Category: Gratefully Sober

Gratefully sober since July 2008.

forgiveness: expect miracles

“Everyone says that forgiveness is a lovely idea until they have something to forgive.” – CS Lewis

Forgiveness of grave acts of injustice can feel like an abstract concept to those who have not experienced those acts. ( — PRISM magazine)

Sometimes I write, telling parts of my story, in order take what is anything but abstract for me and try to make it clear to others – to help my fellow journeymen (and women.)

My pastor said yesterday … that anger and the need to retaliate when someone has hurt you is “normal“; as normal as the reflexes a doctor checks when she taps on our knees during a check-up.  Normal.

I hate that word.  I don’t understand the use of it.  It is a bit reckless to say anything is normal these days when people have such diverse experiences.  But think I understand what he was trying to say —  that  a wish for vindication when you have been hurt is a healthy response.  But even that doesn’t sound quite right.  How about a human response?

But what response  should one have to being hurt or abused or rebuked or shamed or yelled at?  To retaliate?  No, I think he means a human response to lighter stuff like being gossiped against is to strike back.   Because when I think about my childhood, I think the healthy response is to shrink. One will cower.  One learns to hide, to disappear, to not be the object of that person’s attention.  Perhaps this response  is not “normal” but it sure was “reflexive” for me. That’s why it is hard to hear that “wanting revenge is normal” if that is indeed what he meant.

Then, as I look back, I see that THERE HAVE BEEN TIMES when I wanted a sort of revenge with my father and mother.

I have carried fear of my father for as long as I can remember and an anger at my mom for not protecting us.  And a kind of fury. I used to have rage dreams and on the really rare occasion I will have them still.  But they are  thankfully now years in-between.

The powerlessness that comes from having a father who never admitted he was wrong creates that anger and sense of worthlessness.

It is not worth trying to explain yourself.

It is not worth needing your own opinion.

It is not worth expending energy because nothing really matters.  Nothing

really matters at all.

I am so glad I am past that.

It’s just too bad he had to died for me to come to this place. I carry a huge feeling of loss that I never knew a sweetness in my relationship with my dad.  I loved him out of fear and a wish to please him.  I know he loved me.  But he just – couldn’t – help himself?

It is true he couldn’t help himself.  I wish he could have let God help him.

I miss him now, as I ponder what could have been.  He really was a dear man, loved by so many around the world who were his friends and never knew the secret rage inside him.  I’m glad that many people didn’t know – in a way – because Dad accomplished many good things.  Helped many people.  Was loved by many.

God why did you take him so young?  Sixty-two?  I hope

it wasn’t simply

so I could live.

No, I don’t think God works like that.

It was simply a convergence of events coming together to give him cancer and take him home.  And my ability to heal, to forgive, well I have to believe that I might have come to it even if my dad was still here.  Perhaps it would have taken longer, but it would have come.

I have forgiven my father and then I think of my mother, who still has a story to tell.  I don’t know if anyone would believe her, but she has so much in her life story that could be helpful to others.  Surely we can’t be the only ones in this situation, caught between a person who does good things and has their secrets.  A Christian leader who means well but whose home life isn’t right at all.  But that, is her story.   Perhaps one day I can help her tell it.

IN THE END what needs to be said is this.

Forgiveness is what each  Christ follower is asked to do in response to the forgiveness Jesus extends to us.  It is not easy.  It can take a long time.  It often depends on the emotional health of the person doing the forgiving.  It always depends on all the factors surrounding the situation and each person has to sort that out, often with the help of a pastor or a counselor.

I have been in therapy of one sort or another, off and on, for almost twenty years!  Wow, that’s crazy sounding but it’s true.

Pulling back the layers of pain,

the years of stagnation and lack of  healthy growth as a human being,

the crazy mixed up ideas,

the strange perspectives and opinions picked up over the years.

The times of resisting and not being willing to obey God.

And finally coming to a point that one decides for themselves what to do  — without the guilt or coercion of others, but in complete obedience.

It’s messy.  It’s damn difficult.

But it is so sweet, when finally healing, forgiveness and the mercy of Jesus at the cross come down on you.

And you begin anew… and your story continues…

Where does rage come from?

I do not know and I have pondered my father’s strange rage for many years.  I cannot pretend to have answers and obviously I cannot ask him.  But I have a friend who works with incest survivors.  She has a very special ministry. My father always said that he was sexually abused as a child, by a minister in his church.  I never believed him.  But I asked my friend about this and she said:  “When a person admits to this as an adult, they are telling the truth.  They have no reason to lie.”

No reason to lie.  She also said very often anger like that comes from abuse in the past.

I don’t know if it is true but I cannot ignore this:

In Forgiveness: following Jesus into radical loving Paula Huston says: “Regarding the tender souls of children, Jesus says in a passage that can be read as referring either to young human beings or to “baby” Christians: ‘Things that cause people to sin will inevitably occur.  It would be better for him if a millstone were put around his neck and he be thrown into the sea than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin.‘ (Luke 17:1-3)  The roots of our adult sin patterns are often to be found in the still-gaping wounds of childhood.”

So my father was hurt as a child.  And I was crushed by his pain and hurt, as he took it out in the form of rage and anger.

At some point we are each responsible to work through our experiences and get to a point of healing.

Again, from Huston,

“Then, and only then (after the process to be sure) we can see the other person as “a human being, no matter how degraded, a fellow soul made in the image and likeness of the God we adore.” (added by me)

God causes his sun to fall on both the good and the evil, and his rain to fall on both the righteous and unrighteous. (Phooey, I can’t remember the reference.)

The longer we shut up our heart against the one that has hurt us the closer we come

to losing our own heart,

our humanity,

even our life.

And for some even our minds.

These things  happened to me in the form of depression, alcoholism, and self-loathing.

And so, for today, I just want you, the reader, to know that there is hope.  It is found in Jesus at the cross if you will spend some time there.  Lay those things down; the heavy burden of pain — close your eyes and picture** putting it at Jesus’ feet.  Give it to God.  Release it when you are ready and be ready for miracles.

MHH

** Some people have a hard time picturing things in their mind’s eye.  If that is true for you I would urge you to watch the movie THE MISSION.  That movie will give you a picture of your pain and lack of forgiveness as those heavy pieces of armor  that the priest dragged up a water fall as penance.  Whenever I begin to forget what my bitterness and anger, lack of forgiveness are doing to me, I can see in my mind’s eye that sack of armor.  No one can live that way.  No one should live that way.  No one needs to live that way.

My Crooked Heart

“There is a sacred quality to words.  They are not information but revelation.”

— Eugene Peterson

I believe every person is on a spiritual journey.  In as much as we are human, we are spiritual beings.  Pierre Teilhard De Chardin put it like this:   “We are not human beings on a spiritual journey. We are spiritual beings on a human journey.”

That has completely been my experience.  De Chardin wrote that everything is sacred because God is shown throughout creation.  My life might seem quite insignificant in the grand scheme of the cosmos, but  human endeavors are epiphanies of the reality of God’s presence.  Though we may, at different times in our life, walk toward or away from belief or what I call faith in an “other” we each walk a unique path of belief and disbelief.  This journey depends on the individual , the people who influence them, and their spiritual openness and experiences with God.

Organized religion, actually, has ruined the journey of many beautifully spiritual people who I have known.  It has hurt them.  Destroyed their fledgling hope in a power greater than themselves. Fortunately for me, organized religion has been a process that has been good, bad and indifferent but not completely horrible.

