moosh in indy.

It’s like juggling. (I mean, not really because I can’t juggle.)

Maybe it’s like that Simon game, did you ever play that?

It had four different colored lights and sounds and it would give you a pattern, you’d have to follow the pattern back and every time you successfully did it would add a new light and sound to the pattern. You’d have it in your head, the little rhythm, the sounds, the lights. Beep beep boop beep bop boom boom beep!

But then something would happen, the phone would ring, someone would knock at the door, or you’d hear a big ‘thud’ from upstairs.

You’d miss the newest light – so you’d guess.

Beep beep boop beep bop boom boom beep – - boop?

You’d get it right! Phew. Game saved.

But then something else would happen, but not only would you miss the next light, you lost the pattern

Beep beep boop beep bop – - – boom? Boop?  Beep?

Panic sets in.

Suddenly you don’t even remember how the pattern started, what color comes after green or if boop goes with red or yellow.

…..

Either you get the answer wrong or you take to long to answer and you hear a grating “BRRRRRG” sound.

…..

Game over.

You were so close to finishing, getting your highest score ever, and now you’re back to where you started with nothing to show for it but frazzled nerves and sweaty palms.

Something distracted me. The weather? Too many responsibilities? Looming deadlines? Unreachable goals? Inevitable failure? Chemical imbalance? Intimidation? Self esteem?

I’ve forgotten what comes next.

It’s sitting like a lump in my throat. It’s evident in my sweaty and shaky hands. It’s impossible to ignore my heavy pulse.

I’m not gone yet.

I’m teetering.

I’m employing every emergency tactic I can think of and I’m desperately trying to remember what comes next before it all times out.

I’m attempting to make a photo book beginning with my pregnancy and ending with Vivi’s first birthday. I’ve printed out a few photos here and there and every time I do I’m genuinely shocked that they actually look good printed out and that hey, maybe I am pretty good at this taking pictures thing. I’ve organized them fairly well, I certainly have my favorites, but it seems everyday I add new favorites. They’re nothing spectacular or magical, just our everyday life. Going to the park, doing laundry, grocery shopping…pretty boring stuff if I’m being honest. My guess is that this book will be somewhere around 400 pages and you’ll need a comfy couch, a cup of cocoa and two or three potty breaks to make it cover to cover, maybe even a nap.

There’s just so many stories in all of these photos I take. I want to surround myself with them, wallpaper my walls with them, show them to complete strangers and wear them on t-shirts.

A little over a year ago today I could barely get myself out of bed. My brain was swamped with so much muck and depression I couldn’t bring myself to use my camera let alone my words. Now I’m able to use my words and photos to pay my mortgage, pay my tithing, take care of my friends and take my husband on a cruise. (ZOMG WE’RE GOING ON A REAL TRIP FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER IN 11 YEARS WITHOUT LITTLE HUMANS.) It seems so indulgent, the things I’ve been able to do with this accidental talent, just today Cody had to remind me that if anyone deserves time together on a boat with all you can eat buffets and middle aged men with fanny packs, it’s us.

Us.

What a magical little word.

Us was almost they. As in they got divorced. They didn’t last. They broke up.

But we fought for us and we won.

It’s scary putting your whole heart and hope into something you’re not sure will hold you. Every night I take a little white crescent shaped pill and hope that it will carry me through the next day. Carry me above all the ugly I know is lurking down there at the bottom. Three years ago Cody and I traded hearts with tears across the center console of my car not entirely sure if either one of us was capable of such a grand and scary responsibility. He has held my heart with all the care and tenderness in the world and I can only hope he feels the same about me.

Every night I get on my knees and pray to someone I’ve never seen but I know is there. One year ago my prayers were filled with desperate pleadings. Please. Please let me feel better. Please make this hurt less. Please let me do better. Please give me another chance. Please take the sting of tears away from my eyes.

They are still filled with pleadings. But they are pleadings for others. Pleadings for those with sick kids, broken hearts or lonely souls. Pleadings that I will be able to do good while I am here and pleadings that I can stay. That this me, this wonderful self I haven’t ever known before can stick around, one more day, one more week, one more month. I promise to do good. I promise to make Him proud if He’ll just let this me stay.

