Prioritizing mental health in the midst of this pandemic.

/in ,

I find myself staring off into space, unable to open my mouth to answer a simple question. I feel frozen in melancholy, stuck in a way I haven’t felt in years. As the weeks turn to months, one thing is very clear: this pandemic has been so very hard on us mentally. Not just inconvenient, but actually dangerous to mental health. Friends of mine who have never struggled with feelings of anxiety, depression, panic are feeling these things for the first time and finding it hard to know where to turn to get help. And still those of us who have known this journey for many years may be be finding ourselves in just the pit we dug ourselves out of many years ago.

We’re faced with a real predicament: protect the physical health of ourselves and others and risk a real mental breakdown or find the safest ways possible to meet our emotional needs while trying to ignore the judgement that might come from those who might assume we are not taking this pandemic seriously. Because the truth is we absolutely are, but we are not willing to die for it.

A friend of mine shared with me in confidence that she “broke down and took her kids to her mother-in-laws”. Her husband is working long hours and she (struggling with anxiety, OCD, and panic attacks) felt she had reached her limit. She admitted that she felt guilty for doing so. She was worried about the ways in which that choice might affect the physical health of those closest to her. She was between a rock and a hard place, trying to choose physical health over mental health in a situation where both could be dire.

Another friend of mine is bipolar, a wonderful mom of two little ones. She makes an effort everyday to keep herself grounded so that doesn’t slide into the hole of depression she knows so well. Sometimes it keeps her down for months, where she’s not even able to text those closest to her. But in the midst of this pandemic, she feels like she’s struggling. Really really struggling. Her best coping skill is going to the beach, sitting by the waves, breathing deep. She feels guilty about considering going to the beach for the afternoon. “How can I risk it?” She asks me. “How can you not?” I say.

Mental health is not secondary to physical health. We can do both. And maybe sometimes we have to risk it a bit with one to save ourselves from the other. For instance, how many of us are severely afraid of needles and yet we would get the blood drawn for the sake of our physical health? And how many of us are pushing ourselves to our limit every day mentally in order to do our part in flattening the curve of this virus.

Am I suggesting we all go dance in the streets and hug all of our neighbors in the midst of a pandemic for the sake of our mental health? Absolutely not. But if you are struggling, really struggling, and you know you have reached your limit, please remember that your mental health is not something to take lightly. Call your mental health professional or someone you trust for guidance in how to best meet your emotional need while adhering to the stay at home order to the best of your ability.

And stay safe. Physically. And mentally.

Creating is important.

/in ,

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the importance of creating and giving ourselves room to create.

I just happen to be an incredibly creative person (although I would argue we all are creators…maybe that’s for another post). From the time I wake up to the time I fall asleep, I am constantly dreaming up projects and making creative touches to everything around me. I have come to really love that about myself and yet, it hasn’t always been that way.

Creative types often get a bad rap. We’re too sensitive and moody, or spend too much effort “wasting” our time on a craft that will “make us no money”. Many of my actor friends have been told too many times that they are an “aspiring actor” just because they are not meeting society’s standards of success.

Additionally, I have often been confused by my creativity as it spans many crafts and is not something I can whittle down to just one thing. I am a writer, an actor, a decorator, a fashionista, a cook, a painter, a furniture refinisher, a carpenter, and the list goes on and on. I always felt some sort of pressure to pick just one. What was going to be my “calling”, my “career”, the thing that people would remember me by.

But over the past few years, I have come to see my creativity as limitless. I can do anything that I want! And if I do something for a while and take a break and try something else-hooray for me!

Before Lilah was born I was immersed in theatre, and then after she was born I was writing occasionally and redecorating (aka moving furniture and decor around my house constantly). Now writing seems to be taking center stage, as well as a dance class I will be taking this fall. Who knows what is next! The options are limitless. I can be anything I want to be at any time and give it as much or as little attention as I wish.