As a child

I quite easily and naturally believed in the God of John 3:16, the first Bible verse I memorized.  My parents very forthrightly and consistently did things like thanking God for our food.  They gave God credit for home, food, and health, and they knelt in supplication to God for their needs.  God was their source. They gave God all the credit for anything good and never blamed God for difficulties.  Strangely enough, in my childlike perception, they seemed to live well because of knowing God. We never wanted for anything, although we were never well off.  God took care of us.  Yes, I believed that.

In my teens, I found I couldn’t relate to the God that I heard about at church, a southern United Methodist congregation who gave people the gift of speaking on tongues, but not me.  Who was powerful, immediate and super-charged.   I was full of longing and unrequited need, but I never found whatever I was hoping for in those years.  I was never confident of my “salvation” in my teens.  I knew my crooked heart — my huge insecurities.  I knew I was a bad person, so how could any kind of smart God love me?

I was pretty confident that God was real, but I couldn’t accept that Jesus had died on the cross  just for me. No way!  I didn’t fully believe it until my forties.  Yeah, wow, that is a long time. Looking back I realize this means that I did not “believe” but then it was ritual that carried me along.  I found acceptance in the church, but not faith.

During those years my father was constantly yelling.  Arguing with my mom about every little thing; like us kids, or mom’s spending of money, the house being a mess, or our grades.  (When I say arguing with I really mean arguing at, because my mom never argued, rarely defended herself or her children and never fought back.)  He had a generous heart, but he also had this unresolved anger — his Achilles — and although he had a strong faith, a great influence with his life, he never managed to change that behavior or allow God to change him in that area.  This was irreconcilable to me.

(And then I think of the things I have such trouble giving up: my addictions, ….  Did I hold him to a higher standard?  An impossible one?  More on that later.)

Perhaps, but this became a hurdle for me spiritually that probably took thirty or more years for me to resolve within myself.  It hurt me.  I had trouble with the belief that God was all-powerful and could heal, because he never healed my Father of his anger addiction.  And what Dad was doing to us was destructive, and cruel, and just plain mean.   Dad would be apologizing for the destructiveness of his anger, but it was clearly not a true repentance.  I know what repentance means — it is a spiritual u-turn.  A changed behavior.  He never changed.  Some would say that he began to change in his late fifties and early sixties.  I did not see evidence of it, though I was spending less and less time with him.

This spiritual disconnect altered me and impaired my foundational sense of God.  God didn’t change Dad’s anger addiction …  Admittedly I have always been über sensitive — a harsh look from my father would crumble me into tears when I was little.  For years I was afraid to talk, to speak up in groups or pray aloud.  I don’t know how I made it through school.  Perhaps that was a factor in my parent’s frustrations, and my father’s anger, about why such a bright kid did poorly in school.  Early on, I think I was too scared to talk and later simply no longer cared or believed in myself enough.  And looking back over records I discovered that I wasn’t a bad student so it is amazing to me that I got the message that I wasn’t good enough, ever, academically or otherwise.

It’s a tangent, my academic success, but it’s also central.  Deep, deep down I still fight to believe I have good enough ideas, can express myself adequately, or should be trying to say anything unique.  Down there, in the scary place of self-love or in my case -loathing, I have always hated myself. That’s no exaggeration.  In part, why I succumbed to alcoholism, to depression, to constant fear & anxiety.

What changed?  What dragged my sorry ass out of that morose place?  I can say I began listening for God’s voice because I needed to hear it so badly.  When I started listening, God spoke and when I responded (i.e. obeyed) my crooked heart was encircled by God.  It’s still crooked but God continues to  smooth out the roughness and my life is different.  This is an almost daily thing.

In those early years

I was guided down my spiritual path  by a youth pastor (Julian “Hule” Goddard) that helped by answering each annoying question I had about matters of faith. I had many doubts.  I’d sit behind him as he drove the bus on various trips and ask all my questions.  He conveyed to me that they were alright to ask and that he loved my questions!

A love, passion, desire, even craving for the scriptures started then and has been with me as long as I can remember.  I have always loved looking up original meaning and intent and when I learn those things it is as if something inside me grows. A spiritual person was developing inside me even then.  One that got stronger each time I studied.  It is difficult even for this wordsmith to find the words to express this but a similar experience happens when I pray.  And The the combination of prayer and study of the Bible, for me, are transformational.  I am a different person as a result.

And then I grew up and

I never felt farther from God than I did in the thirteen years that I worked at a Christian organization.  I would say my faith was conjecture.  I saw evidence of others’ faith and believed in that, but not in a God that has personal encounters with me.  Even as I floundered I felt dead inside.  I was afraid, working for Christians, when I knew there was no evidence in my life that I had a personal relationship with Christ.  I was afraid to pray.  I even refused to pray with my husband when we were first married, though I never said truthfully why.  Knowing my background, of being controlled all those years, he wisely didn’t insist though I know that it created sadness for him.

I knew nothing about addiction until my thirties when I began to see the results of alcohol addiction in my family.  I wasn’t cognizant of it before that, though a friend mentioned that he was the third gen in an alcoholic family and chose not to drink.  I was curious about, that but didn’t give it a lot of thought because I rarely drank in my twenties or the early years of marriage.   It was when we began to socialize with other couples in our neighborhood that I found there was always a bottle of wine (or five) involved, mixed drinks, open bar which proved to be more than I could resist.

My parents regularly had wine at the dinner table and I would have a glass, but in those days I found that wine made me feel “funky” or down.  At that time I didn’t want more.  I usually regretted drinking at all having a naturally melancholy tendency and didn’t need any help.  But it was always available and one’s glass was never empty at my parent’s place in Colorado.

We visited there for my parent’s 40th wedding anniversary.  It was a horrible weekend for the entire extended family, with a huge altercation breaking out, on our last night together.  My dad announced that he was “giving up the dream of moving to Beijing, China” because the pollution in the city would have been dangerous for my mom. She has a condition called Sarcoidosis of the lungs.  Someone made the mistake (I’m willing to say it was me, but honestly I don’t remember) of saying that mom had given up her dreams over and over for him for the forty years of their marriage. Dad went ballistic that we weren’t more empathetic to his feelings, a long argument broke out and then, finally, dad pouted shamelessly for the rest of the visit.  He made everyone else miserable which was his mode in this type of situation.  When I finally apologized, at Tom’s encouragement and in order to make peace, dad told me I didn’t apologize “correctly” for him (probably because I was saying it with bile in my mouth) and he was still angry.

finding my voice

I guess that story is important because it was fairly typical.  We did something that “made” him angry and then we end up apologizing.  I had so much I needed to say to my father.  I wanted to tell him he had gone too far this time.  I wanted this to be the excuse for walking away from him.  For saying STOP.  I wanted to say that he had gone too far and I couldn’t see him any more.  But Tom’s encouragement to apologize, instead of what I wanted to do, was compelling (and right). And I was not very strong, so I did.  At some point in my life I knew I would have to stand up to my father.  But not that day.

But I never did do that before he died.  I guess, no I KNOW my poetry is a small but important stance against what he did, even with him dead.  My way of telling my part of the story.  And in writing, I am being healed.  Slowly I am peeling away the layers of hurt by writing down my experiences.  Some day I may come to a place where I find myself well.  In a way, I am afraid of that day.  My need makes me open.  My weakness makes me stronger because I can depend on someone greater than myself.

I did tell my father, finally, the day before his brain  surgery how much he had hurt me over my life.  (I write about that here.) I feel I got the one genuine moment of grief, expressed by him, when I did that.  I know from reading his notebook, that he felt a great deal of pain from what I shared.  But doing that made it possible for me to serve him and my mom, as he was dieing, to care for him and to speak genuinely and yet respectfully at his funeral.

and then I was a falling down drunk

During those years I found myself drinking too much but it just resulted in stumbling to bed and dealing with a hangover the next morning.  How may Sundays did I sit in church totally hungover, in pain spiritually, emotionally and physically, and  full of remorse. Too many to count.

