Post #4: Sunday Will Come

This project has been interesting. Each time I've sat down to write a post, the idea for it comes maybe only hours before. It's like a download in my brain and somehow I'm able to just type out the words.

This morning as I skimmed through social media posts, I loved seeing so many about this upcoming Easter Holiday. More importantly, I loved seeing so many people share such personal and sacred testimonies of the Savior. It got my mind thinking about what it was like for those in Jesus' time, walking with him, witnessing those miracles, seeing first hand this miraculous Son of God.

And then how would it have been to have to witness his brutal death? Someone who could do what no other person on earth could do, still ended up dying in the end. I cannot imagine the grief of those who cared for Jesus watch him die on that cross. On that Friday, everything on earth grieved. Numerous accounts of storms and darkness covered the earth, along with covering the hearts of those who just witnessed the death of someone they loved.

Though I cannot imagine the grief of those who walked with Jesus, it does bring up the emotions I felt as I watched my own Dad pass away. That was my own personal dark Friday. To watch someone you look up to, admire, succumb to the mortal element of death makes the whole world stop. Time seems to stand still, and you are certain you will never be whole again. How could you? A giant part of your life is now gone.

Today I've been pondering about that Saturday, back in the time of Jesus. The day after He passed. We don't have much about that agonizing 48 hours, because in hindsight, the miracle was just around the corner. But what about that day? What did those who loved Jesus do? Certainly, time continued to stand still. The shock still fresh, denial still eminent. Not Jesus, the Son of God. Not the man who raised others from the dead, who healed the blind and leprous. Not the man who's time on earth was too short. He had so much more to offer to this world, didn't he? How could He be gone?

I can remember my own Saturday like that. The hollowness of realizing that person is really, truly gone from this life. They say the veil is thin, but on days like that Saturday, it feels like a brick wall.

Yet unlike those who witnessed Jesus' death and did not yet know He would rise again, I luckily had that knowledge while going through my own Saturday. Sometimes it was hard to grab a hold of that knowledge, because the grief consumes you and the pain takes over every part of your body. You cannot cry enough tears, you cannot completely express how shattered you are inside.

But even though that Saturday was so dark, and has been so dark for so many, we have Sunday. Sunday did come, and the Savior did rise again. And because He did, all will. And we can be with those we love again.

The Savior understands those shocking Fridays, and those dark Saturdays that follow. He chose to walk through life, knowing how His mission would end, so that He could be there for each one of us. He is there even when the fog of grief and pain are so thick you think you are completely alone. Sometimes it is not until you can look back that you see He was there. Through a friend, or a note, or a phone call, or just the fact that you were able to get out of bed and go through another day.

Sunday did come, and because Sunday came, we can all find peace and joy, even when the dark Saturdays come and we wonder if we will ever feel happy again.

How grateful I am that Sunday came.

Inspiration for this post came from the talk I read this morning called Sunday Will Come by Elder Joseph  B. Wirthlin.

Post #3: The Gift of Therapy

Though anxiety is still something that I have to constantly keep myself in check with, I wouldn't have the ability to be where I am if it wasn't for therapy.

There's such a stigma surrounding therapy and counseling, and I hope that posting about it will help someone who is wondering if it's right for them to realize YES. It is right for you. Therapy is right for everyone. I mean that 100%.

The first time I saw a counselor happened while I was still in college, and it was my first bout with crippling anxiety. You know, the kind where I could barely eat, and almost every second of every day was filled with horrible worst-case-scenario thoughts and I felt like I was drowning. Luckily, I had a roommate who was getting her masters in counseling and she convinced me to give it a chance.

It wasn't easy. I kept it a secret from everyone but her, including my family. I didn't tell them for a couple years that I had seen a counselor. For some reason, seeing a counselor made me feel like other people would judge me and think I was actually insane, or think I was overreacting and should just try harder on my own.

The second time I saw a counselor, I took longer to get up the courage to do it. Hadn't I already done this years ago? Why couldn't what I learned about how to talk myself through my anxiety stick? Why was I struggling so much again that functioning daily was almost too much to bear? Why wasn't I able to have more faith and pray harder that I would feel better on my own? What would people think of me this time, knowing this is my second round?

There seems to be a lot of shame surrounding the idea of seeing a therapist, especially if you are still a functioning member of society. We tend to think therapy is for those who are on the brink (or already experienced) a mental breakdown. And though that is grounds to see someone, if you feel stuck, therapy is an option I don't think you will regret trying.

Therapy is hard work. It only works if you do. Sounds easy, but it's not. It's weird, because it's actually reliving to spill all your thoughts to a third party who is not associated with you in your daily life. It can seem scary and weird to talk to someone you don't know about really personal thoughts, perhaps ones you have never had the courage to voice out loud. You might think your therapist will look at you with a skeptical expression and tell you "You're wasting my time. Your problems are stupid. Don't come back."

