Mind their own business!

It is after 10:30pm. I've already taken a sleeping pill, and yet I'm here on the computer, typing. I was laying in bed, when a memory from thirteen years ago hit me and I really felt a strong need to type this blog post. I don't know which one of you needs to hear this, but I sense that this is something I need to share.
Thirteen years ago, shortly after Jason and I were married, I went through an incredibly difficult time emotionally. One night, I cut on myself with a razor over forty times. The cuts weren't deep, but they were a sign of a serious problem. Jason drove me all the way from our apartment to a hospital in Portland, OR about 25 miles away. Jason was a paramedic in Portland at the time, so for privacy concerns (he didn't need his co-workers asking him why his wife was in the ER), we were put in a room and they closed the curtains. Unfortunately, the social worker thought the closed curtains were a sign that we had already been helped and we waited a LONG time, I believe it was about an hour and a half, before the social worker realized that no one had been in to see me yet and finally came in to talk to us. By that time (45 minute drive + 1.5 hr wait), I had calmed down and was back in a "rational" frame of mind. Because I had already begun seeing a therapist the week before and didn't want to harm myself at that immediate moment, they sent me home with no treatment whatsoever. No lock up. No meds, and I don't believe they called my therapist either.
Fast-forward to last October. I downed a bunch of Ambien in a suicide attempt. I was taken by ambulance to Memorial Hospital, then transferred to Doctor's Behavioral Health (Mental Hospital), where I was put on a suicide watch for two days. I saw a psychiatrist there twice, for about ten minutes each time. I declined meds, and was released, with no follow up. I was not under the care of a therapist or a psychiatrist and no appointment was made for me by the staff to see one.
Why am I telling you these things? Because I want you to understand that if you have someone in your life who is struggling with depression, who is hurting themselves in anyway, you CANNOT count on the institutions or the hospitals to make sure they are safe and/or getting the treatment they need. I also want to point out that most people with mental illness, be it anxiety or depression (I can't speak for any other mental illnesses because I haven't experienced them), are incredibly overwhelmed. Even the smallest decisions of day to day life can seem insurmountable. When you can barely drag yourself out of bed and can't decide what you want to eat, or even if you want to eat, calling the insurance company, finding out what your coverage is, then calling several doctors before you find one who is accepting new patients, then making an appointment, getting to that appointment and then explaining what is going on with you is about tantamount to summitting Mount Everest! If you have a loved one who is steeped in depression or overcome with anxiety, offer to help them navigate the world of insurance and doctors. You may not want to be "pushy" or "interfere in their business" but I'm going to say it again: the institutions will not keep them safe. They may help you figure out how to keep them safe, but if you check them in and leave it at that, more times than not, they will not get adequate help. I honestly don't know where I would be today if I didn't have the help and support of my husband through those incredibly challenging and dangerous times. So be nosy. You just might save a life.

That's a wrap!

