:) Practical Buoyancy

finding hope in each of life's roughest journeys.

[practicalbuoyancy]

When misery has no villain.

Long story short, it was a bad, bad time. 

I am angry all the time. 

Sometimes this anger manifests itself in unkind snapping at my husband. Sometimes it manifests itself with a harsh word to my toddler who just wants to play with me. Sometimes it manifests itself in passive aggressive text messages to let some steam off.  

Today, I did all the things that make me happy. I spent time with wonderful friends in the sunlight. I restocked on my favorite tea. I went home and painted and listened to Harry Potter for hours. I watched a movie. I tended to my growing plant collection for another hour. It was the perfect day, sunny and warm, but never hot or unpleasant. The light breeze that smelled of blooming flowers and citrus trees made sure of that. 

But after the perfect day, I laid on my bed and just. felt. angry. 

My “dream job” ended up being a huge bust. 

Now that I’ve turned the corner on a year and am no longer contractually obligated to pay back my relocation package, I feel more comfortable talking openly about it. Friends, I hate my job. It has actively worsened my mental health. I want to flee from Silicon Valley and never return. I have developed a physical panic response to the Slack notification sound. The amount of self-hatred I feel on a daily basis has shades of my teaching self in it. 

It sucks. It still sucks. And as I told my therapist the other day, “I hate everything about everyone there. They are all the worst.” 

Except, that’s not true. 

My narrative wants a villain. 

Friends close to me will know I have strong opinions about my coworkers. They have gotten ranting text messages, screenshots, and phone calls or Marco Polos that start with angry laughing and end up with complete mental breakdowns. One thing is true: I have never had a more challenging coworker on my team or a more challenging boss. 

I am desperate to direct my anger at someone or even a group of people. And I do, believe me. Some of it is warranted, sure. But most of it is just an outpouring of devastation, helplessness, and pure misery. It’s my anger desperately latching onto the tangible as a way to justify or explain the intangible. 

I can’t find the villain in this story, though. 

Because the coworker who makes me mad also introduced me to my favorite tea. They have listened to me cry and they have taught me about digital marketing. They care deeply about the people our company serves and will pull long hours just to help a teammate in need. They have caused me legitimate trauma, and Lord knows, I can make them a villain if I really wanted to. But doing so would erase the complicated mixture of goodness, kindness, and helpfulness this person has brought into my life. 

I could blame my boss for enabling this behavior on my team. I could blame my boss for not setting me up for success. And again, I think I have corroborated data and legitimate reasons to be angry. But my boss has also listened to me cry and helped me through an extremely troubling interaction I had with a colleague. My boss has consistently encouraged me to own my voice and speak up often and they can be incredibly empowering. They seem to deeply care about me and my wellbeing. 

That’s not villain behavior. Villains could do those things with agendas, sure. But the demonstrations of true affection I have experienced from the people above are too earnest and too consistent to reasonably infer bad intentions. 

I could be angry with the whole lot of people at my company, for creating a culture that is toxic and values performance and productivity over humanity and health, despite what they say they value. 

But they love when my toddler hops on my Zoom calls. They deeply commended my mental health presentation. They let me talk about potty training and sing drivers license parodies More than let me, they express that they love it. They seem to truly accept - and dare I say, encourage - my personality. They are kind, intelligent, and loving people.

So then... I am left with no target for my misery. And that’s a frustrating feeling. 

More than frustrating, it’s hollow. I am stuck with this persistent, nagging ache in my heart and no ugly dragon I can fight with a legendary sword. There’s no secret spy enemy to hunt down. There’s no corrupt government to overthrow. There’s no mysterious evil power to destroy. 

I suppose this is where “I do the work” of therapy, medication, and general recovery from this pandemic... but my heart isn’t really behind those words. They would simply exist to ease the guilt I feel when sharing my burdens with others. We’ve all had a hard year. You don’t need to hold any more than you currently are. 

I feel listless. I feel restless. I feel incomplete. I’ll wait until the next thing to rage about and rage I shall, but when that’s over, I will just feel empty and sad all over again. 

I guess I don’t know where to end this. Life was simpler when I was Harry Potter and hunting horcruxes to save the world. Now I’m nearing 30, J.K. Rowling is kind of a dick, and people are nuanced and complicated in the way that this world is nuanced and complicated. Marred by sin and simultaneously bearing the image and holiness of God Himself. It’s confusing. I don’t like it. 

But I like you.

Thanks for reading.

love, mi

[practicalbuoyancy]

My First Community

How the city I tried running away from for two whole years turned into my hardest goodbye. 

I’ve reached the point in crying where tears are replaced with a bizarre gasping for air. Occasionally, a howl will break through that common decency should render me embarrassed for, but I’m alone with Kevin and my daughter’s sound machine is on. So I continue crying, howling, and gasping for air. 

Likely because we’re in the middle of a pandemic that destroys the ability to breathe, I’m constantly aware of the inhales and exhales that seem more strained than normal. I check to make sure I can get a full breath. They’re hiccuping, staccato things. But ultimately, they add up to a full breath. 

With only one full day ahead of me, my final hours in our little home in Detroit feel suffocating. 

Where do I even begin to explain the depths of my pain? I was never supposed to be here. Kids my age don’t own homes. We don’t buy fixer uppers and put 2x more into it than what the market suggests is reasonable. We don’t sit on our front lawns and form relationships with our middle-aged and elderly neighbors. What is this bizarre alternate universe? At my 5-year college reunion, I felt deeply inadequate and ashamed next to the consultants, journalists, engineers, doctors, and lawyers my friends had become. But they looked at me and called me the adult. HA! 

All because of a house. That, completely renovated, cost $500 less/month than a 2 bedroom apartment we were renting at the time. 

So why did we do it? Partially because my husband and I were idiot children who simultaneously thought getting three dogs was a good idea, but mostly because of the people we met in our first year away from home. 

You see, when I was first brought here by Teach for America, the guy who interviewed me explained the most important thing is community. “Sure, I get it,” I thought to myself. I had gone to churches before. After becoming a Christian in college, I had been attached to several campus ministries, some more than others. I did lots of campus activities and met many people whom I cherish with my whole heart to this day. 

My first year in Michigan, I spent so many nights crying about missing school that at one point Kevin literally carried me into a car and drove me to Chicago that night just so I could have deep dish pizza. Southeast Michigan was never the end goal. It was a stop-gap before we could get back to Chicago, where I would live on Belmont and have two fluffy Samoyeds I walked up and down the street. 

But then I met Jonny. Then Eric. Then Joanne. Then Jonathan and Laura. Then Scott and Edythe. I met Ashley and Ginny and Leon and Rebecca and Mike and Elisha and Kyle and Tasha and Sarah and Sam and Elizabeth and Jon and I know the more people I name the more others will feel left out so just know, dear reader, that I met so many people who have imprinted wonderful things on my heart. And after seeing their fierce passion for the Lord, the world, and each other, my heart was theirs forever. 