Creating is freeing. It is worship to our creator who gave us the ability to do these things. It is recognizing who we are and saying to ourselves, “I will live in alignment with my soul”.

On this rainy day, I am burrowed under the covers as I listen to my baby girl, not nap. I am dreaming up new projects and reflecting on old ones. I am giving myself permission to be exactly the kind of creator I am in this moment. Give yourself permission to do the same.

While I Sit Here.

/in ,

I am pinned under a sleeping infant. His steady breathing matching my own. He fell asleep breastfeeding and has been this way ever since: in peaceful slumber.

I love when he does this. I love the way his eyes flutter and his lips pout into a fishy face as he sleeps. I love the smell of his bald little head and the warmth of his teeny body against mine. These moments of stillness are so so needed in the chaos of life these days.

And yet there’s a restlessness inside of me. A constant staring at dishes in the sink or dirty clothes on the floor. The lists I make during nap times are endless. Somehow it always feels as though there is something to do, somewhere to be. It feels like (dare I say it) the sitting and waiting is keeping me from the things I actually need to do.

Ugh I hate that I put that out there. It makes me shudder to admit. But is that not true for us in so many moments of our lives? In the sitting and the stillness is where the beauty and purpose is happening, but we look on to all the “important” things that must be done. Oh how much we miss. Oh how much stress we create with the constant to do lists, the never ending goal making.

As I think toward the New Year I cringe a bit. The idea of “starting over” and resolutions has never sat well with me. I need freedom and stillness, not more to achieve and be enslaved to. And that may not be true for you and bravo for you knowing your truth! But that is mine. I find everything I need in the stillness. That’s where I have always found myself, my God, peace. Why then is the pull towards the chaos so strong?

Tonight I snuggle Beau’s body a little bit closer. Remind me of what I need little one. Pull me back to the stillness when everything around me screams to do more. Together we will rest in these moments, we will cling to them. The sweet sweet stillness that changes everything.

When Beau Was Born.

/in

Never in my life did I think I would give birth without an epidural. Mostly because I’d rather not be in more pain than I need to be. But also because I really didn’t think I could do it. And when my baby’s head was inching its way out of my body in the triage room bathroom, I was more terrified than I can ever remember being.

My labor with Lilah was odd. It wasn’t like how I’d been taught in my birth classes. “5-1-1” was what they told me and then head to the hospital. But my contractions were never that way. One minute, 30 seconds, three in a row, a few minutes between. They were all over the place. And in the early hours of November 19, it was just the same.

Around 4:30am, Eric urged me to call my doctors office after I announced that I felt like my pelvis was splitting in half. “Doesn’t sounds great, Lizz”, he said and handed me my phone. The doctor on call assured me we had time, after all my contractions were all over the place. Even after sharing my previous birthing experience, she told me to wait until 7am to come in. To be honest, I wasn’t even convinced of my own labor, and was afraid I’d be sent home, so I agreed. A half hour later I hobble down the stairs amidst intense sweats and bouts of nausea, stopping every few seconds to get through another wave of pain. This baby was on its way, that much I knew. I just had no idea how “on its way” he really was.

We pulled into the hospital around 5:20am and parked on the roof. I refused to let Eric drop me off at the front door. I was terrified to be left alone. My contractions were now one big block of pain. As we exited the elevator a surge of pressure caused me to wonder if I was about to give birth right there on the sidewalk. We waddled a bit faster and I collapsed in a wheelchair at the door. Up on the 8th floor I could barely give them my name. They wheeled me back to triage with the promise to check me in properly, once I got settled. We sat in the hallway while they prepared the triage room for us. A janitor reminded me to breathe through the pain as I contemplated how I was ever going to make it an hour until the anesthesiologist could get there.