My prayers are also filled with gratitude. Gratitude for the trials I’ve gone through, gratitude for the platform I’ve been given to share my struggles, to help others and to give words to some of the scariest emotions in existence. Gratitude for these two little healthy girls and this strong man I get to call mine. Gratitude for my house, my shutter finger, the sunshine, my cats, working kidneys and orange juice. Gratitude for new shoes, new babies and hope.

I am drinking in this phase of my life in furious gulps, hoping that by wholly immersing myself in it I’ll be strong enough to weather the storms when they come back, because they always come back. I’ve finally stopped living in fear of this phase ending, rather I have been squeezing every drop of beauty from every day until my hands are numb and weary.

“Sometimes I am convinced that you gave birth to sunshine.” -Jessi

Cody is my world, Addie kept the sun from ever setting on it and Vivi brought it back to high noon.

I am back.

And not just a “I am back on my own blog after spending five days in Nashville” kind of way.

No, *I* am back. The girl I like taking places and introducing to people. The girl that likes to hang out with her friends, make new ones and dance.

Oh how I love to dance.

I’ve cried no less than three (maybe four?) times because when I look in the mirror ever single part of me is happy. It is burning like an ember from inside my heart and can be felt to the tip of every hair on my head. The voices in my head love me, they tell me I am good enough, I am smart enough and that I do good things in this life. Ahead of me I see dreams that are attainable and possible because I never gave up.

The most horrible photo was taken of me last night. Let’s just say that when taking photos of people dancing, attempt to catch them in the air rather than coming down, gravity is a cruel mistress when a dancing soul arrives to the ground again.

I laughed so hard at it I stopped breathing, I went into that sort of breathless squeal that happens when you’re all out of breath but your body still begs to laugh. I laugh because it was a horrible photo, but also because in my head I looked like a fly girl out there dancing. Despite seeing a dozen photos that proved I am far more dowdy than diva, I don’t care, because last night I danced on a stage with a hundred girls who speak to my heart to a song that is a good memory in and of itself.

Everything inside of me is so happy and healthy that the outside is glowing in an indescribable way. It’s an amazing feeling, to realize you’re living a dream you never even knew you had.

I have more dreams…wild and crazy dreams that began as quiet tappings in my heart and I sit here with the insane knowledge that someday, maybe even someday soon, my dreams are going to become reality. I can see myself in the future connecting back with the feeling I have today of utter contentment and joy…it’s going to be an amazing moment.

I am back. And I’m better than I have ever been.

Unfortunately that means I had to be tossed, thrown, beaten, bruised and stomped on by life to become better…but I made it.

I have dreams to look forward to and for the first time I don’t live in fear of the darkness overtaking me.

Now is the time I turn around and look back at all of you being thrown, tossed and beaten by life.

I will stand here screaming, cheering and yelling at you to keep going.

I will scream until I’m hoarse and cheer for you until I collapse.

Today I picture God in heaven smiling at me – I can hear Him whispering to my heart that this is what He prepared me for.

*This* being a level of happiness, gratitude and contentment that could never be savored by an undamaged soul.

“A man must dream a long time in order to act with grandeur, and dreaming is nursed in darkness.” -Jean Genet

 

December 14th, 2010 ended with me sitting on the edge of a bathtub in heavy heaving sobs.

Addie turns seven years old tomorrow and as I said last week, this transition from six to seven has been hard from the moment she turned six last year.

After doing everything in my power to give her a spectacular birthday last year and losing to cold weather and circumstances out of my control, she ended up saying horribly ungrateful and rude things to me and I snapped back. I’m not even sure snapped is a strong enough verb for what happened.

I think part of the reason tomorrow is weighing so heavily on me is because on that day last year I felt myself break.

I felt myself fall apart.

I saw and felt everything come crashing down.

Usually my descents into depression are gradual, imperceptible even. However 364 days ago I barreled into one of the worst episodes of my life after what could only be considered the worst parenting moment of my life.

I hate that my depression affects my kid, specifically that it affected Addie so hard on her birthday last year and the resulting anxiety is looming in the wings this year.

Thankfully *this* is what she remembers from last year.

I only wish I could say the same.