Now, I should admit here that it wasn’t as easy or as quickly or as romantic as retrospective writing lends itself to imagine. I was still planning on going back to Chicago. Both Kevin and I were deeply depressed and incapable of forging relationships. After we joined a small group, we essentially whined to them every week about how much we didn’t like it here and just wanted to go back “home.” Our small group loved us anyway, encouraging us, holding us, and always helping us seek what was the best for our hearts and our walks with the Lord. Even though we were little punks about it. 

I still remember the day Kevin proposed we change the plan. We were having one of our long road trip conversations. The empty miles ahead of us tend to allow us to get into deeper conversations without distractions. Before this conversation, we were just trying to make it to the end of my commitment with Teach for America. Two years, then we would return back to Chicago where we belonged. That was our plan. We had never wavered from this plan. 

Kevin, who had had an even harder time than I had moving to Detroit, strangely brought up, “Well, my 401k matching doesn’t kick in until I stay 3 years, and you could get your certificate if you stayed a third year... so... should we do one more?” 

Everything that had planned before we moved screamed, “NO!” But everything that was growing within me in this community said, “We can try.” 

That year, we decided to buy a home. It was a drab thing that was two days away from being foreclosed due to three years of no taxes paid. The homeowners had a better life with better housing in the suburbs. This was no longer a burden they wanted to deal with. 

We signed a land contract and purchased the home for $14,800. 

The next six months, we learned why everyone hates home renovations. We COMPLETELY redid our home. All new windows, new roof, paint, floors, bathroom. We knocked down walls and doubled the size of the kitchen. We threw out the clawfoot to the shock of many. (I honestly still don’t understand the appeal.) We made countless decisions and grew angry with sloppy painters and had five different subcontractors do our siding. We fell in love with the end product, even with all of its quirks, and called it a home. 

We spent four beloved years in that house. 

We had our dogs. We brought home Violet. We hosted countless silly parties, from Christmas to Harry Potter themed. We fought a lot in that house. We cried some. We watched a LOT of television and put together many puzzles. We held friends in that house. Friends held us. 

Because alongside all of these decisions to stay, the first decision we made was to finally yield to the longing of our hearts and belong to our community. I wrote a childish note to the woman who is now my best friend asking if she’d be friends with me. I called my small group leaders Mom and Dad far after it stopped being cute and was just plain uncomfortable. I got to know our neighbors. Dave loves Sister Pie. He can’t leave an interaction without asking us a question to get to know us better, even four years later. Vionca had a child close to the same age as Violet. She is a fiercely loyal mother who both loves her kids dearly and doesn’t take crap from them. When we brought Violet home, they both brought over presents and doted on her. 

My church community here walked with me through the worst of my depression and trauma, bringing me food and CDs and sitting and crying with me when I exclaimed, “I’m done with it all!” They encouraged us constantly. I don’t think I’ve ever truly believed I had that much value before the constant uplifting and encouraging of my friends, who saw me as a child of God and communicated that fervently. 

I found a job I loved and grew an even larger community. No one makes me laugh harder than my work friends. No one understands my anxiety and depression better. No one will let me sing show tunes with them. Oh, no, that was just the end of the sentence. Sometimes even Anna needs to work. I’m not bitter or anything. 

I feel so much pain because I’ve felt so much love. I never knew what it was like to live surrounded by love. My communities were strong in college, but they were fragmented. I had different circles and different people I cherished and continue to cherish. But here, everyone I loved in the world was within ten minutes from me. I’ve never experienced a greater treasure than that of proximity to all that I love. 

I don’t know what the future will look like. The part of me that holds on until the very end is the part of me that lies and says nothing will be different. The part of me that has been through similar heartache and change tells me that it will all be different. The doomsday forecaster in my brain likes to tell me I’ll never have better friends so why bother trying. Also, Silicon Valley people are really high strung. Stresses me out. But... In ‘N’ Out is there... 

I am so thankful for my people. I am so thankful for my community. I am so thankful for the grief I feel. My pain is proportionate to my love. And I have so, so much love for my people here. 

until california,

mi

[practicalbuoyancy]

Sleep training (or lack thereof)

Sleep training is a contentious topic in our household. 

And I don’t mean in an actual conflict sense; Kevin and I are at the point in our marriage where we are great at communicating about The Big Stuff™ - we just fight about petty things like closing the kitchen cabinet doors. 

I mean that we both desperately want what’s best for our child, and are sincerely coming out on opposite sides of the great debate. 

On one hand, I am in the minority of my circle. Virtually everyone I know with children does sleep training (for clarity, I mean some form of letting a child learn how to self-soothe, which involves some crying on their own. I do not know many people who advocate for extinction cry-it-out). The logic goes like this: the best gift you can give a child in their growing individuality is the ability to soothe themselves and get themselves to sleep. 

Sounds totally reasonable, right? And it is! Author, Speaker, and Blogger Pinky McKay offers this framework for trying out a new technique or idea: 1.) Is it safe? 2.) Is it respectful? 3.) Does it feel right?

When it comes to sleep training, it is definitely safe. Our pediatricians even advocate for it once babies hit a certain age. Is it respectful? Sure! Hard to answer for a baby, to be honest, but how much more respectful can you get than trusting a baby’s ability to put themselves to sleep? Does it feel right? 

Sigh. 

For me, it just doesn’t. 

I have tried to hype myself up since pregnancy. When Violet was a naturally great sleeper, I thought we wouldn’t need it so I was like cool, don’t need to make that choice at all! Now that she’s up basically every hour at night crying to be held? Well, that would be a great time to introduce it, right? 

SIIIIIIGGGGHHHHH.

I cannot express my frustration enough. I could kick myself for not going for the obvious solution. I feel like a weak parent. I feel like I’m depriving my child the chance to “grow up” in a certain way - I mean, that’s certainly what the rhetoric of the pro-sleep-training camp insinuates by default. Kevin doesn’t like to hear his kid cry any more than I do, but he’s worried we aren’t allowing for an essential developmental phase to take place. He doesn’t want us to become helicopter parents, crippling our child from becoming her own individual. It’s a totally and completely valid argument.

But............. I. Can’t. Seem. To. Make. It. Feel. Right. 

UGH!

I’m doing the hard work of piecing apart why. Why every time I try some form of it I ended up crying my eyes out and picking her up anyway. The answer I’ve come up with is this: I want to hold my child. 

I mean, isn’t there room for more than one way of parenting? Surely if I hold my child at night, she won’t stay in bed with me* until she’s a teenager, right? My daughter is starting to develop really bad separation anxiety from me, and it seems to worsen at night. Why can’t I comfort her? There are other opportunities for her to learn how to cope with this anxiety. I’m a working mom! I leave three days a week! Surely I’m not stunting her growth in this capacity. 

