Chronic Acceptance

Hi. My name is ElisaBeth and I am depressed. I feel squeamish writing that sentence. You would

think after dealing with chronic depression for six years I’d have accepted my fate and as my counselor so eloquently said “view it as an adventure that not many people experience.” Most of the time I feel quite the opposite and believe I’m plagued by a disease that wants to devour me and am viewed by others as the one with the problems… a total mental screw up who is spiritually dry and to blame for the unending misery she finds herself in.

It’s hard taking a dip in the frigid pool of darkness again after experiencing some really warm years of “normalcy.” The invisible bar of perfection, fake happiness and having it all together plagued me long before I understood depression. And now it has followed me to measure my “success” in dealing with my mental illness. After putting in the hundreds of hours of therapy, learning to live with my panic attacks and infuriating anxiety, making a choice to mostly surf on top of the waves of my emotions, speak openly about my journey to help eliminate the shame and stare the dreaded thoughts of escape square in the face; I expected to be good. Didn’t I do all that was required of a person with depression? I don’t want to stare into my soul anymore and figure out why I am the way I am. I thought I finally saw who I was supposed to be and that was it. The boxes had been checked… in my mind I not only grazed the top of the bar but I swung around and around and stuck my landing in such a way that I would have won a gold medal in the Olympics. And maybe that’s what I expected. To perfectly recover from depression making it disappear and leaving me with a golden badge of “been there done that.”

Life doesn’t work like that. Having a chronic illness doesn’t work like that. I may have been able to manage my symptoms really well for a while, but in the end, it is always there… lurking underneath. Waiting for something to shake it out of me again.

But that’s not the way I want to look at it. I want to learn to love and accept that part of me again. The part of me that has been changed in a positive way by battling this disease. The part that has courageously asked for help again and again because I know I can’t fight alone. The part that understands how joy has taken a whole new meaning in my life. The darker, heavier and complacent parts that help me empathize with others. And the part that helps me see God’s love and goodness, mercy and grace but also knows that He can take my anger and hurt and moments of mistrust.

I don’t know my future. But I do know I will continue to work hard… going forward whether up or down. Accepting I am who I am and I am loved.

A Beautiful Realization

A few months ago I stood in front of a room filled mostly with strangers and shared my story. I wanted to share a piece of myself with these beautiful mothers who attended MOPs (moms of preschoolers) because I thought if it could help just one mama it would be worth being vulnerable. The process of writing what I was going to share was another step in my life long refinement as a follower of Christ. Reliving moments that I sometimes wished to forget. Remembering the pain of the disease. Being shown again that even in my lowest of lows God's still small voice was there. He never left me. 

In honor of mental health awareness month I again share my story. Not to show you how far I've come (the growth will never end), nor to exemplify myself as a poster child of postpartum depression, not even to celebrate the fact that I survived. God is SO much more than the small speck of dust that is my story. This life full of suffering is meaningless if it were not for my beloved Savior who points me again and again to Him and reminds me that the joyful moments of life are just a taste of what is to come.

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As I was trying to figure out what piece of my very complex story I wanted to share with you all today the following statements came to me:

You are enough, He is always there even when you could care less, it wasn’t your fault, it is an illness, you are loved, acceptance leads to peace.

You see the past 7 years have been the most refining of my life thus far. In fall 2012 I left all I had known as a young adult and mama and moved from Connecticut to Lancaster PA. I was 7 months pregnant and had a 2.5-year-old at the time. I left my job and became a stay at home mom overnight. I went from being just outside of NYC to living in a land known for its Amish, its cows and its ice cream. I was desperately alone with no community and changes were being thrown left and right… the perfect petri dish for depression.

Being unable to shake the baby blues a few months after giving birth to my son, I wondered if this is just what life was like with 2 kids. Lifeless, dull, one note, void of joy, sad and constricting. But when my home started to feel like a prison and my interests in working on anything in my life besides keeping my kids relatively happy waned, I knew something else had to be going on. It was then in March of 2013 that I was diagnosed with postpartum depression and anxiety.

