Today Is A Bad Day

I'll just have to admit it. Today is a bad day.

I usually have a 20 minute window between waking and being fully awake and functioning before the full impact of feeling lousy hits. I don't think I got that today.

I started crying in the car, on the way to work. I don't think I've quite stopped since. I couldn't even tell you what started the downward spiral. Sometimes I'm able to pinpoint what brings it on -- a particularly poignant dream, the thought of another day feeling bad. Today, nothing. I just woke up like this.

I've been struggling with what are issues that I've always struggled with throughout my life, now magnified by a stressful Los Angeles life, and what are just usual symptoms of depression. I've been feeling particularly lousy about myself these days, more so than I've felt in years. I'm surprised at these thoughts, I haven't had these thoughts in years, and when I do, I usually am able to reject these thoughts easily. Now, I find myself not really believing these thoughts, but just letting them linger. And then I feel bad for letting them linger, or having these thoughts at all.

I've been reading up about depression, just because I'm naturally curious. On WebMD, I found two symptoms of depression I found "comforting" if you will:

• Feelings of worthlessness or hopelessness
• Excessive or inappropriate feelings of guilt

It's not like this is good news per se. I'm still feeling hopeless, worthless, and guilty. However, it's a little comforting to know this isn't completely some unresolved issue I haven't been able to overcome. It's one of the facets of depression. It too will pass.

But on a bad day, like this one, all I want to do is curl into a fetal position and cry.

Limbo

This is what Wikipedia had to say about limbo -- "edge or boundary, referring to the edge of Hell."

I love how it's specifically the edge of Hell, not of Heaven. Limbo, where people go to wait. Limbo, neither here nor there. And, if Wikipedia is to be believed, closer to Hell than not.

I am in Limbo. I am neither here nor there. I am waiting. For breakthrough, for word, for something to lift. I couldn't figure out why this felt so awful. But since now I know that Limbo is the edge of Hell, that makes much more sense.

Ah yes, Limbo, one step away from Hell. No wonder I feel like crap.

Running With It

I completed the Los Angeles Marathon today. Six hours, one minute and fifty-two seconds. Yep, you heard me. Six hours. I was on my feet either walking or running for SIX HOURS.

The LA Marathon caps a nine-month journey that spans two failed romantic relationships.

It was the sheer asinine-ness of the first ex that prompted me to start training. I've never been an outdoorsy type of girl when I lived in Chicago. The First Ex, now known as The Asinine Ex, claimed he was. He loved camping, he said. Never once, in our 14 months together, did I ever see him go camping. When things were coming to an end with us, he said, "You should go camping with your friends before you come camping with me." Romantic and loving, isn't it?

Shortly after he broke up with me. But that little remark cut me to the core. I wanted to prove somehow to this man who no longer even cared about my existence that I could do whatever I wanted to without freaking out. It was very mature of me, I know.

Of course, to pick camping would have been too cliched, so instead, I picked a sport that we'd never even discussed -- running. No one, not even my closest and dearest friends knew that I had always been fascinated with long-distance running. Also, I have no sense of distance, so it never occurred to me that 26.2 miles would be very, very far.

Over the course of the training, however, it served to show me that there was indeed little I couldn't accomplish. The training was no longer fueled by a sheer sense of "I'll show you." I came to enjoy running long distance, especially what it taught me about pushing past what I thought my body was capable of.

The Second Ex, who shall now be known as The Nice Ex, didn't maliciously time his goodbye. The break up just sort of happened, as break ups sometimes do. Unfortunately, it coincided with the peak of my training. That's how I missed my 20 mile training run, and my 22 mile training run. The other unfortunate thing was that the break up was the final straw in a long line of Los Angeles stresses that plunged me into this current depression.

This is how I ended up standing at the start line at the LA Marathon, not quite putting together the fact that the furthest distance I had ever run was 18 miles, that it was six weeks ago, and that I probably should have been more concerned I was about to embark on a five to six hour run. Or, I should have at least been excited that I was about to do something I'd been training to accomplish for the last nine months. Or I should have felt a certain f-you to the Asinine Ex or something. But I didn't. I didn't have a feeling. I didn't have a single feeling other than absolute sadness. And abject loneliness. I was with over 10,000 people and I felt completely alone. Then I burst into tears.

