It's time for me to write again.
I want to let you know that although I've been neglectful to my poor blog, I've genuinely tried writing. At least, I've tried thinking of blog posts that I could write--cute, fun, informative ones full of pictures and stories about our new dog, Easter, Valentine's Day, running, and other details and anecdotes about the fun, busy, crazy past two months--but nothing ever felt right until tonight, when it hit me what I needed to write. I've learned in situations like these that if I try to put it off until a more convenient time (for example, not at 1:00 in the morning), I usually lose the inspiration/gumption to write, so I'm going for it, even though I'm not sure how this will come together.
This post, unlike most of what I try to put on here, isn't a fun post with cute pictures of my kids (although they are cute) or funny stories about my new dog (although he is funny). This is going to be quite vulnerable, rather serious (read: boring), and might even stretch into two separate posts, depending on how lucid my late-night writing brain can be. So, that being said, if you don't want to read this, I understand.
But for those of you who do want to read this, thank you for being willing to let me be vulnerable with you.
I've previously alluded to the fact that this past year has been a difficult one for me. Without going into details, I can tell you that for several months out of this past year I experienced some pretty severe depression. While I've experienced PPD after each of my children, and I felt that I was pretty open about my experiences with that (whether on my blog or in real life), this was my first time being flung into full-on situational depression over things that were completely and absolutely out of my control.
I never fully understood depression before, having been one of those blessedly sunshiney Pollyanna-type of people for the majority of my life. While I experienced blues and difficulties and sad weeks and months in my previous life, I've never felt the feeling that comes when one's light is dimmed nearly to the point of darkness for months without relief, until this last year.
The shame that came from hiding in my bed until the kids forced me out to feed them breakfast, only to end up huddling on the couch while my children survived on Netflix and cold cereal is something I wish I could forget. The darkness and hopelessness I felt for months as I watched my life move around me while hiding behind my phone and Netflix in an attempt to numb the despair I felt creeping in is something I hope and pray never to have to return to.
These absolutely paralyzing thoughts and feelings weren't something that I could just shake off, as much as I tried, prayed, and pleaded. This depression was something I had to wade through and walk through and sit in, until my Heavenly Father decided that I had learned the lessons He felt I needed to learn from this particular experience. Once I learned to surrender my will and happiness to Him, He did, in his mercy, "snatch me out" of the pit I had fallen into, and gratefully I admit that I hope, through His grace, never to have to go back.
Now that I'm on the other side of this experience for the most part, I have learned a few things from it that I would like to share, if I may.
When I had these ugly thoughts and feelings come to me, I used to try to suppress them by trying to tell myself that "It wasn't so bad" or "I was just being ungrateful," or, one of my favorites, "It's probably that time of the month again" (Aunt Flo does make a good scapegoat, after all). I found that when I denied myself the reality of what I was feeling, these emotions, rather than going away, usually tended to fester and grow and end up in me having some kind of emotional explosion (usually towards my kids and husband, who unfortunately get the brunt of my temper far too often).
As I read and prayed and talked to people who understood, I learned the importance of emoting--to let these emotions move through me rather than trying to hold onto them, shove them down, or pretend they weren't there. One of the easiest and least damaging ways for me to emote was to just write--to sit down in front of a blank piece of paper or a computer screen and just let whatever was in me come out. I pictured it as a medical procedure for my soul, of sorts--rather than putting Band-Aids over the wounded parts of my soul, I needed to clean them out, to purge them, and to give them the treatments that healing required, no matter how painful or inconvenient.
When I was 5 years old, I had an experience where I stepped on a toothpick. Me being the dramatic sort, my parents didn't believe my hysterics at first (in their defense, I had just had a similar tantrum over a scratch I got from our rose bushes). When they saw a half-inch piece of wood sticking out from between my toes, they pulled it out and put a Band-Aid over the small puncture wound they saw.
