Writing used to be cathartic, therapeutic.
If necessary, I’d write in the middle of the night.
For the last few months, I’ve struggled to force it. Until this week, the reluctance to record has baffled me.
I don’t easily admit, even to myself, “I have a problem.”
As you may know, the last 6.5 years have been a true roller coaster. When I scrolled through a few posts from a couple years ago, I read HOPE. I read PROGRESS. And I realized
I’ve been living the last few months in 3D.
But not the thrilling “let’s see a movie with those fun glasses” 3D.
Discouraged. Depressed. Distracted.
These three D words have ruled my life of late—and I didn’t even realize until now.
I drive Hubby a little nuts sometimes. I am the Optimist who makes everyone roll eyes at least once in our friendship.
Hitting every red light? Maybe God knows if we get to point X in ten minutes, we’d be crushed by a falling tree. He’s slowing us down on purpose.
Traffic is at a standstill because a tree is blocking the road? Well, thank goodness it didn’t crush us.
Cashier had a horrible attitude? Maybe she just found out her mom has cancer.
Lost that job (this has happened to both Hubby and me)? God’s got a plan. We’ll be fine.
I have an immune disorder? (This one took a few months to find silver lining…) Well, I guess this will force me to take better care of myself.
Our boy is in residential treatment? This will give me the ability to focus most of my attention on helping our daughter excel in school.
Give me your worst scenario and I can find a silver lining or a probable reason it can all turn out for good. It’s a gift and a curse, because sometimes I can come across as flippant, but I generally have this belief that God will work it all out in the end.
I’ve always applied this belief to our kids. I still believe.
But this boy is wearing me out.
He doesn’t seem to care about coming home.
I’m resigned to the knowledge that he’s not coming home anytime soon. And that even if/when he does come home, it’s likely many of our dreams for him will never happen.
All that is okay, but without even realizing, I’ve become discouraged.
The discouragement has pressed down on my soul for weeks. They say expectations are the death of everything. Our lives would be better without the word “should” in our vocabulary.
Unmet expectations destroy relationships. Bring destruction to the best-laid plans. Decimate optimism.
Underneath it all, here’s the narrative my heart wrote when we brought these two kids into our home:
Siblings experience trauma and too many re-homing disruptions until they are 5 and 7. At that time, they find stability with a loving couple who provide them with everything they need. Although the first year is terrible, subsequent years grow easier and within three years, they are well-adjusted, happy, bright, inquisitive children in love with learning about the world around them. The entire family enjoys traveling, playing together and finding ways to help others. When the kids turn 10 and 12, the family travels to Peru on a missions trip, where the children are thrilled to bring love to others who may have had an even tougher early life than the one they experienced.
I have recently confronted this narrative I didn’t even know was lurking under the surface of my thoughts.
This is not our story.
Right now, our girl is flourishing, although she periodically reminds me (usually when I praise her for progress) that “it’s all still in there, in my head. It might come back.” And it might, but we’re prepared.
Our son has been in residential treatment since October 1 and shows no sign of wanting to come home. Although I do understand that trauma played its ugly part, on some level he’s choosing this.
In recent conversations, he’s informed us that he wants to stay at the center because they “let us watch lots of TV and you don’t” and he likes to play basketball. Ironically, when they have gym time, he usually plays in a corner by himself—something he can easily do at home with our hoop. (His TV complaint…totally valid. Not going to change.)
He also informed us that he sees the situation in the following light:
You’re putting in a lot of effort, and I’m not putting in any effort.
At least he’s honest.
The death of my narrative has depressed me more than I was able to acknowledge until now.
Discouragement and depression are not my usual modus operandi. I’ve felt a dissonant fracture within…and been unwilling to address it.
Giving me relief for a short time: Once Upon a Time, a series about happy endings.
I’m a sucker for fairy tales rewritten, as well as pirates in leather and guyliner. Win-win.
The show is true Brain Candy; almost a soap opera with fairies. And SOOOOOOO distracting.
As I watched Emma Swan learn to BELIEVE, there was no room for discouragement or depression.
As Regina the Evil Queen became my favorite character (the reason for her Evilness was underlying trauma and heartache), I forgot my own heartache.
Finally realized I had a problem.
Hubby went on a business trip and I watched the series until 3 am.
Used the Netflix app to watch in my spare moments.
And I didn’t really want anyone else to know, which was my first clue I needed to quit.
The second clue? Realizing I’d burned through hours of the show, time I could have used for…ANYthing else.
Sometimes I’m a little slow, but when I finally get it, I get it.
This week, I faced my 3D life.
I listened to an audio version of the Bible to fight the Discouragement (audible.com is fabulous—and no, they don’t pay me to say it).
I admitted to Hubby that I’ve been dealing with Depression lately. He’s incredibly supportive, giving lots of hugs (my favorite) and a package of amazing cupcakes (my less healthy favorite).
