It took me long enough!

I haven't been able to get in here because I couldn't remember the correct e-mail/password combination. Whew! It's good to be back. More later.

"...some blow or loss, guilt or rejection….”

Last Saturday (a week ago) was a really bad day for me. I slept all day, got up for three hours and went back to bed again until Sunday morning. I cried for much of the three hours I was up and all during church the next morning too. I had been reading the chapter called "Depression" in Healing for the Wounded Soul by John and Paula Sanford. It described me so well and really hit me. The book is intended for people who want to help others heal, not for the wounded themselves and as I read what they were recommending the "healers" do and not do for the depressed I couldn't help but wish that I had people like that here, around me. At church on Sunday, I felt very disconnected. But I'm sure that was me and not the folks at church because quite a few people came and hugged me.

Since then, I have gone back to reread the chapter on depression and take notes. As I did this, something interesting happened. I was reading, “Performance orientation… [lies] in some degree behind every person in depression … though it may not be the primal cause. The first cause, some blow or loss, guilt or rejection….” And at this point, a memory came to me but I’ll finish the quote first. “…is like the spark, but the performance orientation is the tinder. Or the wound is the seed, but performance orientation is the fertile ground where depression may quietly grow.”

The memory that hit me like a load of bricks was the car accident we had two days after my fourth birthday. It wasn’t a hidden memory but it has never hit me the way it did that day. It was Christmas Day and we were driving into the city to go to church. My dad was driving, my mom was in the front seat holding my not-quite-three-year-old sister on her lap. I was in the back seat between my paternal grandparents. I think there might have been an uncle with us or something but I can’t remember. The roads were icy and my dad liked driving fast (so I’ve heard). Just as we were nearing the city (I still know the spot though it’s now industrial instead of farm fields), Dad lost control of the car. Mom’s door flew open, my sister flew out the door with Mom following and the car following both of them until it landed in the snow-filled ditch, pinning my sister under the car, the hot engine pressed against her cheek. They couldn’t get her out. I sat screaming, unsure whether my mom and/or sister would live, and my grandfather very harshly told me to be quiet.

It took half an hour to finally get the car off my sister. During that time, someone was trying to flag down a car to help, but no one stopped for the longest time, until finally an immigrant who could hardly speak English stopped to help (maybe HE was the extra man I remember). Once my sister was rescued, the man took her (and her cooked face) and my parents to the hospital but he dropped my grandparents and me off at a bus stop and we proceeded to church. I remember very vividly, the bus stop and waiting there. I know that corner too. I don’t remember anything after that.

But as this memory came into my mind (taking only a flash of a second), I began to cry. I can’t remember ever crying about that accident. And for the first time, consciously, I began to wonder what would have happened to me if my mom and sister HAD died. It was a very scary thought.

That was Sunday afternoon. Wednesday I saw my psychiatrist. She was asking me questions and the accident came up again and, once again, I could hardly speak because of the tears. Obviously there’s something there that needs a closer look. Somehow it seems to be connected to my depression, but how? Why? The doctor asked me how the accident then is impacting my life now and all I could think of was my tendency to be a people pleaser or, what the book was talking about, performance orientation. My doctor seemed to suggest that there’s something else or something different. I haven’t a clue. I do know that going over that chapter again really gave me insight into myself.

If I was well

My doctor asked me what I would do if I wasn’t working full time. That’s got me thinking about what I would like to do if I had the energy.

I would like our home to be a place of hospitality, where we would all feel comfortable inviting people over. It used to be like this when the kids were little. But in order to be back in that place again, I need to be able to keep the house in some sort of order and cleanliness and be making meals on a regular basis.

I would play the piano more. If my knee wasn’t hurting, I’d walk all sorts of places and maybe cycle too. I would be writing more. I started the research for a book about my relationship to and marriage with my husband but the depression (and working full time) got in the way. I would spend more time on the streets of where my church is trying to minister.

"That's not who I am!"