Could it possibly be a function of our Western culture that we hyper-accentuate the importance of individualism? Might we as a culture have thrown out the baby with the bathwater? Isn’t there something to be said about children growing up to appreciate themselves as an individual and also a part of a group? As part of something bigger than themselves? As connected to the people around them? That it’s okay - even healthy - to need others sometimes?

The Good Place had an episode recently where Eleanor humorously breaks down American culture to an Australian:

“In America, everyone does whatever they want. Society did break down. It's terrible, and it's great. You only look out for number one, scream at whoever disagrees with you. There are no bees because they all died, and if you need surgery, you just beg for money on the internet. It's a perfect system.“

It’s silly, but I find it poignant. And it’s a looooooong, evidence-lacking stretch to make any sort of claim that cuddling your baby and soothing them yourself is better than letting them self-soothe. Which is why I’m not making the claim.

I’m simply positing that there may be a different, just-as-valid way to do this thing... that as long as no one is being harmed in the process, I can continue to soothe my sobbing baby who is itchy and teething and wants to be held. That maybe delaying her ability to self-soothe isn’t this horrible parenting choice, just another way to handle this crazy journey called parenting. 

love, mi

p.s. - this blog was super helpful in processing my thoughts. 

*we only recently started to bedshare, after getting the okay from our pediatrician at six months. Violet also starts out every night in her own bed. If you decide to bedshare, please follow these safe techniques:  https://cosleeping.nd.edu/safe-co-sleeping-guidelines/

[practicalbuoyancy]

The Year Without Selfies

The Rules:

1. No selfies for an entire year. 

2. If you’d like to capture a moment with another person, you must ask someone else to take the picture. 

3. If you’re really feeling your outfit, great. Ask someone else to take a photo of you. 

4. You may participate in selfies other people initiate, but exercise good judgment for your motivations. 

The Disclaimers:

1. No I do not think selfies are bad.

2. No I am not judging you. I probably think your selfies are super cute and will like them on social media tbh.

3. Yes I will probably mess up multiple times and take selfies without thinking about it. That’s how ingrained this is. Yes I will give myself grace and forgive myself if I do so.

4. Sure you can do this with me. If you have questions, email me at [email protected]

The Explanation: 

I struggle with body image. 

While the issue is ubiquitous, it is also intensely personal. Much of my self-worth is tied to my body, my looks, my comparison. It’s something I've struggled with all my life; I know the origins very well. 

But frankly, I’m pretty sick of it. 

Although I’ve made great strides in finding my worth in Christ (by the grace of God alone!!!), I still reel all the way back on the pendulum to self-hate and insecurity. When this happens, I constantly need external affirmation. Selfies are an incredibly easy way to get that affirmation. 

Take a selfie, send it to my husband, he says I’m so beautiful. 

Take a selfie, send it to my family, they say I’m so funny.

Take a selfie, send it to friends, they say I’m so awesome.

Take a selfie, send it to social media, likes say I’m so interesting.

Selfies also let me constantly monitor how I look. Does this new hairstyle work? Do I look like I’ve gained weight? How bad is my acne today? Why is my hair suddenly Severus-Snape-style greasy? Are my teeth white enough? Are they straight enough? Can you tell how many blackheads I have on my lip line? Can you tell my eyebrows aren’t done? Can you tell I cut my own bangs? Is my makeup running? Do I need makeup? Am I pretty enough for my new job? Am I sexy enough for my husband? Am I fashionable enough for my mom? 

On and on and on it goes. I am obsessed. Utterly, completely obsessed with myself. I get it, we live in a culture of selfies. I get it! Selfies can be super cute pictures, especially when you have memories you want to cherish with loved ones. But for me, honestly, how is partaking in a habit where I spend my leisure time laying on a couch taking the perfect pictures not an unhealthy obsession? 

When I think about it, I think selfies are an enabler for me not tackling my own body image issues. With the consistent fuel of self-affirmation from obsessively examining how I look that day, along with others’ affirmation when I choose to share these pictures, I can nurse my insecurities on a surface level.

But everyone knows that external affirmation does not solve the deep heart issue of insecurity.

Self-love and body image are such multifaceted issues that I’m not embarking on this journey with even the hint of a belief that this exercise will solve all my problems. I do, however, think it is a healthy step for me to take. 

So long, selfies. Hopefully when I meet you again in a year, I will be healthier, stronger, and wiser.

xx, mi

(The last selfie taken on my phone, late last night.)

[practicalbuoyancy]

When you feel like it’s never going to get better.

“I’m just scared it’s never going to get any better,” I finally verbalized, hot tears bubbling down my face. 

I had spent the past week digressing in my mood. I could blame a variety of things, though it didn’t help. I was terrified because my baseline-self was dejected, morose, and unstable. 

It’s been about a year since I started on antidepressants, about half a year since I left teaching, and about four months since I moved into my new, permanent home. I visited my school for the first time recently and my students and colleagues all repeated the same question, “Are you happier now?”

While the question alone was difficult to answer on one plane due to the abandonment reflected in the questioners, it was also difficult to answer due to the fact that I genuinely don’t know. I settled for the answer that resonated most truthfully in my heart:

“I’m definitely healthier, I don’t know about happier.” 

Though I came up with the answer under pressure, after careful consideration I think that’s the best way to summarize it. I am undoubtedly healthier today. I have weaned down to 100 mg of Zoloft a day. I have gained enough weight back that my bones don’t stick out of my skin. The bags under my eyes have faded dramatically. I have good friends I love and things I enjoy doing in my free time. I have three dogs who love me and give me things to care about.

Yet despite my concrete improvement in health, I don’t know if I can say that I’m much happier. I miss my students and I miss education. I still sleep too much. I still have difficulty feeling motivation to do things, then feel discouraged and frustrated with myself when I have to blame an invisible disease for causing my feelings of listlessness to people who just don’t buy it. I still cry a lot without stimuli. I still dwell on fear of loss. I feel miserable when it’s cold out and worse when it’s dark out.

Maybe it’s just the weather - I’m hoping it’s just the weather - but whenever I have weeks like this, it’s hard not to extrapolate. I know there is more I can do to become a healthier person with healthy outlets to heal my ailing brain, but whenever I feel low like this I begin believing that I will be doomed to a grey and cloudy life. Whenever I get a string of days where I’m feeling hopeless, I assume I’ll always be hopeless, that I’m going to experience the rest of my days through foggy glass. That’s all I’ve known, right? Why do I think there is any way to change my brain chemistry or the way I was conditioned by the world growing up? Why would I ever believe it can get better? 

I know of prophets and theologians who loved Jesus desperately and were also depressed their whole lives. Is that just going to be me? Or will there be a way to understand and carry the heaviness of the world while simultaneously having a hope that transcends what I see? 

I don’t have the answers. I will, however, continue to breathe in and breathe out, and fight every day. If I stay present, if I continue with my therapy and medication, if I learn healthy rhythms, maybe I’ll transition from healthy to happy. I also can’t discount the GARGANTUAN victory that is simply getting me to the point of “healthy,” either. God is good, all the time, even if I don’t feel it. 

xx

[practicalbuoyancy]

Thank you for reaching my blog!