It is a tough road to be on... the inability to control feelings can be crippling. The very idea that I was depressed made me feel full of shame. What was I doing wrong? Why couldn’t I just be happy? My life was amazing couldn’t I see that? Isn’t prayer supposed to fix this? Just snap out of it. I felt as though I was trapped in a well of darkness, clinging to a ladder that pointed up to the surface, the numb feeling of sadness threatening to overcome me and the darkness below ready to envelope me. I was fighting for my life and, the hardest part, not blaming myself for where I was at. I was sick. I had to accept over and over again that depression is an illness.

July 2013

Depression is very good at distorting the truth. It manufactures lies. It makes you want to isolate yourself and not tell anyone. It yells that you are worthless. That you’re a burden and those closest to you would be better off without you.

It was in July 2013 that I had a plan to end my life. But God had different plans. His still small voice triggered the courageous warrior woman inside of me to call my husband when I wanted to veer off the road and to then explain to him what else I had planned. Together we made the courageous decision to check me into a psychiatric hospital for 72 hours. And that was the beginning… I had been completely burned down. Now it was time to rebuild. Brick by brick. My experiences through that time changed me forever and I come to you a new and fully formed daughter of God. 

I wish I could tell you that getting through those intense years meant I had paid my dues to the “hard knocks of life fund” and all was smooth sailing after that. But it wasn’t… that’s life… one curve ball after another. I had to accept that I might deal with depression indefinitely, I experienced a miscarriage and a year ago my husband lost his job. We now find ourselves coming full circle… restarting our lives in a new area once again. But one of the things I have learned through this journey is that circumstances change all the time, but God is forever constant and faithful.

I want to end by sharing a poem I wrote about a year after my hospital stay. At this point in my recovery I was extremely angry at God for all of my suffering. And how at times I felt I wasn’t getting any better. It was hard for me to sing at church and I could barely speak to Him. One night as I was wrestling with the this I sat down and wrote this.

A Beautiful Realization

You know who you are

You see her right there

She's the one staring

Her eyes glimmering, Her skin fair

You see every flaw

Every sin

Every shame

But do you see the girl who is no longer in such pain?

Can you look past where you are

To see where you've come from?

You've climbed reach-less mountains

You've discovered the sun!

Don't dwell on the battles that are sure to still come

But turn your head toward the victories you've already won

God has been there too

or would you rather forget?

He is the one who saved you

AND He's not finished yet

So open your eyes my dear beloved one.

Give yourself mercy...

Give yourself the Son

Beauty and strength

Courage and might

They have all helped you win

Helped you fight the good fight

Now look again

See the girl who has come so far

You can do this, you can beat this

You are who you are

Beauty HE made you

Beauty HE sees

And He is real, He is there

He comes to you like the warm ocean breeze

Hope for a Hopeless Day

6 years ago, my battle with postpartum depression started.

4 years ago, I recognized and accepted depression would be something that may never leave me.

3 months ago, I was injured and had to stop running after being consistent for 1.5 years… running helped me fight those dark days. I credited running to feeling the best I had felt, mentally and physically, in 6 years.

I lost running around the time I lost my dog. I lost running around the time the reality of our move had settled in. I lost running when the cold stark grey days of my first northern Illinois winter moved in.

I was so fearful of what was next. Was I going to dip into the darkness for longer periods of time without my running? Was I going to start obsessively worrying about my body image? Was I strong enough to find other ways to help my spirits? Would I lose all that I had worked for the last 18 months?

“WHY GOD!? WHY? Why did you take away the ONE thing that I thought you gave me to fight? The one thing that stayed constant in my life after so many changes? The one thing that I could turn to and know would always give me the boost I needed?”

And yet… Jesus Himself was all of that. He IS all of that. I have been reminded over these past months that it is not the running that saves me and that helps me grow stronger… it is the acceptance that “when I am weak, He is strong.”

