On abandoning dreams

"Hey, Dan. Have you considered yet that maybe this is not where I want you?"
It was that still, small voice that I had not heard in so long.
I had nearly forgotten the sound of his words, the cantor of his tone, as my eyes glazed over towards the candles burning in the pew aisle.

I had decided that grad school would be happening in May 2015.
"Lord, where do you want me to go?"
I saved my questions for the second line.
I had already decided the plot. I only needed God for the solution.
I needed a hero, a Savior, but I had missed the wanderings in the desert.
Yet I still somehow found myself lost in the middle of nowhere, buried in a pile of applications, mystery, and frustration.

You see, I have been fighting for months to make grad school happen.
Punching, kicking, screaming, swindling, doing - controlling whatever I could.
Going to bed exhausted at night.
Waking with eyes glazed, not a spark left, but still stuck on the prize.

"Okay."
Freedom. Anxiety lifting. Peace rising.
The candles kept flickering, slow and steady.
The spark returned.

It wasn't fighting against opposition.
It was beating down a path I wasn't meant to be on.

This doesn't mean grad school will never happen.
It doesn't even mean it won't happen this summer.
But it's hard to abandon dreams.
It's hard to hear "Trust me."
It's even harder to say "I will follow you."

How the church can be a voice among the voices of mental illness

I woke up at 5am a couple of weeks ago, ready to start my day with the sunrise and a run to clear my head before going to the clinic.

As I sat in bed checking emails and Facebook posts to wake up to the bright light of my phone, my heart stopped. A shooting at FSU.

I frantically began texting friends.

As the news unfolded, we discovered that the shooter had heard voices and believed the government was after him.

I have seen this before.
In fact, I see this every day in the mental health clinic I work at.
Symptoms noticed.
No intervention.
A psychotic break.
Tragedy.

It is time we start talking about mental illness boldly, constructively, with open and welcoming arms.

It is time "depression" can carry as much stigma as "hay fever" and seeing a therapist is as normal as seeing the dentist.

In my own experience with mental illness, I turned to my church for support. I was met with both judgment and acceptance. It was the former part that stuck with me when I could not unstick myself.

"If you have anxiety, you aren't trusting God."
"Pray and read your bible more."
"Count it all joy. You are blessed."
"Taking medications is cheating."

Paying, reading Scripture, counting our blessings, trusting God, and having faith are all excellent things. Maybe faith is being able to say, "I believe God is good, but I am still broken and hurting."

Here's twelve ways the church can be a voice among the many voices of mental illness.

1. Accept that mental illness is as valid and legitimate as any other disease. There are reasons we call it mental health and use terms like "symptoms, diagnoses, treatment, medications," etc. It's because mental illnesses are medically, biologically, and scientifically based - but incredibly more complex than many physical illnesses because the spirit, the personhood, is what gets attacked. It is difficult to admit to mental illness because there is no x-ray to show, no wound to bandage, no surgery to have. Legitimize your neighbor's experience.

2. Understand that mental illness is not a spiritual deficit. Would you tell somebody that their asthma is a result of sin, something they need to "snap out of," or would be cured if they simply had quiet time each morning? No? Great. Yes, mental illness, like any other illness, can cause strain on your relationship with God. Research even supports that spiritual beliefs and practices can have a positive effect on recovery. However, that does not mean that somebody is automatically an unfit Christian. Your neighbor did not do something wrong to cause this. His feelings are not a sin. Talking about trauma or abuse is not holding records of wrongs or dishonoring a parent. It is truth-telling, redemption, and healing - and that's what Christ was all about, isn't it?

3. Educate yourself. Be willing to throw away old assumptions. Read reliable resources. Watch documentaries. Ask your neighbor what she recommends. Invite, but don't press, your neighbor to share about his experience. There's plenty of bold people on UpWorthy who bravely share their stories.

