Self Image: Body, Mind & Spirit

Lithium. The most prescribed medication for Bipolar Disorder and yet it seemed to make things worse. My moods were still out of control. I was mean. I was severely lethargic to the point that I shouldn’t have been driving, but I was manic, so I did anyway. I gained weight and developed cystic acne. Why is a drug that is supposed to make me well again making me feel worse?

Then there’s my deeply scarred abdomen. I couldn’t think any worse about myself. And I pleaded the expected, “Why God?” And He was silent. Or at least I thought.

My body had failed me.
My mind had failed me.
My spirit had failed me.

The Storm Within My Mind

The rains come down from heaven and
Purify my soul
But a storm builds within my mind and has
Nowhere to go

Encased in heavy armor that leaks but
Won’t give in
My encapsulated mind is entangled
With confusion

My mind battles against the Savior that
Lives within my soul

Survival Mode

I walked down the stairs carrying my sleepy 21 month old son. My foot hit the tile at the bottom and all the synapses in my body rushed to compute what was happening. The cold wet puddle of water surrounding me triggered a moment of panic. I set my son on the couch and ran back upstairs for an armful of towels. I called my in-laws again. My mother-in-law came right over. The plumber was called.

It was the Monday after Thanksgiving, 2018. I had just proudly served my first Thanksgiving dinner. I was living my dream as a stay-at-home mom while nannying. It was a good arrangement. My good friend and her husband lived 5 minutes away. He worked at our shop and I babysat the kids. My life was finally going in a good direction after my near death postpartum experience the year before. Things do get better. You will get through this.

Oh my was I wrong.

Beautifully Broken

Bruised and broken
My sanity stolen
Satan looms
Darkness glooms
Sin from the garden
Ladens me with burden
Tears weep upon
The seed Christ has sown
Resurrection blooms
Beauty resumed

A dear departed friend of mine once told me that my brokenness was beautiful. I was in the midst of a serious depressive episode during a summer spent taking seminary classes through Cru. She, among others, walked with me through this brokenness. They ministered to my deeply troubled soul. The words “brokenness” and “beautiful” didn’t seem to have any business being in the same sentence. How can something so severely broken be beautiful?

When Prayer Isn’t Enough

Screams escaped me like a steaming kettle. There was no way to turn down the burner, no hand to pull it off of the heat. My mom was at a loss as to how to help me. She showed me my face in a mirror but I didn’t recognize that girl. For the longest time I thought she did this to show me how bad I was being. Now I realize that she was trying to show me how broken I was. She was showing me how badly I needed help. I looked at the mirror and wondered who that broken helpless girl was.

Fighting Anger

Our society is currently filled with a lot of anger due to a conglomeration of current events.

Politics.

Pandemic.

Social injustice.

And so many other things.

Anger seeps into conversation like the serpent snuck into the garden of Eden. Anger destroys relationships. Anger destroys people.

Momma’s Boy

The grayish squirming baby squenched his little face as he was quickly thrust onto my chest. Slippery from my bath water I clung to his tiny squirming body as he let out a little squelch. It was a beautiful perfect delivery which is vividly painted in my mind.

“Hi baby!” I gasped, overwhelmed.

“Call him by his name,” my midwife instructed.

The words seemed strange as I forced out, “Hey Arthur! Hello there!” to this little stranger laying in my arms. I felt the same the first time I called him my son to someone. It was like, now that he was outside of me, I had to get to know him all over again.

The Mind of Anxiety

The other day I started a fire in my house. I simply just wasn’t thinking.

I have some cast iron skillets that I take great care of because I just love cooking and I love cooking in them over anything else. I had recently reseasoned them (a process of baking oil onto the metal for a non-stick surface) and was determined to continue building on that seasoning, thus making them better, by taking care in how I wash and store them.