This morning was tough. We’ve been struggling with sickness in our house again which carries its own bag of difficulties… exhaustion, isolation, loneliness, restlessness. These can be triggers for me, especially the feeling of being closed in and stuck. It is so easy to let my mind race back to my past struggles when triggered if I am not careful. As I drove to drop the older kids off at school the day loomed before me like an endless chasm. The stabbing physical pain of emptiness kept punching me in the heart. How could I do this day? Hopelessness started to overwhelm my mind and my years of training “what to do when down” kicked in.

Running.

Nope can’t do that.

Visiting my friends?

I am still in the baby stages of forming friendships.

And in that moment, I had a choice. I could choose to throw a massive pity party for myself and let my emotions and feelings entrench me, or I could choose to do something else. God gave me the strength to do the latter because if it was fully up to me, I would have started to blow up the balloons.

The sun was deceptively bright and though it was only 25 degrees I decided to take a walk. Making a mental note not to look at the clock, I started to gather layers of clothing for Colin and I.  This reminded me of the joy that mindfulness can bring… the way being right here and right now allows for the pain of hopelessness to melt away.  

As I started to walk down the street with Colin on my back and the sun shinning brightly on my face,

I took a deep breath in and no longer felt trapped. Blood pumped through my very alive body and I was thankful to be here sharing this time with my son. After a mile I asked Colin if he was cold and wanted to go home to which he vehemently replied “NO!” Smiling, we marveled at the beauty of the frozen ponds, spotted robins which brought with them the hope of spring and giggled as I carefully stepped over ice patches.

Walking back into the house I felt so much lighter. God’s beauty and the reality that I was strong enough to have chosen to seek it filled me with hope. The joy in the present moment helped carry me the rest of the day. 

I will run again and when I do I will glorify God. I will feel down again and when I do I will remember that He is strong. The cold of darkness feels awful but the warmth of the sun will come again.

Take hope! You are not alone!

You are there

It's hard to not let myself think back 6 years ago on this night without some trepidation. The night before my second child was born just hours into the next day. The night that changed everything in my life. I wish I could run to that young woman, laboring in her home, hold her tight and say "you are going to get through what is to come, you are going to make it. Many times you will feel forsaken by God, but He never left your side."

You have searched me, LORD, and you know me.

A few months before Nolan was born we made life altering changes. I left my job, became a stay at home mom and moved away from my friends and my life in Connecticut. I felt so alone and foreign in the beautiful fields of Lancaster. I remember crying almost everyday from the exhaustion of being pregnant and feeling like a failure as Mikayla and I tried to get used to spending all day together. I was frantically putting myself into every opportunity I could find to meet friends before the baby came and felt all the more distant when friendships didn't bloom overnight. It was overwhelming. It was stifling.

You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. 

You discern my going out and my lying down; You are familiar with all my ways. 

The day my sweet baby boy was born I remember gazing out my window at a tractor plowing the field next to the hospital and feeling listless. It seemed so wrong to be feeling that way when I was holding new life and joy in my arms, my heart double the size it was the day before. Those first few weeks were a blur of sleepless nights, adjustment, small victories and a slight heaviness that seemed to have settled itself in the recesses of my chest.

Before a word is on my tongue you, LORD, know it completely. 

You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me. 

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, 

too lofty for me to attain. 

I used to get angry that postpartum depression took over after that. I used to feel robbed of my life during those years... I still do at times. The following 2 years, Nolan's birthday was a reminder of how far I hadn't gotten. That I was still depressed. That I still thought my family was better off without me. The lies were still speaking. My trust in God had faltered. A time that was supposed to be filled with joy and celebration had a dark cloud over it. For so long I wanted to yell and shake that young naïve woman..."You are about to go into hell, why did you let yourself get to this point, what are all of the things that you did wrong to deserve this fate, how could you have ever thought life was going to be good!?"

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? 

If I go up to the heavens; you are there. If I make my bed in the depths, you are there. 