I have made my decision. I will not be doing the Taxol portion of the chemo treatment, meaning that my chemo is over. YAY! And yet I'm terrified! Not about the cancer. There are pros and cons to either decision I could make and I made the best one I could. I'm not really scared about the cancer coming back, or anything like that. If it comes back, we'll deal with it then. What I'm really struggling with is returning to "normal" life.
As strange as this may sound, my cancer has been a shield of sorts for me. Coming off severe depression and a nasty, painful situation with the ministry I was involved in, having cancer provided me with a blanket of sorts. For the last six months, I have been flooded with love and support. Even perfect strangers have reached out and loved on me. The wounds of the two years prior began to heal and I started to feel loved again. Emotionally, I started to feel stronger and stronger. To be honest, I felt like once my chemo was done, I would be able to take on anything that was thrown at me. But now, my chemo has been abruptly shortened by three months and I don't feel so strong anymore. I'm scared. I'm scared to face the big, scary world out there. I'm scared about how things will change.
We came to Covenant Grove Church two weeks after I was diagnosed with cancer, so from day one there, I have been a cancer patient. They have loved us and supported us and we have started to develop some good friendships there, but, like I said, from day one, I had cancer. I was the needy one. Every week, people would ask me how I was feeling, if I needed anything, how things were going. Now...now things will change and that is unsettling to me.
When I was depressed, I was tired all the time, but it was something I fought and was ashamed of. When I was going through surgeries and chemo, I was tired all the time, but it was expected, and naps were encouraged. If I had insomnia, it didn't really matter because I could sleep whenever I wanted to during the day without anyone thinking anything of it. I had help with the kids, with the house, with meals. I was incredibly blessed and spoiled. I'm scared now, now that I have to be an adult again. What if I'm still tired? What if life becomes overwhelming again and I can't hide behind my cancer?
Don't get me wrong. I didn't exploit my cancer. I tried very hard not to take advantage of people, but people are naturally more likely to help when you are sick and bald. Not so much when you look "normal".
Cancer also protected me from myself. I needed to distance myself from some unhealthy situations I was in and undergoing chemo forced me to do that. I was physically unable to put myself in some of those situations without seriously endangering my physical health due to low blood cell counts. Soon, however, in a matter of four weeks or so, my immune system will be back up to par and the choice will be mine. I will have to decide what is healthy for me emotionally and what isn't. I will have to make those choices, and they scare me. When I was laying in bed, sick from the chemo and the anti-nausea meds, I thought I could take on the world if only I wasn't so sick. Now, I don't feel so strong. I feel vulnerable, and the pains of my pre-cancer world haunt me and try to rob me of my peace.
One of my go-to verses during this cancer journey has been Romans 8:28 "And we know that in all things, God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose." My depression? For good. My cancer? For good. My broken relationships? For good. My chemo? For good. Covenant Grove? For good. ALL things. In ALL things. I just wish I felt stronger emotionally...but then, if I did, perhaps I would start to rely on myself again, and forget the Source of my strength. He is my Rock. He has been my Rock through terrible, horrible, God-awful storms. I read the following quote after my first stay in the mental hospital and have found it to be so incredibly true. "Sometimes God lets you hit rock bottom so that you will discover that He is the rock at the bottom." - Tony Evans.
I don't know what the future holds and it does scare me. But Jesus is sleeping in my boat, and I know that should any storm arise, He can quickly calm it...or He can hold me while it rages, and promise to see me through.

Countdown

Tomorrow begins the countdown to chemo. As I was preparing to head to bed tonight, I noticed a shift in my thinking, and realized that it had gradually been coming over me all day. I like to claim that I don't dread my chemo. I mean, it's not that bad really. My stomach gets a little upset. Food doesn't taste good for a few days. I sleep for a few days, get sores in my mouth, and have blanks in my memories for a couple days (from the ativan they have me take I think). Honestly, though, it really isn't that bad. Yet I sit here with tears streaming down my face as I type because I don't want to go! I just feel so out of control when chemo time rolls around. I try SO hard to stay positive, to look at the bright side of things, but when this time comes around again, I can't help but become overwhelmed by the anxiety. Most of the time it transfers to Church in the Park anxiety. It's funny, in a "not really all that funny" kind of way. Perhaps interesting is a better word. It's interesting that as chemo time approaches, the urge to return to the park becomes overwhelming. The urge to prove that I control my life and no one else does. The thing is, though, I don't. God does. I answer to Him and I know He doesn't want me there right now. I also know that it's not really the park I want. It's to be free of the cancer, and the chemo and to put this challenging chapter of my life behind me.
I know I am privileged to have access to this treatment. I know it is a blessing to have this diagnosis now rather than twenty or thirty years ago. I know this cancer is healing my emotional wounds. I know that I don't have to be strong, that I can sleep when need be and that everything will be taken care of by Jason, my mom, and the many others who are pitching in. I know my husband loves me and will continue to love me no matter how sick I am. I know every day is a good day, and some days are great, but the fact of the matter is this good day is hard. This good day is full of tears, and chemo isn't all that peachy. It's hard. It's brutal really, and I'm tired of being strong. I want to scream to the world: "I can't do this anymore!!! I don't want to lose a week of my life to medicated sleep. I don't want to miss out on a week of my kids' life. I don't want to watch my husband work himself into the ground, handling work, and then everything else while I lay in bed and watch tv or sleep. I DON'T WANT TO!!"
And now that I've had my little temper tantrum, I will order my medications, arrange the necessary childcare, and put all the other pieces in order. Then I will get up on Wednesday morning, put on my makeup, gather up my things and go get my treatment with a smile on my face because, after all, I'm alive, I'm loved, and soon, my treatment will be over. My hair will grow back and life will continue on its merry way.

Do you know what this ribbon means?