I've had all of those thoughts. I was sure even this second time around I would be told what was bothering me so much in my life wouldn't be a valid reason for therapy. But if your therapist does what any therapist should do, they help you feel safe and help you know you can feel better. I promise you, your problems matter. And if your problems are holding you back, talk to someone about it.

It's so, so tiring having thoughts banging around in your head. Thoughts that weigh too much for you to bear. Thoughts you are terrified of speaking out loud because you swear you'll sound crazy, or lazy, or selfish, etc. Thoughts can seem too powerful to overcome. The catch is they lose their weight and credibility when they are spoken out loud. Therapy is a safe place to do that.

I knew I was to the point of needing to see a counselor again when I realized the powerful, anxious thoughts were keeping me from praying to Heavenly Father. I was terrified of what His answers would be to the issues bothering me. Ridiculous, right?  Somewhere along the way I had forgotten how to trust Him, and myself.

Choosing to go to therapy again was one of the best decisions I made concerning my mental health. It was hard. Therapy isn't easy. Yes, it's wonderful to be able to voice your thoughts and concerns out loud, but you have to be willing to be completely vulnerable. You have to be able to admit things about yourself you might not want to. But I promise you, therapy is a place that is free of judgment. Therapists don't give you the answers, they help you find the answers within yourself. It's emotionally draining, but sometimes you have to be completely drained before you can begin to fill up with strength and a sense of your true self again.

Therapy does not mean you've given up, or are weak. It's the opposite. The Atonement is always enough, but the Atonement works in many different ways. Therapy is one of the ways you can open up your heart to let the Savior heal you again. And you can be healed. We will always be able to be healed again.

And again.

And again.

So if you are on the fence, wondering if seeing a counselor is something you should look into but you are too afraid or ashamed, don't be. Pray about it, and message me and I'll stand by you. :)

Therapy has helped me realize that even when I am on the rock bottom of feeling down, I am still standing on a solid foundation of Christ. Descending down into the depths of emotional trauma and trials can be excruciating and exhausting. But we don't have to do it alone. The Savior is always, always there. He is at the bottom with us, and He is helping us as we crawl back up. We are never completely alone or without answers.

Please remember that.

Post #2: The Power of Anger

This month is a weird month for me. It's become the "Dad" month for me. His birthday is on the 8th, and the 23rd is when he had his heart attack and spent the last week of the month in a medically induced coma, our family getting the news that his brain activity was too low for him to live a normal life if he woke up, and us feeling like the best choice for him would be to let him go.

All of that starts swirling around inside of me come February. The weather plays a factor, and just life does. Last year was the first anniversary of his death, and the pain was so fresh it felt like everything had just happened. But along with the pain last year, there was an agonizing amount of anger that consumed me. 

Hence the title of this post.

Grieving is a weird, super personal process. It is different for everyone. I still am not sure about how I grieve, because each instance that causes grief is different. It is a lifelong process. I am still figuring myself out, and still don't know how I will feel in the next hour, or the next day, or the next year. It is always changing. 

I do know that feeling anger was a part of my grieving process. A big part, even though I didn't welcome it or like it. 

About ten days before my Dad passed away, Paul was suddenly laid off his job. It was a huge blow to us in many ways. And then to have Dad die brought on so much pain I didn't know what to do. To say I was furious with Heavenly Father would be an understatement. 

I remember sitting on my bed one night, a few weeks after Dad passed. Lauren was whining about something and I told Paul I just needed a break. He didn't question and took over while I retreated to our room. As I sat, I remember "praying" to Heavenly Father. More like, I was yelling at him inside my head. I remember clenching my fists as hard as I could, feeling the anger course through me, but feeling like I couldn't express just how furious I really was with Him. 

"THIS ISN'T FAIR. ALL OF THIS IS RIDICULOUS. HOW COULD YOU DO BOTH OF THESE AT THE SAME TIME TO ME? HOW?" I screamed those questions at Him over and over again. I didn't feel any love from Him. I felt like He did those things without caring about my feelings. I remember wondering, "What does it matter if I have faith? You'll just do what you want. My feelings don't really matter, do they? Sure, someday you'll explain and it will make sense, but that's not now. Not here. I have to live with this darkness YOU threw on me hoping it would make me come to you. Well guess what, I don't want to. Not at all."

Some of you reading this might think I was being childish, and maybe I was. But I was really, deeply hurt. Grief is it's own animal, and I was suddenly thrown into the pit of grieving over two very huge life-changing experiences. At the same time. I didn't know what to do. The advice to turn to the Savior fell hollow on my ears. 