Over the years, as I was dealing with a major depression, I began to drink more and more.  I didn’t like being a stay-at-home mom, I missed the purposefulness of work, and I got depressed in a serious way. Ironically, in the recovery period from depression I started drinking more.  With alcohol being a depressant, this was seriously unwise.  But when are drunks wise?

Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough!  And over time, the occasional glass became a shared bottle three or four times a week.  That led to drinking every day, sometimes harder stuff, like Gin or Vodka which can be so easily disguised with something innocuous.  And  we began hosting parties, a lot of parties, in those years.

About the time my father got sick, and then died, I started smoking.  I got my nose pierced.  I wasn’t reliving adolescence but rather starting to express myself for the first time.  I don’t know how it is all connected but it is.  And smoking and drinking became a daily pattern.  Neither are wrong in and of themselves, in my opinion, just ways of coping that were unhealthy.   I became more attracted to my habits than is easy to admit.

A slow recovery, a melting of my heart occurred as we began to attend a different church.  At this new church I would hear talks from the pulpit that I made sense, were real in an intellectual and mystical way.   I felt like this kind of faith I might be able to get my heart around.  I was in Bible studies with women that kept me searching, seeking and through that I didn’t completely lose my meager faith.  Over time, in a process that I can’t completely explain except to say that it was beautiful and profound I became open.  I was hurt, and lost, and self-medicating.  From that broken, openness God began to reveal himself to me.

I carried tons of pain through out my life — hard childhood, deep, deep insecurities, being a really lousy step-mother, being a perceived failure academically and not doing anything significant with my life, being a broken lover, a sarcastic and mean sister, I essentially hated my parents and yet was profoundly dependent on them even working for my dad for a number of years, my first experience of falling in love had ended in rejection.  I had concluded I was unlovable.  Bottom line, I had no idea how badly I hated myself.   And I thought God somehow hated me.

But I can see God’s big and loving hands on my life: the healer, the potter, the painter, the creator was at work on me. I know that I would not have learned the things that I have about myself and about God if I had stayed at work.  Work filled the hole most of the time.  And I replaced work with shopping (another story for another day), and other things along the way and then finally alcohol.

For forty years,

I equated all the pain I had experienced with God’s care for me and it didn’t feel very good.  I was hurt and angry. And ready to tell God to f-off!  Well, being a drunk is pretty much the last place you’d expect to meet God, but turns out Jesus hung out with people like me.  He kind of preferred the messed up.  My story changed at that point to one of personal redemption.

I was experiencing postpartum depression, I was coming off being a workaholic to being a full-time nursing mom of three in diapers.  My identity issues which had trailed after me all my life flared their ugly head and all of a sudden I felt irrelevant.  When dad got sick with brain tumors I was trying to figure out if I should go on an antidepressant which was a heart wrenching decision and at the same time I discovered I was pregnant.  I flew off to Colorado to be with my parents, knowing I was pregnant and clinically depressed.  I did finally go on the medication.  And for four days I considered an abortion.  Other than feeling I was an unfit mother, I don’t know where the thoughts of aborting the baby came from but six weeks later the baby self-aborted.  A miscarriage.  In the end dad passed away and my mother got help at Hazelton.

things got ugly-er

And I was back with the problems I had before it all started.  Still depressed, confused, lonely, insecure and angry.  Still drinking daily and waking up hung over.  I began to have blackouts after being in settings where the alcohol was flowing.  Having a family history of alcoholism, I have learned, means 1 in 4 are likely to become an alcoholic.  So, I got it and it meant that I did NOT  have that internal meter most people have that says you should slow down, or stop now…  After two drinks, … I go blank.  No conscience.  No internal meter.  No memory of past bad experiences.  No care.  Not one.  Nada.  Just the next drink.

I recall one party where we had colored rubber bands to mark our glass.  I thought it would be funny to add a rubber band for each glass of wine we drank, so I did.  At nine bands, Tom told me it was time to go home.  I remember wondering why?  We just got here. Was I behaving strangely?  When we got home I passed out in our bedroom, which my kids saw, and vomited all over the bed.

Believe it or not, but even then I was denying my problem.  The next day, I would feel bad and have remorse, have those “I never do that again” thoughts or internal conversations.   But, I couldn’t stop myself.  It was just a matter of time.

I don’t think my drinking problem would have gotten so far if I had a full-time job.  I hardly drank when I was working.  And I do believe looking back that the opportunity for ‘abuse’ came with too much time on my hands, boredom, the stress of little ones under foot, the genetic propensity, the almost manic depression that I was getting help for at the same time.  But also the pit in my soul, that hurt so badly, which I was trying to ignore.  To cover up.  To make go away.

I thank Tom and

I am grateful that I had the last ten years to slow down enough to actually know and feel my feelings ; to stop achieving long enough to realize how badly I felt about myself.  When I was working I was a maniacal over-worker.  If I had a slow day I would get this crazy black cloud over me that I had to run from and so I just kept running.  Doing.  Achieving.  I stopped feeling.   I stopped believing in the purpose of my job.  I stopped experiencing God.   My faith was so disintegrated at that point that I remember feeling I had better leave, before someone finds out what a hypocrite I am.  I was constantly fearing that someone would pull the wool off and I’d be revealed for the fake I knew I was.

A part of that while I was working at InterVarsity was allowing  pettiness and bitterness to dominate me.  I overworked people.  I knew there were people on my team who were hurting and I didn’t know how to help them, so I didn’t.  I just took on new things, projects, areas of influence and control, because like my father that is where I felt competence.  I was too proud to ask for help.  And the few times I did ask for help, I was so filled with bitterness and anger that it is no wonder no one could hear me, understand the issues and resolve anything. I disparaged those that I felt were my competitors.  I grew bitter.  I allowed anger to dominate me.  What a hypocrite.

I stopped listening for God and wasted so much time with my dark heart issues.  Strangely I am glad I fell on my face cause when I looked up God was there .  I have sought forgiveness. And I am slowly coming alive spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and in a mystical way I am finding my voice.  For the first time in my life, as I write I see myself for who I really am and I am being healed from the pain I have carried all my life.  I have a voice.  I create things.  I create beauty in my garden, in my photography, in my words.

For each of us, every day is an opportunity to step toward God, and the life of the spirit, or away.

Even with my belief , I have days when I turn away. And a shadow creeps over me, a shiver of loneliness and a wisp of memory darkens my heart.  Then, swiftly I turn back and I am comforted.  Then I am able to express my creativity, to grow things, to ponder, to write.

And I know God is with me.  And I write this, and other things, to be free.  And to help others become free.

Be not judges of others, and you will not be judged: do not give punishment to others, and you will not get punishment yourselves:  [make others free, and you will be made free. ]

Luke 6:37

Is my story one of faith and disbelief, alcoholism, dysfunctional families, or self-loathing or  – love?  I would have to say it is all of those things.  I set out wanting to write about how my faith made it possible for me to give up my addictions. Ironically I had to have that addiction in order to restore my faith.  But this story is about so much more.  How I became a person of faith and just a little about why I believe.  It doesn’t feel like I have been clear, because it’s a story that is difficult to write  linearly since it wasn’t lived that way.  And is much easier to talk about so if that interests you, let me know.  And most of all, I have to say that this God I found, or who found me, this God is so good, so full of love for us, that all the crooked spaces are can be filled.  God will fill you too if you ask.