4. Understand that each experience is unique. Like our faith journey, one's experience with a mental illness is very unique, very personal, and very difficult to share when there is not a solid foundation of trust and acceptance. Understand that your neighbor may not fall into the extremes you saw on television (hello, Hollywood). This makes their experience no less difficult.

5. Resist the urge to say "But you're not..." See above. Does your neighbor suffer from depression, but he somehow miraculously got out of bed today and is smiling right now? Panic attacks, but you've never seen one? Anxiety, but she looks so composed? Bless the Lord, it truly is a miracle. Refrain from making assumptions of what your perception of somebody's illness is or should be like. Refer to #1 if you're still confused.

6. Understand that your neighbor is hurting deeply. Many mental illnesses carry a myriad of overwhelming, diverse emotions. Regardless of what the specific emotions are, your neighbor is likely hurting and confused. Additionally, he or she may be dealing with the aftershocks of trauma, even if the incident happened years ago. Even not being able to identify a specific trigger can be frustrating, guilt inducing, and leave our friends feeling like they do not "deserve" their illness or are being overdramatic. The mind is a tricky thing, and it will do anything to protect itself. Mental illness is often associated with poor coping skills - not due to a failure on your neighbor's part, but because we simply were not built to deal with all of the evil in this world.

 

7. Ask how you can support your neighbor - then follow through. Maybe she needs the kids picked up because she just cannot handle everything today. Maybe he needs somebody to simply sit with him. Maybe she cannot articulate what exactly she needs and crying ensues. If your neighbor is not sure of what he or she needs, make a few offers that you are actually willing and able to do. Fold some laundry, make some coffee, watch some reality television, or drag her out of a house for a walk. Do something - but also respect the space to simply not.

8. Provide a safe place for your neighbor to process his or her experience. Provide this space, even if that means anger and frustration at God, hopelessness, or doubt. Often, but not always, mental health includes some sort of trauma or abuse. Regardless of abuse history, it is an incredibly difficult and confusing time, and a safe place to talk or just be is a blessing. Faith takes a lot of work and energy that they may not be able to muster. Hold that space for her until she can fill it again herself.

9. Know your limits and where your neighbor can go when you've reached them. This works on two planes. First, know your own boundaries. Supporting somebody with a mental illness, like any disease, can be draining on you. This is okay. Take care of yourself, and be able to set loving, firm limits. Second, know what resources are available in your community. Do some research, make some phone calls, and offer to take your neighbor to appointments if appropriate.

 

10. Support professional treatment. You are not a therapist, so please do not try to play one. If you are a therapist, I probably do not need to say anything about "boundaries" or "ethics" or "conflict of interest" or "just plain awkward." Support your neighbor getting help, and support whatever treatment plan the professionals and your neighbor agree upon. Know that treatments do not need to compete with the church. They can complement and support each other. This is not about you and your beliefs, but about your neighbor and her well-being.

 

11. Advocate for the mental health community. Y'all, it is tricky terrain to navigate in the mental health land. It's hard to fight for treatment when you're exhausted from your illness. Maybe your neighbor has been diagnosed with a chronic illness, but only has ten therapy sessions allotted by insurance. Maybe there are not adequate resources in your area. It's hard to have self-worth and believe you can get better when the world is telling you that you are not sick "enough," whatever that means. Maybe the stigma is too much, and he lives in fear, guilt, and shame. Advocate for your neighbor in your communities by spreading the word about the truth of mental illness. Join the anti-stigma fight. Write to lawmakers to advocate for equality in insurance coverage and treatment provision. Let your neighbor know that he is not alone, he is part of a team, and you are on it.

12. Keep the door open. Many mental illnesses are chronic, like diabetes, or can cycle between remission and relapse, like cancer. Check in on your neighbor, even after it seems like everything is okay. Continue to provide a safe, welcoming space. Provide support and reassurance when symptoms return.

Outrun the sun

I woke up to darkness in Colorado.
I slipped into my hoodie, pulled on some black gloves, and strapped an ipod to my arm.
Then I ran.