If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, 

even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

But then a small light shone through. Nolan's third birthday approached. I was anxious that I would tailspin into weeks of darkness. Two weeks before I had miscarried our precious baby and was still grieving the loss. I didn't know what to expect. The day before Nolan's birthday came and I didn't feel the heaviness, hopelessness and despair that my depression liked to lasso me with. Instead I felt light. For the first time since his birth I was able to truly celebrate. 

If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me," even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.

Here I am now. And as I was 6 years ago, living in a new State which is widely different from the Lancaster I grew to love. Once again I am without my life and community that was created so beautifully out of the ashes. But unlike the precious young woman of that night, I am here with a renewed spirit. God took me from the nothingness I became from my suffering and helped build me into a stronger, more empathetic and wiser person. I am still broken, I still have my days of mistrust and fear, but I know that He has done a good work in me. And for that I praise Him. 

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. 

Tomorrow while the kids yell who gets what piece of cake, argue about whose present gets opened first and sing at the top of their lungs... I am going to stop and savor the gift of the day. I am here to live another day. I am here to feel the warmth of Nolan's cheeks as I engulf my sweet boy in kisses. I am here because God saved me and He still has so much left to do in my life. To God be the glory for all the great things He has done!

Psalm 139:1-14

Owning It

I was standing in my friend Margaret's kitchen shortly before we moved to Illinois when she remarked, "ElisaBeth you are a runner" to which I replied "um no" to which she replied "um yes" with a look that would not let me go until I begrudgingly replied "ok fine I guess I'm a runner." She looked triumphant.

I have found the overwhelming theme of my 36th year to be "owning it"... owning my confidence, my beauty, my strength and the truths in my life. I spent so much time rebuilding myself the last 5 years that I haven't stopped to see the amazing progress God has done in my life. Allowing myself to be proud of who I am is a very foreign concept, one which I am slowly learning to embrace. I am so grateful to friends, like Margaret, who often remind me and remain SO patient with my growth.

A few months ago my therapist asked me to find a "token" of what exemplifies my beauty. I have been mulling it over for weeks and weeks and I could not come up with anything... until today.

Running!!

Not exactly a token, but something I can look at in this season of life as my saving grace, a picture of what beauty and strength is to me and something I have followed through with.

A year and a half ago I sat down and opened up my journal to a page that asked for a list of dreams that would make this year the "best ever." I hadn't let myself think past tomorrow for 4 years. Getting through each day seemed like a feat in itself and even conversations about the weekend would send me into panic. I was finally at a place where I could think about tomorrow and not get overwhelmed. Think about tomorrow and not feel the immense heaviness of depression that would surely come when I awoke in the morning. It was exciting and freeing. And besides these were dreams... so the pressure was off if they didn't all come true.

my dreams

I wrote the list and one of the dreams was to run consistently for 1 year. I knew how much running helped my depression and  mental health in the past (check out my post Panic Made Me Run) and I wanted be consistent again and this time not stop. This was a way to challenge and help myself at the same time!

16 months and an estimated 630+ miles later I am still running and will be running my farthest distance race to date in 3 weeks. This last year has been filled with SO many challenges and unknowns and running as been my one constant. Putting on my shoes, listening to my breath and my feet hit the pavement and taking time for myself has been empowering and has given me the best mental health year since 2010.

In the past, the kind of curve balls life has thrown our family this year would have sent me into panic attacks and weeks of feeling down... instead I am equipped to use the tools I have learned to help me in those dark moments. Running has made it possible to quickly access the tool box.

The girl who wasn't sure she would be able to live another day battling her depression... made it. The girl whose saw herself as nothing... sees her worth. The girl who felt ugly inside and out... now catches glimpses of her beauty. The girl who didn't know if she believed in God anymore... understands His role in her life so much more then ever before. The girl who never thought she would run... RUNS!

Because of You

It's hard to believe that you, dear one, would have been 2 years old a few weeks ago. We would have had such a fun party. Your sister and brother would have doted on you, your daddy would have made sure the theme of the party was the one word you were saying the most and I would have drunk in the moments watching you turn from baby to kid, but still be thankful for the baby cheeks that would have stayed. Dear baby I miss you! I want you! I will always love you! 