My Distracting Netflix app went the way of Candy Crush (an earlier addiction I needed to delete from my phone).
And now, I’m ready to go
Discouragement, Depression and Distraction will always be with me, but I’m also
I’m sure the 3 D-words will sneak up on me from time to time, but I’m Determined to stand my ground.
Letting go of “my” narrative will likely be a battle I fight for the rest of my life. Remaining vigilant and keeping myself focused won’t be easy.
Admitting my flaws and weaknesses is always frightening, but one of the great lessons in Once Upon a Time is this: your flaws hurt you when you try to hide them. Out in the open, they simply make you human.
Our son described us to his counselor as “The Grizzly and the Pit Bull.” Hubby is the Grizzly Bear, fiercely protective of our family. I’m the Pit Bull, ferociously hanging on to keep us together and make sure the kids get whatever services they need.
This week, I live in 4D.
New International Reader’s Version (NIRV)
So put on all of God’s armor. Evil days will come. But you will be able to stand up to anything. And after you have done everything you can, you will still be standing.
*Verse from BibleGateway.com
About a month ago, I read an article. The main idea keeps popping back into my mind: NO ONE CARES.
- No one cares what you had for lunch. Stop posting the pic of your latest sandwich.
- No one cares about your life. Stop tweeting things like, “I’m so down,” and “Ugh. Really?”
- No one cares what you have to say. Stop blogging.
The general premise of the article was on target. Most of us really don’t care what someone else recently ate. (Let’s start a trend of photographing “what I ate two days ago,” to counterbalance the onslaught of “before” pictures. Who’s with me? What…no takers? Really?! You people are no fun.) The “fishing for sympathy” messages truly do irk me. Sometimes they’re legitimate expressions of need. In general, though, some people can’t take life without drama, real or imagined. I prefer mine imagined. On TV only. Complaining about your hangnail equals an instant unfollow.
For the last 60 days, I’ve taken a bit of a hiatus from blogging—and from writing in general. “Comedy of errors” doesn’t begin to describe our summer. The computer fiasco ended right about the time I read that article and I began questioning whether to continue the blog. Is the lost sleep worth it? (I try to blog after the kids are in bed…nothing kills a creative moment like hearing, “Mama! Should the toilet water be spilling onto the floor? I tried to use the plunger, but now it’s stuck…”)
Then, we had several more leaks in our house (yes, that makes seven). The previous owner did most of his own work and used faulty connections for the pipes. It’s been a game of “find the pipe connector before it finds us.” We also do most of our own work but—not to sound haughty—we do it right. Our son’s ceiling is now completely replaced, thanks to two separate leaks. Kitchen, laundry, bathroom…all in various stages of progress. Hubby replaces pipes and hangs the sheet rock. I do the mud (plaster) and paint. And we do a darn good job. Which also means that most nights I fall into bed, exhausted, no mental energy left for blogging.
Right after—as in, 30 actual minutes after—we finished re-piping our bathroom, the boy came out of the spare bedroom where he was sleeping until said ceiling was finished. “I think there’s a fire under the house!” I ran into Spare Oom (yes, we’re Lewis fans) and listened. Not fire. Water. Please, no.
A connector on our hot water heater was shooting a light spray onto the vent ducts under the house. At 11 pm.
Hubby crawled under the house, pointed to the pipe, then touched it. The pipe FELL OFF. Hot water splashed everywhere. We shut off the hot water, and went to bed, defeated. Right after cold showers.
We called a plumber to fix the water heater and give us a quote to re-pipe under the house. About a week later, I noticed a definite drop in water temperature. The plumber was coming out to re-pipe, so we mentioned it to him. When Hubby opened the door to the crawl space, they found three inches of steaming water under the house. Another connector had burst and hot water had been pouring out for days.
That’s just a snapshot of our summer.
But back to my original thought. Should we blog? Do people care?
Blogging is different. Very few bloggers have nothing interesting to say. When browsing random blogs, I find all sorts of amazing information, enriching perspectives and honest thoughts. Five. In over a year of blogging (and reading), that’s the approximate number of blogs not worth the time I spent reading. Even if the blogger’s ideas conflicted with my own or the content struck me as inappropriate, the ability to connect with someone else’s mind and see through their eyes created an amazing experience.
For me, blogging is therapy. I hope you Read, Follow, Love, but if not, that’s okay. I’m happier when writing. Hubby looked over at me a few days ago. “So. When are you going to start blogging again?” He had that look in his eye. No, not THAT look. The other look. The one that says, “you’re getting twitchy and irritable and I want you to stop.” He’s happier when I’m writing. The kids are happier.
So, writer of the terrible, horrible, no-good, very-discouraging article, you actually proved the opposite of your point. People do listen. People do read. Words matter. And from now on, I’ll write what I please, because even if no one else reads it, I need to write it. Consider yourself unfollowed.
Also, please find attached a picture of my dinner from three days ago.