It’s probably because you love me. 

I will certainly keep this blog up and running. I’m proud of all the writing I’ve done on it and how much it’s helped me find my voice.

For now, I will be transitioning writing for www.OKmentally.com -- they’re paying me, sahweeeeet! 

If you’d like to hear my honest expressions, head over there. And thank you for loving me well!

[practicalbuoyancy]

Admirably [failing at] Coping

One week from this very second in time, I will no longer be an employee at my high school. 

I will no longer be a teacher of 11th grade ELA. 

I will be forced to look my dream in the face and turn my back on it. I will shoulder the insurmountable guilt of leaving students, you know, the iconic burden that every retiring teacher faces no matter how much their job destroyed them. The one we viscerally feel no matter what encouraging voices surround us. The one that haunts us as we pull our covers over our heads, whispering that we could have and should have done more, hissing that we should have stayed. 

ALTHOUGH this classification may seem a touch melodramatic, it’s the shroud of smoke that clouds my every thought. But have no fear! You’re reading the writing of an *exquisitely* accomplished writer, one who got paid TEN WHOLE DOLLAROOS (minus one dollar service fee) so NINE DOLLARS to write about her experience with anxiety AND GOT PUBLISHED ON A WEBSITE, DANG IT. I don’t mean to patronize you, but I clearly know what I’m talking about here. 

And a chick who’s gone to hell and back to understand her demons of mental illness and fight them totally has high tension situations covered, right? 

NAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I am falling apart. I am a hot, smoking mess. I seriously expect the edges of my hair to burst into flames every moment. I can see it now: flames licking my bagged eyes and my stale, stomach acid-y breath only fueling the fire. At least no one will get close enough to see my bloodshot eyes from the strain!

Jokes aside, I am having a stupid-hard time coping. I officially have two therapists now, both of whom are ALL STARS. I also am on the highest dosage of Zoloft my wee lil body can handle. I’ve been writing about mental illness for years, and have gotten paid for it for a whole two days. YOU THINK I’D HAVE AT LEAST SOME HEALTHY COPING MECHANISMS DOWN. 

Alas, this is not the case. I spend most of my hours in a state of catatonia, snapping out of it with full-blown irritation at a lady who spells my name wrong in an email or a student who breathes kinda strangely. When I get home, I tackle a pint of Ben & Jerry’s on my bed and finish the whole thing without a scoop to share with Kevin (it takes four sugar cones, for whoever’s asking). Given that I am functionally lactose intolerant, I spend the next hour sucking on a Nauzene and hating myself for my decision. Now replace “Ben & Jerry’s” with “Little Caesar’s” or “Nachos” or “Literally any ice cream.” This is my daily routine, and it involves a lot of things that mess up my system and leave me with self-hatred.

I almost wonder if I’m entering a sort of dance to distract myself. When I am at work, I have no choice but to relapse into numbness. I can neither handle my current work environment nor can I leave my current work environment. When I get home, the numbness begins to subside. So I say, “HEY! ICE CREAM SOUNDS GREAT! LET’S DO THAT GREAT IDEA, MI! ICE CREAM YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY” then “WHAT THE HELL, MI? ICE CREAM, AGAIN? WHY CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING PRODUCTIVE WITH YOUR LIFE LIKE SEND THANK YOU NOTES TO PEOPLE YOU LOVE. YOU’RE JUST A HEARTLESS TRAMP, YOU ARE.” 

Indulgence and reproach are wonderfully mentally taxing alternatives to the reality in front of me. 

The reality that I may never see students I desperately love ever again. 

The reality that I feel like I totally and completely failed my calling in life. 

The reality that I have no idea what I will be doing with my days starting July 1st. 

The reality that I fear I am wired to burn out in any job I choose, so I might as well cry in a closet instead of try and get crushed. 

The reality that I so heavily identified as a teacher that I honestly don’t know who I am anymore. 

The reality that I don’t even have a dream right now. Nothing I’m working towards. Nothing that really inspires me. Nothing that gets me up in the morning. 

Okay, okay. I’m insanely depressed, I’m perpetually on the precipice of a panic attack, and I try to numb it all out in a million ways. I dig my fingernails into my arms because the physical pain reminds me that I am still occupying my body, that as far as I’m concerned, I’m still Milana and I occupy space in this world and Jesus has some sort of use for me because I’m still stuck here. 

I want my reality to change and yet I’m doomed to a formal ending in a precious week’s time that has undulating and unfulfilling closures. (Like most of my kids just stopped coming to school a couple of weeks ago, so I don’t even really get to say goodbye????) 

I need to learn how to sit. I am fearful that if I really sit and let myself process all my pain, that I could close my eyes and die of grief. 

But I wrote this post and I’m still here. 

Kicking. Punching. Fighting. Crying. 

Lord, help me. 

love, mi 

[email protected]

[practicalbuoyancy]

Making a Decision on Dosage While in Volatile Circumstances

Well heeeeey, it’s Mi again. 

Let’s ketchup. 

I began my medicinal journey taking Zoloft (an SSRI) at 50 mg. I started getting glimpses of my true self, sparks of life and motivation, aaand then it started wearing off. This was one of the most discouraging things I’ve felt in a long time, which is saying something. I took a massive step of faith, stole moments from a world where I could be not-miserable, and crashed back into my usual morose self all over again. 

I moped for weeks. My husband tried to encourage me, pointed out that I had started ballet, was spending a lot less of my free time crying on the floor, and that the fact that I even got a peek into what my life would be without brain monsters is a huge blessing. My disappointment felt mildly less suffocating, but still ever-present.

Then I met with my doctor.

Homeskillets, my doctor is one of my favorite people in the world. She is 100% the model for what an exemplary doctor should be when working with a patient who is severely depressed and anxious. She is caring, straightforward, and offers a lot of hope-backed-up-by-evidence-for-said-hope. I love her. If you are planning to be a doctor one day, please reach out to me so I can set you two up and maybe you can learn from her. 

My doctor saw my pallid complexion and the beaten-down scuffles of my feet while she asked me to recap the previous six weeks. I glanced up from time to time to watch her face change from one of discernment to one of excitement as I continued to speak. 

“This is so encouraging!!! The fact that you’ve had manageable side effects and even caught a glimpse of a healthy self means that this medicine is an excellent match for you! We’re just not at the right dosage yet!”

My eyes slid out of focus as I tried to process the information. “Wait, so it is a good match? This is totally normal? Wait, what’s this business about increasing the dosage? Oh great, the crazy girl has to up her meds...”

I bit my lip and nodded my head. “Alright,” I said slowly, daring to hope again, “Let’s do this.” 