I raced against the sun, fighting to beat it to the top of the highest hill in town, fighting to taste some of its hope for the day.

That's what I do when I run. I solve the problems of the world, only to forget the solutions once I've got my breath back.

I have seen some of the darkest places of the world.
The dusty villages in Mexico and South America made of old tires, cardboard, and rusting metal.
The sleeping bags and cardboard lining Skid Row and the sidewalk outside my gated apartment.
The inner walls of an inpatient psychiatric facility.
The red clay and bricks of Auschwitz, as if the blood literally seeped down the walls and into the earth.

I have also seen some of the most beautiful places in the world.
The same dusty villages with the toothy grins of children, the warm tortillas and hugs of mothers, and the firm handshakes of hardworking fathers.
The landlord who gave one of those sidewalk tenants a job maintaining the grounds.
The residents who finally got to go home.
The vineyards etched into the cliffs above crashing waves in Cinque Terre.
The amber gravity defiance of Moab.
The moss and fog blanketing the sea of trees in the Pacific Northwest.

Both places give me hope.
We have to create space for the darkness as much as we allow the light in. We have to allow the evil in, not to condone its presence but to say, "I see you. I know what you are doing."

We cannot say, "You are not welcome here," until we say, "I know you are there."
We cannot say, "I will fight for you," until we say, "I see what hurts you."
We cannot hope until we know what we are hoping for, but maybe also what we're hoping from.

The darkness comes again and again - but the light does too. The sun always rises, even in the darkest of nights.

 

Maybe if I could run fast enough I could leap right out of my own tattered skin that holds me captive. Maybe I could reach my hands out far and wide, touch the sun, and soak in its goodness. Maybe I could reach the light and let hope pour in as my selfishness, anger, and grief sweats out.

Maybe I could run fast enough to pass right through it like my own crucible, coming out on the other side to allow the sun to warm my back and light my path. Maybe the darkness could be all behind me.

Even if I can't run that fast, the sun still rises.

Pots and pavement

I looked at my calendar for the spring semester this morning, fighting to squeeze in a camping trip here, a beach day there. Time management gymnastics. March rolled around and I scratched my head at the thought of being out of town three weekends in a row.

Not too long ago, this would have been my dream.
To sleep in a different bed, bury boarding passes in my purse, squeeze shampoo out of a three ounce bottle, eat at a new table for each meal.

The journey was in the chaos.
Today, my heart feels more chaotic. Maybe I'm getting old, but I need the consistency of life to balance my wandering mind. I need the rhythms of alarm clocks and garbage trucks on Thursday at 7am and traffic creeping up right at three in the afternoon and a calendar that has more white space than marked.

I still love to adventure and explore, but maybe there is something valuable in planting roots.

I always thought I was a windowsill kind of girl. Never really committing to life inside or out, I could sit perched up on my slab of granite, watching everything around me. I could move to catch the light, be carried to a new window, even go to a new house. I could see it all, have it all, maybe even be it all.

 

 

But that's no life to live, stuck in a pot.
Potted plants live within harsh borders, unable to move and grow beyond the size of their confines. Sure, the pot can move - but it can never grow. Secure? Yes. Safe? No. Daring to push beyond the boundaries, to stretch and explore, will only lead to death.

If I am such a windowsill girl, such a wandering heart, then why am I being pushed towards the life of the trees?

Still. Strong. Waiting.
Generation after generation, growing higher and higher. Covering afternoon naps, supporting young climbers, stretching limbs out to wrap around all who come near.

Maybe now the journey is in the stillness.
Maybe my nomadic life is coming to an end.

Why then, am I being pushed to move again?
To uproot myself in the place I call home.
To pack up the boxes again and get a new driver's license.

Maybe because this place is built for nomads.
Everybody should live in LA or New York at least once - but leave before it makes you too hard.
It's been four years.
Maybe it's time to go.

Maybe it's time to explore a new place, to walk its streets enough that they become mine, to trip on pavement and forgive it anyway.