Be well,

Melody

I write poetry and they are found here. Read them for my full story – there are about fifty poems there which I have written off and onsince 2005.  Someday perhaps I’ll get around to organizing them and getting them printed.  Anyone interested in publishing?

linger :: slow and sober (a poem)

The main expression of my spirituality has been this little church that I go to, and my sobriety.  The path of recovery and—I’m a terrible Christian and meditating is very hard for me, and I do it.  I do it badly, like I do a lot of things.  I believe in doing things badly.  I believe in listening to the—what calls you from your heart and your spirit and if you do it badly, like learning to dance, you do it badly or you’re going to kick yourself when you grow old and you meant to do it.  — Anne Lamott.

Listening to my heart, even if done badly

is better than never having done it.  My heart is glad

to be sober.  When I consider how many mornings I woke

with a hangover present

and the headaches. Dread and regret were loudly

pounding on my soul.  God woke me up, as he has done so many times.

Asked me

what was most important.  My hunger.

The black hole of fear and isolation?

I knew I wanted something.  But not this.  Broken-hearts are so unimpressed

with being sober.  But finally

it was, in the end, better to let go.  To know

that I was awake.  Loved.

And I remain with him.  My need.  I give it all.

I look for beauty now and find it.  Some day I will stop

searching.  For now I am just with him.  And it is enough.

to linger.

There are Stories to be Told

Each human person is unique and original, and nobody has lived what we have lived. Furthermore, what we have lived, we have lived not just for ourselves but for others as well. Writing can be a very creative and invigorating way to make our lives available to ourselves and to others.  We have to trust that our stories deserve to be told. We may discover that the better we tell our stories the better we will want to live them.

from Henri J.M. Nouwen’s Bread for the Journey.
To be honest, I know that you may not care that is National Mental Health Awareness week.  But I do.  And I wanted to tell you why.

For most of my life, I did not know what it meant to be depressed.  I’ve always been shy, reserved, and moody – some even went so far as to call me melancholy.

In 2002, I had been home with my three young kids (a one year old, a three, and a four-year old)  for about a year when everything I had known all came crashing down.  There are a number of things that converged to make this happen — some too personal to mention here — others, are so obvious; postpartum issues, leaving “work” after a thirteen year career with no healthy closure, and I was not handling being a stay-at-home mom very well.  I wasn’t sure that I liked it.

It came on gradually.  And not knowing what to look for, I got deeply depressed before I knew what was happening to me.  For about five weeks, I went from an unhappy stay-at-home mom to completely nonfunctional.  I was sleeping on the couch during the day with TV on for my three kids.  They wandered around, played, watched TV and I was aware of them but barely.  I know that was irresponsible but all I can say is that it came on slowly, over time, and before I knew it I was seriously ill.  I thank God for protecting them.  I couldn’t  do anything: grocery shop (too many decisions and choices), I couldn’t sleep (at night), I couldn’t cook though no one starved.  After over a month of this, I finally told Tom something was wrong with me and I was scared.  A key for my slowing recovery was that Tom was supportive.

Depression isn’t anything one seeks and unless you fight it tooth and nail it overtakes your life.  It overcomes your heart, mind, and soul.

It is critical that the family surrounding the depressed person are encouraging and supportive and never judge.  I got a therapist who helped immensely.  You see usually someone become depressed when they are stuffing feelings or memory or when they are not dealing with things in a healthy way.  I began to work on my issues with my parents and childhood.  The details aren’t that interesting and only muddy the waters, plus I’ve written many poems about those years.  Working on my stuff was critical.  Being willing to work on your stuff is the only way you can begin the journey to recovery.

I did get to a point when I thought I was losing my mind.  I felt severe anger and violence that was very unlike me.  I finally called my therapist requesting medication when I had a thought of hurting one of my children.  No, I never touched anyone in anger but I had the thoughts and they scared me sufficiently.  My therapist was old school and wanted me to work not take pills.  I tried it for a while but got to a point when I knew I needed more.

My memories are foggy at this point.  But over the years, as I have worked things through (five or six different psychiatrists and psychologists not because I’m difficult mind you!  really.  I have a HMO and the Residents are always moving on you!  It actually stinks, when you have intimacy and trust issues to have your therapist change every few years but that’s life.  And I finally landed on a non-student who has done some brilliant work with me.  Sometimes I see him quite often, and then at others I go for months without.  I have episodes of reoccurring depression and then I get in with him quickly and he clears the fog in my brain.  He’s a salt of the earth kind of doctor and he is practical and clear.    Access to this has been another key to my return to normalcy.

Lastly at a certain point I found writing to be healing and cethartic.  I began to write poems and found all this crap inside that I couldn’t express in any other way.  Many times I know I shocked people with how I said things or what I said, but for me this has been a key to healing.

Right now, I am depressed.  How do I know?  Monday on the way home from a field trip I started to feel anxious, and glum, and kind of frantic.  The grocery story was overwhelming, when I went to get things for dinner.  Gardening, which I usually find pleasing just made me frustrated.  Nothing seemed to help.  No nicotine any more.  Man I miss it sometimes.  And then the feeling lingered, was there when I woke the next day.  I was listless and unproductive.  I couldn’t focus on anything.  My eating became irregular.  I craved sugar.  Yes, in some ways it could be that time of the month but this feeling is still here, a pit in my stomach, … it lingers.  It makes my chest feel heavy.  It’s not serious – yet.  But you bet I’m gonna keep an eye on it because if it doesn’t go I’ll have to start fighting.  This week I’ve been very unproductive except for yard work.  That can’t continue.

Since my episode of major depression I have had nine or ten minor episodes and as many serious setbacks that required intervening by the doctor.  Over the course of eight years I have learned a lot.  I have become more empathetic to others: when someone asks me how I’m doing I never lie.  “Good, and you,” will never come out of my mouth.  I have learned to tell the truth.  Good and bad.  I see people now, I can usually see if someone is depressed.  No, I don’t say anything usually but sometimes I reach out a bit more intentionally.

You never know what is going on with people.  I walked around for more than five weeks a zombie, and not even my husband knew what was going on.  A depressed person isolates (which is another thing I watch for when I feel like I do right now.).  A depressed person has a terrible self-esteem believing all sorts of lies about themselves and others.  They can’t sleep well (which is very important to recovery.)  They should not drink alcohol as it is a depressant and will only increase the poor mood.  I believe my alcoholism contributed to the depth of my depression over the last eight years.   Now that I’m sober it is much easier to get out of a slump.

To sum it up, fairly incoherently I might add, a depressed person needs:

  • to eat healthy even if they are “not hungry.”
  • to get some form of exercise every day even if it is a walk around the block.
  • to not sleep during the day.
  • to sleep at night even if that means taking something (with a doctor’s supervision) and not for more than a few weeks.
  • to see a Psychiatrist  for possible medications and a Psychologist for therapy.  You must be in therapy to work on the reasons for your depression.  They will not go away.  And you cannot heal without dealing with your shit.  You do not have to take an antidepressant and I don’t recommend doing that unless strongly encouraged by a doctor.  They are difficult to come off for some people.
  • should not drink alcohol.
  • needs to be with people even if it means someone who loves them makes it happen.  They cannot be allowed to isolate.  This was truthfully a key to my healing.  Getting together and telling friends and knowing they cared.
  • requires the support, care, trust and love from family.
  • And at a certain point, a depressed person needs to fight.  So a kick in the pants might be required.  You really do have to fight it, once you are strong enough to do so.  If you can eat, walk, talk, then you can fight.