However, as I continued to refuse to put weight on that foot for several days, even staying home from my beloved school because of the pain, my parents realized that the injury was more serious than it had originally seemed. I began to get very sick, and as they took me to doctors and through a multitude of tests, we began to realize that part of the toothpick was still inside my foot, causing an infection that was affecting my entire body.
MRIs, Cat Scans, and X-Rays did no good, because the foreign object was made of wood (which made it undetectable to most tests), and so finally, after two months of me being unable to walk or attend school, a podiatrist (coincidentally enough, named Dr. Flake) surgically cut open my foot and removed a nearly two-inch-long toothpick out of the arch of my foot.
Once the toothpick was removed, I quickly healed and was back to jumping rope, playing hopscotch, and all of the other typical activities of a busy 5-year-old. BUT--we had to get the toothpick out first. All of the pretty My Little Pony Band-Aids in the world had absolutely no effect until we got to the root of the infection and removed it.
Last year, me realizing that my soul had splinters in it was one of the first steps I took towards my healing. Writing was one of the best and most effective ways of removing these splinters as I came across them.
As I continued to write, I found that by putting words to my negative thoughts, I took away just a little bit of their power. By letting God know exactly what I was thinking and by sharing some of these thoughts with a trusted friend, I was able to realize that they weren't as shameful as what I kept telling myself when I kept hiding them under my pretty Band-Aids.
Because I am human, human thoughts and emotions will continue to come to me. When I let go and let God take care of them by being honest with Him, I am able to move on from these negative feelings much faster than when I try to pretend they're not there by slapping Band-Aids over them. As I learned how to emote negative emotions as they came up, I started to relearn how to emote my positive emotions in healthy ways, as well.
One of my favorite old ways of putting Band-Aids over the ugly emotions I didn't want to see was to play the "Gratitude Game," where I would talk about all of the things I was grateful for in an attempt to divert my attention away from what I was truly feeling. As I learned to acknowledge my negative thoughts, I moved away from gratitude in a desperate attempt to get away from old unhealthy habits, which plunged me further into depression for several months.
However, as healing gradually started to come, I began to relearn the power and proper use of gratitude. I started to once again look for things to be grateful for, and in March, I came across this talk, given by President Henry B. Eyring.
He speaks of the principle of learning to write down every day how he had seen the hand of God manifest that day, and says, "I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family."
As I read, I was touched by the Spirit, which whispered to me, "You've learned to write about the bad. Now, write about the good." I made a goal to start writing down, as President Eyring does, how I've seen God's hand manifest in my life every night, before going to bed.
It started out as a simple exercise, done more out of the desire to be obedient than out of any specific faith in its power, but in my first attempt to write (thinking that I'd maybe have one or two little experiences to write down), I was surprised to see two entire pages of experiences, recorded in my handwriting, of how God had blessed me on that day alone.
That first entry, dated March 2nd of this year, included things that varied from "He gave me strength and motivation to clean my home and prepare my Primary lesson--without stress" to "It's rained/snowed enough over the winter to keep our fruit trees alive." It even included the note: "I was able to come up with a nutritious and filling dinner, lunch, and breakfast for the kids without worrying about it too much." Simple things, almost unnoticeable, but when I took the time to write them down, they became visible, tangible reminders that not only does God love me, but He is actively involved in every aspect of my life.
In the past month, this nightly exercise has become one of the most powerful tools in my life. Sitting every night, for just a moment or two, praying for the Spirit, meditating over my day, and then writing what comes to mind, whether it be something big and spiritual (listening to General Conference and crying as every single talk seemed to be directed towards me personally) or something small and seemingly insignificant (coloring with my children) has changed me. It has changed my perspective, my attitude, and my heart completely.
Over the past month, I haven't missed a single day, no matter how late I stayed up or how early I know I have to wake up the next morning, and I hope to keep this tradition up for the rest of my life.
How grateful I am for the power my God graciously and generously gives me.
Next up: How I was eating spiritual dog food and telling myself that I liked it.