Well, I set the pan on the burner in order to dry it out, lest it rust. I figured high heat would dry it faster. I walked away for a few minutes and it had gotten too hot and the seasoning I worked so hard on was burning off. I panicked and immediately threw some vegetable oil on while it was piping hot. Needless to say, carbon started forming and it was smoking badly, telling me that a fire was about to start. I panicked more and grabbed the pan to run it under water. The movement of the oil caused it to burst into flames! The water was running but the flames just kept getting bigger.

Called to be Steadfast

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions. I’m of the mind that if there is something you need to improve in your life, you address it now. Putting off what you know needs to happen doesn’t serve you in the time you are waiting for the clock to click midnight on a specific date. Why put it off until tomorrow what you can start today?

For Better, For Worse

For better, for worse,

For richer, for poorer,

In sickness and in health,

To love and to cherish,

Till death do us part…

As we said our vows on December 30th, 2011, we meant it. It’s idyllic. We had typical newlywed expectations that, over time, changed as reality set in. It’s one thing to say the vows, it’s another thing to live them. I can see why so many people say those vows and don’t follow through. Marriage is a wonderful union, but it’s also very hard. We’ve lived too long in the “worse,” the “poorer,” the “sickness.” So many times the weight of carrying these vows strained our relationship. The important part? As heavy as they might get, we still carried them. And I would rather struggle with these vows with Andrew over anyone else.

Running From My Idol

My lungs drink in the cold November morning. Heart pumping fuel to my expanding and contracting muscles as endorphins and adrenaline surge through my body. My mind is focused on the power surging through my limbs and my eyes are targeted on the runners before me. Coach shouts out my mile split. “Way to go, Beth!” Encouraged at the news, I dig in deeper, stretching my legs across the grassy course.

A personal record under my belt, an All-State title, and another shiny token of success laying across my chest. I revel in the glory.

Conflict Un-resolution – Part 2: The Lesson

This is a story about a situation that went really wrong with a friend and employee. If you haven’t read part 1, please read that first. In part 2 I will bring you through the conflict resolution process we followed and what came of it.

The Un-resolution

The Bible is very clear with step-by-step instructions on how to deal with conflict within the Christian community. We took this very seriously and made sure to heed His word through prayer and deed.

The following steps need to be done in order, otherwise only gossip will prevail.

Conflict Un-Resolution – Part 1: The Fall

The Rise

A good friend. A loving church community. So many memories shared. Like all good friendships, as time went on, the relationship bond grew stronger. This is a habit I get myself into. Again. And again.

Some people have lots and lots of friends but don’t get particularly close to any one friend. Just a good group of community. This works for some people. I’m the kind of friend that, when I make a friend, I’m all in. Unconditional. BFFs. Except that I’ve had a poor track record of keeping it that way. Sometimes I’m to blame for being too codependent. Other times I just get completely taken at no fault of my own. For better or worse, I trust too quickly and too deeply. The latter friendship breakup is the hardest.

I’m learning how to not make excuses. Friendships die. The hard part is when that death of a relationship brings you down with it. Healing is possible, but it’s a journey only God can bring you through.

Hearing God

I sat in the pew feeling proud because my grandma was proud. It was a rite of passage in my family to be confirmed in the church. Just like the expectation to be baptized as an infant. Just like the expectation to take your first communion in second grade. Confirmation was what every good Lutheran kid did when they turned fourteen. After two years of boring dreaded catechism classes, I was finally becoming a member of the church.

The rote prayers and call and response rhythms subsided and the pastor did something unusual. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of the confirmands to deliver the sermon directly to us. However, my mind wandered to a different word of Truth.

The Battle Between Mental Illness and Physical Fitness

They say that exercise is important in maintaining mental health. Therefore, those with mental illness should be diligent about maintaining their physical fitness. As a former competitive runner and a graduate of a bachelor’s degree in physical education, I agree cognitively. However, as someone who has suffered severely from mental illness, I will tell you that being physically fit while mentally ill is a paradox.