I’ve walked this journey and would be willing to meet with anyone who just wants to talk.  Or to listen, if that seems too hard.  Whatever your experience, whether it is loving someone who is depressed or being that person yourself, you have a story.  From my experience, the healing comes in the telling.

Be well,

Melody

Yikes, even as I write this I hesitate to push PUBLISH because it’s just scratching the surface.  But it is a beginning and well, I can’t be a perfectionist here.  These are a very sketchy thoughts.  I hope they help even just one someone.  There is so much more to be said!  I have read so many books! And done so much thinking on this that this hardly reflects or represents it. I haven’t touched on faith & depression at all.   But it is all I have tonight.  Here are a few links.

My poetry.

National Assoc. of Mental Illness.

Mayo Clinic Depression self-test.

608-238-3210 home * 608-516-4269 mobile * melhhanson@yahoo.com

A World of Possibilities (my poem edited from “When Life Was a Bad Dream”)

When I was a little girl I loved heart shaped ice cream bars, storybooks,

and running barefoot all summer long.

I remember back scratches and hugs after bad dreams.

When I was a little girl, swinging, playing happily I had no thought for the future.

I believed my parents loved me and each other; they would never hurt anyone.

I believed the world was good and safe; I couldn’t conceive of sorrow or regret.

I didn’t know that some day I would need to forgive.

I began to understand that some Daddy’s rage and are never satisfied;

that Mommy’s can be sad and afraid, and that children are a problem.

I learned that the world was scary.

I began to wonder if this would be the fight that ended everything,

their secrets exploding the world I knew.

If this time she would sink down so far she might not come back; like Alice in Wonderland

shrinking to a place I couldn’t find.

When I was older I discovered I could find that place myself.  Sometimes I would hide

in bed with a book all daylong.  And later, much later, when I got so used to hiding

from my pain, I would hide in alcohol, or work, or shopping.

I would disappear into a crowd of friends and a glass of wine.

Whatever I could find to make the sadness stop.

It was safe to be invisible, silent, and placid.  I began to hide, just like Mom.

After years and years of hiding, I was finally coaxed out into daylight by love.

I began to write, to create beauty, to grow things.

This was how I would learn to forgive.

I began to consider that I was the one Jesus loved;

the Jesus I never knew.  You see, when someone cruel tells you about Jesus,

you can’t believe that God would really love you.

And if Jesus did, why did he allow years of lost days and nights?

Sorrow.  Melancholy.  Lament.

That mystery, I have considered for years.  And years.

Why was my father so angry?  Why was my life so difficult?

Here’s the thing. It happened.

What I have learned is that who I have become is important.

And so I sit in the early morning darkness,

In the quiet of this beautiful new life, remembering.

It happened, the past.  It hurts to remember.

When life is most terrifying, when your grief overwhelms,

when your possibilities are gone, what you choose matters.

Somehow, I found love.  Or love found me.  Either way it’s good!

And bad things will happen.  I can’t stop them.

We make a world of possibilities for our children and ourselves.

In choosing hope,

choosing the life that Jesus offers,

choosing to forgive,

I will live.

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Choose joy. Do you really think so?

Henry Nouwen said:

Joy is what makes life worth living, but for many joy seems hard to find.

They complain that their lives are sorrowful and depressing. What then brings the joy we so much desire? Are some people just lucky, while others have run out of luck?

Strange as it may sound, we can choose joy. Two people can be part of the same event, but one may choose to live it quite differently than the other. One may choose to trust that what happened, painful as it may be, holds a promise. The other may choose despair and be destroyed by it.

What makes us human is precisely this freedom of choice.

I DISAGREE. I COULD NOT DISAGREE MORE. How dare he? I did not choose to have major depression, it seems to have chosen me. But I know I have to choose to fight it like it is an enemy that wants me dead. Yes, I have something inside me that surfaces from time to time. I feel powerless against it but I have learned that I am not without choices.

I did not choose to be an addict – though in recovery – I have to accept the fact that I can’t drink. Not ever again. The very fact that it still bothers me and I feel sad about the loss, well that reminds me that I’m an addict if I had any doubt. There was a time when I thought I couldn’t live without alcohol. Now I know that I can. I choose to be a recovering alcoholic.

But I have not found joy. I am not choosing joy. I am choosing life. I am happy. I feel a certain level of contentment. But I am restless. I do not feel joy. At least not yet. Perhaps I am failing to CHOOSE IT.

Choose joy – okay – I suppose on a certain level I have to agree just like … I choose LIFE. I choose not to smoke which is slow suicide. I choose not to drink which was a death sentence. I choose to get up, even when I want to sleep forever. I still have those mornings. And I choose to create, and love and … I choose to think that what I do matters even when the ‘voices in my head’ tell me it is all worthless. And it wouldn’t matter if I stopped. Stopped thinking. Stopped writing. Stopped shooting. Stopped.

Some days it is still just choosing to breathe.

That little girl above – a chubby toddler gazing out of that airplane door — innocent, curious, tentative, that’s me too. She had no idea how hard it would be to choose.

Some other things I have written on the topics above.
Eulogy to Life,
Winter Comes,
Splintered Truth,
This Epic Grief,
No Dignity,
I Need a Filling,
Addict.

The schizophrenic in me went to the library

The schizophrenic in me went to the library and found a few books I want to read.  So, I’m thinking of taking time off from the internet for a while (I’m going to try) so that I can read.

I am already reading CJ Cherryh Foreigner series.  I am on book four of ten. I read that at night.

The Depression Cure — The 6-Step Program to Beat Depression without Drugs by Stephen S. Ilardo, PhD.

Because I do intend to go off my medication this year.  It’s a matter of how not when.

Cool Careers without College for People Who Love Video Games by Nicholas Croce.

For my son, Jake, who has some learning challenges.  I don’t know if it is more to inspire myself or my son, but I just need a little hope as it relates to Jacob.

Speaking Treason Fluently — Anti-Racist Reflections from an Angry White Male by Tim Wise.

Saw this book mentioned on a blog I was reading.  And the author is highly recomended.

Empowering Your Sober Self by Martin Nicolaus.

Sobriety is a daily decision as well as relearning certain patterns.

No Enemy to Conquer — Forgiveness in an Unforgiving World by Michael Henderson with foreward by the Dalai Lama.

I am writing an article about forgiveness.

The Mother Factor — How your Mother’s Emotional Impacts Your Life by Stephen B. Poulter, PhD.

Ongoing journey of understanding my mom’s power.

A Lesson Before Dying by Ernest J. Gaines.

It’s Black History month.  It seems warranted to start reading black authors.

The Autobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr. Edited by Clayborn E. Carson.

Ditto.  Plus he’s a general hero to half of humankind.

The Unheard Truth — Poverty and Human Rights by Irene Khan, Secretary General Amnesty International.

The situation in Haiti has gotten me thinking about human rights in general and especially how it relates to poverty.

Strong Kids.  Healthy Kids. — The Revolutionary Program to Increase Your Kid’s Fitness by Fredrick Hahn.

It’s an ongoing interest to develop healthy habits in my kids while they are young.

A Good Neighbor — Benedict’s Guide to Community by Robert Benson.

Lifelong need for connection.

When it comes to forgiveness, I’m lousy!

This is a very personal reflection.  I have written it to and about some specific people, but I believe there are lessons to be learned and so I share it here.

When it comes to forgiveness I have to admit, I’m lousy (here is something I wrote about the process of forgiving my father).  I guess one could say that I hold on to things.  I would say that I hold on to them until I’m ready to let go, always intending to let go at – some – point.  When it is safe?