I want to let you know that although I've been neglectful to my poor blog, I've genuinely tried writing. At least, I've tried thinking of blog posts that I could write--cute, fun, informative ones full of pictures and stories about our new dog, Easter, Valentine's Day, running, and other details and anecdotes about the fun, busy, crazy past two months--but nothing ever felt right until tonight, when it hit me what I needed to write. I've learned in situations like these that if I try to put it off until a more convenient time (for example, not at 1:00 in the morning), I usually lose the inspiration/gumption to write, so I'm going for it, even though I'm not sure how this will come together.
This post, unlike most of what I try to put on here, isn't a fun post with cute pictures of my kids (although they are cute) or funny stories about my new dog (although he is funny). This is going to be quite vulnerable, rather serious (read: boring), and might even stretch into two separate posts, depending on how lucid my late-night writing brain can be. So, that being said, if you don't want to read this, I understand.
But for those of you who do want to read this, thank you for being willing to let me be vulnerable with you.
I've previously alluded to the fact that this past year has been a difficult one for me. Without going into details, I can tell you that for several months out of this past year I experienced some pretty severe depression. While I've experienced PPD after each of my children, and I felt that I was pretty open about my experiences with that (whether on my blog or in real life), this was my first time being flung into full-on situational depression over things that were completely and absolutely out of my control.
I never fully understood depression before, having been one of those blessedly sunshiney Pollyanna-type of people for the majority of my life. While I experienced blues and difficulties and sad weeks and months in my previous life, I've never felt the feeling that comes when one's light is dimmed nearly to the point of darkness for months without relief, until this last year.
The shame that came from hiding in my bed until the kids forced me out to feed them breakfast, only to end up huddling on the couch while my children survived on Netflix and cold cereal is something I wish I could forget. The darkness and hopelessness I felt for months as I watched my life move around me while hiding behind my phone and Netflix in an attempt to numb the despair I felt creeping in is something I hope and pray never to have to return to.
These absolutely paralyzing thoughts and feelings weren't something that I could just shake off, as much as I tried, prayed, and pleaded. This depression was something I had to wade through and walk through and sit in, until my Heavenly Father decided that I had learned the lessons He felt I needed to learn from this particular experience. Once I learned to surrender my will and happiness to Him, He did, in his mercy, "snatch me out" of the pit I had fallen into, and gratefully I admit that I hope, through His grace, never to have to go back.
Now that I'm on the other side of this experience for the most part, I have learned a few things from it that I would like to share, if I may.
When I had these ugly thoughts and feelings come to me, I used to try to suppress them by trying to tell myself that "It wasn't so bad" or "I was just being ungrateful," or, one of my favorites, "It's probably that time of the month again" (Aunt Flo does make a good scapegoat, after all). I found that when I denied myself the reality of what I was feeling, these emotions, rather than going away, usually tended to fester and grow and end up in me having some kind of emotional explosion (usually towards my kids and husband, who unfortunately get the brunt of my temper far too often).
As I read and prayed and talked to people who understood, I learned the importance of emoting--to let these emotions move through me rather than trying to hold onto them, shove them down, or pretend they weren't there. One of the easiest and least damaging ways for me to emote was to just write--to sit down in front of a blank piece of paper or a computer screen and just let whatever was in me come out. I pictured it as a medical procedure for my soul, of sorts--rather than putting Band-Aids over the wounded parts of my soul, I needed to clean them out, to purge them, and to give them the treatments that healing required, no matter how painful or inconvenient.
When I was 5 years old, I had an experience where I stepped on a toothpick. Me being the dramatic sort, my parents didn't believe my hysterics at first (in their defense, I had just had a similar tantrum over a scratch I got from our rose bushes). When they saw a half-inch piece of wood sticking out from between my toes, they pulled it out and put a Band-Aid over the small puncture wound they saw.