In my deepest darkest days of mental illness (I’m talking about the pleading with God to end my life days. I’m talking about the, “I can’t take this anymore, how can I end my life?” days.) telling me to go out and be physically active was like telling me to just brush it off and buck up.

Is She Really A Strong Woman?

From 2017 to 2019 I have been dealt one crisis after another in quick succession. It destroyed me – the final crisis being a major flare up of a mental illness that I didn’t know I had. Now, not only were all of these nightmarish circumstances destroying me; I was destroying myself and my relationships. I wouldn’t wish those three years on my worst enemy.

Throughout each of these crises (and I’m not using “crisis” lightly), people have told me, “Wow, you are so strong!”

I understand why they’re saying it. They wouldn’t wish to be in that hard place. They didn’t know if they could handle it if they were in my place. I was in a hard place but I kept going because I had something to live for. I kept going even when I was completely destroyed. But honestly, my ability to keep going was just my ability to barely keep my nose sticking out of a rough sea so as to catch a breath every once in a while. I spent three years in desperate survival mode. Survival.

The Big Crazy Audacious Prayer

It was my 27th birthday. I had been “talking” with this cute guy from church. He would walk me to my car and we would stand in the parking lot talking for hours.

I had no birthday plans. I was working late and on my dinner break I noticed there was a message on my phone. His quiet soothing voice said, “Hi, Bethany. I wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you. Would you be interested in some pasta and salad when you get out of work? I know it will be late and it won’t be anything fancy.”

I called him back immediately.

“Sure, that sounds nice. I probably won’t be there until about 11:00 pm.”

“That’s ok. I will see you then.”

We sat in his basically empty house at a fold out table. Penne pasta with sauce from the jar and salad from a bag. A baguette from the grocery store. We talked about many things. Our hopes and dreams. Our faith. Our families. Then he said something that made my heart fall to the floor.

The Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 3: Fight to Get Home

It finally came, I was discharged.

My nearly month-old son was there. My in-laws were there. My sister-in-law and my brother-in-law-in-law (what I call her husband) had just gotten to town. My youngest sister-in-law was there, too.

I dressed painfully in the outfit I was wearing when I arrived at the hospital. They had washed it.

My Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 2: Intensive Care Unit

The ER entrance seemed like the secret back door of the hospital. Bump. Bump. Moan. Pain. They rolled me straight to triage. The EMTs spouted some sort of medical information to the receiving medical team. Vitals again. Hushed voices again…or maybe they weren’t hushed. But urgent. They were urgent.

“Where’s my husband?”

“He’s on his way, honey,” a stressed voice sounded, “he’s just parking the car.”

I don’t remember him walking into the room, but he was there. Holding my hand. He was there.

As I write. As I remember. I want him here, now. I want that strong hand. That, “It’s going to be ok. The doctors and nurses know what they’re doing.” I finally remember, but it’s painful to go back. To re-engage. To sit with myself in that ambulance, that room, that hallway. Cold. Bright. Sterile.

My Truth About My Postpartum Story – Part 1: The Ambulance

I haven’t told my story – the story that continually haunts me. I haven’t told my story. Not to me. Not to anyone. Not completely. Little snippets here and there, but not in its entirety. It took me a long time to gather the memories. Many of them were blacked out.

I haven’t told my story, but in order to completely heal. In order to move on. In the case that someone else has a similar unique story, I need to tell my story. I need to tell my story. For me. For other women out there who have felt so alone in their postpartum journey.

When The Mountain Will Not Break You

The little train rumbled over the tracks. She was a happy little train. Her cars were filled with toy animals… There were dolls and the funniest little toy clown you ever saw. But that was not all. Some cars were filled with good things for boys and girls to eat – and lollipops for after meal treats. The little train was carrying all these wonderful things to the little boys and girls on the other side of the mountain.

A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and he fell among robbers, who stripped him and beat him and departed, leaving him half dead.

Who was this man? What brought him from Jerusalem to Jericho?

