. To help. To listen. I was so overwhelmed with grief and shame. I felt like the worst mother alive. How could I have forgotten the date? She had only been gone for 4 years and I had lost her date in the shuffle of our lives! My sweet friend looked at me lovingly and told me the truth. She explained that this date was forgotten because I was a GOOD Mom. I was concerning myself with the lives of the living children in my home. This pleased God and would certainly have pleased Molly.

Yesterday I got a text message from my husband telling me that he was struggling and asking me to pray for him. He was thinking about Molly, he said. Fortunately, I was doing well, I was aware of the approaching date and I had been expressing my grief through this outlet of writing--I wasn't afraid of what this anniversary might hold. Yes, I was doing so well actually that I was able to remind him of the encouraging truths about where she is and how much God loves us.

That was yesterday.

Today, I woke and within two minutes wished I hadn't. I stayed in bed too long with the covers pulled up over my head. When I finally couldn't fake sleep any longer, I reached for my phone and sent my husband this text message: "Everything hurts"

I knew that I should really be reaching for my bible to find comfort in the Psalms. I knew that if I would just say those words in the form of a prayer that God would help me get through this day. But, I refused.

Now, please understand, I don't like pain and I do trust God. I promise. It's just that sometimes the pain is so deep that I don't even want to feel the edge of it. It's like handling a razor blade. One wrong move and I could lose a finger. If I allow myself to feel, then I am going to feel everything. And everything hurts.

I continued my morning routine of shower and coffee and stayed away from my Bible with busyness of housework. However, because I am insanely A.D.D., blow drying my hair is akin to being duct taped to a chair and staring at a blank wall, so I decided to "go online" while I used the dryer. (Yes, I really do this--often.) I started with my friend's blog 365 Days of Prayer. Words so sweet, my heart was touched as I longed for her faithfulness. Everything I believe about who God is was affirmed and I felt God whisper to me..."Do you think I can't find you, Jackie? Did you think I wouldn't pursue you on a day like today?" But, I dried my tears and continued to pull back into myself and away from His plan for today.

I went to my email and I opened the first message which was an update from the Women of Faith blogsite I began to read these words from Marilyn Meberg:

"Whether they surface frequently or rarely, we all have strong feelings that impact us, causing tears to spring up unexpectedly, sending grief sweeping over us “out of nowhere,” or pushing us to behave in specific ways. By studying these feelings and by remembering back to the events and issues that sparked them, we gain understanding that helps us cope."

My heart leapt, I may have even gasped, and then...tears. Lots of tears. When I had calmed myself down I grabbed onto the next line:

"The fact is, the human psyche can withstand almost any assault if we can find purpose in our lives in spite of that assault."

And, then I was sure of what I was going to do today. No matter how sad I felt, I was going to proceed with the purposes for today. The best way that I could acknowledge the anniversary this year was to go keep moving forward. Today I was going to go get a passport. Recently, I was accepted on an overseas Missions team that will be traveling to India in October. So, with puffy eyes and pale skin, I made my way to the post office today and filed my Application for a Passport. My picture was awful (everyone hates their passport photo anyway, right?), but for me, it was monumental to do it today.

16 years ago, I had to remind myself to breathe. One breath at a time as I wandered through the unimaginable. I was never alone, people I love crowded around but even in their best attempt they couldn't make the pain go away. Everything hurt. But, that was yesterday.

Truth Be Told

So, about a year ago I started writing this blog. I am super inconsistent, but since my audience is made up of family and friends I am able to get away with that. I write when I feel like sorting something out in my head. It saves me money on therapy and it helps my parents rest easy knowing that I am, for this month, still okay.

For those of you who follow me (and yes, I know, it's hard to understand how to use the Google Follow Button...you have to log in and create a profile and give them way too much information) you know that my writing tends to be sarcastic. I just write as I am. I just write about things that are happening in my life and most of things that are happening in my life are very ordinary and kinda silly at the same time.

The ironic thing is, that while most of you know who my family is, I rarely use their names when I am writing. I think that I do this to preserve some of their privacy. So, even though we all know who "The-Blonde-Who-Sometimes-Resembles-Venus-The-Goddess-of-Love" is...we don't say her name. We keep it to ourselves. We give her that place in cyber-space to be guarded and protected.

Recently, God placed it on my heart that I need to write about someone incredibly important in my life. I realized that I don't ever write about my daughter who died in 1995. I maneuver away from that subject like a balloon animal being chased by a porcupine. Well, I want to give you a warning that I am going to be writing about her. If I seem less funny, if I come across as a little melancholy, please be patient. God has led me to this place and I am convinced that it is good for me to share.

Pray for me. One of my writing friends warned me, "It's gonna hurt". That was a thought that I had considered only slightly, being more concerned with the idea that I won't know how to write without being condescending toward myself. But, after several days of the idea being confirmed and reconfirmed I am ready to the journey to a place I have fought to escape. I am ready to revisit a place that was devastatingly awful and unbelievably beautiful in the same moment. I am sure it will hurt, but when God knit together the events that brought her into my life and then took her out of my life, He also knew that one day I would need to write about Molly.