The next week was rough. I had not expected to experience the same negative side effects as when I first started the medicine; I thought my brain had adjusted to Zoloft. However, I found myself getting headaches and becoming nauseated easily. I whined about these inconveniences, not capturing the magnitude of how my brain chemicals changing could give me the energy to want to live again. 

The change this time around climbed slowly, almost imperceptibly. This was about six weeks ago. A couple of weeks ago, I noticed I began to have motivation to do things again, and not only do things, but act on these motivations. I went to Florida last week and woke up in the mornings thinking, “I want to run! Let’s go run!” and, “I want to swim! Let’s go swim!” I haven’t felt this consistently motivated to act on my desires and basic pleasures in years. I started teaching full lessons again and working with my students more. I planned out a whole unit I’m pretty proud of and really excited to teach. I’ve made to-do list and actually completed tasks on them. I asked my ballet instructor if I could be in a performance. I applied for a job. All good things, all good things. 

This brings me to today. I’m currently on 100 mg for Zoloft, and while I’m seeing dramatic improvements, I still have nights where the world seems unbearable and I’ve been in situations where I’ve had or come close to having panic attacks. 150 mg is probably the highest my doctor says I can handle because I’m such a tiny lil nugget. I met with her today to decide if we should take this last leap. 

The decision was tricky for several reasons:

1. I will be leaving my mentally draining job at the end of June. (don’t worry, plenty of grief and mourning and explanation packed into a blog post coming to theaters near you)

2. I felt more alive in Florida (apart from my normal surroundings and stressors) than I have in years. There is a noticeable contrast in how I feel in my “normal” life back home and my “care-free” life on vacation. Does this mean that if I lived a life apart from my usual stressors, I’d always feel this way? 

3. I want to have a family someday and neither panic attacks nor SSRIs are going to be safe for a baby. Increasing the dosage might elongate the time period I’ll be dependent on this antidepressant. 

4. I’ve been so used to being depressed for my entire teenage/young adult life that I’m not even quite sure what normal looks like for me. Does a baseline sadness exist in my normal self? Do I even deserve to increase my dosage? I already feel better than I have in memory; can there really be any improvement? Would I recognize the person I’d become? 

Ultimately, my doctor noted that there isn’t much risk of increasing and we could back down at any point; however, it sounds like increasing to 150 mg might be what pushes me over the edge into a healthy, functioning person. I begin the increase tomorrow. 

I am past a point where I can realistically anticipate a life more content and mentally secure than I am currently. I don’t even know what I’ll be like. I don’t even know what life will be like when I experience it as a gift and an adventure, instead of an all-encompassing burden. I’m scared... but it’s more like being scared of a friendly stranger whom you already trust because they are close friends with a mutual friend, but you also don’t trust because you have no personal relationship with that stranger yourself. Does that make any sense?

We shall see. I will certainly keep y’all posted. If you have any questions or would like to share your own mental health journey with me, you can contact me at [email protected] 

Check it. I got me an author email address and errythang. 

xx, Mi

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Fifteen

Things have been particularly dark and hopeless for the past week. I don’t think this is due to the medication; almost all negative symptoms have faded and I even had a moment of pure contentedness and peace one night of the week (See Day Thirteen). I’m quite too exhausted to reflect in my normal prose form. Today, I want to share the excerpt of a book that truly speaks to my soul in this season.

Below, you’ll find a letter from The Screwtape Letters - a classic by C.S. Lewis. I read it for the first time a little over a week ago. 

For anyone who may be unfamiliar with the premise of the book, it is taken from the perspective of an older demon coaching his nephew in how to bring the humans into sin and slip further away from Christ. It’s a sobering read, as my eyes are opened to the millions of lies I believe about my soul and purpose. This letter in particular encapsulates my fight in Christ. 

“VIII 

MY DEAR WORMWOOD, 

So you "have great hopes that the patient's religious phase is dying away", have you? I always thought the Training College had gone to pieces since they put old Slubgob at the head of it, and now I am sure. Has no one ever told you about the law of Undulation? 

Humans are amphibians—half spirit and half animal. (The Enemy's determination to produce such a revolting hybrid was one of the things that determined Our Father to withdraw his support from Him.) As spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time. This means that while their spirit can be directed to an eternal object, their bodies, passions, and imaginations are in continual change, for to be in time means to change. Their nearest approach to constancy, therefore, is undulation—the repeated return to a level from which they repeatedly fall back, a series of troughs and peaks. If you had watched your patient carefully you would have seen this undulation in every department of his life—his interest in his work, his affection for his friends, his physical appetites, all go up and down. As long as he lives on earth periods of emotional and bodily richness and liveliness will alternate with periods of numbness and poverty. The dryness and dulness through which your patient is now going are not, as you fondly suppose, your workmanship; they are merely a natural phenomenon which will do us no good unless you make a good use of it. 

To decide what the best use of it is, you must ask what use the Enemy wants to make of it, and then do the opposite. Now it may surprise you to learn that in His efforts to get permanent possession of a soul, He relies on the troughs even more than on the peaks; some of His special favourites have gone through longer and deeper troughs than anyone else. The reason is this. To us a human is primarily good; our aim is the absorption of its will into ours, the increase of our own area of selfhood at its expense. But the obedience which the Enemy demands of men is quite a different thing. One must face the fact that all the talk about His love for men, and His service being perfect freedom, is not (as one would gladly believe) mere propaganda, but an appalling truth. He really does want to fill the universe with a lot of loathsome little replicas of Himself—creatures, whose life, on its miniature scale, will be qualitatively like His own, not because He has absorbed them but because their wills freely conform to His. We want cattle who can finally become food; He wants servants who can finally become sons. We want to suck in, He wants to give out. We are empty and would be filled; He is full and flows over. Our war aim is a world in which Our Father Below has drawn all other beings into himself: the Enemy wants a world full of beings united to Him but still distinct. 

And that is where the troughs come in. You must have often wondered why the Enemy does not make more use of His power to be sensibly present to human souls in any degree He chooses and at any moment. But you now see that the Irresistible and the Indisputable are the two weapons which the very nature of His scheme forbids Him to use. Merely to over-ride a human will (as His felt presence in any but the faintest and most mitigated degree would certainly do) would be for Him useless. He cannot ravish. He can only woo. For His ignoble idea is to eat the cake and have it; the creatures are to be one with Him, but yet themselves; merely to cancel them, or assimilate them, will not serve. He is prepared to do a little overriding at the beginning. He will set them off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs—to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish. It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best. We can drag our patients along by continual tempting, because we design them only for the table, and the more their will is interfered with the better. He cannot "tempt" to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there He is pleased even with their stumbles. Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger, than when a human, no longer desiring, but intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys. 

But of course the troughs afford opportunities to our side also. Next week I will give you some hints on how to exploit them, 

Your affectionate uncle, SCREWTAPE”

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Fourteen

“They’re all out to get me. They’re so close.” “I’m closer.” “They know my name.” “They know mine, too.”

