I grew up in a loving home. I had 3 older brothers. My dad worked third shift most of my life, and my mom worked during the day. Mom left the house around 5am, worked hard all day, then came home and took care of the house and our family. She cooked dinner every single night, and we ate together as a family. Dad worked hard all night in a physically taxing job, then did the school-runs with the kids in the morning. He slept during the day and woke up to eat dinner with the family before preparing for another night of work. Mom did the school pick-ups when we were younger, and then we car-pooled with another family as we entered high school.
My parents were around. They were involved. They loved and supported all four of us. They took us to church. They lived out the things we learned on Sundays. God's Word was their foundation, the formation of their worldview. They lived this out in their daily lives. They were not perfect by any means, but they tried hard and they were genuine. They were wonderful examples to us.
Somehow, in all of this, I felt like I did not quite fit in. I felt different in my family because I was not a boy. I felt left out because I had my own room and didn't like the same things my brothers liked. I was a tall girl, and I hit puberty early. I felt different from my peers because of that. I was bigger than other people my age. I felt my body was abnormal. I had a fierce case of acne throughout my teen years. I felt that was all people saw when they looked at me.
I spent a lot of time alone in my room. I liked to read and play the clarinet for long, long periods of time. I enjoyed writing. But I also spent a lot of that time mentally beating myself up. I thought my family would be better off without me. I felt like I was a burden in many ways. I was not convinced my friends were actually my friends.
Anything negative that was said about me, I took to heart. I took it as truth. Positive things that were said about me, I blew off. I figured those people did not know the real me, or they were just saying those things to be nice.
I thought these feelings were normal.
I thought every person went through this.
I thought everyone else was better at concealing things than I was.
I did well in school and graduated salutatorian of my class. I went to a competitive college, entered a difficult major, and worked about 15 hours a week while taking a full-time course load. It was a lot of work. I loved it. I loved learning. I loved challenging myself.
I started talking to my future husband during my senior year of college. Until that point, I did not think guys liked me. I had some male "friends" in high school who had said some things to that effect, and I believed them. I did not think there was anything attractive about me. But I felt like Tim was worth the risk of opening up to. He was in school in Michigan and I was in school in Ohio. We would talk on the phone every Friday night until my phone died...usually 3-4 hours. Then we would e-mail throughout the week.
One day as a senior, I was in clinicals for nursing. I was in the ICU that day, and I had a patient receiving tube feedings. My instructor pulled me to the side to review the process with me. I didn't know all the answers. As was typical of me, tears formed in my eyes and I could not hold them back. I was embarrassed to be crying, but this was how I coped. My instructor, out of concern and compassion, tentatively broached a sensitive topic with me. She placed her hand on my shoulder and asked, "Have you ever considered talking to a doctor about being put on an anti-depressant?"
I was humiliated.
I remember sharing this experience with Tim when it happened. I was rationalizing all of it to him. I was a sensitive person. It is okay to be sensitive. It is okay to cry. It is okay to be a quiet person. It is okay to be timid. I was still strong. There was nothing wrong with me. I was normal.
Looking back, all of those statements were true. But they did not make the concerns of my instructor any less true.
I graduated from Cedarville and moved into an apartment in Grand Rapids to be closer to Tim and figure out where our relationship was going. That decision was atypical for my personality, but it was exactly what I needed. My confidence slowly grew as I lived on my own, started my first real job, and got involved in a local church. Making friends was difficult at that stage though, and I spent a lot of time alone.
Tim and I got married a few years later, and we moved to California. We had no family nearby, and we needed that. We needed to learn how to be a married couple on our own. The first year of marriage was rough for me. I had this constant underlying fear that Tim would learn more about me and realize he didn't like me after all. This feeling of inadequacy drove my response to my husband. I accused him of thinking things he didn't think. I took things he said and filtered them through the way I thought of myself. I twisted his words. I heard things he never actually said. I shed many tears, especially that first year.
Then our first daughter was born. I never knew my own selfishness until I was responsible for the life and well-being of another human. Again, I spent a lot of time in tears and self-criticism. I did not get enough sleep, because she was not a good sleeper. I was afraid to be too needy, so I did not make alone-time a priority. I missed my family. I wanted to be near them, so they could know my baby girl.
We moved back to the midwest, now living within a few hours of our families. Every two years, we added a child to the family. Our grand finale was a set of twins. With each addition, both happiness and stress grew. By this time Tim and I had worked through the issues of our early marriage, and I no longer had those fears I had at first. But every month, during my cycle, I would still beat myself up and hear him saying things he was not saying...things he has never said...things my rational mind knows he would never say.
I gradually learned to verbalize what I needed in those emotional situations. But often, especially with the kids, I let stressful situations build up until I exploded in verbal anger.
Twice, I ended up in the walk-in clinic to be seen for abdominal pain. Both times, I was told it was anxiety. I was offered medication. I was told I needed to deal with my stress. I responded in anger. I was frustrated they were not dealing with my medical symptoms.
As a Christian, I questioned if my anger was a sin issue. Maybe I had sin in my life to deal with, and if I could just break through and conquer that, my issues would be resolved. I had a lifelong cycle of responding in anger, beating myself up about it, confessing and repenting, praying for change, allowing stress to build up, responding in anger, etc.
In December of last year, I had an appointment with my primary care doctor. She was going through her thorough assessment, and she asked, "how are you doing emotionally"? The fountain of tears was not containable. I had a lump in my throat and could not answer her question. She looked at me and said, "ohhhhhh...let's visit that a little bit". I shared my concerns about my anger. I told her I was no longer able to function as the mom my children needed. I admitted the depression I had been denying my entire life, and I asked for help.
Asking for help was a difficult thing to do. Again, what if this was a sin issue that I was attempting to cover up with medication? I was discussing this with a friend. She said, "My son's therapist says that 'mad is sad's bodyguard'. Sometimes it is easier to respond in anger than it is to be sad. You are protecting yourself from sadness when you do that." Mind. Blown. My anger was a manifestation of depression.
After 10 months of being on medication, I am finally able to write this blog post. I am able to tell my story to the world, without embarrassment. My mind feels so much more clear. I do not know how to describe in words the cloud I lived under before treatment. It was a fog in my mind, threatening to overtake and distort reality if I let my guard down. It was a constant negative feeling, an inability to cope with any added stress in my life.
But again, what if it was a sin issue? The Lord has been working in my heart, all this time. These are not happy pills that take away all emotion. Yes, I sin. I still get angry, though not as quickly or as frequently as before. I still confess my sins and pray for a change of heart and the ability to respond more appropriately. But finally, I am able to accept the truth that God provides mercy and grace to ALL of His children. I am no exception to that wonderful truth.
Why am I writing this post right now? Mainly, I want to encourage other people. First, if you are in a situation like mine, please seek help. Maybe for you, that means seeking out a good Christian counselor. Maybe it means talking to a trusted friend. Maybe it means asking your doctor about medication options. Whatever that looks like, reach out for help! I sometimes wonder what pain I would have spared myself and my loved ones if I had listened to my nursing instructor and sought treatment in college. Second, realize that those around you may have more going on in their lives than they let on. Are you a close friend that can ask them how they are really doing? Consider how you can support someone who may have an undiagnosed mental health condition. Encourage those around you! I had this support, but for so long I just was not ready to address my needs. Give people time, and realize it may take years. Find a way to let them know you love them, and realize this may look different for every person.