I'm still wading through this thing called "depression." I guess the word in and of itself should clue me in to what it tends to do with emotions -- depress them, make them muted, or in my case, non-existent. Well, the good emotions anyway. Sadness, hopelessness, and loneliness seem to have no problem manifesting on a daily basis. If the anxiety is the most frightening part of depression for me, the inability to fully feel anything other than negative emotions comes in at a close second. If I can't feel real emotion, how am I supposed to relate to others? If I can't relate to others, how can I create art? I suppose I could create depressing art, but that's such a cop out. And I'm not so brilliant that my depression is all that interesting anyway.

I think what made me genuinely sorrowful was that when I crossed the finish line, I felt a sense of disbelief that I had finished, and then the abject loneliness again. My friends found me quickly, then proceeded to shower love and care on me. And I was so grateful for their presence.

But full excitement about finishing? That wonder that what you've been working so hard to accomplish has finally come to pass? Nothing. Not a drop, not a modicum, not a single emotion. Instead, all I felt was sad. I said to a girl friend tearfully, "It's like the happiest and saddest day of my life."

I have a medal, and a poster, and a t-shirt from the 2009 Los Angeles Marathon. I have a record of my finish time. I have friends that have celebrated this with me, and pictures of me running this race. It is my hope, that in time, the importance of the day will sink in and become a real emotion. It will serve as some kind of milestone in my emtional journey.

For now, it will just have to be The Day I Had Depression and Ran A Marathon With It. Yes, That's Right A Marathon.

The Absurdity of Therapy

I'm not anti-therapy. Not at all. I spent a good four years in my early twenties in both one-on-one counselling and group counselling. I wouldn't have admitted it at the time, but those were probably the most fruitful years of my life. I learnt how to accept love, how to express anger, how to fully be who God made me to be. I remember as I was leaving therapy saying that the issues for the season were dealt with, but as I grew and moved into new stages of my life, that at some point, I would probably benefit from going back into counselling.


Well, the time is now. Apparently a major move across country and two dating break-ups in a span of two years counts as "new stages of my life."


So, being the "good girl" that I am, the one that "listens to the healthy advice of others," and being completely lost as to what else to do, I find myself asking around for names of good therapists. Therapists who understand the kind of Christianity I practice (Holy Spirit led, evangelical, if you will), therapists who practice "Christian counselling" and won't ask me to interpret my dreams and incessantly talk about my mother.

I'm slightly wary -- this is, afterall, Los Angeles, where therapy is like drinking a protein shake. I'm sure everyone and their almost-famous brother has gone to see a therapist. The question I find myself pondering is whether I really need said therapy, or I just need a good dose of shopping, spa treatments and a hot, new boyfriend.

But when I wake up the next morning and find myself unable to breathe, I decide that therapy might be needed afterall. At the very least, maybe I can get some drugs out of it.

I make an appointment for a Monday after work. The waiting room has comfy chairs, a small zen water fountain on the end table, and classical music is being piped in through the speakers. The lights are warm and slightly dim. I know it's all set up to make me feel comfortable and at ease. I appreciate it, but it makes me want to laugh. I feel like a damn cliche, getting therapy in LA. Funny how I didn't feel like that when I got therapy in Chicago.


There's another woman in the waiting room with me. She looks at me and I at her, but neither of us attempt to make conversation. This is common etiquette in therapy waiting rooms. We're not waiting for a bus, we're waiting to pour out our deepest, darkest sorrows, fears, and desires. No small talk is needed beforehand.

I find myself strangely nervous, so to distract myself, I go through the basket of magazines. There's Ms. Magazine, People Magazine and Better Homes and Gardens. I wonder at this combination. I know my therapist shares this space with other therapists, which then makes me wonder what kind of therapy is being practiced within this office space. Probably something that deals with women and their issues. Afterall, I am a woman, I have issues, and here I am.

Surprisingly, I find a copy of The New Yorker. I start to relax.

The Therapist is a middle-aged white woman, who by her very presence is comforting. She asks me what brings me to this point. In good therapy speak, I tell her that the last thing that pushed me into getting help was my recent break-up. I'm quick to point out that I understand the break-up is probably not the root issue, and that I'd been surprisingly unhappy with my life in LA for awhile.

Personally, I'm not sure why I'm so quick to have a verbal parenthesis around what brought me to therapy. Maybe I believe that it's weak to let a break-up, knock me out on my ass so much that I have to seek professional help. It has to be something deeper, right?

We end up with a brief overview of my last two years in LA. To her credit, The Therapist winces at the right moments of my story. How the first boyfriend (not the one that just broke up with me), came to visit me in LA after two months of not seeing me, and no longer wanted to touch me, and I come to find later that he's now dating a younger, trashier version of me. And I'm only 31. How this time, like the last time, I didn't quite see the break up coming. And how, I have an abundance of questions that there are really no answers to. We also talk about the rest of my life in Los Angeles, how lonely it's been, and what I've been missing.

