A Hand to Hold & Hope

I was working on a few things today and I came across this photo.  It's a statue called, "Hope."  The first time I saw a photo of this statue was in a flyer for a "Garden of Hope" that is not too far from where I live.  It's a memorial for babies lost to abortion or miscarriage, for all babies lost before their birth.  I've wanted to try to visit it a few times, but I'm not sure how public it would be and I'm sure I would sit in my car waiting for there to be no one around before I even attempted to enter the place.

I just love the sculpture though - it's so tear-jerkingly beautiful.  Usually when I try to clear my head a bit and really pray... I picture myself walking along a pathway somewhere beautiful & serene, in nature somewhere, always by a lake or ocean for some reason... and there He is, waiting for me.  Waiting... for me.  Of all people!  When I'm able to actually get to that place in my mind, it's glorious.  I don't think I've ever imagined holding His hand - but that seems completely doable, right?  Why wouldn't Jesus hold your hand if you asked, or just took his hand in your own?  In the statue, it looks as though He took her hand though - either way, could you just imagine that?  I don't know if I would even have to say anything after that - the hand holding might be more than enough.  But hopefully I would talk.  And I do try to talk with Him, in prayer and I try to listen, of course.  I'm not always successful.  Usually I fail miserably. 

She looks like she's holding a necklace and maybe showing it to him - I'm not sure.  I guess I'll have to look closely if I ever get to see the sculpture in real life.  Most importantly is the fact that He is holding in his arm, on his lap, an infant.  I can't really concentrate too much on that part of the sculpture, it's too difficult.  Even now.  But even a cursory glance tells me it's beautiful and fills me with hope. 

The anniversary of my abortion is approaching soon... August 22.   It will be 26 years since my abortion.

I haven't thought too much about how I may mark the day, if I do at all.  Perhaps just going to Him in my mind will be enough.  On my Rachel's Vineyard retreat and in counseling I've learned that grieving for the child you lost to abortion is okay to do - but I'm not sure I've ever really figured out how to do that.  It's still difficult for me to say her name out loud. 

Also in my rounds on the internet today, I watched a video about the latest prolife events in Texas, et al.  I was shocked by some of the footage in a video when it showed an actual abortion being performed and a little, tiny, 12 week old hand being picked out of some blood and fluid.  I've seen most of the graphic pictures of abortions - but this one today was different.  I paused the video and just stared at the image of that little tiny hand.

I hope one day to hold Grace's little tiny hand in mine. 

I'm Nothing if Not Predictable

I started writing this blog 3 years ago, in June of 2011, about one year after my first Rachel's Vineyard retreat.  Coincidence?  Probably not.  I am a creature of habit even though I fancy myself spontaneous and unpredictable.  I'm still trying to figure out if the fact that I have major depressive episodes that are cyclical in nature - if the depression fell into step with my own personal time clock or if my personal time clock has been set to the meter of my depressive episodes.  One thing is for certain - there is a definite ebb and flow to what I'm feeling or going through at any particular time.

I can go along for a while, feeling pretty good and on an even keel and then, seemingly out of nowhere, everything is out of focus and I'm grasping at nothing, let alone a straw.  We've had a busy two months in my "real" life, well this blog is my real life too, perhaps I should say my "offline" life.  We've had major life changes, health scares, and general upheaval.  It feels as though my life looks like when you peek through a kaleidoscope. It can be very pretty, but you don't know where to look, it's all disjointed and fractured, but there is beauty in the mess.  My problem is not always seeing past the mess.  I tend to look at the all the fragments and feel frustrated at the lack of order and then I chuck the whole kaleidoscope as completely not worth it. 

In real life, when I don't have one thing to focus on, when too many things are pulling me in too many directions, I can't deal with it.  I opt for nothing and retreat, predictably, quietly into my own head and begin not to care about any of it, whether it's pretty or not.  That's kind of where I am now.  I'm retreating.  The good thing about predictability is I know what comes next if I don't stop it.  Not that that realization is enough to stop it sometimes, but I'm aware of it. 

With all that life has handed us lately, both good and bad, I'm completely and utterly overwhelmed and second guessing every decision I've made in the last 12 years or so. 

