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The morning I got sick I woke up tired. Maybe I didn’t sleep well, I thought. Maybe I just need a nap. Two naps later and I was still tired. But it was more than tiredness, it was a deep fatigue that penetrated down to my bones. The last time I felt like this I was anemic. And then, sitting in church, I swallowed and felt the first scratchiness in my throat. Uh-oh. Was it real? I swallowed again. Still there. I swallowed again. Gone. OK, maybe I’m not getting sick.

It was strange, those mental gymnastics I jumped through at the beginning of the illness, trying to convince myself I wasn’t getting sick. That the dreaded disease was not upon me. The old fallback: Maybe It’s Just Allergies.

But then I started sneezing. Allergies, still? And then my nose started running. Runny nose can be allergies, right?

I made a pre-emptive run to CVS. Just in case. Alka-Seltzer Plus and three boxes of tissue. When I picked my husband up from the airport that evening I told him not to kiss me because I thought I was getting sick. He kissed my cheek.

I went to bed early because I was feeling so tired. My nose was running like a faucet. I was plowing through my first box of tissues.

I woke up at 2am feeling awful. My sinuses felt like they were filled with hardening concrete. I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I went downstairs and made myself comfortable in the Lazy-Boy recliner. I drifted in and out of sleep for a couple of hours. At 6am I went upstairs and told Matt I needed to take a COVID test. There was no doubt now that I was sick. I feared the worst. I took the test. It was positive. I had COVID.

My worst symptoms were sinus congestion, headache and overall exhaustion. Days 2 and 3 were the worst. On Day 2 I made a virtual appointment with an urgent care and the doctor prescribed a Z pack and some asthma meds.

The strange thing about being sick is the loss of control. There’s nothing quite like being sick to remind you how powerless you are. The illness is in control, not you. You are like a ship in a storm. All you can do is ride it out.

I’ve been sick enough in my life to know how this story goes. There’s no immediate fix. Doctors will say things like: “You have to let it run its course.” But every time I get sick I still wish there was a way to make it better quickly. As I lay in bed on Day 3, all I could think about was how I wished it was Day 7 and my symptoms were over. Little did I realize that by Day 7, my main symptoms would be gone but the fatigue would remain.

I never developed the scariest symptoms: severe cough, fever and loss of smell and taste. I had a slight cough but no wheezing. I never felt like I was struggling for breath. Overall, my lungs stayed clear. For this, I am abundantly grateful. I have serious asthma and it could have gotten very bad for me.

The other layer of difficulty that COVID posed was the isolation. I quarantined in my bedroom for a full five days. It was hard not to touch and hug my family. The suffering of being sick was compounded by the loneliness of isolation. I just wanted to touch someone! Perhaps the hardest part of the human experience is being sick and alone. It made me feel a great deal of sympathy for those who are chronically ill and live alone. Something that helped me tremendously were the texts and messages from family and friends. COVID is such a universal experience now that so many have undergone that I received a lot of support and kind words. Those words and prayers sustained me. It made me feel less alone knowing that people were praying for me.

By day 5, my congestion started clearing up. On Day 6 I tested negative. On Day 7, most of my symptoms were gone except a slight, lingering cough. But I was still deeply fatigued. I still had to spend most of the day in bed. I heard from friends on social media that the fatigue could last anywhere from a couple weeks to several months. I don’t know if that will be my case but I hope not. On Day 8 I woke up feeling more energy and more like myself. I don’t know if I’ll continue to feel fatigued but I’m just glad I’m through the worst of it. Many others had a far worse experience than I did. I’m convinced the vaccinations and booster protected me from the worst symptoms. I dodged the disease for two and half years. But when it came for me, there was nothing to do but lie down and wait it out. I’m thankful my infection was relatively mild. I know it could have been so much worse. Thank you to everyone who prayed for me and offered kind messages and words of hope. That helped me more than I can say. I’m forever grateful.

She knew he was old enough to get himself up each morning. She knew he set alarms on his phone. But she couldn’t help herself. She still wanted to be the one to wake him up. Pat his head. Pat his flung-out arm on top of the covers. Whisper, “Good morning.” Watch his eyelashes flutter and then his eyes open. She liked being the first one he saw upon waking.

He was eighteen now. Hard to believe. Wasn’t he just that squishy little baby squinting up at her as he lay nestled in her arms? He was leaving home next week, moving away to university. These were her last mornings with him.

At 6:30am she quietly opened his bedroom door. He was on his side, facing away from her. His phone was pushed up under his pillow. She patted his shoulder and gently called him by his family nickname, Nut. His real name was Sean but since he was a toddler it had been Walnut, Wally or Nut. There was no real reason for these nicknames. They just sort of happened and then they stuck. It took a moment of patting his back before Nut grunted.

“You awake?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

“I’ll make your breakfast, ok?”

“’K.”

She tip toed out of the room, closing the door behind her. He always ate peanut butter toast and drank hot green tea in the mornings. Downstairs, she drew water for the electric kettle and pushed two pieces of bread into the toaster, reminding herself not to use the left side of the toaster because that side always popped back up before the toast was ready. She relished the little routine of fixing his breakfast. There were so many things she could no longer do for him. So many things he didn’t need from her anymore. And next week, this too would be gone. She had started counting lasts. Last time he would come in from his summer job and eat dinner at the family table. Last time she would wake him up. Last time she would make tea and toast.

It was strange because not too long ago she was counting firsts. First time he took a breath—she remembered his tiny body sliding out all limp and blue. Suddenly, he sucked in air. She’d witnessed it—that first breath. He’d turned pink all over. A proper, pink, crying baby. It was a miracle. Her husband had brought her flowers in the hospital. There was a card that said: “For my darling wife and my first-born son.” And then there had been the first smile. First tooth. First roll over. First crawl. First step. First word. All miracles, all of them.

But he had been their only son. Their only child.

And she had devoted herself to him. The love she had for him eclipsed everything else. Nothing in life compared to the sense of urgent purpose and deep meaning she found in tending to his every need. The changing of diapers, the washing of bottles and little clothes, the making of meals, the reading aloud of books. She found something deeply satisfying about every part of it. She didn’t care about the not-so-subtle disapproval from friends, neighbors, even other family members. You spoil that child. Don’t you want other things out of life? What will you do when he’s grown and gone? She had ignored all of it, let herself melt wholly and completely into motherhood. They didn’t understand and she didn’t care to explain it.

But now, here he was: eighteen. He was grown. He was moving out. What would she do with her long, empty days? She preferred not to think about it. Things would happen, her schedule would fill up. Of course it would. Perhaps she would get a small job. Perhaps she would volunteer. In her heart she knew nothing would measure up to the gift of caring for him.