When you have experienced an abusive home life, it is pure survival instinct to be suspicious.  That lack of being able to trust has hurt me in my life, I know, but it has also protected me from other kinds of pain.  Growing into  Christ’s forgiveness has meant that I have to learn to trust.

When I went to work for my father in 1991 I did it for his approval.  I’d never in my life felt his approval and I just wanted a context where he might ‘like’ me or what I did.  Innocently at first, I stepped into a situation where others accused us of nepotism.  So not only did I have the pressure to perform so that my scowling, disapproving perfectionist father would love me and more importantly approve of me, but I had to live up to his expressed expectations so that others would see that I was competent and deserved to be there.

I learned a lot in the first few years there.  He pushed me in ways that I needed.  I was shy and insecure and he expected me to make things happen!  I learned to express myself clearly, get on the phone and make it happen and eventually I began to see that I was pretty good.  He definitely gave me a confidence boost but I wasn’t prepared for him offering me a huge promotion to Urbana communications.

I’m  still not sure why he did that?  I had a communications degree but it was meaningless at least in my mind.  It was a “I don’t know what to study” degree.   When I started that job I was equal parts thrilled and terrified.  I had tons of ideas and I felt so passionate about my ideas that I wasn’t afraid of what others thought.  Those were good days in the beginning.  Days of huge learning and beginning to shape communications for Urbana the way I wanted.  Yes, I was very I centered.  But things were going fine until I ran up against Scott Wilson.  He told me at one of our first lunches that this was “family” and family looked out for each other.  I had been looking at an external ad agency to help bring some new ideas into the promotion and in no uncertain terms I was told if I did that, I was not “in the family” [insert lingering unspoken threat]

This was so outrageous to me that I remember going home and laughing with Tom because it sounded so mafia-like.  Turns out he wasn’t kidding and that began a power struggle that only escalated and continued up to the day I left InterVarsity.  I take that back, after I left on maternity leave with my third child, after what came to be my last Urbana, he began to ignore me.

Ten years later, I know that I never wanted to leave InterVarsity.  I loved my job.  I was tired and very pregnant and burned out.  I felt like I wasn’t totally supported when it came to my job and that I was being ignored structurally.  I felt unsure about a new Urbana director and tired, did I mention how tired I was?  I did Urbana 2000 seven months pregnant, wrote my report totally exhausted, had my son, did the maternity leave and then … I didn’t know how to return and it didn’t seem like it mattered to anyone whether I did or not.  No one was there to help me get a plan together for the future.  I fell between the cracks.

I never experienced resolution to the conflicts with Scott Wilson.  I never got support for some of the issues I had on my team.  I felt that I had somehow failed and yet, I can’t think of how really.  Three bursting conventions.  The goal had been achieved.  I guess my problem was that I always wanted more.  And ‘more’ wasn’t going to happen at InterVarsity with Scott around.

The funny thing is how different Scott and I are.  I express myself in writing, he’s verbal and extremely articulate.   I’m shy.  I am not a people person, I’m an ideas person.  I have learned over the last ten years that I am really okay with lots of solitude.  I hate meetings and process, though I see how important they can be. I love team and community, but I don’t know how to achieve it.  If someone could have helped us, I think Scott and I together could have been very effective with InterVarsity communications, but as it was the whole thing crushed me.

But I can see God’s big and loving hands on this whole thing, because I don’t know if I could have learned the things that I have about myself and about Him if I had stayed at IV.  Spiritually, I was dying there.  I equated all this pain I was experiencing with God’s care for me and it didn’t feel very good.  I was hurt, and angry, and ready to tell God to f-off!

My story changed at that point to one of personal redemption.  I was experiencing postpartum depression, I was coming off being a workaholic to being a full-time nursing mom of three in diapers.  My identity issues which had trailed after me all my life flared their ugly head and all of a sudden I felt irrelevant and like a total failure.  After thirteen beautiful learning years at IV, because of the lack of closure and lack of resolution to this conflict, I felt I had failed.

I should have been able to figure it out but I was incapable at the time.   I put some of that pain into my final report, but I guess no one that mattered read it because I never heard back from anyone at IV.  It was like I had fallen off the face of their planet.  What short memories organisations seem to have.

As I dealt with depression, which worsened I began to wrestle with alcohol.  I am not proud of those years certainly.  I was self-medicating and only later learned that it was genetic and my mom would soon get help for her own alcoholism.  I continued to wrestle with it off and on for years.  My father got sick, diagnosed with brain tumors.  He had surgery meanwhile I was trying to figure out if I should go on an antidepressant which was a heart wrenching decision.  At the time of the doctor’s appointment for that, I discovered I was pregnant.  I flew off to Colorado to be with my parents, knowing I was pregnant and clinically depressed.  I did go on the medication.  And for four days I considered an abortion, feeling I was an unfit mother. I don’t know where the thoughts of aborting the baby came from but I was in a major depression.   Six weeks later, the baby self aborted.  A miscarriage.

All the while we were dealing with my father’s illness, my mother’s her drinking became a danger to others including dad and herself.   In the end dad died, mother got help, and I was back with the problems I had before it all started.  Still depressed, confused, lonely and angry at everyone.

On and off over the years I have sought help for my drinking.  It was only in the last year that I knew I could stop.  I know my drinking would never have happened if I had a full-time job.  I hardly drank when I was working.  And I do believe looking back that the opportunity for ‘abuse’ came with too much time on my hands at first, boredom, the stress of little ones under foot, the genetic propensity, and the almost manic depression that I was getting help for at the same time.

I am grateful now that I had the last ten years to slow down enough to see myself – feel my feelings – stop achieving long enough to realize how badly I felt about myself.  When I was working I was a maniacal over-worker.  If I had a slow day I would get this crazy black cloud over me that I had to run from and so I just kept running.  Doing.  Achieving.  I stopped feeling.   I stopped believing in the purpose of Urbana.  I stopped experiencing God.   My faith was so disintegrated at that point that I remember feeling I had better leave before someone finds out what a hypocrite I was.

This is all to say that I know I had many failures while I was working at IV.  I allowed pettiness and bitterness to dominate me.  I overworked people.  I knew there were people on my team who were hurting and I didn’t know how to help them, so I didn’t.  I just worked, because like my father that is where I felt competence.  I was too proud to ask for help.  And the few times I did ask for help, I was so filled with bitterness and anger that it is no wonder no one could hear me, understand the issues and resolve anything.

To Scott Wilson, I ask that you forgive me for disparaging you in my heart and with others.  To Barney Ford, I ask that you forgive me for not keeping my heart healthy and free from bitterness.  I ask that you both forgive me for allowing anger to dominate and for being a hypocrite.  I stopped listening to God in those last years at IV and was probably more of destructive force then anything.  To all the people who served with me, like Barry Sherbeck, and many others I ask your forgiveness for being so bitter.  For wasting so much of your time with my dark heart issues.  For people who worked for me, like Paul, and Mark, and Grace, and Carol, please forgive me for pushing you so hard.  And for being a feeble boss.  Grace, I should never have hired you knowing I was not going to be the supervisor you needed.  Please forgive me.  I know you all needed things from me that I had no knowledge of how to provide.

As I said, I’m no good at forgiveness.  Or perhaps it just takes me a while.  I can only praise God that He gave me these years, that  as I fell on my face and looked up He was there with open arms.  I can rise up today truly able to seek forgiveness and to let go of all that pain and finally be free!