Once in the room I decided to try and pee before the poking and prodding began. No sooner had I sat down, I felt this undeniable urge to push. I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried. It was like my body had taken over and I was just a crying, blubbering shell. Eric thought my cries of “he is coming now” were just my dramatic nature (which in his defense is completely valid). But once he realized there was indeed a head coming out of me, he ran to the hall. A few nurses flooded into the bathroom, took one look at me and began shouting instructions. I remember telling one of them “I can’t do this” and she said to me “but you already are. You’re doing it!” *mental note to find that nurse and buy her anything she wants*

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror before they waddled me out into the room and onto the bed. I looked straight into my eyes, those same eyes that have overcome so much deep fear and many dark days. I remember thinking in that moment, “I think I’m going to die or at the very least pass out”. But the body is an amazing thing, the female psyche is an amazing thing.

Somehow my shoes and sweatpants made it off and there I was, my head hanging off the bed, pushing my baby boy into the world. 3 big pushes and he was out. I have never been so relieved in my entire life. I have also never been so proud of myself or so certain that I can do hard things.

I don’t always believe that I can get through hard things without breaking. But all signs point to the fact that I have, and I can, and this little guy will always be a symbol of that. In the weeks since, I have already been hit with moments I don’t think I’m strong enough to face. I don’t always believe that I can get through hard things without breaking. But all signs point to the fact that I have, and I can, and this little guy will always be a symbol of that.

 

Are You There God? Seriously…Are You?

/in ,

Ever felt this way?

Standing on a mountaintop shouting into the abyss hoping there’s someone out there greater than you that will hear you?

Jesus himself even felt that way in Gethsemane. He cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me (Matthew 27:46)”.

If Jesus can say that kind of stuff, then why can’t we?

If Jesus can sit in the midst of pain and suffering and the messiness of life and challenge God, then we can too.

We’re allowed. We don’t have to pretend.

I fight against my humanness tooth and nail.

I want to be God.

And so I spend a lot of my life standing on metaphorical mountaintops screaming into the abyss.

I am a loud screamer, not always a very good listener.

“If I can just control this one last thing then It will all make sense”, I tell myself.

And then I find myself in these places where I am screaming and screaming and wondering where God is.

And then He tells me that I was too busy trying to be Him, too busy running my own life, too busy perfecting my own life to pay Him any attention.

Crap.

He’s listening to me. He’s sitting with me in my sorrows. He’s walking beside me in my triumphs. But I’m too busy screaming on mountaintops and running my mouth to notice.

I all too quickly forget that when I’m face down on the bathroom floor shaking fists at the sky, He’s sitting there next too me waiting for me to turn around and notice Him.

“Who are you shaking your fists at?” He would say, “I’m right here.”

The thorn in my side

/in , , , ,

This thorn in my side anchors me to Jesus.

My eyes wander, my heart flutters to other things to fulfill it; but my anxiety, that thorn in my side, it is the most uncomfortable blessing. It keeps me clinging to Jesus because I have no other choice. Even when I’m unsure of my faith, the theology surrounding me, my place on earth-there’s this still small voice experiencing something greater than myself.

When I was a teenager I was sure I wouldn’t live to be 21. In fact, I didn’t want to live to be 21. For someone whose life felt like constant turmoil, It seemed like an absurdly long time to be alive. Childhood trauma had festered into wounds I had no idea how to heal. I was self-medicating and limping my way through life. Christianity was a muddle of “dos” and “donts” that I couldn’t keep up with. I felt deserted by the God that was supposed to be with us in our pain. But regardless of it all, I still found myself clinging to Jesus in the recesses of my subconscious, on the off chance that he actually existed and cared. And so it’s been my whole life.

I’m 28. I’ve lived well past my 21st birthday. In many ways, I am so different than I was 10 and 15 years ago. But even though I’ve worked through so much emotional pain, I will always be an empath, sensitive to others and the world. Earth will always feel a little unsettling to me. But when I find myself seeking comfort in things that ultimately give me no true joy- like endless shopping, seeking the illusion of perfection, self-medicating. I am reminded of the gift that I’m too much of a mess to ever think I can do it on my own. Thankfully. If I didn’t wrestle with daily anxiety, emotional ups, and downs, chronic OCD and perfectionism, I can’t say I’d cling to God in the same way or be able to acknowledge my need for that relationship regardless of whether or not I am angry at God in that moment.

