Painful Mothering

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painfulmotherI scribbled the below in my mom’s Mother’s Day card at 4:30 am when my son decided to start the day early in celebration.

It’s still strange to be sharing Mother’s Day with you, and for the fourth year. As my son is no longer a baby, I get it–at least a little. I see that what hurts me  hurts you, and the pain is not just a generic sympathy any decent person might feel for another human’s suffering. It’s different. Blinding, agonizing, different.

I’m realizing what it’s like when that part of yourself that you carried, birthed, and who you love to distraction pushes against you. I’m learning the grief and pain that comes when that precious person who is a part of you is angry at you and rejects what you know they need. And to then have to watch them hurt, slog along. But I see it only on a small scale. You’ve seen it all; how do you do it?

You must be so strong–strong enough to risk messing up as you help, support, and love. Strong enough to apologize when it’s needed. And strong enough to keep giving when things don’t seem like they’re ever going to get better.

I know I’m just starting to figure some of it out. But I know enough to see not every mom would do what you do. You are there for me through stuff you don’t understand. How you love and sacrifice this much for not just one child  but four, plus their children, is totally beyond me. 

I’m thankful you are my mom: that I have the chance to laugh with, argue with, and wish for more sleep with you every day .

I’m thankful I can ask for your thoughts on raising my son–even when I don’t follow them.

I’m thankful you keep trying to help me even when neither of us have a clue what I need or how to do it.

Thank you for losing sleep, listening without trying to fix things, sharing food and smiles, helping me in the career that I love, and doing it over and over again.

I like you, I love you, and I wouldn’t want any other mom. I see how hard you try. And I know I don’t get how painful and difficult it is. Hopefully you see that I am trying too. My son has a stronger mommy because that mommy has a strong mom. Thank you. 

Living with Amnesia

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amnesialifeI have amnesia.*

Some events from my past were already irretrievable due to trauma, but the intense, permanent amnesia hit last year. The previous decade of memories became spotty at best; the months surrounding me were a black hole of confusion.

Initially we didn’t understand how serious it was. But as months passed and the memories remained lost, I realized my mind might not return to normal. Confusion, blank spots in my history, and short-term memory loss became my new normal.  Friends and family were gracious enough to adjust and show me endless patience as I played my own version of “Real or Not Real” (à la Mockingjay).

Amnesia can be:

  • Ironic: Someone recently asked me if Quest for the High Places had a subtitle. I had no idea.
  • Relief (even if temporary): Forgetting many vivid details of  past trauma.
  • Sad: Seeing myself in pictures of significant life events and drawing a blank. Wondering if I’ll ever remember what everyone else is talking about.
  • Surprising: Finding the hard drive (which I don’t remember owning) containing all the drafts and articles I don’t remember writing.
  • Frustrating: Forgetting my debit card PIN number and having no cash on hand. Not being able to think of a close friend’s last name.
  • Time-consuming: Security for banking is tedious when you have to write every step of log-ins and passwords on accessible paper while ensuring the information is safe.
  • Ridiculous: When I can’t remember how to spell a simple word, consult the dictionary, and return to my work–only to realize I can’t remember what word I wanted to use, much less its spelling.
  • Patience-inducing: Telling a friend some bit of information. An hour later telling them again. An hour later asking them if I’d told them said bit of information. Apologizing for my memory issues (for the fifth time that week).

For me, the best coping mechanism for amnesia is laughter. Staying frustrated or angry can’t bring back my old memories or enable me to retain new information. But laughing makes for some new and good times to [try to] remember.

*Both retrograde and anterograde

Touching Wounds – True Friendship

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When we honestly ask ourselves which people in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.

The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness–that is a friend who cares. – Henri Nouwen (emphasis added)

holding-hands

This quotation from the Dutch priest Henri Nouwen holds the key for relating to a friend or family member in pain. This quote and my journals are the primary sources I use to help someone understand what I need. A core group of support, the best friends I could ask for, the family members I always count on–they get it.

They mean the most because they stood with me when I had nothing to give. They stayed on principle, not for profit. The people close to me are a priceless treasure because they didn’t slip out when the opportunity presented itself.

They touch my wounds instead of handing me a prepackaged Band-Aid. When advice burned the wound and solutions intensified the pain, my friends forsook fixing things and focused on acknowledging the agony.

They are silent with me when the darkness is too deep for breathing. Words are cheap when you are bleeding out from a leg amputation or a gunshot wound. Inspirational quotes ring hollow if you can’t take a deep breath because of a panic attack.

They stay with me when I cannot endure being in my own head any longer. When the scariest thing in the world is having to be me, they choose to be with me.

They face the deepest fears with me: that I cannot control my mental illness or my physical health, that I will never be free from the darkness’s influence, and that the pain will always be on the brink of unbearable.

A best friend.