Be not judges of others, and you will not be judged: do not give punishment to others, and you will not get punishment yourselves: make others free, and you will be made free.  Luke 6:37

For Everything there is a Season

It is George Bernard Shaw that said what is the true joy in life,

“the being used for a purpose

recognized by yourself as a mighty one;

the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap;

the being a force of nature

instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances

complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”

I am starting to feel a such a sense of self-loathing because I need more to do with myself.   Do I have an utterly solipsistic life?  Not to be overly dramatic, but the care and well-being of my children is simply not enough.  I have wrestled with the demon and shame of that for nine years, since I quit working  at InterVarsity and began to take care of my kids full-time.  Even at the beginning, when I was trying to decide I never believed it would be enough for me.  And tho there have been wonderful moments, it has not been satisfying, not really.  How do you live with the knowledge that you should not have made the decision that you did?  I could hardly admit that after walking away from a really amazing job.  But my situation at work had grown intolerable and seemed impossible to fix.  So after nearly a year of soul-searching  — I quit .  I chose to become an at-home mom. Even while I was changing diapers and wiping noses, singing songs and cuddling, wiping away tears and reading stories — all thoroughly wonderful things, mind you — I struggled.  Though I know many, many women (and some men) do find it to be full of purpose, I was confused, very lonely, sad and missing my work.

Of course I questioned myself!  For all those years, thirteen at InterVarsity and nine years of being at home, I was searching internally for a sense of  my purpose.   At IV I was constantly pushing people and myself to try new things more out of a sense of my need for change and overworking as well.  I was frantic and dissatisfied most of the time.  So I don’t want to give the impression that WORK was a panacea or mecca.  I have searched for ultimate purpose my whole life and I still am looking.

On one level, have a father who was so dynamic and incredible made me expect more — of myself, of my work, of my life.

I think this blog was in part trying to sort that out.  Talk about things that are important to me.  Wrestle with ideas, doubt, passions and self-absorption, say something important or  at least interesting.  It was a venue for my poetry and a way to get feedback on it.

I once was a human dynamo, even while learning the hard way how to treat others with the dignity and with the care they deserved.  I had failures which I feel deep sorrow.  I could name the people whose lives I hurt as a leader or manager and I have such regret. But at the time I was so full of my accomplishments that it didn’t slow me down.  While I was making mistakes I was also accomplishing a lot (some of it good, a few things I consider great) and people were affirming and promoting me.  As I have mentioned at other times, I had altercations with another leader and that conflict became too much for me .  It wasn’t worth it after a while.  I had reached a place of resistance and no-where to go in the organization without running into this person.  I guess you could say they ‘won’ if it was a competition (which it felt like) and I lost by walking away.

When I left work to be at home  full-time, I was at first almost giddy with how simple it was.  Uncomplicated.  The sameness of the days was a relief after all that unpredictable infighting and conflict!  And then it wasn’t so great.  More like Ground Hod Day, if you have seen the movie.  The same day over and over, the alarm ringing and waking to realize it is THAT DAY again and again and again.

“Don’t waste life in doubts and fears; spend yourself on the work before you, well assured that the right performance of this hour’s duties will be the best preparation for the hours and ages that will follow it.”  — Ralph Waldo Emerson

What being at home did, with one day indistinguishable from the next, was to strip it all away — shattering the persona I had created and forcing me to look hard at my internal grid work.  I had to face and try to understand my family of origin.  While caring for my kids,  the successful person that I had been was unimportant, even irrelevant.  And I had no choice but to face myself — look in the mirror and frankly I wasn’t very happy with what I saw.

Through it, I was overcome by a deep, deep depression.  It hit most powerfully over two months and because I didn’t know what was happening to me I thought I was going mad.  Crazy.  Cuckoo.  Insane.  And I was utterly helpless to help myself.  I couldn’t make decisions.  I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t DO anything.  I had no energy, my mind was sludge, my heart felt like it might stop.

I remember talking to my dad on the phone, sitting on my backporch in the beautiful warn summer sunshine, saying “Dad, I just want to be happy.”  That was June.  He mailed me a plaque that said “You are the one Jesus loves” and  at the time my skin crawled at the thought!  I had absolutely lost any idea of God’s grace in my life or belief in His  individual love for me.  I was in the pit of despair and I did not believe it.  If I were the only one that existed, I would be loved by Jesus.   Little did I know this was to become a theme over the next years as I began to fight with God over his approval and affirmation.

In October my parents came to visit and I had manage to get myself functional.  My dad acted wierd and kind of mean, but he has always been slightly mean so I thought nothing of it.  Then in November he was diagnosed with brain tumors and we discovered his tumors had made him behave oddly for some time.

By May of the next year he was dead, but he was “gone” long before that.  After surgery, chemo and radiation he was gone.  He never said my name after his December surgery but he did call me Linda, once.  My mother went into treatment that April and was sober to see my dad die.  We’re all grateful for that.  Her alcoholism, his illness and death, my depression, my own alcoholism which I couldn’t accept, continuing to care for three young children…  You can imagine it was an ugly few years.  I am most grateful for Tom hanging in there with me and even more than just hanging, he helped fight for me and got me back into a place of genuine health.

Through those years, I struggled to do the hard work of therapy and if anyone has never done therapy you really have no idea how much work it is.  Weekly and sometimes twice a week at first, which turned into years of work.  I won’t go into all the detail here (too much was happening) but I have had episodes off and on with the depression for these many years.  With medication, several doctor’s care, a hospitalization after a suicide attempt, the care and long-suffering of Tom, much prayer and internal work which became eternal work,

I faced that I had become an alcoholic,

I faced that I needed to learn to love myself,

I faced that all of this around me (stuff & things) mattered not a whit,

I faced my loneliness,

I faced my insecurities developed from a lifetime of feeling my parents didn’t approve,

I faced a pathological need to be perfect,

I faced that I start and quit many things – I’m good at starting things and have more trouble with maintaining them;

I faced that I was tired of being at home, …

_______

Jeez, that makes me one crazy messed up woman that no-one will want to hire.  yes, that’s what the voices in my head began to say.

For everything there is a season,

And a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to throw away;

A time to tear, and a time to sew;

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate,

A time for war, and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I have carried many stones.  Lost so much.  Wept an ocean inside.  Seen death and mourning.

I am ready to dance, to seek and listen.  I am eager to know what it is that I am here to do.  My advent lament was to cry out for God to speak.

James Thurber said:

All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.

Stay tuned as I learn to dance, seek and listen!

Eulogy to Life

 


eulogy to life

Originally uploaded by M e l o d y

Eulogy to Life

There was a time, when to wake with a pounding head
meant total indiscretion the night before.
On this day, the one year anniversary of my choosing relief and power,
the day I rejected my empty Thirst, I celebrate my life.

There is shame in being a drunk; total confusion and self-contempt.
I do not remember to glorify it, for it was pure wretchedness, and I still
sometimes feel disbelief that this is my story.
But I cannot, dare not, blot out the memories.
It happened.
There is guilt, humiliation, self-disgust, but I dare not forget.

I choose sobriety.
I choose to be aware of my cravings and needs.
I am an alcoholic who chooses — every day — her Life.
What is suicide — picking up the glass knowing it is death, for me.
What is life?
Awareness.
Humility.
Service.
Love.

Life is facing down my demons. Knowing the dark times will come.
Life is wanting something more.
Power comes in the choosing.
Choosing love, choosing life.
Even as I remember, I choose this day to live.
I choose my life.

July 17, 2009
Melody Harrison Hanson

Letting go. Thoughts on being an alcoholic. A cautionary tale.

Why do I tell people, up front, that I’m an alcoholic?  I certainly haven’t always been able to admit it.  That’s the journey really.  Once you can admit it, some of the sting is gone.  Once you can admit it, help looks appealing.  Once you can admit it everything changes.