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Thirteen

I woke in the middle of the night and realized that my baseline self was content and calm. As the day continued, my usual worries and anxieties returned, but it was amazing to feel what normal people feel like on a regular basis, even for a glimpse!

Praise God for being a God of healing and redemption, and creating medicine to heal a lil ole gal like me.

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Twelve

Hullo. 

I pretty obviously skipped days ten and eleven. I don’t really have an excuse. They were long, difficult days and I was doing a lot of things and I didn’t feel like putting time or effort into writing something my heart wasn’t invested in. I’m also trying to attack my crippling perfectionism on a regular basis so leaving open this gaping hole is good for breaking me down into my intermingled nest of flaws & gifts. 

One thing I’ve learned in over a week of blogging is a valuable lesson I don’t think anyone in the world actually wants you to know: 

Being an open book is amazing. 

I’ve spent so much of my life hiding every piece of who I am that I dislike. I have bent over backwards in order to adapt into a preferable human depending on the situation. I’ve compromised values, beliefs, convictions, simply out of fear of rejection. 

BUT GUESS WHAT.

I am completely and wholly accepted by Jesus. 

So who the junk cares about the junk in my heart? 

These are my flaws. I am telling you the deepest, craziest parts of my struggle. I grew up thinking secrecy was the key to acceptance. My husband grew up this way, too. Our first year of marriage has been spent uncovering the grossest secrets and realizing that hey, by the grace and awesome power of God, we can still love each other. In fact, it’s the secrets that are most destructive to a marriage, not the truth. I’ve found a radical freedom in knowing that my life is an open book to the story and testimony of God and literally nothing I can do will separate me from Christ if I choose Him and run back to Him always. 

Have you ever found yourself afraid to disclose any part of yourself? 

Lemme break down the benefits of being a totally open book, and how Jesus is changing my heart in this category. 

1. No more emotional energy spent in living a double life.  I’ve always tried to hide my depression from various groups of people. I’ve always been known as being cheerful and happy, and honestly, it’s quite exhausting to hear, “Don’t be depressed! Just cheer up!” from people who don’t quite get how debilitating brain disorders can be. However, since starting my blog, I’ve found it incredibly easy to talk about my struggles with mental illness, even being on medication. Husb & I hosted a party last week and I found myself casually saying, “Oh, I can’t drink anymore because I’m on medication for anxiety and depression, but you should try this!” It was natural. Like, who cares that I’m struggling with anxiety & depression & PTSD? (Well, hopefully someone because a girl’s gotta have community.) I’m still human, I’m still here, I’m still fighting. 

2. Accountability to Christ and to change. When people know the darkest crevasses of your heart, and you’ve broken the seal of secrecy, you are finally given the motivation and space to change. All the energy you spend covering up your pain and sin will now be put to recovery. You’ll have a whole community surrounding you and pushing you towards Jesus. Sin thrives in secrecy and satan wants you to be alone and totally isolated. No struggle, no sin, no addiction, no disorder, NOTHING is too big for Jesus. He paid for it 2,000 years ago, anyway, so there is no reason to hold onto it. I’ve experienced so much love and freedom in the past month. People have leaned in and supported me like Christ. I have heard from loved ones I hadn’t heard from in years! 

I know, I know, I know the voice. “Yeah, that’s good for you, but I’ve done this _____ and I struggle with this ________.” Do me a flavor, and read through this document: http://www.gotquestions.org/sin-God-not-forgive.html. Can’t beat that amount of Scripture. Boom. 

3. Fully embracing the person Abba created you to be!!! Wanna hear an awesome truth? YOU AND I ARE WONDERFULLY AND FEARFULLY MADE!!!! Secrets and being a social chameleon just keep you shackled to your old self, a self that is full of shame and self-loathing. Abba never calls us to those things. He calls us to give ourselves up to Him, and then be free in our wonderfully unique, gifted, and distinct selves. When you’re an open book, there is no fake person to hide behind anymore. You’re just... yourself. Messy, in process, but healing. 

4. You can help others on their journeys.  We are all in process. We all have baggage we don’t want to share. We all believe the lie that our baggage is worse than the person next to us. We all believe that if we really laid our baggage out, the people who look up to us or love us will reject us. We all believe that baggage is inherently evil, and that no good can come from it. These are lies. When we lay our baggage out for all to see, we draw others into freedom. When Jesus entices us to lay ourselves bare, others can see hope. I had no idea if anyone was going to read my blog, but I’ve been so touched by the bravery of loved ones who have shared their stories with me. I didn’t do anything special, just talked about how messed up I am but how awesome God is and what I am learning through the process. Imagine if we all were free to do that! Imagine if we all believed in God’s infinite and supernatural and overwhelming love! Secrets destroy. Being an open book gives us room for life. 

Does rejection sting? Absolutely. I have deep wounds from abandonment in various stages of my life, wounds that are healing and being reopened and then healing again. 

Is it worth it to keep hiding from this fear of rejection? All of my life, I have said, “Yes. Definitely.” But now, I’m starting to realize how deep the lies ran in my heart. Real talk: If someone rejects you, they have that full authority and right. Maybe your secrets are painful and affect them directly. In that case, you must be a woman or man of integrity and allow that person the full space to be human as well. They deserve that. Maybe your secrets will make people scared of you, maybe they will feel awkward around you, maybe they will feel weird around you. Maybe they will make fun of you at parties that you didn’t know about and weren’t invited to. 

Or maybe... you’ll help usher in a new generation that takes off the bandaid of social media and reveals the infected, pus-filled wound underneath. Maybe we all need air and exposure and some dang Neosporin. Maybe we didn’t even know that’s what we needed, or believed that we were doomed to this infection forever. Maybe you’ll get to see the real you even before we reach Heaven. 

Love, Mi

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Nine

I don’t know what’s better - being depressed or being crazy. 

Seriously. I don’t know if it’s the medication, or if something just snapped today, but I am utterly baffled by how ridiculous my life is right now. It started when my therapist recommended a book to me that had an absurdly depressing title. I couldn’t stop giggling. It still amuses me. I’m literally laughing out loud. I am so broken. My life is so broken. I don’t know why it’s so funny. I think I’ve officially gone crazy. 

“Crazy” makes me laugh at the hilarity of the gut-wrenching heartbreak I’m experiencing on a regular basis.

“Depressed” keeps me pinned to my bed and whispers that I can’t move and that it would only make it hurt worse to lift myself a single inch.

Crazy sounds like it’s winning. 

hahahahhahhahahahaha

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Eight

It’s been a full week since my appointment!

I haven’t the energy or motivation to write anything tonight. Today was a very difficult day and I’m exhausted from just waking up and living it. 

Praise Jesus for His supernatural ability to sustain, because I couldn’t do this without Him.

One step at a time, baby. 

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Seven

How to Survive a Panic Attack. 