Her son came down to the kitchen wild haired and heavy eyed. He slumped into a chair and gazed into his phone. She placed the toast and tea before him. She sat next to him and watched him eat. He was not a morning person. Waking up was a long, slogging process for him. She knew this. She didn’t expect him to talk. She just wanted to soak him in a bit. She smiled at his disheveled hair, his mismatched socks. As long as he didn’t catch her watching him she was safe to enjoy him. But if he looked up from his phone and saw her looking at him, he would shift uncomfortably and ask why she was being creepy. So she fiddled with her cup of coffee, pretended to be busy with her own phone. All the while glancing at him. All the while measuring the slightest twitch of his eyebrows, the tiniest grimace of his lips.

He glanced up from his phone.

“How late are you working today?” she asked before he could register that she’d been watching him.

“Dunno. Probably five.”

“Will you be with us for dinner or are you going to your girlfriend’s house tonight?”

“Probably going to her house.”

So, she didn’t need to make dinner. She nodded at him and took a sip of her coffee.

“Well, I hope you have a good day,” she said, getting up from the table to clear his plate.

He said nothing to this and she took his plate to the sink, rinsed it. Placed it in the dishwasher. He would take his tea to work with him. She lived on tiny gestures, little phrases. He never talked much but when he did, she treasured it.

A few weeks ago he’d paid her the highest compliment. She’d been sharing about her worries about dad. What would happen when they grew old? What would happen after he retired?

“Don’t worry about that, Mom,” he’d said. “You guys can come live with me. I won’t put you in a nursing home.”

She’d tucked that away in her heart like a secret. Nut wasn’t prone to sentimentality. He was practical and rational. A shade cynical. So his words held special meaning to her. Even if, when it came down to it, he did put her in a nursing home. At least he’d said it. There was something in that. A kind of thanks. A kind of gratitude for the years she’d devoted to his service.

And then, too, there were several more days of making him breakfast. She still had that. Perhaps it was enough.

It’s been almost two years since I wrote on this, my website. Except in Pandemic Time that’s actually more like five years. I hardly remember the person I was in 2020. I remember stockpiling canned goods and toilet paper. I remember the kids being in Zoom school. But the pandemic is a blur. The pandemic sucked dry all my words. I was empty. I was just trying to survive, to get through this Big Thing that was happening in the world. So, I didn’t write except in my daily private journal.

But here I am. My psychiatrist told me I should write again and he gave me the assignment of writing something every two weeks and then publishing it publicly in order to receive feedback. Except, does anyone blog anymore? And furthermore, will anyone comment? I don’t know. I’m just here doing my assignment.

Here’s one thing I can write about: I’ve kept a plant alive. OK, OK. It’s only been two months but I’m inordinately proud of myself. My sister gave it to me as a birthday gift and all I’ve had to do is water it occasionally. And sometimes, put it next to an open window where I imagine it likes to soak in the natural light. I hope it stays alive. I feel rather protective of the dear little thing now. I want us to grow old together. I don’t know what kind of plant it is. But it’s gotta be of hardy stock if it’s survived 2 months with me. Do you know what kind of plant it is? Feel free to leave me a comment.

Here’s another thing I can write about: melanoma. A few weeks ago, Matt went to the dermatologist. He hadn’t been to a dermatologist since he was a kid. Note to all readers: do not do this. Go see your dermatologist regularly. Anyway, Matt had a mole on his left leg that he’d had since birth. But several months ago we noticed that it was changing shape. We didn’t think it was a big deal but still, Matt decided to get everything checked out.

He went into the dermatologist and she took biopsies of several moles on his skin. Two weeks later she called us and told us that the mole on his leg (the black one) was melanoma. It was a thin melanoma. Only 0.6mm deep. But it was serious because melanoma is an aggressive skin cancer. A week later he went to see a surgeon who specializes in melanoma. A week after that, he was in surgery. It all happened so fast. From the phone call with the dermatologist to the surgery was two weeks.

I didn’t allow myself to worry too much. I did have some worst case scenario imaginations where I envisioned Matt in a hospital bed with stage 4 cancer. But I stopped those thoughts immediately. I have a little worksheet I sometimes use to help me with intrusive thoughts. It basically asks me to write down the “hot thoughts” I’m having, identify what kind of thought it is (catastrophizing, fortune telling, black or white thinking, etc) and then write down a “cool thought” or alternative perspective. It also asks me to identify the emotions I’m having with these thoughts. This helps me think through the problem and see it in a different light. Writing down “cool thoughts” also helps ease the intensity of emotion. It’s called cognitive behavioral therapy and the worksheet is from a book called “Mind Over Mood.” So I used the worksheet several times when I felt my anxiety starting to flare up. I was able to keep my anxiety under control and not freak out. I was able to stay calm for the kids and able to support Matt through his doctor’s appointments and surgery.

Matt had a philosophical response to hearing he had melanoma. He didn’t get emotional. He went to a place of acceptance almost immediately. He said at first he felt a little bit of fear because the news felt surreal and there were a lot of unknowns. But mostly, he was accepting. He said it was out of his hands and he was resigned to whatever had to happen next. He said it did make him feel more grateful for his family and the people in his life. Situations like this clarify what’s most important in life.

Strangely, I felt the most emotional upon seeing Matt after surgery. He was shaking from the effects of the anesthesia and the cold operating room. He asked me the same questions several times. Watching the nurse take out his IV made me dizzy. I felt helpless. I wished there was more I could do. We were through the worst of it and the surgeon said everything went well and he thinks he got all the cancer out. But that’s when I felt the worse—after the worst had passed.

So, now we wait for the pathology report. If everything looks good, the doctor won’t call us. No news is good news. We will simply follow-up with the surgeon at an appointment where he will take the stitches out. Hopefully Matt won’t need further treatment other than going to his dermatologist regularly for follow-up exams.

I’m super grateful for the medical care he received. Both his dermatologist and the surgeon were very capable and competent. We were treated so well at Hoag Hospital in Newport Beach. I’m thankful Matt went to the dermatologist when he did and that we didn’t ignore it any longer. It could have spread and gotten much worse if we just let it go. All in all, it’s been a challenge but not overwhelming. I’m just thankful that, for now, everything is ok. We’re hopeful for the future. If you’re the praying sort, would you kindly say a prayer that Matt’s melanoma is gone and that we get a good pathology report? Thank you.

I’ll try to write again soon. I need to get back in the habit. It’s good for me. It’s good for the soul. Take care, friends. And if you’ve been putting off your dermatologist appointment, pick up the phone and make the call. Your life is worth it.

Turns out, I’ve been doing too much for decades.

Essentially, I’ve lived on the brink of burnout for the entirety of my adult life. The vicious cycle of over-commit, crash, recover, over-commit just felt normal to me.