I had an insight this morning. The way my co-worker dressed today had the potential of stirring me in unwelcome ways, especially at one point when she stood in front of my desk, and yet my first thought was, how will I respond to this? I remembered what had happened at the retreat a week and a half ago and was able to keep my thoughts where they belonged.

As I thought about this and how God is changing me, the words came to me, "This isn't who I am!" It came like a thunderbolt and was quite a surprise to me. And yet it rang true. I'm no longer who I used to be or who I thought I was. To be quite bold about it (and frankly, I think it's something that must be proven through time), I am no longer a woman who is sexually and/or romantically attracted to other women. Wow! That's a scary thing to declare and yet that was the revelation I received this morning. I am a daughter of God--not a lesbian, not a woman who struggles with same-sex attraction, but a daughter of God. Wow!

My psychiatrist asked me today how I've been doing the last week in that department and I could honestly say that I have not been troubled in the ways I was before the retreat. She was amazed. I am too. God's given me a whole new perspective of myself!

Sunday morning

I could have gone home Saturday evening but I wanted time alone to digest the weekend and process it. I also wanted to attend the Sunday service of the church that sponsored the retreat. I won’t bore you with the details but there is one thing that really impressed me. After the singing/worship time and before the sermon, the pastor invited everyone to gather into groups of four or five to pray for each other. This was not an opportunity to bring up the needs of your neighbour’s cousin’s daughter’s broken leg, but a chance to share real and personal needs of the people in the group. Wow! What a way to foster community and intimacy amongst the congregation!

And in fact, I was so very impressed by everything about this church. There was a closeness to each other and a naked closeness to God. This is not a church where people wear a façade to show how spiritual they are. It is a place where people are real, welcoming transparency and honesty, and it shows. What a blessing that visit was! I wish I could be part of a church like that.

I wish I was able to better describe the impact the weekend had on me. It was very powerful and as it progressed, I found a deep peace filling me. Since then, I've been going to that place where I've experienced God's love in various ways and letting His love and presence soak into me. It has made such a difference in so many ways. I'm even sleeping better!

An Insight

Saturday evening I went out to eat and wrote out some thoughts. I want emotional intimacy with my husband but he doesn’t seem to know what that looks like, never mind how to develop it. But what if, instead of waiting for him to give me what he may not know how to give, I began to do the things I’ve done or wanted to do with those with whom I have felt emotionally connected?

For instance, I used to send e-cards to Pearl all the time. I kept her picture near me. With someone else, I was willing to go into the smoking section of a restaurant, just to be with and near her. I thought of how, even though my co-worker smokes, I wanted to kiss her. I’d endure the foul taste to have that closeness with her. So why not my husband? Why not do those same things with him? Why not act as if I am madly in love with him even though I may not be. I could share my thoughts, feelings and life with him. I could give to him to please him, whether he tries to reciprocate or not. Can I do this?

I’ve started to send him cards and e-mails during the day from work. And I’m thinking about my trip to Tennessee this summer, to my niece’s wedding. I haven’t really wanted him to come, though I’ve tried not to convey that. He’s worried about the cost (he always worries about money). I’ve been very generous to others, paying for meals and such, but I’ve always had the mind-set that when we’re together, my husband should be the one who pays for everything. That probably comes from the years with him when I had no money or access to money. What if I invited him to come with me to the wedding and I offered to pay all the costs of the trip? That’s a scary prospect—not the spending of money but paying his way. My fear is that he’ll take advantage of me but I’ve renounced the spirits of fear and unbelief. Surely I can trust God to protect me as I step out in faith to do what seems so risky. And so I plan to do this.

Death

The devil comes to steal, kill and destroy and brings death to many things. By contrast, Jesus is the Resurrection and the Life. There’s another juxtaposition that I’d never quite seen like that.