What would be laughable if it weren't so damn sad is the fact that I know what I must focus on to make my life okay again.  The trouble lies in trying to find that focus and have it be part of my real life, my offline life and my online life, just part of me, always.

When I go back and re-read some of my posts - especially those soon after my retreats when I'm basking in His mercy, love, and light - I wonder why I ever leave those spaces in time.  I suppose life gets in the way.  I suppose I haven't truly surrendered all to Him.  I have a weak faith or a timid one.  It's easy for me to write on this blog and gush about the love from Him that I allow myself to feel, but ask me about it in real life or ask me to actually speak about it, I'm mute.  The last 4 years of my life I've learned more about my faith and what I believe and my Church than ever before, but get me in a room of people and I won't say a word about it.  Just the other evening I was out for some dinner and cocktails and the gossip inevitably begins.  One woman starts talking about so-and-so (who of course is not at the dinner to defend herself) and how this person is all "gung ho with her prolife crap..."  I sat there in silence, not agreeing, but not speaking up either.  I didn't way a word.  What a coward.  So, I return home and start to question if I really believe anything I say I believe.  How can I if I'm too afraid to talk about it or even mention it.   It was much easier to be outspoken about what I believed when what I believed didn't need defending. 

I think sometimes I'm afraid to even talk to myself about it.  I'm afraid to talk to my husband about it.  I feel guilty admitting sometimes that I have such trouble focusing and I need some help and the first help I need to get is His. When do I do well with life?  When I make time for Him.  And usually that involves some smells and bells for me because trying to focus in my own mind is a losing battle.  But it's still difficult for me to just say that I need some time to pray and then go to adoration or wherever is conducive for me to do that.  Maybe because I'm not even sure what I do would be considered prayer at all.  It would be even worse and more guilt inducing to say, "honey, I need some time to go sit in a chapel and, oh I don't know, sit there and do nothing because I don't know how to pray, I think."  When everyone I know is so busy with this and that and the other thing it sounds shallow to just sit and do nothing in a chapel somewhere because I believe that He is really there.  I only feel justified in doing those things when I'm at the end of my rope for whatever reason - so I begin to wonder if I'm creating the frayed rope to begin with. 

***

Well, I've stopped and started this blog post ten times over.  I'm not even sure what I'm writing about, if anything.  I'm not sure what I need right now.  And if I did know, I'm not sure I'd ask for it.  Kind of goes back to the "fine" answer whenever anyone asks how you are doing.  When you most definitely aren't fine and you just want someone to recognize it without your having to admit it and hug you, hold your hand, dry your tears.  I'm not sure if I'm just looking for trouble.  I'm not sure if I'm making trouble just to have a reason to run away.  I'm not sure if I'm just being dramatic because things begin to feel good and I can't handle good anymore.  It's been so long since good or happy has been part of my repertoire that I don't know what to do with it when I have it, let alone feel it.  

I'm not sure how much of all of this is being post abortive or just being me in general.  I'm not sure how much of it is just general malaise or something more that I'm not willing to admit defeat over.  My heart is just aching lately, a dull, physical ache.  I'm overwhelmed and quite tearful and not the kind of tearful over the Hallmark commercial on TV.  The only thing worse than crying and the deep, dull, ache that I sometimes or always feel, is trying to hide that I feel it at all.  The energy it takes to choke it all down where no one knows it's there doesn't leave much for life in general. 

I hate that everything I just typed would make a perfect anti-depressant commercial, just pick one.  I hate the 20 seconds of side effects that are listed at the end of the commercials.

I hate that I am this way.  I hate that all the healing and growing and work I've done in the last four years isn't enough.  I wonder if anything will be enough.

I'm a sinner! Who are you? Are you a sinner too?

Whew. It has not been a fun few weeks let me tell you. But, I’m still here. I still feel kind of wobbly and uncertain, but I’m still here. I do feel, thanks be to God, a lot better now than I did just a few weeks ago. I’m sleeping a bit better. No nightmares for the last week. I've started walking and I've walked 6 times in the last 2 weeks! I still think about suicide, but it's not as oppressive as it was. I've enjoyed some good days with my family. I'm trying not to spend as much time in my room, alone.  And I spent one, glorious night with an entire bottle of wine and forgot about everything for a while.  That was fun.  The morning after, not so much, but fun while it lasted.  Everything in moderation, as they say.