I think part of this is a result of my upbringing: I grew up in a high-demand environment where we were always going-going-going. There was never downtime. I only rested when I got sick. I was only as good as my performance. I lived a highly productive, 24/7 life. After awhile, it just felt normal.

I carried this high-demand life long into my adulthood. I was the mom who did everything. I volunteered and cooked and sewed and drove kids all over the place to their various activities. I taught classes at church. I somehow managed to write books and blogs and articles in the midst of it.

I was forever doing more than I had energy for and always wondering why I felt stressed out, irritable and sick all the time.

And then came the pandemic.

Quarantine taught me that my “normal life” was way too busy. In my pre-pandemic life, I was doing way, WAY too much.

The quarantine taught me that I was made for a slower, simpler, quieter life. After the initial anxiety of the pandemic melted away something else began to happen. I surrendered to the slowness. I made my peace with an empty calendar. And my mental health began to improve.

There was nowhere to be and nobody to see. For some reason this just absolutely emptied my life of anxiety and stress. It confirmed what I’d suspected for awhile: that I’m an introvert. I need alone time to recharge my batteries. A busy social schedule wears me out.

My pre-pandemic life was filled with deadlines and appointments and always more to do. Quarantine brought everything to a standstill. All I had to do each day was cook for the kids, clean up the house and keep up with the laundry. Funny, that was quite enough. It’s a lot, even. Just doing that—just being a mom was a full-time job.

It made me realize that I’ve never given myself enough credit. I keep thinking that Being A Mom isn’t enough. I keep piling things on myself. For years I’ve been trying to prove that I’m “not just a mom.” That I can do lots of other things, too.

I’d bought into the lie that said if I wasn’t learning a new skill or building a side-hustle or trying to start a new business or do MORE, then I wasn’t a good human being. I wasn’t worthy of rest. I wasn’t living my “best life.”

But with less to do, my mental health was undeniably improving. Turns out, my brain likes a simplified schedule.

Quarantine also reminded me that things pass. Moods, difficulties, daily annoyances will pass. I don’t always have to react to everything. Not everything demands an immediate answer. I don’t have to fix everything. I can let the kids be bored without feeling compelled to fix it for them. I can let them make their own food if they don’t want what I’m cooking. I can take naps whenever I need them. I can pause.

And now that stay-at-home orders are lifting in my area, I’m slowly venturing back out into life. But I’m taking these lessons with me. The last thing I want to do is get back into that vicious cycle of over-commit and crash.

I want to remember that I am doing enough. I am enough. I am allowed to rest. One day at a time.

“It seems we all struggle with late-night Netflix binges, skipped workouts, and deeper existential concerns about our mental health and belonging. I’ve learned that most people are fighting their own version of this internal war.” —page 7, You’re A Miracle (and a pain in the ass)

With compassion and a mind toward research, Mike McHargue’s new book, You’re A Miracle (and a pain in the ass) leads us through the mysteries of our brains and bodies, helping us toward a deeper understanding about why we do what we do. I found Mike’s approach relatable and interesting. Even though I’m not a science person, Mike breaks down hard-to-understand scientific topics into something easily digestible for the everyday reader. What impresses me most about Mike is his humanity and willingness to go deeper. He’s not satisfied with simple answers. He remains curious and engaged even when his discoveries require him to change himself. I enjoyed reading Mike’s most recent book and even more, I enjoyed getting to know him better as a person through his writing.

“Striving to find God in the ways I used to, or to remake my life into how it used to be, only prevents me from seeing how God is present and at work in the here and now.” —page 65, The Long Night: readings and stories to help you through depression

Jessica Kantrowitz knows what it’s like to suffer deeply from depression. The Long Night is for all of us who need someone who knows what depression is like and can guide us through it. I so appreciated Jessica’s stories and suggestions. She is a safe companion who comes alongside you and offers her support and wisdom without expecting you to snap out of it. She understands the process of depression and through her writing she offers hope and ideas for managing and getting through difficult seasons. I’m so thankful for this book and think it will be helpful for anyone struggling with mental health issues.

“There is so much I want to tell you, Ma. I was once foolish enough to believe knowledge would clarify, but some things are so gauzed behind layers of syntax and semantics, behind days and hours, names forgotten, salvaged and shed, that simply knowing the wound exists does nothing to reveal it.” —page 62, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

This beautiful, poetic book tells the story of a son trying to connect with his mother. War, immigration and language barriers all conspire to rip their connection to shreds. It is a story of hope and sorrow told in the most lovely prose imaginable. This is a literary book for literature lovers. If you liked There, There by Tommy Orange you will love this book, too.

The news this past week reminds me that racism is not accidental; it is intentional, calculated and conditioned. Amy Cooper knew exactly what to say to leverage a racist system against the black man who dared to correct her. The police knew exactly how to brutally murder a man by pinning a knee on George Floyd’s neck.

These behaviors are the continuation of hundreds of years of racist violence against black people in this country. The black people I learn from have pointed out that white people should not be shocked. As Ta-Nehisi Coates said: “It’s the cameras that are new, not the violence.” This country was built upon violence against black people. It’s a history that is still happening. To remain silent is to be complicit.

I know I have so much to learn. I can start by saying that what happened to George Floyd was wrong. I can start by saying I see myself in Amy Cooper and I see the work I need to do to hold myself accountable for similarly racist attitudes. I can start by saying George Floyd was a precious child of God and the violence done against him was violence against the image of God itself. I can start by saying I see what is happening and I won’t look away.

Here's a list of resources I've found helpful in my own education:

1. 75 Things White People Can Do For Racial Justice

2. White Homework by Tori Williams Douglass

3. The Next Question, created by Austin Channing Brown

4. One: Unity in a Divided World by Deidra Riggs

5. I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made For Whiteness by Austin Channing Brown

6. Between The World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates

7. How To Be an Anti-Racist by Ibram X. Kendi

8. White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo

9. Good Ancestor podcast

10. Uncivil podcast

Please feel free to share additional resources in the comments. Let’s all commit to learning from black people and doing our part to help change the racist systems that are so prevalent in this country.

In between making meals and washing ten-thousand dishes, may I suggest a new hobby for your quarantine? Recreational Napping.

Internet influencers tell us to “use this time to sharpen new skills,” learn a new hobby, become fluent in a foreign language. I say: bone up on your sleeping skills. Sharpen your saw for sawing zzz’s. Sleeping is an excellent pastime.

If you’re diligent, quarantine can become a series of highly-strategic naps. You’re not a person anymore; you’re a bear in hibernation. It’s pandemic-y outside and nobody wants you out there anyway. So, let yourself nap.