You can't take laptops on boats

My parents' defining moment was the moon landing.

When you see one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind, you grow up learning "Anything is possible."

My defining moment was September 11th.
I grew up learning, "Yes, anything is possible - and you should be very afraid of it because it is not always good, and not in your control."

I grew up with security cameras, x-ray machines, and bag searches in an attempt to keep us safe.
I grew up with ballet classes, piano recitals, high-stakes volleyball tournaments, speech and debate competitions, foreign language classes, and hyper-competitive softball leagues all in an attempt to gain a foothold on this world that was so out of control.

Maybe if we do enough, we can be enough.

We developed medications to block out our worries and fears, and started prescribing them more frequently than antibiotics.
Nobody has time to be weak.
Nobody can risk an emotion.

We developed social networks, hoping that maybe if we knew everything about everybody at every second, we could be in control, be informed, and be safe and secure.

Little did we know that in our quest to know so much, we would come to know so little. In our search for safety and comfort, we would find loneliness and anxiety. Maybe in knowing more about the world, we know less about ourselves.

You can't take laptops on boats.

On a sailboat, you're out of control. You're at the mercy of nature.
You become part of something bigger than yourself.
You learn to communicate, reach for a common goal, let go, and fine peace in the chaos.

That's what we're all after.
Peace.

Yes, anything is possible.
Yes, we are out of control.
Yes, you may be scared - but I can tolerate scared.
What I cannot do is sad and lonely.

It is in facing our fears and releasing control that we find peace.
Accepting and leaning into the chaos.
Breathing in deep and exhaling the wind that unfurls the sails.
Closing down the laptop and looking at the faces in front of you,
Trusting that today is enough,
That you are enough
Because anything is possible.

This is Danielle. She is a social worker.

"This is Danielle. She is a social worker."

My heart skips a beat and I want to correct her.
This is Dani. She is a student.
Or perhaps more accurately: This is Dani. She is crying, bleeding, and scratching to get a degree. Any degree at this point, really. She thinks she might like to be a social worker, but she really has no clue what she's doing in life. She's here for an assignment and is painfully uncomfortable with old people. Good luck - to both of you.

The coordinator tells me that the woman was once an actress, and that I would love to hear about it over the next ten weeks.

"Honey, that was 51 years ago. I hardly remember it myself."

Honey.
It's as if she can see right through me.
It's as if she knows.
Knows about the reflections I'll write about her, the time log the coordinator will sign, the grade I'll receive.
Knows that in this moment I want to crawl under a rock and hide, and switch my major to chemistry where the subjects don't talk back, don't have feelings, don't have a spirit.
Knows about the discomfort I feel. I'm completely out of my element.

Social workers help people. I leave my dirty dishes in the sink for days at a time.
Social workers wear dress pants. I prefer scantly washed skinny jeans from the thrift, or an old pair of leggings worn down at the knees.
Social workers are ready for any crises at any moment. I have to set alarms to move my car before street sweeping.
Social workers are non-judgmental and moral exemplars. I watch The Bachelor.

This is Dani. She is a social worker.
The title is big and uneasy. Heavy and awkward.
I'm like a toddler trying to walk around in my ma's heels.
It's cute and charming, but I'm a danger with a title twelve sizes too big.

But for today it will be enough, for tomorrow has enough woes of its own.
If a social worker helps people, then today I will let this woman show me her sketch book.
If a social worker is ready for any crisis at any moment, then I will leave my phone in the car.
If social workers are non-judgmental and moral exemplars, then well, we'll still work on that one.
Today I don't need dress pants and my alarms are set and my roommates aren't yet home to notice my spaghetti pot from last night.

Today I am sitting with a woman, spirit to spirit, and listening to her life unfold like the card table we sit at.

Today I am Danielle, the social worker.
It's new and it's awkward and it's dangerous and I have a few arguments about title protection to throw around, but today it is enough.