7am. Not my usual time to write a blog post, and not really a convenient one, but this post has been burning in my mind since I awoke and needs to be written before I can carry on with my day.
I received a strange Facebook message yesterday from someone I've never met. I won't go into all of it, but one part of it resonated in my mind this morning as soon as I awoke. It said: "I don't care about...your past. I don't judge." Now, mind you, rereading it now, I realize that I probably originally misinterpreted what the sender was trying to say. This is not, by any means, a complaint about the message that was sent to me. It was actually sweet and encouraging. What the above phrase did, however, was trigger a train of thought that brought about this post. Let me see if I can explain.
I awoke this morning with the realization that people I've never even met are reading my blog. I knew that already. It is nothing new, but what struck me this morning is that my journey through the darkness of my mental illness is listed on this blog, and the link to my "tales of the looney bin" blog is on here as well, leading readers to the recounting of the most challenging and shameful time in my life. As the words of the Facebook message played over and over in my mind this morning, I thought about all of my new friends, about the amazing and wonderful people I've been meeting lately, about the new opportunities that are presenting themselves to me, and I thought that perhaps I should take down the looney bin blog and delete some of the earlier posts on this one. Then I remembered...
When I was going through my dark stage, I was very frustrated by the stigma that surrounds mental illness, and on my good days, I vowed to do something about it. Mental illness is something our culture is very hush, hush about. Oh, we talk about it in the news, when someone does something terrible and tragic enough that talking about it would boost the ratings, but in our day to day life, it isn't something that is usually openly discussed. If I'm standing in line at the grocery story, a perfect stranger and I could begin talking about my cancer and no one would think twice about it. I have had many discussions with strangers about my cancer, but if I mentioned that I have major depressive disorder with reoccurring episodes and generalized anxiety disorder, the conversation would suddenly become awkward. I can talk about being hospitalized to get my boobs chopped off, but it is much more awkward to discuss last year's hospitalization for stress seizures, or my two stays in the mental hospital. Why is that? I think it's due in large part to the fact that mental illness is not well understood and still a symbol of weakness in our culture. So as much as I would love to erase that part of my life and start over with a clean slate, I cannot. I cannot because

About 11.4 million adult Americans suffered from severe mental illness in the past year and 8.7 million adults contemplated serious thoughts of suicide. Among them, more than 2 million made suicide plans and about 1 million attempted suicide. (ABC News, Mikaela Conley. Read the entire article here)

One in five Americans suffers from mental illness. One in five!! So if you take an average family, Mom, Dad, two or three kids, odds are one of you will suffer from some kind of mental illness (I know it's not that simple, with heredity issues and such, but humor me for the point I'm trying to make.) This is a huge issue, and not one to be shoved under the rug.
One of the biggest struggles for someone with mental illness is the shame that comes with it. At least it was for me. I'm hoping that by raising awareness, over time, some of that shame will dissipate.
It seems to me that people often believe those of us with mental illness cause our illness, that somehow we are to blame. There are times when this is true. Mental illness can be brought along, or exacerbated by lifestyle. This is also true of some types of cancer. Lung cancer is can be caused by smoking. I watched my grandmother die from lung cancer brought on by decades of smoking. I watched my grandfather die from COPD for the same reason, and yet, as they were dying, there was no judgement, at least not from us, about what brought them to their death bed. What is the point of beating someone up for behaviors the consequences of which they are already suffering from? So if someone is depressed because they fried their brain on some kind of drug, is it their fault? Absolutely. Do they need to be condemned for it? Absolutely not! They are suffering enough already!
Many times, however, people suffer from mental illness due to no fault of their own. Web MD has an interesting article on the causes of mental illness. As you can see in this article, most of the causes of mental illness are completely out of the control of the person suffering from it. 
So I'm leaving my blog posts up. Yes, I am mentally ill. Yes, it impacted my life and the lives of those I love severely, and sometimes, it still does. It is part of who I am, and yes, it could happen to you too.
If you are already there, in that place of shame and desperation, send me a message (There is a link to my email in my profile). I've been there. I've walked in your shoes, and I would be more than happy to listen. If you are local, I can hold you and we can cry together, and then together, we can take the next step, because I want you to know that there is hope. I want you to know that your darkness doesn't have to last forever. And I want you to know that while some may shun you for this, many of us will not. Some may not understand, but many of us do. Let's raise awareness together, and put an end to this stigma.

Oh, and by the way, silver is the color for mental health awareness. We all know what pink stands for, and most of us know what red stands for. Now you know what silver means. Spread the awareness.