If you do this right, you’ll be able to take a morning, mid-day and afternoon nap. Maybe even a pre-bedtime doze. And don’t forget the snack nap: a nap after a snack. Lastly, for those moments when you’ve just HAD IT with the pandemic, let yourself take the I Just Don’t Want To Be Here Anymore Nap, which can be taken any time of day.

Your goal is to sleep as much as possible but not to sleep so much that it interferes with your night sleep. Afterall, the night sleep is the longest and (if you’re lucky) best sleep. It’s the sleep of pure, sweet oblivion. It’s the sleep that says: you made it through another terrible day of this godforsaken pandemic and now you are rewarded with eight to nine hours of beautiful nothingness. But again: you don’t want the daytime napping to interfere with the night sleep. Protect and preserve the night-time sleep. Remember this! The beautiful nothingness is simply too precious. So, be strategic.

Try to stuff in as much sleep as possible before 1pm. Get back in bed after breakfast. Put a pillow over your head. Turn on a boring podcast. Let yourself sink into whatever comes. Hopefully sleep is what comes but if not sleep, at least a sort of fugue state where time is irrelevant.

Take a nap after lunch. Make sure it’s a carb-heavy lunch because a Carb Coma is what you’re after. You don’t need afternoon energy. You need a 2pm crash. An afternoon nap after a carb-heavy lunch is the best nap of the day. It’s warm, you’re drowsy, there’s a good chance you’ll fall into a deep sludge of a nap, the kind where you wake up and don’t remember what day it is. And that’s fine. Because all the days are the same. Nothing matters. Let your full belly tuck you in. Find that sunny spot on the couch and pull an afghan over yourself.

You’re trying to kill time but gently. You’re slaughtering time with pillows and soft blankets. You’re sacrificing hours on the altar of oblivion. Anyway, what IS time? What ARE days? The only way I can mark time these days is by counting the new gray hairs growing in around my temples. And I’ve lost count.

The children are sleeping differently, too. They are vampires, basically. The tweens and teens in this household stay up until 1am chatting with their friends on FaceTime and playing online games and then they sleep until 12pm. They’ve really got a good system going. They erase half the day in slumber and then maximize social time in the evening. I wish I could stay up late, too, but I’m old and talking on the phone past 7pm feels like work.

By 7pm I’m already well into my bedtime routine: brushing teeth and hair, changing into pajamas, fluffing pillows. By 7:45 I’m starting to doze while watching the BBC’s “Escape to The Country.” I also like watching Rick Steves before bed. Nothing bad or scary happens on these shows. It’s basically people walking around looking at things and then maybe having a cup of tea.

Even when this pandemic is over I don’t think I’ll travel because I will have already have seen everything. By 8pm my light is off and I’m creating my sleep nest. Yes, I have a bedtime nesting routine. Essentially, it’s a ritual of fluffing and arranging pillows. I require three pillows arranged in a specific layout. One for my head, one to hold and one to prop up my hand.

And then, it is sweet, beautiful nothingness. Ah, yes. SLEEP, my friends. This how you get through quarantine.

I looked at the sinkful—nay, entire KITCHENFULL—of dirty dishes and thought: “I can’t.”

That’s when the little Peppy Cheerleader in my brain popped up and said: “Whether you think you can or you can’t, you’re right!” Then she did a round off and shouted GO TEAM! I wanted to slap her.

I’m not just waging a war against dirty dishes. I’m waging war against Peppy Cheerleaders in my brain. Also the Harbingers Of Doom in my brain. During the day my brain (on meds) works super hard to pump out cheerful updates and lots of EVERYTHING WILL BE FINES but at night my meds go off duty and there are nightmares. The worst possible scenarios of Covid-19 death and destruction. I wake up gasping for air.

But the reality is, my day-to-day life in quarantine is very slow and uneventful. My main occupation is feeding the hungry hoards and then washing their plethora of dirty dishes. Oh, and washing my hands. This is my life now. I cook, I clean, I wash my hands. Sometimes I shave my legs. But not often.

Today I didn’t dress for the day. This is not good. I’ve been meticulous about dressing for the day. Nothing fancy. I’m not wearing jeans (not sure I’ll ever go back, tbh). There are no blouses or button-downs in this equation. I’m talking yoga pants and T-shirts. But at least it’s not my pajamas. Well, I mean. They ARE pajamas in the sense that I could sleep in them and sometimes do, but they are different pajamas than the ones I wear at night. I’m always careful about changing out of my Night Pajamas and into my Official Quarantine Outfits. Yoga pants and T-shirts. Barefeet. In other words, if I wore it at night, I can’t wear it during the day. This is the rule. Except, today I broke the rule. I wore my Day Pajamas to bed and then I didn’t change out of them this morning. I’m wearing the same pajamas I wore yesterday and I’m not mad about it.

Back to the dishes. Why are quarantine dishes so much worse than regular dirty dishes? I think I have an idea. It’s because there are MORE of them. The quantity of quarantine dishes is blasphemous. It’s wrong. It’s eco-unfriendly. It’s wrong how many glasses my children use to drink water. I tell them they should use one glass and then re-use it for the next drink of water. But no, they use another clean cup. I, myself, keep one cup by the fridge so that I can re-use it. But the children were not happy about this because they were like: “Is this a clean cup for me?” I would try to catch them in the act of stealing MY cup but it was pointless. My cup gets moved around everyday and so we’re all back to using a new clean cup for every drink of water and by the end of the day my kitchen looks like an elementary school cafeteria after lunch break. Dishes and cups everywhere. Mass disaster.

We are killing the planet. Everything is awful. And also, my back hurts. This does not make sense. Why does my back hurt? All I am doing is washing dishes. This is a tedious task but does not require a lot of back work. Or maybe it does. Who knows. Perhaps this is what we call Quarantine Back. It’s the back you get when you clean dirty dishes all day.

I’ve stopped watching the news. What is there to watch anyway. Nobody knows what they’re talking about and even so, everyone has an opinion. If I wanted that, I could just listen to my 12 year old twins argue about which Korean boy band is the best.

I stopped watching the news once I realized it was bad for my mental health. It only encourages the Harbingers of Doom and it makes my nightmares worse. No thanks. I mean, at the beginning of this whole lockdown situation I was watching the news everyday. I wanted to know things. I wanted to know all the things. But here’s the funny thing: you can’t. You don’t get to know. What you get is people repeating the same thing over and over 10 million times a day and then conspiracy theories seem valid just because they’re a different point of view.