Today was terrible. I’ve been sleeping horrifically (which I think is a definite side effect of the medication) and it culminated in me feeling completely emotionally and physically drained today. I tried to teach one lesson out of the seven classes I had and barely made it through. Thanks to my generous co-teachers, I got to leave a couple hours early. My doctor told me I could take Melatonin supplements to help me sleep so I picked up some gummies from CVS and I plan to turn in pretty early tonight.  

It’s been a difficult journey for me to engage with my brain every day in this medium. I’ve loved blogging for the past few years; it’s always helped me find my voice. There’s something cathartic and inspiring about breaking down your story into pieces that can be understood and empathized with by an audience. It’s a very specific type of processing, and it benefits me enormously. 

However, I’ve never written this much before!

It’s funny to think of myself as a writer because I’ve always been so bloody self-conscious about my writing. In high school, I was a solid B+ student on every essay I ever turned in. Because I am a product of an educational system that ties worth and ability to a grade, I’ve always assumed I’m a pretty average (maybe above average) writer. I never found anything special in my writing, and would certainly never consider it a gift. 

Yet as I’ve written throughout the years, I’ve found joy in putting words together to tell a story. I’ve loved digging into the crevasses of my heart and unpacking whatever mess lay within. It’s weird to blog every day, because normally I blog a mere handful of times throughout the year. Overall, it’s been very enriching. It’s fun to see what Jesus puts on my heart. It’s fun to follow rabbit holes into my crazy thought patterns. One of my favorite people told me just yesterday that my mind can run a 100-meter dash. I love that. I will hold that to my heart forever. 

Tonight I want to write about something very practical. This is not by any means an exhaustive list. This is purely anecdotal, but I think there is a place for anecdotes in any healing process. Regardless, I will try to find vetted resources to supplement this post.

What is a panic attack? 

In my own words, a panic attack can resemble a number of severe medical conditions, which is unfortunate because being fearful of a medical problem then grips us and feeds the extreme, irrational fear we are experiencing. I went to the ER twice my freshman year of college before I learned where my feelings of dread and shortness of breath were coming from. Panic attacks are absent of human rationale. They are not able to be soothed or talked away. A panic attack is an uncontrollable reaction that consumes the mind and body. 

Symptoms can include...

>Palpitations, pounding heart, or accelerated heart rate >Sweating >Trembling or shaking >Sensations of shortness of breath or smothering >Feelings of choking >Chest pain or discomfort >Nausea or abdominal distress >Feeling dizzy, unsteady, light-headed, or faint >Chills or heat sensations >Paresthesia (numbness or tingling sensations) >Derealization (feelings of unreality) or depersonalization (being detached from oneself) >Fear of losing control or “going crazy” >Fear of dying

Resources: http://www.adaa.org/understanding-anxiety/panic-disorder-agoraphobia/symptoms (Anxiety & Depression Association of America)

http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/panic-disorder/index.shtml (National Institute of Mental Health)

If you ever experience any of these symptoms in an episode, you may be having a panic attack. 

Well, what the junk can we do? 

If there’s anything I hope I’ve been able to communicate on this blog, it’s that I seriously don’t have my act together. Like, not even a little bit. My life is a hot mess. I’m okay with it, and trust that God can use me even in my shambliest form. Here are concrete, helpful things I have put in practice that allow me to reduce the amount of panic attacks I experience:

1. Know your triggers. My triggers include driving, not hearing back from loved ones quickly, Sunday evenings/Monday mornings before another school week (the struggle is real), large crowds, and staying in an enclosed space (like my apartment) all day. The more you understand what triggers your panic attacks, the better you can create a plan to avoid triggers or mitigate their effect on you. 

2. Identify your locus of control.  This is something my therapist had me do, and it was super helpful. Grab a paper and create two columns. Think about everything that gives you anxiety and separate these things into two categories: what is within your control, and what is outside of your control. Some people may feel an immediate release when they see what burdens of the world are not theirs. 

I have a brand of anxiety that sinfully takes responsibility for every single burden of the world, so at first it was actually worse for me to look at the list because I saw how insignificant I was in affecting that which breaks my heart. Submit whatever is outside of your locus of control to Christ regularly. “Jesus, I can’t, but You can. If it’s in Your will, let this change. If it is not in Your will, keep me close and grant me Your peace and wisdom.” Then create a daily plan for how to tackle only what’s within your locus of control.

When a panic attack begins...

3. Breathe.  This is a constant battle for me. When I have a panic attack, my ultimate goal is to get to a point where I can breathe in for 10 seconds, hold it for 10 seconds, then breathe out for 10 seconds. Usually I can only make it to two seconds as I’m hyperventilating... but slowly extend it to three seconds, then four, then five... When we hyperventilate, we lose even more control over our bodies which just makes our minds freak out further. It’s an awful cycle. 

Having a partner in this is extremely helpful. My mom, dad, and husband know how to help me breathe really well. I highly encourage you to reach out to people and simply tell them that the best thing they can do for you during a panic attack is lock eyes with you, and calmly but sternly guide you through breathing. Like pregnancy! Does that make it weird? Probably. YOLO. 

I mean it, though. The more people you bring in on this struggle, the more allies you’ll have in this fight.

4. Remove yourself from the trigger.  If it happens at school, request the afternoon off. If it happens at a concert, leave. If it happens in your home, step outside to get fresh air. Removing yourself immediately from the trigger will allow you the space you need to heal. You are not weak for removing yourself from a situation. You are strong and empowered for taking control of your mental health and taking your brain seriously. No job, no money, and no event is worth sacrificing your mental health. 

I will very rarely drive if I can help it. Driving to school and back is enough for me. Kevin will always drive unless I’m having a good day; he serves me so well in that way. I’ve also learned to communicate with people that I really seriously truly need to hear back from them right away. Kevin’s pretty amazing at it, which he should be because the amount of times I’ve Googled “bombings at Ford Motor Company” by now... 

5. Name your panic attack/anxiety for what it is, then believe you will live through it.  “Until you name me, you can’t tame me!” -Next to Normal, best musical EVER. 

If you attempt to talk yourself out of a panic episode, it will likely only get worse. Call it what it is. Tell yourself you are experiencing severe anxiety; tell yourself that it is a panic attack. Reach out to as many friends as you can to pray for you or call someone to stay with you, either in person or on the phone, until your breathing has been regained and you are in a more stable place. 

I know, believe me, I know how hard it will be, but proactively communicating what you need will help others love and care for you. For example, though I occasionally want to be held, I more often will scream if someone touches me during a panic attack. Process how you experience them and communicate that as much as you can before, during, and after. Be honest with whatever you need. Continue telling yourself that this is a panic attack, and it will be over soon no matter how awful you feel in the moment. 

6. Consider medication! Xanax is awesome!  If you catch a panic attack in the early stages, Xanax is extremely helpful. Most general physicians will comfortably prescribe a low dosage to be used in case of emergencies. My bottle expired before I used all the pills in it, so be wise, but know that it is possible to use it without becoming addicted or depending on it as a crutch. 

If I think of anything more, I will write about it!