I knew Mother's Day could go in any of many directions and it went in a bad one for a while.  I ended up hightailing out of my home and away from my family because I just couldn't fake it until bed time that day, not for another second.  I drove to the nearby retreat center where I attended both of my Rachel's Vineyard's retreats.  I sat for a while.  Then some other people showed up so I got back in my car and headed to another retreat center that isn't too far and there is a beautiful, peaceful, sacred little chapel and I found myself alone there for a few hours.  The wind was whipping up outside and the sound of it coming through the old building in the dimness of the chapel with its stone walls and high ceiling made it feel like Heaven, or somewhere closer to Him.  I sat there for a good long while arguing with myself and God.  I had to make a decision that day to live or die and if I was going to live, well then I had to figure out a way to do just that.

I'm not naive enough to say that this will be the last time I sink down into a pit of depression.  Especially now that I've kind of sworn off any medication, it's inevitable that it will happen again and again.  I hope I remember whatever it was that started to bring me out of it because something always brings me out of it.  I've spoken about always just having the tiniest bit of something inside that keeps me alive.  Hopefully, with each time I'll remember sooner and sooner to tap into that tiny part of me where, obviously, He dwells, and remember why I'm here.

It was kind of the perfect storm leading up to Mother's Day.  I was following the Gosnell trial with voracity and then all of the other under cover videos that Live Action was putting out there.  I prayed outside the abortion clinic the Saturday before Mother's Day.  I was thinking that I was fighting the good fight, but all of the coverage that I was consuming all day long was eating away at me in ways I don't think I recognized clearly.  I even posted about Gosnell and how everyone was so up in arms about his particular brand of abortion and how it was no different than the abortion that I had.  Which, following the logic, makes me no different than Gosnell himself when it comes down to brass tacks.

Reading and watching and analyzing all of the condemnation of Gosnell by everyone on blogs, on social media, and on the news once the story took off - I think I began to believe all of the same about myself.  Why? Because some of it was true!  Gosnell performed however many abortions - I had an abortion.  In my mind it was the same thing.  It's still the same thing.  It started to become that every time I read his name or heard it said I would crumple in on myself a bit more.  The whispers would begin... see, you did that too.  Your baby was ripped limb from limb and put in a jar.  You're no better than he is.  Stabbed in the back of the neck or sucked through a cannula - it's all the same thing.

A bit of a repreieve came when the verdict came in guilty as charged on so many counts.  And just as quickly, the discussion turned to saving Gosnell from the death penalty.  The argument began to surface about mercy for Gosnell.  Whoa - wait just a damn minute... mercy? For him?

Yes.  Mercy for Gosnell.  Mercy for me.  Mercy for us all.

When Abby Johnson first came onto the scene, I had similar feelings towards her.  Wait just a damn minute.... we're going to give her a pass because she suddenly figured out what she was doing was wrong?  How's that fair?  I didn’t want to like her. I wanted to hate her, condemn her. I was guilty of thinking that she didn’t deserve anything good. Abby was the counselor who spoke to me before I had my abortion.   Abby was the woman holding my hand as I lay on that table with silent tears falling down my cheeks. Abby was the woman who gave me three months worth of “the Pill” as I walked out the door of that clinic. Abby was all the girls and women afterwards that I tried to befriend and align myself with in the hopes of coping with what I had done. So, now Abby Johnson gets mercy?

Yes.  Mercy for Abby Johnson.  Mercy for me.  Mercy for us all.  

So, let's take the whole abortion argument out of it altogether.  What about just a your run-of-the-mill sinner?  What do they deserve?  What if I never had an abortion?  What if my biggest sin was premarital sex and some vulgar language?  Tell me then what would I deserve?  What we all deserve, quite frankly – hell. But, thanks be to God – there is abundant mercy and infinite grace to be had. Too often I forget that part. Too often do I minimize the abundance of His mercy.  All too often do I become consumed with my own little pity party when instead I should be on my knees 24/7 thanking Him for sparing me from the loss of Heaven.  In all of my narcissistic self loathing I forget that He loves me. 

