Carrying Your Cross & The Myth of Meds

I think we all know those people who martyr. In small and big ways, they take on more than they should, seeking attention through false humility. These types of people are hard to be around in large doses because their anxiety and whoa-is-me/anything for you spiels are obviously suspect.

The evangelical church produces some of the worst of these types of people. I think it's because the concept of carrying your cross is wildly misunderstood. Somehow, this pervasive idea that following Jesus "well" equates chronic suffering and misery has eroded other, higher ideals like Love, Joy, Peace and just generally NOT acting like an asshole.

One danger I've observed in these misguided arenas of martyrdom and cross-carry is the denial of the very real existence of things like depression, anxiety and chemical/mental/emotional imbalances. Somehow, we've taken the Marilla/Anne of Green Gables, "to despair is to turn your back on God" quote as Gospel Truth. We've believed that deep grief should not be medicated lest we miss out on the blessing of our personal Gethsemane. We think mental illness is demonic and the antidote for these struggles is more faith and some thicker boot-straps.

Over ten years ago I was dealing with some personal stuff (shocking, i know!) and it was suggested that I start a mild-anxiety pill by my counselor. I was outraged, humiliated and totally confused as to why this Christian would suggest such a thing. After all, some of my anxiety came from poor life choices. Shouldn't I walk out my salvation, painfully? Isn't this part of the penance, I mean, repentance process?

I've come a long way since then and I've busted this myth of meds! I've come a long way this year, in fact. I've realized that the use of anxiety and depression meds boils down to pride vs. potential. I wouldn't go on a long night-hike without boots and a flashlight, just to prove I could. And more severely (because sometimes it IS), I wouldn't get heart surgery without anesthesia just to see if it were possible to go through it and live. Pride tries to prove something for the sake of martyred attention. Potential speaks to the hope of a full life.

Part of my current journey is admitting my need for boots - humbly accepting the tools needed in order to go on what may be a long hike up cliffs of confusion, through deserts of despair and across fields of failure. So for the sake of my potential, I recently went on some mild medications to help deal with my circumstantial depression and anxiety; it's helping.

The journey is long; longer than I realized and the path is as unclear as finding a pin on the floor in the dark. But now I have boots and a flashlight, and absolutely no Christian guilt. The burden is easier. And getting lighter.






Taking some inspiration from my girl, Tori Amos. Enjoy: Crucify.

Just Like When the Cat Died & Saying Goodbye

We just said goodbye to really good friends, one of which has personally seen me through a decade of life. Dear friends, that have walked us through marriage and babies and this past excruciating year of loss and heartache. I am happy for their new beginning and the adventure that awaits them but the process has been brutal, even though packing their truck and cleaning their house were simple (but sweaty) projects. It's the matters of heart that have a way of inducing exhasution. It's stuffing tears while trying to engage each last moment that takes its tool. 

I wake up today, without the torture of pending goodbyes but with an empty space I'm not sure how to fill. At the goodbye dinner, otherwise known to me as The Last Supper, my friend's mom had a complete breakdown and through tears and little comic relief, started talking about how this was JUST like when the cat died.

I couldn't help by stifle a giggle at the oddity of the comparison, but what she said gave me tremendous insight into my own sadness. She said that when her cat died, there was a lot of turmoil and grief in other aspects of her life. Turmoil and grief that hadn't quite been processed or resolved or fully healed. In that place of un-dealt-with sorrow, the death of the cat became an epically emotional moment. 

It was one more loss. 

Even if it was an old cat.

My friend's move is much more than a long-distance complication. It's not just the end of an era or a sad goodbye. For me, it's the cat dying - un-processed grief. It's one more loss. 

Uncontrollable public(ish) sobbing isn't my regular M.O. But grief doesn't seem to give a shit about running mascara or embarrassing sobbing sounds. If permitted, grief will roll out, on and over, every proper public persona and onto whoever and whatever it can.  Grief is leaky. And sometimes inappropriately epically emotional.

But it's a choice. Engaging is always a choice. So today, I sit in the sadness. And for once, I'll feel it without anesthetizing or dissociating. My friends are worth feeling for - they're worth rejoicing in and grieving over. I don't want to drown in a waterfall tomorrow what I am capable of bathing in today. I'm tired of giving dead cats more tears than they deserve.   

So today sucks. And I'm going to sit here for a while, in it. And just be. Sad.

And think about buying a cat.

You're Katherine Pierce

...suck it up.

I am an avid Vampire Diaries fan, all the thirteen-year-old girls and me. We love Stefan Salvatore and Elena Gilbert and love to hate Kathryn Pierce. She’s downright evil at times but when you know her story and her context as fifteenth century Katerina Petrova, compassion and pity washes over you. You want her to find redemption and you want her to make good choices to hopefully atone for all the wrong she’s done. It’s a long story, but in Season 4, she is forced to “take the cure” and becomes human after centuries of being a strong, brave, beautiful, intelligent and cunning vampire.