I hope these things are helpful to hear coming from someone who really, really, really wants to love you and for you to know you’re not alone. 

Praise Jesus for His provision and healing. Panic attacks are the worst and the devil is a grade A jerk-face. Abba grieves for the brokenness of our minds and hearts, but delights in His children’s redemption.

Love, Mi

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Six

Today is my second day of taking the full dosage of my medication. My headaches and stomachaches have been further and fewer between, so it’s encouraging to know that as the medication increases, the symptoms aren’t worsening. With my panic attack yesterday and the bite to my anxiety ever-present, I’m certain the intended effects of the medication haven’t kicked in yet. The full effect needs 4-6 weeks to develop, but I’m hoping I’ll start getting glimpses of the real me soon. It’ll be so lovely to operate in a world that isn’t suffocatingly morose. 

Candle #2 of Advent is Joy. Joy and I have been on quite the journey since high school. Previously, I’ve put my whole identity in a cheery demeanor, smiling when it hurt, and ignoring any grief or pain life threw my way. When I reached a point in my life where my immature processing mechanisms and store-brand Cheerio optimism no longer could stand up to the darkness of the world, I crashed and hit my first season of severe, paralyzing depression. 

Unfortunately, I think the world wheels through cycles of trendiness attached to discussing mental illness. Sometimes it’s all the rage, and people talk about destigmatizing the silent killer. Unfortunately, my first wall coincided with a season where the media no longer cared about mental illness and left behind the victims. All that to say, coupled with my identity as a forever-smiling shero, the silence was oppressive. I hadn’t developed a language to discuss what I was going through, nor did I have resources to create an action plan. The world grew darker, and I spent many months crying out to the Lord, asking if this season would ever end. (This also happened just a few short months after I became a Christian, so I legitimately wondered if all Christians were just depressed.)

In God’s provision, a dear friend had His love and encouragement on her heart. Jordan was brave enough to walk me through my experience and point to the hope we have in Christ. This, I will say, is one of my first encounters with true Joy.

Joy is the all-encompassing, enduring belief that all will be well and beautiful and abundant in Jesus. Joy is a fruit of the Holy Spirit, a warmth that fills your whole soul because you know you are eternally loved and believe that God is eternally good. Although these feelings of Joy are inexplicably delightful, Joy is also a spiritual discipline. It is a command of God. Philippians 4:4 says, “Rejoice in the Lord, always; again I will say, Rejoice.”

Our human inclination is to despair and be cynical; yet God says that though we mourn and weep, we can - we must - still be overjoyed by the promise that one day, Christ will redeem the WHOLE earth and every single particle on it --> including us!!! How amazing! Praise God!!! We must practice seeing the promises of God in action, seeing His hand working for our good and His glory. Only by the Spirit are we able to live out this supernatural tension of grief and joy, only when we believe Jesus’s promises can we have Joy in the most wicked trial.

Clearly, I am imperfectly choosing Joy. But I see Jesus working. I desperately want you to join.

I’ll end today with a really beautiful story from this morning. 

I was having one of those mornings, the kind where I feel a depression so suffocating and overwhelming that I physically could not get out of bed. I couldn’t even lift myself up. I prayed feebly, but still couldn’t move. I cried to Kevin, who encouraged me to submit it to Jesus. I said, “Jesus, I submit this to You.” (No charades or flowery language here!) And I kid you not, I was overwhelmed by Joy. I danced and praised Jesus and was filled with so much hope. These kinds of things usually don’t happen, but I’m glad Abba gave me a little reminder of all the things He can do when we trust in Him. 

Love, Mi

[practicalbuoyancy]

Advent & Anxiety, Day Five

I sat in the car, shaking, unable to breathe. My husband slowly led me through deep breaths. I started sobbing, feeling utterly out of control, and miserable about accepting this very fact.

A couple of hours ago, I had another panic attack. Though they’ve been increasing in frequency and severity for the past several months, this one felt particularly hopeless. I’d had a lovely day and the circumstances were beautiful. Right before my panic attack, my sweet husband took me downtown to ice skate under a giant Christmas tree. There were lights everywhere, and it was gorgeous. I so desperately wanted to enjoy it all.

Since I’ve recently finished the Prisoner of Azkaban, I’ll describe my anxious/depressive episode as this: As I neared the ice rink, a dementor hooked onto my shoulders with his scaly, rotting hands. Instead of enjoying the fresh air, I became claustrophobic. Instead of being filled with joy at the smiling faces around me, I felt suffocated by their owners’ presence. Instead of enjoying the lights, sounds, and movement that comes with the holiday season, I short-circuited by that many stimuli. It felt utterly inescapable, and I felt dizzy as the dementor sucked out all hope and closed his hands around my throat. I beamed straight for the car, convulsing from the frigid air and my petrified heart. 

This sucks. 

My hope for Zoloft is that it will make these panic attacks further and fewer between. I didn’t have Xanax on hand, and there’s simply nothing more I can do about the situation. It just sucked. 

I want to focus in on my reaction.

In the moment, I didn’t want Kevin to help me. I didn’t even feel like I could pray. I felt like Satan was winning and anxiety would always have complete control over my body and mind whenever it felt like it. Internally, I screamed. Externally, I oscillated between sobs and whimpers. 

As I gather distance from the event, I feel both shame and confusion. Both stem from the same question I always ask myself, “Why, under the most extreme duress, do I turn inward?”

I know, I know, I know. I know that I cannot do this alone. I know that I cannot be saved from my anxiety without Jesus. I know that I cannot get control of my breathing easily on my own. I know that I cannot fight the imbalances in my brain chemistry on my own. I KNOW!!! What is this stinkin’ blog about?!

Yet I am faced with the bitter reality constantly that in moments of crisis I enter an intermediate stage of self-medication before relying on Christ or any of His provision around me. 

Examples of self-medication I participate in: -Shutting down/withdrawing from all emotional investment -Thumbing through Facebook, Email, and yes, even LinkedIn -Asking friends to validate my thoughts without challenging them -Consistently apologizing for being a burden, then minimizing my experiences/reactions so that I may be less of a burden -Handling the situation on my own because I tell myself I should be strong enough -Berating myself emotionally, hurting myself physically -Sleeping instead of dealing with the tasks which daunt me -Wishing time away, shortening the day into ten-minute intervals I’m just trying to live through

These are all examples of ways I try to directly intervene with the deepest aches in my heart, aches which I am totally and completely inadequate to heal, yet in my darkest moments I turn to these. 

And I wonder why. 

If Jesus is real, then why do I bother relying on my broken self to fix me?  If God provided community to reflect His love, then why do I shut down and shun myself from His people? If the Holy Spirit is in me, then why do I ignore his presence when I need Him to work through me most? 

I’ll leave it here tonight. I was going to try to answer those questions, but I don’t think I can right now. I am exhausted. Jesus has a lot of work to do... good thing He’s up for it.

Love, Mi