I turned the TV off. I read a book I’ve read many times before because I knew how the story ended. I didn’t have to worry about it. I also watched movies for the 20th and 30th time for the same reason. I know how the story ends. I chose happy movies. I watched a lot of odd little BBC shows about “escaping to the country” where people wander around obscure little English villages and try to convince themselves that living in an 1760’s converted stage coach barn would be better than living in London with indoor plumbing. I watch this show because it’s relaxing to pretend that I, too, would like to live in a weird little cottage with squishy hallways and low ceilings. Because THOSE VIEWS. An English hillside. I’m tired of living in California. All this good weather. It’s so boring. Give me a real cracking British cottage with bad weather!

I think the dirty dishes have made me daffy. I’m back to blogging. Nobody saw that coming. Least of all me.

But here I am, tapping out a blog post and not editing it at all. Here’s the moral of the story: quarantine dirty dishes are so much worse than regular dishes because….they are happening during quarantine. Everything is worse in lockdown. You’re fighting for survival but also it’s incredibly boring. You didn’t expect that. You expected Harbingers of Doom and instead you’re just scraping day old teriyaki chicken off the 8x11 casserole dish you’ve used 20 times in the last two weeks. It’s a strange, confusing life and you are forgiven for doing fine and then suddenly and randomly totally freaking out. It’s weird. This whole thing is weird. But here I am writing about it.

I hope your pile of dirty dishes is less tall than mine and that you are somehow muddling through your days the best you can. I’ll be back soon with more tales of quarantine. For now, I must go run the dishwasher for only the second time today. Toodles.

I’m still struggling to believe it’s real. That she’s gone. In my mind’s eye, Rachel Held Evans stands tall and strong, a woman of valor speaking truth to power, a fearless champion of the church-wounded, generously sharing her platform with those whose stories had been excluded and overlooked. She sought us out and gave us a place to speak. She was a bridge-builder, a trail-blazer and above all, the kind of friend who came alongside and cheered you all the way to the finish line.

How is it possible this courageous warrior has been struck down by a brief, vicious illness? In our liturgies we say: “From ashes to ashes…” and yet, it doesn’t seem real until the living, breathing flesh of someone you love passes through that veil. And so, our woman of valor has passed through the veil and into the splendor of glory. We who are left behind feel it is all too soon, she still had babies to raise and so many more words of blessing to pour out upon us. Didn’t she? We need her.

And yet, this is life. This is death….Rachel taught us this. She taught us how to redeem the time. Eshet Chayil! was her battle-song of blessing and our woman of valor fought bravely to the finish.

Meeting Online

It all seems like a far off dream now: those early years of blogging. It seems like a lifetime ago even though it was just perhaps just 10 or 12 years ago. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, how I found Rachel or how Rachel found me. But I remember around 2010 we were both blogging along similar themes and soon we were sharing conversations in comment threads, exchanging emails, asking the hard questions and writing every day. Looking at her archives and mine, our peak interactions happened between 2010-2014. During those years we had extensive conversations in the comment sections of her blog, she invited me to write a guest post for her and when she ran a series called “Sunday Superlatives” (which was a roundup of the previous week’s best faith writing on the Internet) she often linked back to my blog or featured something I had written. Sometimes she emailed me to say how much she appreciated something I had written. I fell in love with Rachel during those years. She was so brave and such a tireless encourager. I didn’t feel alone. I felt like I could ask the hard questions because Rachel was asking them, too. It was a rare and special treat to wrestle with issues of faith with other faith writers online, engaging conversations, challenging the assumptions of evangelical patriarchy.

Meeting In Real Life

In 2011, Rachel and I joined a team of other bloggers on a trip to Bolivia. That’s where I really got to know Rachel in person. She was that rare combination of intelligence, compassion and generosity. She wrote and thought like a journalist—she always asked the most interesting questions and applied her amazing criticial thinking skills to the problems we were witnessing. She was also fearless. I kept freaking out about all the plane rides in small planes at high altitudes and Rachel just breezed through them with nothing more than a: “Wow, look at that view!” And during one particularly treacherous bus ride winding up and down a mountainside, Rachel and I clung to each and shrieked and laughed. “Get out your Rosary beads, Elizabeth!” she chortled. “We need all the help we can get up here!” Her lighthearted sense of humor and the deep conversations we had while traveling together formed a beautiful bond between all of us who were on that trip. After a long day of traveling, we’d all pile into someone’s hotel room and write together and laugh and talk and talk and talk. During this trip, Rachel encouraged me to start writing a book about my fundamentalist upbringing. She even offered to read some of my initial chapters. After that trip, I knew we were friends for life.

.

Rachel Helped Me Write My First Book

A year later I had a book contract thanks in large part to Rachel’s encouragement. She even put me in touch with her literary agent who eventually signed me on as a client. Rachel was a rare woman. She never ever competed with other women. She was never petty or gossipy. She constantly sought points of connection and constantly and graciously offered her platform time and again to emerging writers. Rachel tirelessly cheered me on during the whole process while I wrote my book. When I was writing my book, Rachel sent me an email telling me she wanted to help get the word out about my book. And when my book was finished, Rachel wrote the endorsement that landed on the front cover: “Witty, insightful, courageous, and compelling—the sort of book you plan to read in a week but finish in a day.” I’ve memorized those words because her belief in me made me believe in myself. Her generosity astonishes me to this day.

What Rachel Taught Me About Life, Being a Writer, Being a Friend, Being a Christian

She held herself to a high standard. She DID THE WORK, ya know? When she had a question, she went looking for the answer. Rachel loved the Lord with her WHOLE MIND. I’ve never met anyone like her. So honest, so determined, so unafraid to wrestle with the hard questions.

Rachel also knew how to let others be fully themselves. She believed in a Big God. A God who was big enough to love and accept all of us. Rachel showed me what it looked like to be an affirming, welcoming, generous Christian. She also showed me that it was ok that I was prickly and asked lots of questions. Essentially, Rachel taught me that it was ok to be fully myself.

After 2014, our writing journeys took us in different directions. I continued to write about recovery from abusive religion and Rachel went on to write NYT selling books, traveling, speaking and organizing conferences to bring people together. The old days of daily blogging were over. But I always knew where to find Rachel: on Twitter. I always looked up her feed first because I always wanted to know what she was thinking about, what she was doing, who she was reading, how her faith journey was progressing. All the way to the end of her life, Rachel sought out emerging writers and promoted their work. I respect that so much. She was a true bridge builder.

The last time I saw Rachel in person was September 2015. She was in California on a speaking trip. We met up for lunch at Laguna Beach with our literary agent. We ate a wonderful lunch overlooking the sparkling Pacific Ocean. We laughed. We talked about life and about her pregnancy. We shared stories and updates. She was so happy to bask in the California sunshine. I’ll always remember her that way. Laughing and talking and having such smart, wonderful things to say and so many ideas for bringing people together.

My Goodbye To Rachel

I feel very unmoored right now. I always looked to Rachel for leadership. I thought I’d have many more years of following her, listening to her and learning from her. All I can do is hold fast to the truth we both believed: that God’s love is big enough for everyone. And in the end, all will be well.