As she struggles with the vulnerabilities of humanity, she discovers in Season 5 that she is also progressively dying. With old age biting at her pride, she makes an extremely unlikely decision for a woman so strong. She makes the decision to die – on her terms. She’s narcissistic enough to choose suicide over a slow, unbecoming death. She doesn’t want to suffer powerlessly. She's overcome so much by the mastery of her will and the force of her stubbornness. There was simply no way Katherine Pierce would die of something as common as old age.

And as it turns out, she would not die from jumping off the town clock tower either.

Stefan, who knew her as the consummate survivor, saved her. He knew that when he said, "You're Kathryn Pierce. Suck it up," she would be reminded that her name alone held a steely fierceness even those more powerful than her respected. Reminding her of that, rescued her. 

On days that it’s really hard to claim the positive and hope for sunshine or at least an umbrella, I've had to humor my inner-thirtheen-year-old-wanna-be-actress and dramatically, with or without David Gray playing in the background (you'll only get that if you watched the clip), say the same words Stefan said to Katherine, only personalized.

You're Lindsay Louise, suck it up.

Sometimes when we go through heartbreak and hard times – times that make us question our faith, our personhood, our life decisions, what we’ve placed our hopes in – the fabric of our being, it becomes important to tell ourselves who we are and who we’ve been. Because before it started raining, we were somebody in the sunshine. 

We’ve all weathered storms and come out on the other side. We’ve learned from days spent drenched, that the storm does end and that it can't rain forever.  We’ve seen the best versions of ourselves and the worst. And even if the current version is far from who we planned to become, it's vital to hold onto core identity. Those amazing things that make you, you. Those things that make me, me.

Here’s the deal.  I’ve overcome a decent amount in my life.  More than some, less than others but enough to call myself a survivor. I’ve smiled through tears and chosen Love over Fear. I’ve pursued Truth and Justice and Forgiveness. And while I have some pretty significant weaknesses (McDonald's French fries, dark and brooding musicians, salted caramel, Pearl Jam’s song Black, and Vodka Tonic...in excess, just to name a few of the nicer ones), I know I am strong because my heart is still soft toward people, open and able to give and hope, again and again. I haven't fully surrendered to the trap of cynicism or the lies that come from failure. I know I’ll walk through this season stronger and wiser. A better woman, mother, lover, Seeker – I’ll be a better human.

Because, I'm Lindsay Louise. I'll suck it up.

I guess I just want to say today to anyone reading me on the interweb and those who've recenlty messaged me, that whatever you're going through, claim your core. Live to fight and love another day.

We're Katherine Pierce. We'll suck it up.

"If", Brand New, Pure at Heart (& crying at a concert)

 If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken   

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

______

My dear friend David, has spent a decade introducing me to good music. He's responsible for my love of many bands and artists, Brand New being at the top of that list. A few years ago, he bought me The Devil and God Raging Inside of Me. The minute I popped it into my sad little CD player in my old car, I was in love. 

Sowing Seeds leads off this album and is my favorite of all Brand New songs. For years, I thought it was really strange that I so thoroughly resonated with this song. There are certainly many others that could have been obvious choices. This is, after all, an album that sings and screams about the fallen Christian and the battle between good and evil and the loss and breaking of all the "yokes" church and Christianity places on people. (at least that's what I make of it but more creative and knowing minds may hear things differently.) 

Last Thursday, I went to see Brand New at Stage AE here in Pittsburgh. Mid-way through, they played Sowing Seeds. And as the lyrics, taken from a poem by Rudyard Kipling, melodically washed over me, I finally did it. I bore to hear the truth that I've spoken. I watched the things I've given my life to, break. 

And even more, I realized something frightening. Something freeing. 

I not only surrendered to the necessity of that breaking, I decided that for some things, for some people, I may not stoop and build anymore. Not with worn-out tools. Not with false pretenses. Not with fake smiles and empty promises.  I'm too tired to pretend to care about what everyone else wants me to give myself to and to sow seeds I'd rather not see come to fruition in the first place.  I spent years working at a church for Christ's sake - this girl knows how to smile, fake it and tolerate the suckling from the power-tit by those I was supposed to respect. 

A person can fake for so long, they stop realizing what is false and what is true - like being knocked over by a wave and becoming disoriented between what is up and what is down. I think that's been me in a lot of ways. And coming out of disorientation is tricky and blinding and amazing and beathless.