My hopes and dreams—did Satan kill my dream for love? Jesus can bring it back to life again. In fact, that’s what He’s promised me and I see it happening. Satan tries to bring death into our relationships—marriage, friendships, church and even (or especially) our relationship with God. He wants to bring death to our bodies, to the soul, mind and heart. He wants us to be hopeless, faithless and give up on God; to kill our vision for ministry—to make it wither up and die and have us accept it. The spirit of death brings mental dullness, tiredness (exactly what I’ve been experiencing) and a desire to die in addition to the easily recognizable forms of violence and murder. But God has come to bring life and life abundantly—to our spirits and bodies.

I could recognize how this has continued to have a grip on my life. I’m hoping that things will begin to change. The important thing, however, is that if we want to live by the Spirit of God, we must keep in step with the Spirit and live as He leads us. This is the crunch. It’s one thing to have a wonderful experience for a weekend but can I continue to walk in the freedom I’ve been given? Or will I welcome some or all of those evil spirits back into my life by the choices I make?

Heaviness

This and the next (and last) topic touched heavily on depression and I expected to become quite overcome with emotion and tears like I had with the other topics but, to my surprise, that didn’t happen.

Heaviness attempts to isolate. It shows up as hopelessness, despair and a loss of heart and vision and results in a degradation of our relationships, self-absorption and the avoidance of counsel and wisdom.

Isaiah 61:3 says that for “those who grieve in Zion, [God will give them] … a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” (The song calls it a spirit of heaviness.) The word is used also in Isaiah 42:3, which Matthew quotes, saying that it describes Jesus: “A bruised reed he will not break and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out, till he leads justice to victory.” (Matthew 12:20, NIV) The word “smoldering” is the same word. Jesus doesn’t break those who are heavy with despair. He comforts those who mourn! We can’t pull ourselves out of this heaviness and despair, but God can.

The problem with Heaviness is that we become self-focused and self-centered. (Have I been like that?) We push others away (and I’ve done my share of that). But, as I quoted above, Jesus wants to make an exchange—a garment of praise for the spirit of Heaviness. A garment of praise is a gift from God, the speaker told us, and we need to exercise it, so we pulled off the garment of heaviness, as if we were removing a t-shirt, and put on the garment of praise. And then we spent time singing praises to God. The cool thing about praising God is that when we worship Him, darkness can’t stay.

When I went for prayer, the fellow praying for me wanted to know what was behind my depression. Sigh. I hated to admit it because he and I had been chatting in the line waiting for lunch and I felt I had made a friend. Now I had to reveal stuff that I wanted to hide—my difficult marriage and my struggle with homosexuality. Nothing profound happened, which has me wondering if the depression was broken during the earlier sessions and now it’s just a matter of continuing in what God has given me. I guess time will tell.

Bitterness

“See to it that no one misses the grace of God and that no bitter root grows up to cause trouble and defile many." (Hebrews 12:15)

When we look at a potted flower, we see the pot, the stems, leaves, flowers and soil. Roots often remain hidden and in order to see them, they must be exposed. So, when we remove the plant from the pot, the roots are easily visible. People see our appearances but the bitterness that’s rooted in us often remains hidden. Hidden or not, those roots of bitterness can cause defilement of us and others. “What bitterness is hidden in me?” I wondered. Bitterness develops when we form strong opinions about others; when we judge others.

The speaker took the potted plant she was using to illustrate and poured some water over the exposed roots. A bit of soil washed away but not much. But when she dunked it into a bowl of water, she was able to remove all the soil. Without soil, the roots can’t grow. And so with us. We can either be sprinkled by the Living Water or be immersed in it.

And then she reminded us about the mustard seed. Jesus said that it’s the smallest of seeds and yet, when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree so that birds can perch in its branches. But Jesus also said that if we had faith the size of a tiny mustard seed, we could tell mountains to move and they would. Imagine the mustard seed as it grows in the garden. What happens with the roots? They grow too and the network of roots begin to displace other roots, such as those of bitterness.