50 minutes later (and yes, I am watching every minute), we talk about the question of payment. She names me an hourly rate that makes my heart stop. It's actually not that expensive in the world of Los Angeles, therapy, and general good health. But OMG. Want to add to my anxiety? Figuring out how to pay for professional help is going to add to my anxiety.

My favorite part of the hour was this -- I asked how I could cope with the general anxiety. I can't breathe, I tell her. I wake up and I cry and I can't breathe. I'm told that this is actually the chemistry of depression at work. That for now, this is how it's going to be until it gets better. Get out in the sunshine, exercise, when you can eat, try to eat well. Do some deep breathing, and if it brings up the tears, that's a good thing.

Ok... I'm glad the first session was at no charge. Because if I had to pay for that, I'd have to add anger to the list of struggles I'm dealing with.

None of this to say that The Therapist wasn't great and that therapy won't be helpful. Every time I think about therapy, though, I wonder if I actually need it, or if I'm over dramatizing the problems I'm dealing with. Perhaps all I need is to pray more, read the Bible more, worship more, trust God more, or some other such Christianese solution that won't cost me the price of a small laptop every month.

But on the other hand, I spent yesterday in bed, reading, crying and sleeping. I slept for at least eight hours during the day, not counting the actual sleeping to get me into the morning. It was much easier than getting up, not being able to breathe, and feeling lousy.

What's the Christianese solution for that?

This Is Depression?

Depression is an ugly, sneaky animal. It crept up on me this time, when I least expected it. Maybe it's just my age, or my general tiredness. But for the first time in my adult life, I find myself unable to "shake it off."

The symptoms frighten me. I understand gloom. I understand tears. I even understand hopelessness. It's the weariness that I didn't expect. Or the headaches. Or the back aches. Or the loss of appetite. Or the desire to just curl into a small ball and go to sleep. Or the sitting on the floor in your room staring at the closet as tears stream down your face, and knowing that you have to get dressed, but being completely unable to summon the will to move.

But what I dislike most is the anxiety each morning. That squeezing of the chest, that shallowness of breathing, that thought that it's going to be one more long day feeling like this. That part of depression I can do without.

I try to think about the great poets, writers and artists that suffer from depression. Vincent Van Gough, Sylvia Plath, Ernest Hemmingway. Depression and creativity seem inexplicably linked. Maybe I'll get a novel out of this. Or draw stick figures on a restaurant napkin.

Thankfully, I'm not about to stick my head in the oven. I'm not even planning on cutting my ear off. Somewhere in here, beneath the palor of sadness, I'm still in here. I'm summoning the strength to clamor out. But since the walls are slippery and my grip is weak, it might be awhile.

Where ARE You already?

Being at the end of yourself is a hard place to be in. I find myself every day begging God to show up and unable to see what He's doing. He's somewhere. He's working. I know all of this to be true. But I can't see anything. Not in whole and not in part.

I search the scriptures for some clue. Give me some verse, some word, something, I beg. Something to show me what's going on. I keep coming back to this:

Mark 6: 45-52

"Immediately Jesus made His disciples get into the board and go ahead of Him to the other side to Bethasida, while He Himself was sending the crowd away. After bidding him farewell, He left for the mountain to pray. When it was evening, the boat was in the middle of the sea, and He was alone on the land. Seeing them straining at the oars, for the wind was against them, at about the fourth watch of the night He came to them, walking on the sea; and He intended to pass by them. But when they saw Him walking on the sea, they supposed that it was a ghost and cried out; for they all saw Him and were terrified. But immediately He spoke with them and said to them, "Take courage; it is I, do not be afraid." Then He got into the boat with them, and the wind stopped; and they were utterly astonished, for they had not gained any insight from the incident of the loaves, but their heart was hardened."

It's an odd version of Jesus walking on water. The passage that I've always known about Jesus walking on water comes from Matthew. In this version, Peter says to Jesus, "Lord, if it is You command me to come to You on the water." And Jesus says, "Come." Peter then walks on water. That is, until he takes his eyes of Jesus and starts to sink. The lessons are clear there -- fix your eyes on Jesus, you'll be able to do things as impossible as walking on water. Take your eyes off Jesus and you sink. Jesus extends His mercy to Peter and stretches His hand to save him. And then, as I always imagined with a little warmth says, "You of little faith, why did you doubt?"