I’m not in love with Jesus all the time. I ask lots and lots of questions and demand answers from God which may or may not include a few expletives. I am daily confused by modern Christian theology and cannot stand the constant use of Christian buzz words.

I’m just figuring it out. Still navigating through past traumas and shame, still experiencing panic attacks and dark days and lots and lots of messiness. But I do know that whoever God is, whatever he or she is really like. It resonates deeply in my soul. So when nothing else makes sense and I don’t know quite where I belong, I just cling to that.

Today is a Down Day

/in ,

Today is a down day.

Lilah didn’t take a nap which set off a chain of exhausting parenting moments. And all of a sudden I found myself in a place of “I can’t do this”.

I can’t redirect one more time, I can’t calmly tell her to stop hitting mommy, I can’t do any more laundry, I can’t organize any more infant stuff, I can’t clean any more goldfish from within the carpet.

And then there are the things that just apply to me that feel just as hard. Things I feel I just can’t handle. This ferocious weight gain in pregnancy, the mood swings, the OCD thoughts launched into full force these last 9 months, the many moments of loneliness while at home by myself.

But hardest of all is knowing that it isn’t about to get easier. This next season I’m about to head into is an unknown. I’ve never been there before. And yet I know what postpartum feels like, how exhausting it is, how much a new little person takes out of me. I am about to do it all again and I am terrified.

Can I do it? Of course I can. I’ve made it through hard before. But it still looms over me like this massive dark cloud.

I can’t wait to meet my boy, hold him in my arms, snuggle my cheeks against his, but this post isn’t about all that beauty. It’s about the other stuff. The hard stuff. The unseen stuff. The things that have me down today.

Life is beautiful and it’s hard and both must be acknowledged.

Round 2

/in

By the grace of God; Eric, Lilah, and I will be welcoming a baby into our family in November. The last few months have been emotional and physically exhausting, but we are so very grateful and do not take this gift lightly.

In the spirit of full vulnerability, I want to share my initial reaction to my pregnancy:

Pregnant. The digital pee stick told me so. Well to be fair it told me “no” twice first. But, in the middle of a hectic morning, “pregnant” flashed across the teeny gray screen. My stomach leaped with excitement. Another one. More cute fingers and toes, sloppy kisses, and little baby snores. But quickly followed the dark thoughts that know how to steal my joy: more sleepless nights, postpartum emotions, breastfeeding, sickness, tantrums, not knowing what the hell I am doing. Can I even do this? Two? Can I even handle one? Actually, let’s be honest, can I even handle myself?

But this is what I know to be true, when I am uncertain of my own abilities:

“Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ to my right, Christ to my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down”

-St. Patrick

We are so thankful for this adventure. And I will try to be as honest as I possibly can throughout.

Love to you all, my friends!

Lizz

The Place That Brought Me Back To Life.

/in ,

I look at this picture, stare straight into the eyes of this woman, and I catch my breath. There was a time I hated the eyes that stared back at me, banged my head against the mirror in agony, shuddered at the thought of my future. My life is not perfect, but there is a strength and a hope that was never there before. I am thankful for my journey. So thankful.

Spring triggers the memory for me. The smell of new rain on the earth, bonfires, the feel of warm sun on my face. The most unlikely of places brought me back to life 12 years ago.

We weren’t really a camping family. Sure, I ran around barefoot all summer and climbed trees like a monkey, but nothing that quite prepared me for this.