Tomorrow will be filled with wonderful surprises for my oldest. The one who has my ears, my smile and my stubbornness. It may not be exactly what she has planned out in her head, but it’s the best I can do.

I hope you understand my love.

Happy birthday eve.

xo

It’s no secret that I’ve been feeling tops lately.

When I try to narrow it down to just one or two things that are really doing it for me…I can’t. I think I’m just at a point where everything seems to be humming along at a manageable pace. Yet at the same time I am actively trying to keep *this* up more than I ever have. I have a reason to fight and I am fighting.

Hard.

Could it be just one thing? Sure. Could it be the perfect harmony of all the things I am doing? I guess so.

But I also feel as though I should add a disclaimer here.

I still have moments of struggle. Hard ones where I feel overwhelmed and beat. At one point I had to ask Cody to come home so I could dig out, I knew if I tried to do it all on my own I would have crashed and everything I have so well balanced right now would have shattered into unrecognizable pieces that couldn’t have been recovered easily.

I guess you could say that it’s not so much about being happy as it is about having a really strong rebound.

I use my SAD lamp every morning as soon as I wake up. Vivi lies next to me in bed for a half an hour as we soak up our daily artificial sunlight. I don’t think it really matters what kind you have, what matters is that you use it and use it everyday.

One of the things I do each day when I sit in front of my SAD lamp is read scriptures. Out loud. Not only does it give Vivi something to listen, it makes me really focus on them. I am capable of making a grocery list, a laundry list and tactical war plans in my head all while attempting to read something. I have really tried to pay attention to what the scriptures say…especially now that I’m hot and heavy into Isaiah. Dude is heavy. God is important to me and I have felt that by starting my day out with Him I’m better prepared for what may come. I would think reading anything uplifting would have the same effect for those who do not actively practice any particular religion.

I pray at least twice a day. Sometimes out loud, sometimes in my head, sometimes on my knees and sometimes curled up in the fetal position, what matters is that I do it.

I take an iron pill, vitamin C and fish pills every morning with my breakfast. A really good Omega 3-6-9 combo will supposedly have every good effect under the sun on you, including mental well being. Hooey or not, I take them and always have. Also? Eat breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Being hungry doesn’t do anyone any good.

I keep busy. Obviously. This one is pretty self explanatory. But I have also learned how to say no.

I keep the bad stuff out. No bad TV shows, no bad books, no bad movies, no bad influences. It’s really hard to hate anything when you don’t let hate into your life.

I take my medication every night. I finally feel as though I am on the right one for me. I am capable of highs and lows, ups and downs but without any dramatic side effects or mood changes (well, every 28 days there’s some *minor* mood fluctuations.) I feel…dare I say it…normal.

Then of course there is the big kid, the baby, the cats and my husband. I love my home. I love everyone who lives here. I love hanging out with them. My home is a safe refuge for me where I can keep the bad out and for the most part only let good in. I think everyone needs a place where they feel safe.

Home is my safe place.

Hopefully this continues for a very long time.

While I am here…I’ll just be around, you know…smiling and stuff.

I was once accused of doing “it” wrong by a nurse while I was inpatient at a Utah hospital.

“It” being my recovery.

She came in after one of my group therapy sessions and asked what I had been working on.

I told her that during the group session I realized just how much I had to go back to. A good husband, good friends, a decent job, a stable family and few other things that I had a new found appreciation for.

She scolded me and told me I wasn’t doing it right and that I was wrong.

People who land themselves in *that* wing of the hospital aren’t supposed to be so happy and grateful for their own life so fast apparently.

Whoops.

I hated that nurse. I had her for over 24 hours of my 72 hour stay.

She had a nervous tick that I had forgotten about until I saw her at a wedding. She came up to me insistent that I looked familiar, I didn’t recognize her, that is until she ticked.

I was reminded of being scolded for having the audacity to find hope during one of the worst seasons of my life.

********

I am so good right now.

So strong.

So happy.

And because of her I sometimes wonder if I’m doing it wrong. Maybe this isn’t really happiness. Maybe this is mania…depression masquerading as happiness.

But I’ve been through mania, and this? Isn’t mania.

I think this is just plain old happy and content and I still blame this baby for most of it.

Nothing special is going on. Nothing fancy has happened.