It's a really odd thing, to have been known as a truth-teller, but realizing all along - it wasn't all true. Since I was a tiny child, I really couldn't lie. And for most of my life, I barely even tried to. Later I became someone unafraid to confront and speak words that cut between honesty and deception. But standing at that show last Thursday, I realized that the truth that matters the most, is the very truth I've chosen to ignore. And since I'm still a recovering evangelical, I'll throw this out there too. The heart really can be, more deceitful than all else and beyond cure. (Jeremiah 17:9) 

_____

I have a pretty amazing therapist who confronts my black and white mind every time we meet, as well as my self-depricting humor and my boundary-lessness. When we first started talking about boundaries, I'm not to going to lie (ha!). I literally could not comprehend what the hell she was talking about, mostly because her questions always began with: 

Her: "....Yes. That makes sense. But what do YOU want?"

Me: "UMMMM???!!!!?!??!.... (long pause) Oh, that's not rhetorical? Shit, well. UMM." (insert blank stares and hard blinking while my 8 differing and conflicting personalities via for the "right" answer.) 

I AM learning to listen though, slowly. Because as my therapist explains (over and over), boundaries are mostly created by hearing your own self. And I'm finally listening and trying not to apologize for my truth. The truth that was there all along. The truth that isn't black and white. The truth that gives me the freedom to cry at a concert and see the light and promise to listen and to hear ME - to just, cultivate this garden with salvageable tools and brand new ones I'll acquire along the way. I want to sow desirable seeds that I'll water with joy and not dread and I want to watch those seeds blossom into something, simple maybe, but honest. 

Because I think that, that is what it means to be pure of heart.

Scarlet "A" & Un-sanctified

I was twenty-one when I was first told I had "lost my testimony." A trusted pastor from a neighborhood church heard rumors of an unruly night my friends and I had on the South Side. He made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he implicitly believed the rumors and that those of us caught in these acts of debauchery had lost "our witness." We had lost our testimony and therefore our volunteer roles on the worship team.

Unfortunately, I grew up Baptist. So I knew better than to begin to question my salvation but what I did begin to question, was Myself. And Grace. And God. I began to question the point of choosing right after having chosen wrong. What would be the allure of repentance without the potential of restoration?

Punishment hardly ever works because atonement by good deeds or shunning because of broken covenants, isn't convincing or inspiring. It's isolating.

The Scarlet Letter

I had walked the narrow plank to the alter time and again as a child. I wasn't the kid who needed convinced she was a sinner. (You don't lose your sexual purity as a child - irregardless of where responsibility lies - and maintain the kind of image necessary to belong to the good girl's club.) I wasn't the young adult who needed to learn how to take responsibly for my wrong-doings. It takes a coward to blame a child; it takes a village of assholes to brand a scarlet letter on the heart-broken.

I think a truly conservative thinker could make a decent argument for the "lost testimony"concept and the church discipline incurred by said rumors. Leadership needs to be pure and undefiled, yada yada yada. (Though truth be told, I have yet to find a leader even close to pure or undefiled, but that's a subject for another day.)

I don't know. I get it. But also?

I don't.

...It's not the hugest secret, or maybe it is, that Michael and I are going through a very difficult time. Without getting into the details, I'll just say it's been the most painful season of our lives and quite possibly the most difficult path to discern. And though we are striving and hopeful and doing everything possible to personally grow and fight like hell for our family, life has taught us over and over that even the purest of hopes can disappoint. And hurt people, hurt people.

I've observed recently how people in a current season of "un-struggle" often act in the same spirit as that neighborhood pastor from my early 20's. It's not really the obvious judgment or rumor mongering, it's the demotion and shunning that hurts and isolates - the disallowance of grappling and heartbreak that's astonishing. Like if one area of a person's life is out of control or in crisis for a few months or even a year (*gasp*), somehow the entirety of who they are becomes questionable, regardless of years of positive, selfless or life-giving "testamony."

It must be nice to have a perfect marriage and a perfect life with perfect leaders on top of a grassy green hill. I should know - I used to live there (or so I thought. Or so I wanted to think).

Having believed this place was an empire, I now know illusions when I see them. The fall from grace can be quick. And the vultures don't waste time.

Drawing hard-lines for struggling people takes some balls (perfect ones, I hope...are there such things?!)  But I'm not convinced hard-lines and isolation are the best ways to love people. Jesus asked, especially, to see Peter, post-reserection. Because second (and third and fourth and seventy-seven) chances were important to a perfect Savior. Peter denied Jesus. He messed up in one big area of his life, but he wasn't lost in totality. And the time between dishonor and restoration was a matter of days - not years - and certainly far from a lifetime of distrust and shaming.

Why do we write people off just because they struggle in ways we do not, or in ways we are just afraid to admit? Why is it so easy to proclaim punishment and isolation and time-outs but not invite restoration, hope or forgiveness? It's timeless - the allure and ease of pointing fingers vs. sitting across from a struggling friend and together, as equals, breaking bread. Did we learn nothing from Hester Prynne's life?  Do we take nothing from the teachings of Jesus?