Chemo Crew, Pizza and Anti-depressants

I have so much I want to write about today, I'm not even sure yet what this post will be about! Today has been so full of blessings. I started off the morning with a phone call from Bridgette Eilers, of the Chemo Crew. Bridgette is an ovarian cancer survivor who started a non-profit to help cancer patients in Stanislaus County. The Chemo Crew provides services like grocery shopping, house cleaning, lawn care, help finding free resources, one-on-one support, etc. To find out more about them, you can go to their website. I had called them a couple days ago and Bridgette was returning my call. She sounded like such a sweet lady. I can't wait to meet her in person! I found out that she has three children of her own, ages 6, 7 and 9. She will be dropping me off at my chemo appointment on Wednesday and then coming back later to sit with me for awhile and then take me home. I found out last night that Jason is going to be out of town on Wednesday all day, so having someone who can take me to and from chemo was a huge relief! I'm really excited to talk to Bridgette and find out ways that I can help out with Chemo Crew too. It's really hard for me to sit around and do nothing of value for weeks on end. Yes, I know healing from cancer is valuable, but it's not tangible right now, and feels...I don't know...boring? inconsequential? I only get one life. I don't want to sleep and puke it away. I know I can't do much right now, but maybe on my good weeks I could at least sit with chemo patients, or assemble kits, or something. One of the hardest parts about this cancer journey for me has been the lack of social contact, so I welcome any chance I have to be around other people and especially to be on the giving side of things rather than the receiving side every now and again.
After I got off the phone with Bridgette, my friend Jenni and her daughter Zoe came by, bringing us a pizza from Costco to help with dinner on those not so great days. Thank you so much, Jenni! What a thoughtful gesture!
After they left, I headed to my appointment with my psychiatrist, whom I absolutely LOVE, by the way. If you or someone you know is in need of a great psychiatrist, I highly recommend Dr. Hetnal in Modesto. 
I asked him today if I would be on my medication (Paxil) for life, or if it was a short term thing. I found his reaction kind of amusing. He looked at me with somewhat of a startled look, then said that he was really sorry, but that I would be on medications for life. He then corrected himself and said: "Well, you are the patient. You make your own treatment decisions, but you won't ever get a recommendation to go off your medications from me!" He turned my file over and read off the back: "Major Depressive Disorder with Re-occurring Episodes. No. You will need your medications for life. We won't mess around with that." He seemed apologetic about my need for lifetime meds, but to be honest, to me, it was actually a relief for a couple reasons. One, when you've walked through the darkness of deep, suicidal depression for months on end, it is not something you EVER want to have to go through again for any reason. The thought of having to wean myself off of my medication to see if I needed it was something I was really apprehensive about, and honestly was the reason I asked the question today. The second reason I found comfort in this news is that there is a part of me that still wonders if my depression was my fault. I hear over and over in my head the stinging words: "Your problem is a SPIRITUAL one! You need to focus on getting right with God. Don't contact me or my family in any way until you get right with God and get the kind of help we offered you a long time ago!" (text from a former best friend's husband right before I got on medication) or the words of the elders of church I used to attend, when they anointed me with oil both for my depression and my cancer while we were waiting for the results of the biopsy: "So you have an emotional problem and a physical one. Take your thoughts captive." "Really?" I thought. "Really? So my possible cancer is a more 'prayer worthy' illness than the depression that had ravaged my life for two years? That's supposed to be as simple as taking my thoughts captive?! Have you ever tried that one in the throes of depression? Yeah. I didn't think so." To be honest, that's probably not how he meant it, but it's how I interpreted it at the time and there is part of me that wonders if maybe my depression was because God was unhappy with me, that maybe I was at odds with him, somehow holding on to my sin, but then I remember this post I wrote back in September 2011, shortly after my first stay in the mental hospital. I remember being flat on my face before God, begging Him for deliverance, knowing that I was fully and completely surrendered to ANYTHING He wanted from me and still feeling myself swallowed by the darkness of depression. So having the doctor tell me that my illness is severe enough to require medication for life, in some ways, affirmed to me that I am not to blame for the chemical imbalance in my brain. If this imbalance is lifelong and not situational, then perhaps I didn't cause it. Perhaps my former friends were wrong.
After my doctor's appointment, I drove to Chipotle, picked up lunch for me and Jason, and took it to his office. We ate lunch together, then I headed home to pick up the kids from school.
It was so nice to be out and about and to receive the love of strangers and friends alike. I'm exhausted now, but thankful for such a good day :-).