Which brings me back to the passage in Mark. There's no Peter in this one, just a bunch of fearful disciples, straining against the wind late into the night. Jesus sees them, and intends to walk past them. They see him, grow afraid (and why not?), and He gets into the boat with them, reassuring them that he's Jesus, not some ghost. And yet, they fail to see or understand what is going on. Their hearts are hardened, it says. And that's where the passage ends.

I'm left to wonder what that's all about. Especially how it relates to me. Why did Jesus intend to pass on by? Why did He get in the boat? Why did the disciples not understand? Am I like those disciples, straining against the wind, unable to see that it is Jesus, walking on water, passing on by. And why didn't he just get into the boat to start with? Why would Jesus intend to pass by?

These days, I wrestle with God on a daily basis. I'm not quite sure what I'm wrestling with him about. Throughout my Christian life I've always been the person that says, "If God says so, who are we to argue?" Obedience has always been my default. It all sounds good on paper, until I realize that my particular brand of obedience is actually a facet of hopelessness. Hopelessness that God really gives me desires that He wants to fulfill. That He is a Father who gives us bread, and not stone. That God isn't some Coach out to train and discipline me FOREVER by putting everything I truly desire just slightly out of my reach, so there'll be some eternal lesson I get to learn.

And so, I wrestle with God. This is a God who is the Father that gives me good things. I don't deny that He has. And yet, I'm dissatisfied. Is this a dissatisfaction that comes from rebellion? Or is this a truly dissatisfaction that comes from growth, that comes from wanting to see more of God? From wanting to believe and know that this is the God that brings about the impossible? The God that... for once, gives me desires, AND fulfills those desires He gives? Do I dare put aside myself and believe that what I want, perhaps isn't so bad for me? And even if those desires do not come to pass, should be something I continue to challenge God to give me?

I'm lost. Everyday I ask, where ARE You already, God. COME ON! SHOW UP! It feels strangely petulant to be so insistent. And yet, I can't help myself. I need the veil to be lifted. I no longer can be satisfied with a soft, hazy version of God.

Some Benefits of Grief

Since food is no longer a staple but an afterthought, the Zingers you eat out of the office vending machine won't go straight to your belly.

Since make up is no longer a priority, your skin will remain irritant free.

Your musical memory will be surprisingly accute. Songs you've only heard once will suddenly bring you to tears.

Everyone will leave you alone because you look like you're going to burst into tears at any moment.

The couch will be the place you sit, eat and sleep. Which is good because you don't quite have the energy to clean the rest of your apartment anyway.

You will have bursts of energy lasting approximately 15-20 mintues at a go. Make use of them. It is the thing that is standing between having a job and being fired.

Strangely enough, your boobs will look bigger and your legs will look longer. You're not sure why that is, but you're going to take this physical oddity as a gift.

See, there are some benefits to grief, afterall.

Fixing It

For the first time in my 31 years of life, I find that I have no power to fix it. "It" being whatever is the current problem with me. For the most part, "it" involves me, something I have said, done, or rather not said or not done. "It" involves some unresolved issue from the past, some piece of baggage I've been carrying around. "It" involves me not listening to God. "It" involves my weaknesses, my hopelessness, my despair. "It" is always about something being wrong with me, hence the need to fix "it."

Fixing usually involves me hitting rock bottom, having a moment clarity, and then resolving that enough is enough. I find some modicum of strength, pull myself together, rise from the ashes and move on. This process of rising from the ashes is unbelievably empowering. I love that moment of finding that last bit of steel within me and having it solidify into something that makes me stand a little straighter, a little taller. I've always known that my will is strong, that no matter what life has thrown at me, my sheer strength of will ultimately wins out. I've always thought my will to be one of my strengths, one of my better characteristics.

But for once, much to my surprise, I find myself unable to muster anything even resembling strength. I am unable to fix "it." I have looked and I can't find the steel. I want to retreat. I want to lay on the couch in a fetal position. If I had any semblance of an appetite, I would want to eat cupcakes. I just don't have it in me. I can't fix "it."

Throughout my life, I've often prayed that God would just "fix it" -- the problem, the pain, whatever the issue is. I often believe that His fixing it would look a lot like the way I would fix it. Quick, simple, gather it together, move on. I'm starting to rethink this. God's fixing can certainly be quick, or it can be a slow, languid process. I think it's easy to miss what God is doing, since it looks nothing like what I would do. God not "fixing it" the way I would is both intensely frustrating and also oddly comforting. Frustrating because I can't see how God can possibly "fix it" His way. But comforting because I know what I would do to fix it, and sometimes, what I would do pushes, chafes, and wears down. It isn't so much "fixing it" as much as forcing the pieces together with Gorilla Glue.