"It's His fault I'm in this mess." Is what I told myself over and over again, letting the anger run through me. "I'm not ready to feel any sort of peace about this. Peace means I accept it, and I'm OK with it. And I am definitely NOT OK with it."

I still went to church, I still did my callings, I still said prayers, though they were hollow and without feeling. I went through the motions because I was a walking zombie of pain. Looking back, I really don't remember much about the first six months after my Dad passed. I think I started to come out of the fog when Paul got a new job and we prepared to move. I started to breath a bit easier and feel a bit more like myself again. At least one giant burden was gone, but now I only had the one I really could do nothing about--processing Dad's death. 

Things were up and down after we moved, the first anniversary of his death coming and going and once again I felt stuck. The anger had ebbed some, I didn't feel so furious and felt like my relationship with Heavenly Father was healing a little bit, but I still had resentment. And I worried He resented me. I was weighed down, but I didn't know how to get through it.

This is where I started to see a counselor. 

Therapy did wonders for me, and I plan to get more into that in another post. What I want to focus on is what I learned about anger during those sessions.

We all have primary emotions. Joy, fear, and sadness are the most common primary emotions. Anger has also been included in those primary emotions, but there is conflicting research. Anger is usually a mask to one of the primary emotions. Anger is something we can funnel energy into. It can be a distraction from feeling the depth of another emotion. 

I latched on to anger because I didn't want to let myself feel the devastating sadness of my Dad's passing. To give you a visual picture, it looked like sadness was a never ending dark hole.

"You have to get to the bottom of an emotion before you can move on," my therapist said. "It's uncomfortable and can be draining, but it can be done. It's uncomfortable and that is why most people don't do it. That's why they latch onto anger, because they don't want to get to the bottom and really heal."

I was so tired of feeling anger. It was draining in it's own way. 

"But how can I really go down that dark hole by myself?" I remember asking her. 

"You won't be alone when you go down there," she said simply. "Someone already paid the price to be able to go with you. Someone who descended below them all."

It was the beginning of healing for me. I could actually sense the Savior was right there, ready to go down with me.

"I'm scared to go down there. It looks dark, and painful, and I don't see the bottom. Will you please go with me?" I pleaded in my prayers. 

As I started to let go of the anger and let myself feel all the feelings that come with grieving, I can testify that I was not alone in those deep, sometimes excruciating feelings. 

How amazing is that sort of love, that after over a year of me yelling and screaming and being mad, I never had those feelings returned? That the moment I asked Him to be with me, He was with me. Actually, I never even had to ask. He was always there.  

Though the anger is gone for me when I think about my Dad, the grieving is still ongoing, and as I go through all the emotions that come with it, I am better at letting them come. Some days I am extremely sad. Others, I am at peace and happy. But no matter what, I am not alone.

So here is what I want to end with today. If you are angry about something, and know it is consuming you, but are afraid to let go of it, go to the one person who can be there with you as you start to let go. It's scary to let go, because knowing that you could experience something that is so devastating that it could rip you apart is frightening. As you feel ripped apart and stretched beyond your limit, remember who the Master Healer is. He is the only one who can heal all wounds, all scars. All of it. 

Post #1: The White Stocking, or Where It All Began

There's a tradition in my family on Christmas Eve. Up along the mantle with all our stockings, there was also always a white stocking. Someone gave it as a gift years ago, and it's meaning and activity have become a part of our holiday traditions.

 On Christmas Eve, after all our musical programs and nativity acting out, Mom would read the following:

It wasn't that anyone had really been forgotten. No children had been slighted or made unhappy and no adult had been left unremembered. The presents had all been distributed and all the stockings were beautifully filled--all except one; one stocking that had never been hung. It was the stocking intended for the child of Bethlehem. Of all the people belonging at the Christmas gathering, only He had been forgotten. Only He had been left out of all the festivities. This didn't seem quite right, inasmuch as it was His birthday that was being celebrated. 

We would then each write on a tiny piece of paper a goal for the following year that would draw us closer to Christ, and place it in the stocking. We would then pull out those papers next Christmas and see if we did what we set out to do.

The last time I was at my parents' house for Christmas was 2014. My goal was this:

I remember writing this, because I remember how I felt while I wrote it. It was a small, quick, vague way of me trying to tell myself that everything was going to be OK.

Now, 2014 was--on the outside--a joyous year for me and my family. We welcomed our little Lauren in February of that year. She was healthy, developing like she should, and we were doing everything that should bring us joy. And there were joyous times. Lauren brought a new love to our home we didn't know existed. Her spirit filled our hearts and our home.  So why was I struggling so much on the inside? Weren't things good?

 2015 was going to be a better year. An easier year. I was close--2 months away--from Lauren's first birthday. A major milestone. I would have survived the first year and looked back and thought "All right, it really wasn't that bad, was it?"