Anxiety

Six days from now, I will have received my first chemo treatment and to be honest, I'm terrified. "Red Devil" it is affectionately called; so toxic the nurses have to use extreme caution when handling it. And I'm going to be putting this in my veins on purpose? Really? Is this really a smart scenario? Somehow it doesn't seem quite...um, what's the word? Rational. It doesn't really seem like something a smart person would do. And yet the alternative...So I will allow myself to be intentionally poisoned for six months, and yes, it terrifies me.
I'm not sleeping well because my anxiety really kicks in when I stop, when I relax. It's odd really because I'm not laying there, thinking of the toxic liquid about to course through my veins, or the resulting side effects or anything like that. In a sense, I feel as if a battle is going on inside me. On one hand I trust God fully and know that ultimately His plans are best. There is a joy and a peace that come with that and they are not manufactured or strained. They are real. Yet, at the same time, I sleep fitfully (when I actually sleep!) and have other physical signs of anxiety. What is the matter with me?! It's going to be ok. No matter the outcome, it's going to be ok. So why the anxiety? To be honest, it makes me mad. Mad at myself as if in some way I have failed. Mad that I am incapable of controlling my own emotions and fears. I hate my weaknesses! And yet,

"That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." 2 Corinthians 12:10

Perhaps that is why. Perhaps I need to be weak so that He can shine. I sure don't feel very "shiny" in my own strength right now.

Posted this on Facebook on Sunday night, but I wanted to re-post it here, so I can have all of these types of posts in one location. Who knows? Maybe someday I'll write a book about my adventure :-).

It really sucks to be sitting in my recliner, minding my own business, enjoying the stillness of the evening and suddenly feel the squeeze on my brain and know that soon my world will become a very, very dark place. I have been told that my battle is spiritual and that I need to get right with God (Been there. Done that. Standing redeemed and uncondemned before Him, thanks to the immeasurable gift

of His Son. You can condemn me if you want, but the fact of the matter is you're wrong.) I've been told my problem is emotional. Alright. Judge me for that then. I'm sure that will knock some sense into me and make it all better.
In all honesty, though, why is it so hard for people to accept that depression and other mental illnesses may be largely physical?! If you haven't struggled with it yourself and experienced firsthand the havoc one's body chemistry can wreak on a person's life, at least read up on it before you judge. You may be surprised at what you find.

Along my recovery journey, I have discovered that I have some pretty distorted world views. One of the major ones I have just recently become aware of is that I behave as if the world is as it ideally "should" be, rather than as it is.
In an ideal world, should people be loving and accepting? Yes.
Should they be forgiving? Yes.
Should they be kind? Yes.
Should I be secure enough to withstand any kind of personal attack because I know that my value lies in what God thinks of me and not in what others do? Yes.  

But the fact of the matter is that no one can truly love unconditionally. People are often not forgiving, and many times are unkind, and words and attitudes DO hurt me. So I can continue expecting the world to be a place that it is not, and try to force it into an ideal mold it will never fit it, bringing myself considerable grief and pain along the way, or I can accept the things I don't like as part of life, and take the steps I need to take to protect myself from them.

Gabby told me a couple days ago when she was upset because James was getting attention for something and she wasn't: "Mommy, I don't want to accept that life isn't fair!" Me neither, baby girl, but if we don't, it's going to chew us up and spit us out, because whether we want to accept it or not, it is what it is. We can chose to beat our head against a wall, or we can accept it and move on.

Mush

My brain is mush today. I'm so frustrated with this. Counting the days until December 5th, when I get to see the psychiatrist. We've tried getting in earlier. I made this appointment as soon as I got out of the mental hospital in early October, and that was the first opening they had. My therapist even called them last week to see if there was any way to get in sooner, to no avail. So I wait, and eat lots of carbs and other serotonin rich foods in an attempt to stay functional. I don't even want to know how much weight I've put on. But I'd rather be fat and functional than skinny and rocking back and forth in a dark corner, holding my head because the "brain vice" is so strong. So I'm self-medicating with food, exercise and vitamins, and holding my breath until I can hopefully get some more permanent and consistent relief. I have tried handling this without meds, but I'm waving the white flag of surrender and begging, hoping, praying that the doctor will be able to find a medication that works for me. Please, Lord Jesus, please. I want my brain back. I want stability back. I want my life back!