What a contrast! We can have roots of bitterness, which can defile many or we can have roots of faith which will crowd out unwanted roots and, like the mustard plant giving shelter to the birds, we can use our faith to bless those towards whom we’ve been bitter. Isn’t that cool?

Fear

The spirit of Fear comes in many forms. I used to think I wasn’t afraid of anything but as they listed things like “strong feelings of powerlessness”, “stripped of authority at church”, “pulling away or withdrawing from others”, I realized that this does apply to me. How does the door open for fear to get in? Amongst other ways, it can come through previous generations and childhood experiences.

When I went for prayer about fear, I was asked, “What are you afraid of?”

Rejection.

“Rejection by whom?”

Authority figures, maybe? Those who have power over me? Especially men. Oh! That’s a new thought!

“When was the door opened?”

I hadn’t thought about that, but it came so clearly—when I was a preschooler. We lived with my paternal grandparents and my grandfather was very stern. I remember how, at our nightly times of family worship, wondering which way was the “proper” or more pious way of kneeling: sitting on my heels or being upright from head to knees? The latter was more uncomfortable so that must be the better way. My sister and I weren’t allowed to move or wiggle during prayer or during the reading, never mind making any kind of noise.

But another thought and remembrance came to me. My older cousins have described the kind of man they knew my father to be. He was jovial and friendly, easily their favourite. I knew a different man. Why? Was he that different with us? I remember, still at my grandparents’ as a preschooler, listening to a children’s radio program with my mom and sister but we had to do it clandestinely so that my dad wouldn’t find out. Was I afraid of my father because of his behaviour or because of what my mom communicated? Did I learn fear of my dad, grandfather and men in general from my mom? I’m beginning to wonder. I have only one concrete memory of feeling afraid of my dad on my own account and many positive experiences with him but I can see my mom, who was nearly young enough to be my father’s daughter, being very insecure. In later years she clearly displayed an animosity towards men.

The person praying for me led me through a declaration, phrase by phrase as I echoed. When she prompted, “I am equal to everyone else,” I couldn’t open my mouth to say the words and broke down crying.

I have never felt equal. From grade one on, everyone else was richer, dressed nicer, was more informed, more important or popular. My classmate’s play house was nearly as big as the house I lived in—a building smaller than a one-car garage with no plumbing. Five of us, one in cloth diapers, lived in that little house and my dad drove to the public tap in the neighbouring town to get water, which he brought home in pails.

When we moved to the city just before grade two, I was put in the slow class. All the other kids came with school supplies. I had nothing and wondered how they knew what to bring. In the middle of the year I was moved to the smart class but they were way ahead of me in what they’d been taught. I remember the day the teacher asked me what time it was. We were all lined up, waiting to be dismissed for the day. I hadn’t been taught how to tell time so I said I didn’t know. Everyone laughed.

When we left my dad, in the middle of grade three, we moved into a portion of the main floor of a three-story house, sharing the basement washroom with the other main-floor tenant. My three sisters and I shared a small bedroom and my mom slept on the couch. A few years later, we moved to a complete, self-contained apartment that was infested with mice. My classmates lived in modern bungalows in the suburbs and their homes were so beautiful, uncluttered and well-kept. But then, they were “rich” and we were poor. We were so poor that when we began receiving the paltry sum that welfare gives its clients, we moved a few steps up on the social scale.

My mom reinforced this idea of being unequal by the way she related to others and so I’ve lived with it all my life. It still amazes me that I now live in a large, five-bedroom house in a part of town where, as a child, I thought only “rich” people lived. But even still, I feel unequal—unequal to my neighbours, unequal to my husband’s colleagues, unequal to women who are well-dressed and well-coiffed, unequal to those who have power and position and especially unequal to those who are popular. I’m afraid to “impose” myself on them, as though they have more important things to attend to than spending time with me.

The person praying for me about fear, spent time praying over me and then asked me to symbolically remove the yoke of fear from my shoulders and break it over my knee. Then she picked up the declaration again, asking me to repeat, “I am equal to everyone else,” and this time I could do it.