Thank God - for He has placed in the tiniest recesses of my tortured and scarred heart a tiny place where only He dwells.  Where from he reminds me that He loved me into being and everything that I have is because of Him in spite of myself.  And that is what I must cling to for dear life, with slippery fingers and the Devil himself stomping up and down on my knuckles trying to get me to just… let … go.

He loves me.

He loves Kermit Gosnell.  He loves Abby Johnson.  We are all the same sinners and we all can be awash in mercy and forgiveness and love whenever we ask for it. Sometimes, I forget to ask.  Or, sometimes I ask, but I don't listen to the answer or wait for a response.  Hopefully the next time I feel a backslide coming on, I'll run a little faster to Him.  Maybe I'll meet him halfway.  Maybe someday, I'll never leave His side.

Faith in the Heart

O Christ Jesus,
when all is darkness
and we feel our weakness and helplessness,
give us the sense of Your presence,
Your love, and Your strength.
Help us to have perfect trust
in Your protecting love
and strengthening power,
so that nothing may frighten or worry us,
for, living close to You,
we shall see Your hand,
Your purpose, Your will through all things.

By Saint Ignatius of Loyola

Mother's Day has now seemed to have morphed into Mother's Day "Weekend."  I guess it's mostly the retail industry trying to drag holidays out as long as possible toward the bottom line.  I've taken to drag it out prior to the actual day it seems but for my own selfish reasons.  Last year I did the same so I guess I can categorize Mother's Day as an absolute trigger for me. 

 

As I visit the two posts, here & here, that I had written last Mother's Day - not much has changed.  I'm still feeling stuck and without direction.  I'm fighting the urge to create a graph on which I can plot out certain keywords and themes and blabber.  It's a good thing I don't have too much free time with which to prove my failures.

 

A big difference between last year and this year's Mother's Day - pharmaceuticals.  In fact, it was shortly after Mother's  Day last year that I had increased my antidepressant to a  higher dose.  This year, it's all me.  I don't even have any wine in the house.  Last Mother's Day was a good day, I seemed to be okay for the most part without a backslide into despair.  This Mother's Day, or at least this weekend, at its beginning, is not looking as okay.

 

I'm tired physically and emotionally. I physically ache with headaches and a backache that recently started out of nowhere.  All of this could be chalked up to the yet more weight that I've put on.  I'm heavier now than I have ever, ever been in my entire life, and that includes two pregnancies.  I'm a petite person so all of this weight is taking its toll.  Without any antidepressants or antianxiety drugs, the only pill I do have to take is a cholesterol lowering medication and I haven't been taking it.  I'm afraid of what I'm waiting for to happen if that makes sense.  Slowly  committing suicide with elevated cholesterol and sweets?  I think it's more a case of just not caring at all.   It's also a way to isolate myself even further if that's possible.  More weight means less activity, less wanting to do anything at all, less sex as I try to convince my husband that there is no way he's remotely attracted to me in this state, less engaging in anything at home for lack of energy.  I'm wondering if this is rock bottom with no further down to go?

 

Which brings me to my little graphic at the top of this post - a tiny flicker of faith.  There's got to be one inside of me somewhere because I'm still here and it's not just about being too much of a coward to slit my wrists, it's something more.  As the tears roll down my cheeks as I type, with the pain now physical, I'm still here.  I'm still blogging for Christ's sake.  With the little pixie in the other room, happy and content with her crayons and a juice box and with 80 pounds of fur at my feet, is this all there is?  If I was suddenly not here - how would this picture change? 

 

Please Lord, give me something.  Show me something.  Please let me feel something good.  Send me a list of what you think I'm doing right.  Please show me in some way that my pathetic little life is important and significant in some ridiculous way.  Please Lord, let me feel you near me.  Allow me to see that something I do is worthwhile.  Please show me that taking all of this on has a purpose or meaning.  Please let the darkness lift or give me the strength to leave it so I can see what's smack in front of my face.  Please take away my stubborn pride and self absorption and give me something else instead. Please, I beg you, help me keep getting out of bed to do something. 

 

And Grace, if you're listening, help me figure this out and if I can't figure it out, help me to find some peace in the mess.