Yes. There was so much good. But there was also so much going on inside of me that left me feeling dark and alone.

See, I wrote this goal to have faith over fear because I was in a constant state of fear. For the past year and a half, I was in the throes of anxiety and postpartum anxiety.  And I didn't know it.

I've had bouts with anxiety before, mostly in college, but counseling helped and I thought I was all good. I thought I had learned what I needed and that it was just a fluke and I wasn't going to experience those feelings again. But as soon as I found out I was pregnant in the summer of 2013 (and it wasn't a surprise, we had talked about it), the thoughts came racing back.

All the time. Every day.

There was always something to worry about. To obsess over.

I don't know if I cooked my lunch meat long enough, am I going to miscarry? I forgot to take my pre-natal vitamin this morning. Is my baby going to have some weird birth defect because of it? I have a pain in my right side. Am I having an ectopic pregnancy? Should I go to the emergency room just to check? I feel nauseous all the time, will I be able to keep anything down? Will I starve myself and the baby? Will I end up in the hospital because I'm so dehydrated? Will I be sick the whole 9 months? Am I going to be able to make it to the bathroom in time to puke or will I puke all over my desk at work?

On and on they went.
All day. Every day.

Did anyone have any idea how consuming those thoughts were? No, not even Paul. He knew I was nervous, but I believed, just like everyone else did, that it was normal to be that stressed all the time. We were new to this parent thing, for crying out loud! We didn't know what we were doing!

I didn't realize there was a difference. That the tight feeling in my chest wasn't normal. That sleepless nights because of the thoughts wasn't normal. That I was showing all the signs of being in the middle of anxiety.

I was--and still am--, considered to be a person with high functioning anxiety. I didn't lock myself away in my room during my pregnancy. I went to work. I grocery shopped. I worked out. I socialized. I smiled. I laughed. I did everything normal people do, but inside I was drowning. I didn't "look" stressed (whatever that means), I was consumed by it, but kept it hidden, because I was sure if I told everyone all the thoughts that raced through my mind in a mere 10 minutes, I would be patted on the arm and told "There, there. It's just because you're new to this. It will all be fine. You'll see."

The problem with anxiety is that it robs me of faith. Anxiety grabs a hold of my brain and spits out all these scenarios that come to my mind over and over again and that somehow convince me they are very real and very probable. And the whole concept of faith becomes absurd.

Anxiety not only brings on the worst-case scenario thoughts, it also brings on a sense of doom. In my case (it may vary, I can only vouch for myself), I began to feel like Heavenly Father didn't care about what I wanted. He was going to do what He saw best. We are taught that, right? There is always a higher power. His thoughts are not our thoughts. His ways are not our ways. We need to trust Him, no matter what.

I began to believe that He would take away this pregnancy from me. I had friends who experienced miscarriages and still births. Why would I be saved from any of that heartache? Why did I deserve a healthy baby? I was no better than anyone else. My self-worth was at an all time low. I believed that Heavenly Father had His own agenda, and was going to do whatever He thought was best, and that I was sure it was going to be something tragic. Something that I should have prepared myself for. I should have considered the possibility that something bad could happen. I convinced myself that if I didn't expect the worst, I was being naive and deserved something bad because I needed to remember that life is about trials, not joy.

I really, honestly believed all of that. For a very long time.

So, that tiny piece of paper was written 10 months after Lauren was born. Did the anxiety stop once she was born? Heavens no. It then became postpartum anxiety, which I will cover another time (since this post is already so long, and I am actually quite drained writing it.)

But I want to end this post with this--though I felt overwhelmed, and forgotten, useless, and many more negative things, I still had a tiny bit of hope in me. I had hope because after Lauren's first eight months of life, I was starting to feel like myself again. I wasn't worrying as much. I was able to breathe a bit easier. I was able to sleep better. Feel more joy than fear. And because the anxiety was starting to fade, I had hope that I could feel connected to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ again. Somehow, in the midst of all this new parenting stuff, I felt forgotten. I felt like I had to do everything on my own. I felt like it was expected of me. A requirement. I had forgotten what it means to really have Christ as a companion.

So I was going to make 2015 the year where I built my relationship with Christ again. I was going to ask Him to be a part of my life again. To help me feel like myself again. And I remember feeling in my heart as I wrote down my goal on that piece of paper and dropped it in the stocking, that He was aware of me. He was going to help me. I felt it so strongly. 2015 was going to bring me closer to Him, it was going to be a year of building.

When I look back on that pregnancy, I do remember the dark times, but I now also see how I mattered to Him. I've never not mattered to Him, even when I felt like I am a million miles away from Him. I guess that's what I really want someone to take away from this post. Hope. And the opportunity for you to remember that if you are in a dark place right now, or on the verge of one, or just coming out of one, or just wondering-

You. Matter. To. Him.