I arrived terrified beyond anything I’ve ever felt. The truck bumped along the gravel driveway for over a mile before grinding to a hault next to a brown ranch building. I went in the front door with only the clothes on my back, and came out ready for the next two months of my life. My hiking boots pinched my feet, and the cargo shorts they’d given me clashed terribly with my new yellow t-shirt. I climbed back into the truck, refusing what they called “the last supper”, a Big Mac and fries, before making our way slowly up the mountain to the drop off point.

We stopped at the edge of a thick forest, and the door opened beside me. My driver helped me out of the truck and clipped my pack to my back. Another man was waiting for me by the woods, ready to take me to what was next. I wanted to scream and cling to the bearded man who’d brought me here. I’d only known him for a few hours, but the sound of his truck driving away felt like deep abandonment.

The new man hiked in front of me as I stumbled along behind. My pack was too heavy for my small frame even though it had barely anything inside. By the time we arrived at the campsite, my hips had been rubbed raw.

Little did I know the hardships I’d experience over the next two months; the agony of missing family events, of finding out I would not be going home again, the physical pain I would overcome as I hiked through the Blue Ridge mountains. But deep suffering does something to us doesn’t it? When we are stripped of everything we find something underneath it all. We find grit we didn’t know was there. We find those many wonderful things God gave us as babes that we forgot were even there.

I struggle with suffering. I want it to go away. In fact, I spend much of my life subconsciously trying to avoid it. But when I stop and really consider, suffering is what grounds us. It grounds us to God, ourselves, each other, our humanity. Over the years has come this understanding that for us to fully live as we’ve been created to live, we must experience suffering. Our choice is how we to choose to navigate through the hard.

Thank You. Love, Me.

/in , , ,

I was 16 years old. Sitting alone in the middle of an international airport. I knew my dad would catch up to me soon. I’d just escaped a plane ride to a destination I greatly feared. I had every intention of bucking up, bravely enduring the trip and what was to come after, but in the end, the fear was too great, I had to get off. He had followed me, I know he had, grabbing our bags in the process. I knew I was in trouble.

I was ashamed, still afraid, trying to get control of a situation I had zero control over. You see just 24 hours earlier my parents had told me I’d be going to Georgia, to a therapeutic wilderness camp. I’d looked it up online, researched my fate, made peace with it. But as the hours passed, It felt too scary, I wanted to be brave, but I couldn’t.

Back at home after our first attempt to go, the fear overtook me. I sobbed, I self harmed, I screamed a million obscenities at everyone in my path. I was 16. Bigger than a child, but yet still a kid. And I was scared. Scared I would never make it through a wilderness camp, scared of what life looked like ahead of me, scared I would never live a life of peace and joy.

So much in my past that makes me cringe to remember, that causes tears to roll down my cheeks when I write about it. “Who even was she?”, I wonder aloud. “Thank God I’ve grown,” I commend myself, “I’ll just forget about it all, leave it in the past, cover it with this newer model of myself. One that is a little more mentally stable, more sure of herself, more socially acceptable”.

God, no I hope I never do that. I hope I never forget, never stop sharing, never stop thanking little me for everything that has come before now. I’ve been fighting since I was a teeny little thing. Fighting for a better life, for hope that I knew deep down existed. Battling mental illness, and traumas that rocked my little epathetic self. How brave I have been. How dedicated to my future, to the real me that lives deep down inside, to exposing the mess and embracing the truth. So brave.

It’s so much easier to blame the past isn’t? Or to mourn everything that the past could have been had we only done something different. But we didn’t. We have done the very best we’ve ever been able to do in order to survive. The “me” we are today has everything to do with all that came before, the person we’ve been, the choices we’ve made. We are they and they are us.

I’ve been brave. I’ve been strong. All that I am has brought me to this place.

Thank You. Love, me.

? Marisa Kinney photography


I’ll leave you with this, my friends:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3Y_YiZp6gM

“I am the Lord your God, I go before you now
I stand beside you, I’m all around you
Though you feel I’m far away,
I’m closer than your breath
I am with you, more than you know”