Homesick Refocused

Lake ripples roll out a lullaby of childhood memories. Full of life, waves sweep me up in their motion. “Shlip, shlip, gulp, shlap” sings the song of my youth. The dinging of the masts in the sleepy marina ring out a melody of memories gone by. Rising and falling softly and gently in my bunk I sneak just one more chapter out of the novel I’ve been glued to before I hear an annoyed, “Beth, turn out the light and go to sleep.”

I wake suddenly to a hard scraping kind of noise, then vruh-shhh-vruh-shhh over my head. Dad wakes early to spray and scrub the bugs sticking to the dewy deck above. Every. Morning.

Rebuilding My Life After Sheer Destruction

For the past couple of years, instead of making a New Year’s Resolution, I have asked God to give me a word. Last year’s word – probably the HARDEST year of my life – was oddly enough, “Joy.” He challenged me to find joy in the hard things. There was plenty of hard to choose from. I’ve talked about the gut wrenching hard on several posts in the past couple of months, so I’d like to take a break from rehashing the gory details.

If you want a taste go here, here, and here. And here. And here.

When 2020 rolled around, the word God gave me was, “Rebuilding.” I had to check and double check because the last 4 years were a build up to the ultimate crisis explosion of 2019. In 2017, I thought that nothing could be worse than almost dying. In 2018, things continued to build upon the healing from nearly dying. In 2019, I reached my breaking point and literally became out of my mind. My world came crashing down into a pile of mess. My family was a mess because of people who had severely wronged us. My family was a mess because I was a manic-depressive mess. It stinks being the reason your family is a mess. It stinks when it really IS your fault. Overall, living in the mess of utter destruction just stinks. It just stinks.

So when God told me that my 2020 word was “Rebuilding,” you can see why I thought it was my flesh wishfully thinking. So, I started to study the word in the Bible. In Hebrew, “shuwb,” “to rebuild,” “to reconstruct ,” “to restore,” and “to return to.” Yes. That’s right. To return to. My study took me to what should be the obvious place, but it caught me by surprise.

Fasting Current Events

Presidential elections, racial injustice, killer virus, and on and on and on. Everywhere you turn, it’s there.

It’s a flyer hanging on your door with someone smiling. Usually a man. Usually white. Many times surrounded by a beautiful wife and two or three darling children in well coordinated clothing. Maybe even matching. Maybe even a dog snuggled into the man’s arms looking excitedly at a toy bouncing around behind the camera. “Vote for me!,” it says. “I will make a difference!,” the slogan reads in a fancy convincing way.

It’s people on social media acting like they have a PhD, an MBA, an JD, etc. arguing until the cows come home about some matter or another. We all know it all because we read it online, now, don’t we? I am not immune.

It’s a face to face comment intended for you to read between the lines about a strong opinion, like they’re testing the waters to see if you agree, disagree, interested in talking about it. You don’t just ask the question, you dance around it like a cat toy on a string to see if you’re interested in playtime.

Continue reading “Fasting Current Events”

Grieving My Scars

I’m grieving my scars
Both inside and out
I’m grieving the losses
That created self doubt

Will I ever be beautiful?
Will I ever be sane?
Will I ever be happy?
Will I ever be free?

Free of my cosmetic deformities
Of my mental catastrophes
Of my relational disasters
I want to be free.
And be me.

I’m grieving my scars
Both inside and out
I’m grieving the losses
That created self doubt

Will I ever get past the past
That haunts me?
Will I ever evolve to
A time where disaster ends
And my life begins?
Will I ever stand before a
360 degree mirror in
Awe of life’s beauty ?
Will I ever embrace the
scars that remain from
the traumas of physical and
emotional pain?

Embrace my husband
My son
My learnings from
Yearning so long
My Self
Who I am.
Regardless of who I was.

I’m grieving my scars
Both inside and out
I’m grieving the losses
That created self doubt