Random Things: Will & Recharging

Because sometimes I just got random things to say, okay?!

Random Thing #1: God’s will

My husband hit a crisis. He was gone, he had relapsed, it was bad. He didn’t know I knew, and he was on his way home. This was it. He was going to die if he didn’t stop, and I didn’t know how to make him stop. I just wanted him to get home to me safe and alive and I would figure out what to do if God would just let me lay my eyes on him again. Alive.

Standing at the window that day, I strained to see as far down the road as I could, as if once my eyes grabbed his car, I could create protection and guide him to me, safe. I peeked between the blinds so he wouldn’t see me first; he would know that I knew and turn around and leave again. I knew knew knew that if he did, he wouldn’t come back. I didn’t breath. I was helpless. So scared that I was about to loose this man that was my all, my everything, my rock, to an evil and heartless and cold disease.

I remember wondering what is it going to take to make this stop? What is it going to take to make you not fucking die?

I had been struggling with “God’s will” for months, not able to come to terms with giving things to God, believing in His will and really having faith that His will was any better than mine. And frankly, being a bit annoyed that God always gets the last word. Somewhere in the middle of please bring him home safely-please bring him home safely-please bring him home safely I figured it out. Having faith in God’s willthat day meant understanding that while I hoped with every inch of me that ‘home’ would be mean my home, God might need to bring him to His. All at once, I realized that I trusted God much more with this than I trusted me- obviously, I couldn’t save him. I didn’t want to be the one that had to fix this, I didn’t know how; I didn’t knowwhat was best, I didn’t know what to want. My will meant nothing, I didn’t even know how to use it. Please bring him home safely suddenly meant I trust You – please take this. It was faith, and I was relieved.

He did get home, by the way, and everyday he works hard to make it safely.

I find myself praying my personal prayer a lot, for a lot of different things. Most recently, that Maddie‘s mommy and daddy make it ‘home’ and out of the dark woods that is losing a child.  ‘Safely’ with their hearts pulled back together, someday.

Random Thing #2: Recharging

I visited the crisis center today. I signed up to be a real official volunteer (with a letter of recommendation and background check and everything) and then freaked myself out and didn’t go back for two weeks. Today I had an overwhelming need to barge in there and just sit on their couch, so I did. The lady who runs the place hugged me and handed me a water bottle, like she’d been standing there waiting for me all day. She never asked where I’ve been or why I didn’t show up at the board meeting, just hugged me and said she was glad I came. I left feeling recharged and appreciated, and I didn’t even do anything. I’m supposed to be there, I know. I’ll stop fighting it soon, I’m almost certain. Did I tell you I’m kinda stubborn?

32

32.

Thirty-two.

Thurteeeeee. Toooooo.

That used to be what old people were, remember? Remember when we were young and thought about our parents ages and how we would look and act and talk when (and if) we were that age?

And remember how we figured we would be flying cars and eating our meals in capsule-form and be movie stars and millionaires and have a vacation home on the moon (or Gilligan’s Island)?
I distinctly remember my mom turning 32 and being pissed about it. I’m not really pissed – I kinda like my thirties.

So far – I married my best friend, had another baby, quit drinking, joined a church, got pierced, quit smoking, got baptized, ditched a career I hated, got another tattoo, opened my own business, unpierced myself – I even went to the prom. And for the most part, in that order.

I like my life. I love my life, really. Apparently that happened in my thirties too – so it’s about time I got to 32 – apparently it’s been waiting for me for like, ever.

Emergeing

“I am prone to depression”.

No.

“Sometimes I get depressed”.

No.

“I struggle with dep-” No.

“Depression has always been a-” No, that’s stupid.

I never talk about it except to my husband, and even that is new. Before him, the only time I came close to discussing it was if someone demanded that yes-I-did remember that-one-time that-one-thing happened, and I have to find a delicate and elusive way around the fact that I don’t. At all. I don’t remember most of what you said or he said or she said or I said at all during that particular time. The worst “bout of depression” years ago, that required 4 or 5 different prescriptions and a psychologist to fish me back out. I am still fascinated by stories with me in them that happened during that time; pictures with me in them that I don’t remember posing for. I lost a lot of that time, but the point is, I survived, and for the most part, for most of the time, that was all I was doing.

And now when it creeps in, I hide and deny. I don’t want drugs or doctors or labels or diagnoses. I am immediately terrified that it is going to get that bad again and I hide and pretend I am fine; all the while snapping at my family, agonizing over old wounds I can’t bear to let heal, building walls, rationalizing the idea of never leaving the house again. Giving in.

And then I emerge and I look around, three months later this time, and realize I have been disconnected, disjointed, disengaged. I come out with almost a manic explosion; I need to write this out, check everything, ask everyone, know everything, NOW. I have to get out, get moving, get something, go somewhere – do something. All in an effort to bandage anything I let bleed while I was ‘gone’. Gather up anything I missed, pick up whatever I dropped, feel anything I shuttered against and let bounce off me while I was under my rock.

I hate and love this part. Hate that I missed things. Hate that my baby is four months old and I just shrugged a three month drudge off my shoulders. Love that it didn’t last three years and I am here now. Hate that I must have felt distant to my kids and they (like I did at their ages) may have wondered what they did to deserve that. Love that I came out of it long before they got fed up and gave up on me (like I did at their ages).

Finally the blackness has lifted, but my bones ache after dragging it around for so many miles.

But it lifted, and I came out and now I am gathering up everything I missed out on while I was gone, and that’s the point.

There. Now I officially ‘talk’ about it.