  • Not necessarily the one you’ve known the longest, but the one you can–and do–tell every gruesome memory and detail. (Thank you, DE.)
  • The one who visits you multiple times in the hospital, even when you are too sick to be good company or remember that they came. (Thank you, MN.)
  • The one who holds you while you cry night after night and doesn’t get impatient or patronizing. (Thank you, PN.)
  • The one who remains constant even when it’s not beneficial, pleasant, or easy. (Thank you, JT.)
  • The one who will listen without having to understand everything. (Thank you, CN.)
  • The one who waits days or weeks to hear from you and cheerfully picks up where you left off.(Thank you, DG.)
  • The one who disagrees with you on fundamental issues but focuses on your value as a child of God. (Thank you, MH.)

Thank you to my best friends. Thank you for caring instead of leaving and for touching me instead of trying to fix me. I love you.

Why I Trade Sleep for Words

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headerproofThe expanded edition of Quest didn’t appear by the end of 2012. Obviously. And I’ve been too distracted to explain why.

Reason 1: Work. Last year I started my dream job as a proofreader for one of my dream publishers. I’m grateful to have the privilege of using my talents and loving my work. I’ve enjoyed other jobs, but this is a perfect fit.

Reason 2: School. I’m a student at the University of Chicago, building my credentials and having more fun than should be allowed. Few people are disappointed to stop a three-hour discussion on hyphenation in nouns versus compound adjectives, but that’s how I’m wired.

Reason 3: Writing. Despite school and work consisting of words, words, words, writing still gets its time. Lots of journaling, a bit of article writing, with blogging filling in the cracks. I’m also honored to be working on two book projects right now–one with a co-author and one on my own. Love it.

Reason 4: Rest. I try to keep most of my work and homework relegated to evening when my son is asleep. And except for the normal times of feeling overwhelmed, I’m loving it. But anything beyond the above items that isn’t truly essential will have to compete against a dream of one day getting more sleep….

I’m hoping this post can also serve as a balance–at least in a small way–to the more intense, angry, and otherwise weighty posts published lately. Yes, I’ve got a half-ton of baggage to sort through. And the posts on this site will get more intense and disturbing before they get lighter (as a whole). But I’m also enjoying sunshine and wanted to share why la vie est belle.

To the King (right now I can see Him).

Concrete and Grace

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klmWe are girls with skinned knees
We are concrete and grace
Here’s to the girls with bruises and scars.
- Superchick, “Anthem”

Graceful suffering. Beautiful scars. Listening to “Anthem” recently, a phrase streaked images across my thoughts. “We are concrete and grace.” What a marvelous contrast. To be grace-dipped concrete, not a mere delicate flower. I like it.

My list of scars is long. Been close to death. Wanted to kill myself. But I survived. I’m marked–but I’m strong. So is the girl I know whose ex-husband would drug her and then sell her to men. So is the single mom working 80 hours a week and still struggling to make ends meet. Fill in the blank. You know someone like this. Someone who is concrete and grace.

To be grace-dipped concrete, not a mere delicate flower.

“God, who foresaw your tribulation, has specially armed you to go through it, not without pain but without stain.” – C.S. Lewis, “Collected Letters of C. S. Lewis”

Not without a loss of innocence, but without stain. Your purity retained.

I’m still angry at God. I’ll never understand. But, pushing through the bitterness, I want to believe what C. S. Lewis says: I am capable of surviving the memories of what happened and the pain of what will happen. Yes, it torments–to the point death seems the only relief–but I will survive.

Sometimes I believe it. Sometimes I scoff. Sometimes I just feel dead already.

Concrete. Still rough around the edges, perhaps chipped and pockmarked, but it’s not going anywhere. Concrete may not be the prettiest thing around, but it’s rock-solid in what it’s about.

Concrete girl don’t fall down
In this broken world around you
Don’t stop thinking
Don’t stop feeling now
Don’t break down my concrete girl
- Switchfoot

Grace. I’m tempted to say God has infused every moment of the dark years with riotous beauty and rich mercy. Such would be the more spiritual, inspirational thing to write. But there’s nothing spiritual about lying to appear more godly or mature. So I won’t.

But there’s nothing spiritual about lying to appear more godly or mature.

Some moments during the nightmare held bits of light. Other moments were pure darkness. I won’t call good what God says is evil. Grace may come in the morning, but there is no goodness in the acts of evil. I don’t think there is much good in mental illness either.

It’s hard to see the pain behind the mask
Bearing the burden of a secret storm
Sometimes she wishes she was never born.
- Martina McBride, “Concrete Angel”

We must draw from the ugly as well as the good in order to make art. A beautiful life is not confined to flowers, rainbows, and smiles. I believe it is one marked by redemption. Struggle. Sweat. Sleepless nights. Even thoughts of suicide.

A true artist is not one who is free from issues or baggage but one who is actively finding and putting together their broken pieces. Even as another wound strikes and more blood is spilled. If we waited until we healed to make good art, there would be none.

Here’s to the ones who don’t give up.

My goal is not to be “whole” (impossible if you are an amputee–though is it possible for anyone?), but to pursue beauty through the darkness. And some days it’s just to stay alive. So I write, cry, and groan bits of prayers. Even when I dig deep inside and find more broken pieces, I won’t give up. At least not tonight.

We are not what you think
We are fire inside.
Here’s to the ones who don’t give up
- “Anthem”