Rachel, I miss you. I love you. Thank you. It was an honor and privilege to know you in this short life. Eshet Chayil, woman of valor! xo, EE.

original watercolor by Elizabeth Esther, copyright 2017

I know you feel lonely. Unseen.

Today you walked alone, down to the river.

You squatted at the river’s edge and scooped up river-worn pebbles.

You held them in the palm of your hand

rolled them about

picked one out of the group and held it up to the sky.

Did it sparkle? Were there glints of gold-dust?

Did you make a wish?

Did you wonder why life is the way it is?

Then you let the pebbles slip away

Away through your fingers

falling

falling away lonesome

back into the anonymous riverbed.

I want to brush back the hair from your face

And tell you how beautiful you are

I want you to know I would never let you slip through my fingers

I have always held you in the palm of my hand

I know you’re lonely and I’m sorry

I’ve been lonely, too.

There was this one time? When all my friends left me.

It was hard.

I knew they loved me and cared about me

But sometimes friends get scared of how much love asks

and sometimes they’re not ready for all of it.

I was different, see.

I had to go through things because love needed me to

People think love is a feeling

and it is. But that’s not all love is.

Love is greater and bigger than a feeling.

It’s so wide it stretches across the entire sky

It’s so deep that even if you swam to the bottom of the ocean it would be still deeper, deeper still.

The love I have for you is like this

There’s nothing you could do to make me love you less

There’s nothing you can do to make me love you more

I love you to infinity and for always

I loved you even before there was an always

And even if always ever ends (it won’t), I’ll still love you.

Can you hear what I’m trying to tell you?

I’m telling you that you are loved unconditionally.

Which is a big word, I understand.

But all it means is that there is nothing that can ever or will ever change my love for you, you, my precious, only you.

EE
2.10.19

My word for 2018 was “Joy.” I wanted more joy in my life and I got it. But wow, I wasn’t expecting how it would happen. I should have remembered that joy is often birthed into our lives through pain. What I’ve learned is that true joy is hard won. It requires courage and sacrifice.

This year I had to give up the home of my dreams, all of my dogs and two friendships that I thought I could never live without.

I watched my husband give up his stable job of twenty years for a business venture that, while not exactly risky, was definitely an unknown.

I also had to entrust myself to a new psychiatrist, a new neighborhood and life as a renter instead of a homeowner.

I emerged from all these changes feeling lighter, more peaceful and yes, more joyful.

At the beginning of this year when I thought about wanting more joy in my life, I didn’t realize how many things I’d been hanging onto that were actually inhibiting joy. I was hoarding things and animals and relationships to make myself feel more whole. I had to lose a lot of that this year in order to face the reality I’ve been avoiding for so long. And when I finally did let go, I was confronted with a reality that was difficult to face.

The utter loneliness of the human condition.

I finally let myself accept the terrible, terrifying truth: there is no person, no animal, no purpose, no THING that can ever satisfy the deepest longings of my soul. Not even Jesus.

Let me explain that. What I mean is: I grew up in a culture that sang songs about Jesus as the “lover of my soul” and “all that thrills my soul is Jesus.” My favorite saint is St. Thérèse of Lisieux who was rapturously in love with Jesus. I’ve been looking for this Jesus all my life. I’ve been craving this personal relationship with Jesus, this personal experience of Jesus that was supposed to transcend all else.

But now I begin to think this isn’t healthy for someone like me. I listen to other people talk about Jesus. How they’re “wild” about Him. How they’re “happy-clappy” Jesus people. Instead, I brushed up against atheism this year. I became terminally disillusioned with evangelicalism as a whole. And I watched as my love for the Catholic Church was dashed against the rocks of more and more and more sex abuse scandals.

Perhaps my problem all along has been seeking a relationship with Jesus that was never meant to be. I’ve been studying 18th c. literature and have come across the idea of “disinterestedness.” This does not mean uninterested. Rather, it is an aesthetic attitude, a way of perceiving things that is unbiased by personal interest.

And there’s the rub. So much of my spiritual journey has been corrupted by cloying self interest. I want so many things from my relationship with Jesus.

I think the defining flaw, here, is that I’ve always presumed Jesus was knowable. That Jesus wanted to have a relationship with me. But, honestly, the Jesus I saw in the Gospels this year really disturbed me. He scared me. He’s unpredictable. He’s harsh.

Take this story in Luke chapter 9. So this guy who wants to say goodbye to his family before running away after Jesus and Jesus is all: “Whoever puts his hand to the plow and then looks back is not fit for the Kingdom of God” (Luke 9:62).

As my kids would say: RIP that guy.

Another guy is like: “I gotta bury my dad” and Jesus is all: “Let the dead bury the dead.”

For real, Jesus?

The point is, maybe I don’t know Jesus. And maybe that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be. Maybe I’ve been trying to have this relationship when, really, it’s not about me and my cozy little personal relationship with God. Maybe I need to practice some disinterestedness.

So, that’s my 2018. I lost things and I gained freedom. I got chopped down and grew back up.

I grew up better. Wiser. I’m now fully stabilized on meds. I got accepted to grad school and finished my first semester with straight A’s. My kids are growing up and away and my home is growing quieter and emptier. But in that emptiness, I’m finding something unexpected: fullness of joy.

Who knew joy would come bearing so many tears? I didn’t.

This year I got what I needed. But not what I wanted. And I’m finding a rugged peace in that. All is well.

I keep waiting for the bottom to drop out from underneath me. I keep waiting for the darkness to return. I’m afraid to trust the beautiful. I’m afraid that if I pinch myself I might wake up and discover it was only a dream. This lovely. This holy. This happy—truly happy—life I’m living now.

Frozen shoulder aside, I never knew it was possible to be this happy. Grad school has rocketed me into a new, enchanted world. Books. Reading. Discussions. Writing. New friends! HEAVEN.

I am SO thankful mental illness didn’t win. I’m so HAPPY to be alive!

It’s hard for me to believe that just one year ago I was swamped in pain. Mental illness had taken over so much of my life. I was in bed for weeks, hardly able to move. It took so much work to crawl out of that dark hole. It seemed like the darkness would never end. I didn’t want to live anymore.

One afternoon I texted my parents goodbye. I told them how much I loved them and that I was sorry but I just couldn’t go on living like this. They came to me immediately. They got in their car and drove to me. They sat by my bed and my mother held my hand and I saw sadness and fear in her eyes. She told me not to give up. She told me things would get better.

My friends came to me. They showed up with meals. They texted me. They loved me through the bleakest, darkest few months of my life. They didn’t let me go. They checked on me over and over again. It was humbling and horrible. But they saved my life.