Just tonight I was telling daddy how much joy your brother, Colin, brings to us. He is like the period to our sentences. The giggle after the hard day. Even when his lower lip sticks out and starts to quiver after I ask him to “please be gentle” we are still so in love with this little boy. 

He wouldn’t have been, if you were not.

This is SUCH a hard concept to comprehend when I think of you, baby, when I want you to know that I MISS you. I love you SO much and I can’t wait to see you and yet I am so thankful for your brother. I would have never known him if it weren’t for you. I never got to stuff my face into your neck and smell your sweet sweet smell, but because of you, I get to snuggle Colin whenever I want. 

Thank you for living with me those short weeks. Thank you for helping me hope that I could have another baby, that I was strong enough to combat my depression. Thank you for the joy that you brought me.

With you I was full, without you I have a piece missing and yet I am newly formed into a woman with more empathy, compassion, and dare I say, more love to give my children here on earth.

Thank you baby.

Dear Baby

As I recount the last 24 hours of the moments you were living inside of me I think of the joy that had my heart overflowing. The excitement of your gift of life, the secret that only a few knew of, the counting ahead of the months to come and when I would finally get to meet you, get to hold you.

The night before you were lost to me forever I spent playing in an orchestra concert. I was proud to be playing my violin, glowing from the inside out, feeling strong as a woman who could create life and create art at the same time. Chatting with fellow musicians about the day, all the while beaming from within and wanting to shout from the rooftops that I carried not only my own soul, but yours as well.

Going to sleep that night I spoke to your daddy and we talked through names that we wanted to name you. I know you were still so small, so tiny, but your presence emanated from my every thought. You were there with us… or at least I thought you were.

The next morning, we went to church and as I sang to God I thought with expectation of the coming weeks when you could begin to hear me, begin to know me. We came home and had pizza for lunch and before eating I noticed one small spot of blood… the thought that you may no longer be here crossed my mind, however I didn’t let it take over. I didn’t think that your precious life could be taken from me so suddenly. I didn’t think that God would allow for your spirit to soar ahead without me. 

As I drove the hour to get to my second orchestra concert of the weekend I tried to let peace overtake me. Tried to reason that all would be ok. I reached the auditorium, set my violin down and headed towards the bathroom. And that’s when I knew you were gone. Though I still held onto a small hope.

Rushing back into the auditorium white as a ghost I was approached by some fellow violinists. One grabbed me in her arms, held me fiercely tight like a mama bear to her cub and prayed to Jesus for you. Prayed to Jesus for me. I grabbed my violin and ran back to my car and made the trek home. My sweet baby, it was a long ride… not knowing if you were still there with me. 

The next morning was hazy. At the doctor’s office… staring at the women and their swollen bellies, the women and their newborn babies, I waited. And then I was told that you were gone. As I lay on the chair and stared at the screen that was supposed to show your life, all I saw was emptiness. And I felt empty.

I had to get blood taken three more times after that trip to the doctor’s office. Watch the numbers in my blood that shouted of your existence fade away. Diminish. It was like you were never even here… 

But. You were.

Missing you and loving your brother so much

It was that same chair that I laid on and the same screen that I stared at 3 short months later when I saw your brother wriggling around. Where I heard his sweet, strong heartbeat. Where I was able to accept that he was alive in that moment. But you were on my mind. I would never get to see you in such a way. I would never get to hear your heartbeat. I loved your brother, baby, but I missed you so so much. I didn’t want you to think we had forgotten you. That we had just decided to replace you with another. 

I can’t wait to meet you. I can’t wait to see your smile and bury my head in your hair. I can’t wait to tell you how much I have always loved you. You will never be forgotten. Your very being filled me with unspeakable joy.

You will never know what pain is, or suffering. You will never be scared or hurt. All you will know is the unbridled love and peace of our Savior. One day I will share this with you. Until then… you will always have a piece of my heart.