It took me more than seven years to admit it to myself. And then s l o w l y getting help took another several years.  It is hard.  Proud people don’t easily concede and I was very very proud.

In November of 02 my father was diagnosed with brain tumors and it turned out to be a death sentence. I was abusing alcohol even then, but it took me years to process intellectually and spiritually that I might have a problem. And to be honest at that point it wasn’t bad — I was quite functional — just had bouts of over doing it.

Today I have to admit that I am an alcoholic and that I will never drink alcohol again, because I was headed toward being a falling down drunk. No, because I was a drunk.  But most people, even those I drank with regularly, didn’t see it and some still don’t believe it.  Of course I was careful.  And bless him, the one person that did see me the few times it got super ugly was my husband.  We’re talking black outs and you name it, it all happened.  He was never judgmental but he was worried — very very afraid and didn’t know what to do.  Over the years, we ‘quit’ together at his pushing and it lasted for a while.  But I wasn’t committed to that idea.  Let me be clear I am not proud of any of that, AT ALL.  I don’t write this to glory in it in some weird way.  I’m ashamed.  It was awful.  I’m grateful that my children were young and didn’t witness most of it.  When they ask me why I don’t drink I tell them I can’t and basically repeat what I’ve said above.  My daughter has asked me why I can’t just have one drink at a party?  I have to tell her there is no “one drink” for an alcoholic.  I wish it were different, but that is the plain truth.  One quickly becomes five, or eight.

I am sharing this story because, I think people need to know that I a forty-something, white, Christian women from the suburbs was a drunk .  It could happen to anyone.  This is a cautionary tale.

Alcoholism is partly genetic and my extended family is riddled with addiction.  With a parent who is an alcoholic, there’s one in four chance that you will be.  (Yes, I have told my daughter that and my nieces and nephews.) Scientists do not yet know how much is determined by our DNA and how much by our life experiences, but circumstances in your life play into it.  Also your emotional state.  And, although it’s not simple, but I can admit it myself that at a certain point in my addiction, I decided the following.  It was a clear-headed day when I said, “Perhaps I am an alcoholic, probably, but I will not quit yet.  Not until I really, really have to, because, at least I can enjoy a few more years of my life.”

Now that seems sad, that I believed life wasn’t worth living without alcohol. And I can say, today that life is way, way, WAY better without it.  (And I still crave it sometimes.  I’m only at the beginning of recovery.)

I told myself that I could “manage” my drinking.  And I did that, for about a year, until it escalated into drinking every day and then drinking a lot every day.  And then, … well, … all I can say is that God told me to quit. (And that is a story for another day.)

And so for years, I couldn’t imagine my life without alcohol.  It was more important to me than almost everything.  I had lost friendships because of it.  And other intangibles like personal integrity.  That was the sin I think.  I’m genetically predisposed.  I struggle with and receive treatment for major depression and I knew alcohol is a depressant.  I was on medication for depression that had warnings about drinking alcohol with it, but I did not want to give it up.  At one time I had a frightening suicide attempt.

I believed that I could not give it up, but here is the kicker . . .  I would not ask God to help me with it.  I mean how pathetic would that be? “God, please help me not to drink.” Swig.  Not me.  I turned away from God.

Now I can say publicly that I have struggled with addiction, depression and self-harm because I have finally let go. It all happened to me, but laying all that down was the biggest relief! I will never drink again.  I will likely struggle with major depression through out my life, though I have learned a lot about managing it and it’s better than it has ever been.

But I got help.  I had a supportive, rock solid, amazing husband, and family & friends that didn’t give up on me.  I have the best therapist.  I got trained in my addiction through Gateway Drug & Alcohol, which I cannot recommend highly enough.  But it was the ongoing teaching at Blackhawk, and my personal study of Biblical principles, and a small group of women praying, that was as or more important than anything else.  Through personal study I began to understand in a new way now, I can say to you, without shame, I may be an alcoholic but I am loved.

I am more than a year, free (as of July 08)!

I found, at last, unconditional love from God.  After wondering and struggling my whole bloody life, finally I fell so far down that there was only up.  I looked up and God was still there.  Somehow, I believed it and although I have to take up with Him (almost) daily it is good.

“Do you mean it?  You really, really love me? Accept me, with all my sh*t.  I mean, I’ve messed up good.  How can I ever stand in front of people and admit…….” You get the picture.  He says “Yep, I mean it. I love you.”

And I start another day.

And, I continue to figure out what it means to be loved.  And what kind of person I need to be: humble and yet confident, kind, honest and compassionate, striving to serve others who walk the same path … for starters.

Life Long Yearning

The galactic hole in my heart makes me tired

of holding all the pieces together. Tired of doubting.

Tired of needing.Wishing.Hurting.Crying out in all the ways that speak of your neglect.

All my life, Daddy, learning  that I am incomplete.

So am filling up, gorging on all the things that don’t fill that galactic hole.

Wishing for love that never came. All my life, yearning.

It stops when I say so.  I am here, not billowing in space without an anchor.

I want more. I need.  I wish. I hurt. I cry for love and find it.

At the cross, in peace I lay a life of yearning. I am home.

All of my poems are organized with images and can be found here.  One in particular is about that time when I turned away from God.  It can be found here.

If you or someone you love struggles with depression there is help.  If I had managed my depression better I would not have needed to drink.  I’d be glad to talk to you or there’s tons of help on the web.  This website, http://alcoholism.about.com/od/about/u/symptoms.htm, does a good job of breaking things down.  A caution:  Medical doctors are terrible at helping a person with these issues.  I don’t know whether they are just too busy or in denial or just don’t have the where with all to help.  But I would not go to an MD if I were worried about my drinking.  They will likely play it down.  That goes for most Psychologists as well.  There is no harm in talking to a Drug or Alcohol professional, with is covered by many health insurance policies.  Or, you can pay out of pocket for one appointment if confidentiality is a concern.

Whether it is you or someone you love that you are worried about, I can tell you that if you are worried enough to get more information, then the chances are they have a problem or are headed in that direction.  It doesn’t have to shatter your life, if they can get some help sooner than later.  I’m grateful that I was able to get help before I drove drunk and killed someone.

**Two out of three people who struggle with depression never seek help, and untreated depression is the leading cause of suicide.  In America alone, it’s estimated that 19 million people live with depression, and suicide is the third-leading cause of death among those 18-24 years old.  The good news is that depression is very treatable, that a very real hope exists in the face of these issues.”   Source: http://www.twloha.com/index.php

Winter Comes

WINTER COMES

Winter is uninvited, yet it always comes.

No matter how long  I postpone trying on last year’s coats, hats and gloves,

even still winter comes.  If I leave the hose out until it’s frozen stiff, snaking through the yard,

still winter comes.  The pots and the plants they crack and curl from the cold.  Winter, comes.

Winter comes in the cold,

dark mornings heralding sad thoughts and memories.

I lost my father to the winter.  I discovered, accepted and revealed a family’s ancient addiction.

I miscarried.  I fell down.  I fell apart.  Always winter comes.

Winter means waking early with darkness bringing in the day.

Though I try to overcome, the anxious thoughts settle in.

Remember the cold. Remember, remember.  I am always falling, in winter.

Good things are lost, so do not hold too tight

to what you desire most.  You will lose them to winter.

Love hurts more in winter, dries up and becomes need.

Love becomes memory. I am falling.  In winter.

And at the moment when the winter once again threatens to overcome, I end my slumber.

On that icy morning I wake early. Snuggle in.

Sipping coffee, by the fire.   And I think of Spring.

13, October, 2009