My husband took me to doctor after doctor until we found a psychiatrist who sat with me for hours and took a full, long history of my mental illness. It took some experimenting, but we finally found the right dosage of medication that worked for me.

It took several months, but the light started dawning in my mind. The darkness lifted. The depression eased. The bipolar symptoms lessened and faded.

In the midst of all this, I decided to apply to grad school. It was a shot in the dark. I didn’t think I’d get in. But I had a dream—a literal dream—where I saw myself thriving in grad school. In the dream I remembered the joy I felt in school. I remembered feeling transported by books and learning and discussion. When I woke the next morning, I knew I had to apply for school.

This past April I was accepted.

Classes began three weeks ago.

And I feel as if I’ve burst into a completely different world. Everything is sunshine. Everything is hope. I feel alive again. My mind is awakening. I feel truly and deeply happy. I love school so much. I love reading and writing and studying. I love meeting new people. I love thinking new thoughts and having new ideas.

I’d forgotten what happiness felt like.

I’d forgotten what fulfillment felt like.

I can’t believe I get to do this thing! Is this me? Is this really my life now? It is SUCH a gift!

For the first time in YEARS, I’m EXCITED about my life. I’m excited to see what’s next.

And I’m so very grateful for the people who didn’t give up on me even when I was at the very bottom. They believed—they KNEW—things could and would get better for me. Even when I couldn’t believe that myself.

Last year at this time I was spending most of my days in bed. I could barely move. And now, by some miracle of grace and medicine, I am loving and living my life.

This is what happiness feels like.

This is me not giving up.

And I’m writing this for you, too. Maybe right now you’re where I was a year ago. Maybe the darkness feels overwhelming to you. Maybe you think everyone would be better off without you here. I’m here to tell you: that’s your sad, sick brain lying to you. You are so needed! I know—god, how I know—how hard it is to hang on for one more day. To feel that there is nothing left in life worth living for. But I promise you. I PROMISE YOU. Life is worth living. And YOU deserve to live it. It can and WILL get better. Just don’t give up. Keep fighting. You never know what happiness tomorrow may bring. You are loved, loving and lovable.

The light is coming.

Hello, I am getting old.

I somehow managed to injure my shoulder on Saturday night when I rolled over in bed. That's right, I injured my shoulder while sleeping. This is 41 years old.

I think the initial injury happened when we moved. I lifted too many boxes or something. I ignored the pain for a solid two months. As you do. The pain got worse. As it does. And then on Saturday night around 1am, I was awakened from a dead sleep by a piercing TWANG in my right shoulder. It was so painful I almost vomited.

And then I was like: OF COURSE this happens. Things were going too well. I had just begun loving my new neighborhood. I was getting excited about grad school. All the bills were (mostly) paid. Life was feeling good.

I needed a broken shoulder to remind me that LIFE IS PAIN, HIGHNESS. ANYONE WHO SAYS OTHERWISE IS SELLING SOMETHING. Thank you, Princess Bride.

That is still one of my favorite movies. Except: true confession. I can never watch The Pit of Despair scene because the torture machine always freaks me out. I can't bear watching people suffer--even in movies. 

My other favorite movie: The Notebook. My favorite scene: when they are standing in the dock on the pouring rain and Ryan Gosling is all: "I wrote you every day for 365 days. It wasn't over. It still isn't over!" And then they crash into each other's arms and have the most romantical kiss in all the land. And the next morning she is painting while naked (as you do).

I also love Diane Lane movies. I could watch that woman all day everyday. Her facial expressions alone. She's my favorite female actor. Paul Giamatti is my favorite male actor. I won't tell you how many times I've watched Sideways. I am currently watching Billions and I just love him so much. If I met Paul Giamatti in real life, I think I would be all tongue tied and blushing and total fan-girling.

Back to pain and suffering. 

So, I start physical therapy tomorrow and then have an MRI on Friday and in the meantime I'm popping ibuprofen like it's candy. My stomach lining is not happy. Up next: ulcers. 

Other sources of suffering: my children—the loves of my life—are growing up. Here's the thing about being a Mom: you give them everything and then, they just walk away. THEY WALK AWAY.

It's unfair. It's life.

One of my kids is already gone. Jewel is gone. She's out on her own and living her full life all on her own and it's good and wonderful but also, I can't handle it. In one year my next child will be an adult and possibly moving out, too. I cannot handle the children getting older. And yet, somehow I must handle it. I really miss them being babies. I miss the cuteness and the cuddles and I even miss them waking up at night calling out for me. 

I am complaining too much. Topic change.

I need grandchildren.

Topic change.

I'm going to grad school.

It starts in a few weeks. I am excited but also freaking out a little. Like: I will be the oldest person there. I take notes by hand. I use microfiche for research. I don't know what pedagogy means. I don't know what to wear. 

I remember when the kids were all little and the days felt so long. So very long. I remember thinking I would give ANYTHING for a good night's sleep. I couldn't imagine things ever being different. But last night, I slept for 11 hours and nobody woke me up. And this morning the twins made their own breakfast and are happily playing with their American Girl dolls. 

I think I'll go play with them.

We're coming up on the one year anniversary of my Bipolar II diagnosis. It's been both a challenging and unexpectedly wonderful year. I've had to come to terms with the reality of my illness and learn new ways of living. At long last I know the name of the shadow that has haunted me for most of my adult life. I'm grateful for good doctors, health insurance and a supportive family—all of whom have helped me figure out a healthy way of living. Here are some of the things I've learned in the last year; a sort of "rule of life" for myself. It occurred to me that some of these things may be helpful for others so I decided to share it here with you.

1. Follow the daily routine like your life/sanity depends on it (because it does).

• take your medication every single day and do not tamper with dosages or go off the meds without consulting your doctor (just because you're feeling good doesn't mean you're cured)
• 9 hours of nightly sleep plus one nap per day (sleep is EVERYTHING! without proper sleep, you will experience psychosis and debilitating anxiety)
• always eat breakfast
• do not look at your phone first thing in the morning, wait an hour
• spend time in prayer, meditation and journaling each morning
• sugar is not your friend
• limit caffeine to one cup of coffee per day
• don’t crowd the schedule, leave margins in case you need to take a break or rest
• light exercise every day
• go to the beach at least once every two weeks. The sound of the waves and the scent of sea air and the feeling of your feet in the sand stabilizes your brain
• pace yourself: the slower you go the more likely you are to maintain energy through the day
• no email, Twitter or the news after 4pm
• remember that after 4pm your brain is very tired and starts looking for problems to worry about so avoid anything that will overstimulate you or make you upset.
• it's ok to put on your jammies at 4:30pm and call it a day