 

And just who does God mean for me to be exactly?

April 29th marked the Feast Day of St. Catherine of Siena and, accordingly, Facebook and Twitter were abuzz with quotes from this sainted lady.  Probably the most popular was this one:

“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.”

I'm a lover of quotes and this gem from St. Cat is part of my little collection of words of wisdom.  What I like about quotes and snippets is that you can always revisit them for new meaning and insight.  I don't feel I ever quite arrive at a quote or depart from it the same time, every time.

“Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.”

These words became a sort of "ear worm" for the rest of that Monday and for a few days after.  I finally packed them away again when I became rather frustrated and distraught over the fact that I had no idea who God means for me to be.  I mean, yes, most of the intentions of my life are quite obvious, wife, mother, sister, daughter, aunt, friend...  Though sometimes, even these easy to spot descriptions are hard for me to imagine being part of God's plan for me.  I don't think God planned for me to become so frustrated with my kids that thoughts of duct taping them to the wall cross my mind.  Thus I began my steps down into the big "D's" from this one little quote... doubt, depression, despair, disillusionment, and ultimately hovering just inches apart from despair.  Aside from the monikers listed above, who am I supposed to be?

I've struggled with these ideas often in the past couple of years, frustrated over my journey of healing, but yet still hiding this big secret from most aspects of my life.  I could talk for hours about the mercy and forgiveness I have found since facing my past head on, but outside of this blog, I don't really talk about it.  I haven't used my new found powers for any real good.  I've been asking myself for a while now, what next?  I don't have an answer yet.  I've tried asking the same of God.  I've no answer yet.  When I'm frustrated and the depression is winning, I often start to lament ever starting this journey in the first place.  Wasn't I so much better off before when abortion wasn't part of my life in this way? Wasn't I happier? Wasn't I fun to be around?  The fact is I don't know for sure because I don't remember that person very well.  This has become who I am, but I fear the scale has tipped too far in the other direction.  Now I'm all abortion and nothing else, aren't I?

So back to setting the world on fire.

Who does God mean for me to be?  Is this all there is?  Full time wife and mother, part time employee?  I have no career or grand accomplishments to boast about.  I haven't written the great American novel.  I haven't done a whole heck of a lot actually in the last ten years or so.  Instead of moving toward some thing bigger, better, I've been in a kind of holding pattern just managing the day to day while it seems everyone else's life has some kind of inertia quality that I haven't attained.  I'm not sure I ever wanted that, however.  Yes, I have a college degree, experience, a nice applicable resume, but really all I wanted to do and still want to do is be at home and take care of my husband and kids.  There is not a lot of support for that idea.  It's also in conflict with what I must do, which is work at least part time to make ends meet.  I'm not sure I've ever really found peace with the facts of my life such as they have been. 

But, what else does God mean for me to be?  I'm wondering if I'm grieving, in some way, the "old" me.  The me before this journey.  I'm wondering if I'm lamenting who I could be if I didn't have this big secret. I think I grieve for the person I would have become had I not had an abortion at all.  I constantly question and doubt all of my choices and wonder if I've made a huge mistake in not pursuing a career and money and sent my kids to daycare so I cold work full time.  Everyone else does it.   Then, I become frustrated because I have an image in my mind of what I'm supposed to be and I'm too weak and scared to be so.  I'm frustrated because maybe I'm over thinking all of this and I already am who God means me to be - and boy am I boring.  How am I supposed to set the world on fire this way?

Perhaps now is not the best time to hash this out as I'm still fighting the depression and the constant lump in my throat and the tears the seem to be constantly at the ready.  I know I'm not the first or only human who has asked these questions, but I feel awfully alone in spite of that knowledge.  Depression is a very lonely and desolate place and you wind up breaking your own heart every minute of the day when you can see the swath of glorious light just beyond your reach or step, and even though no one and no thing is holding you down in the dark, you remain.  I stay here.  I'm a functioning depressive.  I can cook and clean and care for my children.  I can even make it look as though there is not a thing wrong with me all the while mulling over a dramatic demise.  I'm pretty sure this is not who God means for me to be.  Maybe all I am meant to be is a wife and mother, but this darkness that surrounds me can't be part of that plan.