Well, except for this cat.

How fancy is he?

I feel the way sweet tastes.

To anyone who may be out there fighting to come back? Keep fighting. Oh my, please keep fighting. Because this feeling of sweetness? To be able to appreciate a simple life the way those who have not suffered are not able to?

It is worth every tear, heartache and pain to know this kind of delicious. Even if it won’t last forever, it makes the time spent here better.

***********************

Being able to wake up every morning for the last several weeks and feel hopeful about what each new day truly has been a special occasion, since it has never really happened before. I’m grateful to be participating in this project with Hallmark to share my experience and the beauty of the extraordinary ordinary.

I could tell by her face that she was tired. And not the kind of tired you can fix with a good night’s sleep.

The kind of tired that breaks you from the inside. The kind of tired you can’t easily fix. The kind of tired you contain within your whole being, even when it threatens to burst at the seams.

I am familiar with that kind of tired.

That kind of messy.

Like a clean, presentable room where all of the junk is shoved so hard and far into the closet you have to quickly slam the door so it doesn’t all come toppling out.

My friend has a teenage daughter who is struggling.

My friend wondered where she had gone wrong as a mom and how bad she had screwed her up.

16 years ago I was her daughter.

A bright, brilliant girl with the entire world in front of her. But something was off. Something was wrong.

I tried to fill the cracks with food, drugs, alcohol and boys in an attempt to drown out the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy and discomfort.

Suddenly in the middle of a store the young damaged girl inside of me was telling my grown up friend all of the things to watch out for. All of the things that she can do as her mom to care for her. To love her. To get her through this. What I hope she heard above everything I rambled on about was “She needs you. You need to be her first line of defense. She needs to trust you. She needs to know you’ll always be there to catch her when she falls. She needs to feel safe at home or she’s going to go find something or someone else that is only an illusion of safety.”

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.

About her daughter.

I was her age when I fell to the floor sobbing in a friends house simply because I felt as though my entire existence was a waste of time. I was wearing black wool pants and a red striped sweater. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried so hard again in my life.

I couldn’t talk to my mom about it. She never seemed to understand that I was different. That I needed to be handled differently. She seemed to only view me as difficult. It was at that point that I retreated farther and father away from the life a 13 year old should have had.

My path has not been a smooth one.

But it has been made smooth by years of traveling back and forth between okay and not okay.

I have people to walk with me now. People to carry me when I can’t make it back to okay on my own. And all these wonderful people traveling my road with me pack it down and smooth it out even more.

I will pray for my friend. Pray she has the patience and understanding to carry her wild and wonderfully imperfect daughter through the rough road ahead of her when she can’t carry herself.

As for her daughter?

She is one of the special ones.

One with so much fight in her that things have to be difficult in order to for her to grow stronger rather than weak and complacent.

Generations will be blessed because of her struggles and strength.

She is going to grow in ways that cannot be taught in books or learned from others. She is going to feel in a way most people are incapable of feeling. Empathy and understanding are going to be two of her greatest strengths. She is going to make an amazing friend and mother.

We both broke down early in life so we could grow stronger from the very beginning, and I wouldn’t trade my experiences for anything.

I hope someday she can say the same.

I am so tired.

I have been walking the fine line between okay and not okay for the last several weeks.

Truth is I want to stop walking and simply crumple into a heap.

Winter is so close. The signs of darkness and cold are becoming harder and harder to ignore, and they are wrapping their fingers slowly around my throat.

I used to get excited for fall. Boots! Sweaters! Soup!

This year I simply do not want to do fall.

I don’t want the sun to go away for six months.

I know I shouldn’t be letting the fear of something that hasn’t happened yet ruin the time I have left. But it’s not as if winter is maybe going to happen, or maybe this year I won’t fall into a deep dark funk. It’s going to happen. And it’s going to happen soon.

This morning I woke up to an email thanking/applauding me for pushing on through my depression. She closed with this line,

 I’ve had moments where I feel like myself lately, but tonight. I don’t want to keep doing this for the rest of my life.

Me neither, Bethany.

I’m so very tired.

But I will keep going. For myself, for you, for the countless others out there who know this intangible pain, for my husband, my friends, my family and for these…

Giving up simply isn’t an option.