So here I am pretty much at rock bottom. I'm in pieces, with not a tube of Gorilla Glue in sight. What I have left is the ability to muster up a weak cry to God. "Fix it," I whisper into the quiet of the night, "Please."

The Absurdity of Issues

There's nothing like reading through old journals to realize that some issues continue to play themselves out, with different actors, maybe, but the issues still remain the same.

It's almost comical how one year ago, I was writing the exact same things in my journal as I am today. There's a lot of questions of why, how, what the hell happened, and maybe ifs. If I read these journals with the sensible eye of a person not right in the middle of turmoil, I would laugh. Will this woman never learn, I would wonder out loud, can't she see what's going on?

Of course, me being the woman central in said journals, I find it a little difficult to laugh. However, I'm not beyond wondering if perhaps I have taken myself way too seriously. That sometimes things that happen have very little to do with me, my issues, or even anything I said or did. That perhaps sometimes, some people are just dumb, and they do dumb things. That perhaps, for once, someone else's issues and not mine, are central to the problem.

It's a nice thought to have. It frees me to believe that I don't really have to hold myself responsible for everything. That perhaps, for once, someone else is responsible for this mess I find myself in.

So for just a couple of hours tonight, I will put away the self help books that warn me to search my heart, be fully aware of my intentions and all my issues. I've done that all my post therapy adult life. For a couple of hours tonight, I'm going to believe that someone else has issues too.

Things You Learn The Second Time Around

The last time this happened, you bemoaned the fact that "you didn't end well." The first time, you were hurt, angry, blindsided and confused. You felt small, weak, and less than who you were. The second time around you learn that even "ending well" -- with good things to say about each other, with remembering the good times, with encouragement for the future --doesn't guarantee your heart isn't breaking the whole time.

The second time around, you learn that you can't control the crying. You're pretty much going to cry anytime and anywhere. A lot of time it will be in your car. Perhaps the second time around, you'll avoid The Absurdity of Grief.

The second time around, you learn that you still can't eat in great moments of stress. Only this time you'll be in the middle of training for a marathon, so not eating really isn't an option.

The second time around, you'll have less items to put away -- fewer pictures, fewer gifts. However, you'll still have to resist the urge to go through the items, read the cards, wonder how you got from there to here.

The second time around you get back into the swing of life a little faster. You plan weekend activities, you smile and laugh as if the whole time your chest isn't tight and you don't have an impending sense of panic you're trying to suppress. You know this feeling is normal. You're still not sure how long it will last, but you know you just have to push through.

People will still have their cliches, this time around. There will be statements such as, "Now you're released to find someone better" or "God is working for your best" or some other statement that you know to be generally true, but specifically cruel. Because the second time around, you know that you don't want platitudes. You want to hear that this is indeed as mind numbingly confusing and painful as how you feel. You want to know that how you feel is valid.

This time around, you'll question God a little more. It's not that your faith is shaken, it's just that you wonder if your listening skills were all that good to start with. This time around the question, "What did I miss?" won't be about searching for clues in the past. It'll be a genuine question to Your Maker. And the question will be followed by, "Where are You in all of this?" and, your personal favorite, "I thought You said..." God will be surprisingly silent this time around which will make you feel like you didn't pray hard enough, or read your Bible well enough. For some reason, this time around, you've been reduced to an infant-like understanding of your faith. This will make you wonder what the foundations of your faith have been in the twenty-three years you have been a Believer.

This time around, you won't have the luxury of distance. You can't imagine this other person no longer exists when you still share the same friends and the same small community. You'll have to co-exist. You'll have to do so with no ulterior motive. You'll have to understand that at some point, you'll inevitably have to watch them move on, even if you don't get to. And then you'll wonder -- do you want to be the fool that wallows and doesn't move on? Then the healing process becomes a competition. And one day you'll wake up and realize that your heart is pretty dark, and you'll be stunned that at the root of it all, you're still just that little bit petty, that little bit mean-spirited. Then the healing process will start all over again, and you'll wonder why you're still stuck.

In the meantime, this time around, you sit with the pain. Because you learn that pain is part of this process. That it will happen in this lifetime more than once. That the only thing you can do is hold on, breathe deeply, and feel.

The second time around isn't any easier.