However, as I continued to refuse to put weight on that foot for several days, even staying home from my beloved school because of the pain, my parents realized that the injury was more serious than it had originally seemed. I began to get very sick, and as they took me to doctors and through a multitude of tests, we began to realize that part of the toothpick was still inside my foot, causing an infection that was affecting my entire body.
MRIs, Cat Scans, and X-Rays did no good, because the foreign object was made of wood (which made it undetectable to most tests), and so finally, after two months of me being unable to walk or attend school, a podiatrist (coincidentally enough, named Dr. Flake) surgically cut open my foot and removed a nearly two-inch-long toothpick out of the arch of my foot.
Once the toothpick was removed, I quickly healed and was back to jumping rope, playing hopscotch, and all of the other typical activities of a busy 5-year-old. BUT--we had to get the toothpick out first. All of the pretty My Little Pony Band-Aids in the world had absolutely no effect until we got to the root of the infection and removed it.
Last year, me realizing that my soul had splinters in it was one of the first steps I took towards my healing. Writing was one of the best and most effective ways of removing these splinters as I came across them.
As I continued to write, I found that by putting words to my negative thoughts, I took away just a little bit of their power. By letting God know exactly what I was thinking and by sharing some of these thoughts with a trusted friend, I was able to realize that they weren't as shameful as what I kept telling myself when I kept hiding them under my pretty Band-Aids.
Because I am human, human thoughts and emotions will continue to come to me. When I let go and let God take care of them by being honest with Him, I am able to move on from these negative feelings much faster than when I try to pretend they're not there by slapping Band-Aids over them. As I learned how to emote negative emotions as they came up, I started to relearn how to emote my positive emotions in healthy ways, as well.
One of my favorite old ways of putting Band-Aids over the ugly emotions I didn't want to see was to play the "Gratitude Game," where I would talk about all of the things I was grateful for in an attempt to divert my attention away from what I was truly feeling. As I learned to acknowledge my negative thoughts, I moved away from gratitude in a desperate attempt to get away from old unhealthy habits, which plunged me further into depression for several months.
However, as healing gradually started to come, I began to relearn the power and proper use of gratitude. I started to once again look for things to be grateful for, and in March, I came across this talk, given by President Henry B. Eyring.
He speaks of the principle of learning to write down every day how he had seen the hand of God manifest that day, and says, "I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family."
As I read, I was touched by the Spirit, which whispered to me, "You've learned to write about the bad. Now, write about the good." I made a goal to start writing down, as President Eyring does, how I've seen God's hand manifest in my life every night, before going to bed.
It started out as a simple exercise, done more out of the desire to be obedient than out of any specific faith in its power, but in my first attempt to write (thinking that I'd maybe have one or two little experiences to write down), I was surprised to see two entire pages of experiences, recorded in my handwriting, of how God had blessed me on that day alone.
That first entry, dated March 2nd of this year, included things that varied from "He gave me strength and motivation to clean my home and prepare my Primary lesson--without stress" to "It's rained/snowed enough over the winter to keep our fruit trees alive." It even included the note: "I was able to come up with a nutritious and filling dinner, lunch, and breakfast for the kids without worrying about it too much." Simple things, almost unnoticeable, but when I took the time to write them down, they became visible, tangible reminders that not only does God love me, but He is actively involved in every aspect of my life.
In the past month, this nightly exercise has become one of the most powerful tools in my life. Sitting every night, for just a moment or two, praying for the Spirit, meditating over my day, and then writing what comes to mind, whether it be something big and spiritual (listening to General Conference and crying as every single talk seemed to be directed towards me personally) or something small and seemingly insignificant (coloring with my children) has changed me. It has changed my perspective, my attitude, and my heart completely.
Over the past month, I haven't missed a single day, no matter how late I stayed up or how early I know I have to wake up the next morning, and I hope to keep this tradition up for the rest of my life.
How grateful I am for the power my God graciously and generously gives me.
Next up: How I was eating spiritual dog food and telling myself that I liked it.
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