2. Keep It Simple

• Keep a quiet, tidy bedroom (the less things you have in your bedroom, the better). The bedroom is your sanctuary, you must keep it clean and minimalist. No pictures on walls. No clutter.
• Follow a daily cleaning routine to keep things picked up; clutter and chaos makes your mental health suffer
• Paint something everyday
• Just because you want a puppy doesn’t mean you should get one
• You probably don’t need to buy that thing you think you need to buy
• Give away clothes that are too small for you and keep a simple wardrobe
• No loud music. Ever.
• No bright lights.
• No hoarding. Minimize as much as possible.
• The less you have to keep track of, the better for your brain

3. Just because you feel fantastic today doesn't mean you should commit to 15 new projects (or people)

• This brand new insight you're having feels like it's epic and revolutionary, but that’s probably your mania speaking
• You're not going to change the world today. Focus on small things. Be mindful of delusions of grandeur.
• Not every single person you meet needs to be your best friend
• Talking fast and intensely is a warning sign. Pay attention. Check in with yourself to spot other manic symptoms.
• Don't spend money when you're manic. Wait until you're stable.
• When attending social gatherings, limit your stay to three hours (2 hours is better)

4. Actively seek input from trusted sources

• Listen to trusted voices around you—they are not "out to get you." They love you and want to help.

• When you are manic or depressed, your perception of reality is skewed. You cannot see how you’re behaving. You need input from outside sources.

• If Matt says that you are acting strangely, don’t get defensive. Ask for more information.

• Don’t automatically assume people are mad at you

• Restrain yourself from building conspiracy theories

• Follow your psychiatrist's advice and orders

5. Avoid "stinking thinking" i.e. obsessions, paranoia, catastrophizing, trying to "figure everything out"

• You're probably thinking too much. Please don't task your brain with impossible tasks.

• Just because you can imagine every possible negative outcome doesn’t mean it’s probable

• You don’t have to follow a thought just because it’s interesting

• Stay away from online outrage and people who stoke it; avoid contentious comment threads

• Notice when you become obsessive about a person, place or thing, ie. you don’t need to know EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW. Obsession triggers your bipolar symptoms.

• Remember that the people you find deeply fascinating are most likely very bad for your mental health; seek normal, healthy people--avoid addictive personalities, drama queens and especially liars

• Resist looking at every single issue from every single angle—long, intense conversations trigger your bipolar symptoms

• Avoid binge watching TV shows. You will begin to feel like you're living inside the show/you will begin acting like one of the characters and your grip on reality will loosen.

• Same goes for books. Don't let yourself get buried too deeply in a book. You will have trouble coming back to reality.

6. don't seek fame, seek faithfulness

• You might think you want to be famous but you walked that road already in a small way and it almost killed you

• Invest in real friendships with just a couple of people

• Intensity is not intimacy

• Learn to value faithfulness over the long term rather than grand gestures

• Accept how people love you instead of always wishing they loved you in different ways

• Let yourself be bored; life doesn’t need to be exciting everyday in order for it to be meaningful

• Ordinary days and ordinary routines are the actual joy of life 

• Keep a gratitude list

7. strong boundaries are essential in all your relationships

• You can burn through relationships very quickly if you’re not careful

• Not everyone feels as deeply and intensely as you do and that is ok, let other people be

• Stop asking for “proofs” of love

• Living with someone who has bipolar is not easy—show gratitude for the people who stick around especially after one of your meltdown episodes

• You can smother your friends if you’re too needy; if people stop responding to your texts, don't harass them

• Diversify your friend circle so that you can get what you need from multiple sources

• Be mindful of your tendency to crave a deep, very best friend who is there for you 24/7—this is God’s job, not another person's

• Let people come and go easily out of your life without clinging to them

• Seasons change and people will need to move out of your life; this is not personal rejection

• Be of service to others instead of a drain on them; look for ways to be helpful to others; service to others makes you feel better, small volunteer positions are very good for your mental health

8. Avoid unnecessary stress

• Your stress tolerance is very low and stress affects you profoundly

•  Stressful situations lead to excess sweating, stomach ache, tension headache which then tip very quickly into bipolar symptoms like hyperalertness, hypervigilance, auditory hallucinations, intrusive thoughts, rapid speech, extreme irritability, panic, paranoia

• You may think you can “handle it” but you really can’t; it’s ok for you to acknowledge this about yourself. Knowing your limits does not make you less worthy of love or acceptance, it does not mean you aren’t “good enough”

• Living within your limits is just a simple necessity of your life with bipolar disorder—you can’t do all the things neurotypical people can do and that is ok

9. marijuana is very, very bad for you

• Don’t believe it when people tell you that marijuana doesn’t interact with your prescribed medications—IT DOES
•  You are not in control of what marijuana does to your brain
•  For you, marijuana leads to a psychotic break
• Marijuana also interferes with the other medications you are on and makes them less effective

10. make peace with the fact that you will need to live differently than neurotypical people

• You don't get to stay up late, drink frequently, eat a lot of sugar, go to parties or concerts 

•  Long distance travel is probably out of the picture for you especially if it includes time zone changes

•  Sleep is EVERYTHING for you, without proper sleep and rest you will spin out in mania or crash into depression or have psychotic episodes

• You don't have to live anyone else's life. Honor the life you've been given. And you will thrive.

There's a welcome simplicity to renting a home rather than owning it. I'd forgotten this. It's good to be reminded.

There are so many hidden costs in home ownership: keeping up the yard, pool service, pest removal, tree trimming, replacing water heaters, repainting, remodeling....it was all so expensive and time consuming. Then there were the property taxes, which in Southern California are exorbitant. 

But now we're renting again. And I'm starting to find the grace in it.

Last week—thanks in large part to the many kind and understanding comments I received after sharing about our move (thank you so much!)—I felt my spirits begin to lift a bit. I found myself trying to nestle in and make this new space feel like home.

I began by focusing on small corners of the house. 

There is a small, built-in shelf in a corner of the family room. For weeks it sat empty. One morning I woke up with a little creative energy and spent about an hour creating a vignette of books, succulents and cherished decor pieces. Now this one small corner of my house feels like home again.

We got rid of so much stuff before our move that there wasn't enough furniture to fill the new house, even though it's smaller. Our new living room stands largely empty except for a folding table with my painting supplies. And because we don't own any formal dining furniture, we let the twins turn the dining room into their playroom. 

So, I've become something of an accidental minimalist. There's a spartan homey-ness to this new way of living. It’s easier to keep things tidy, for example. Clutter doesn’t accrue on open surfaces because there's no clutter for accruing.

There is a key-shaped hook hanger for hanging our keys. Another hook hanger for purses and backpacks. We keep our shoes neatly sorted in a shoe rack inside the coat closet. There are two identical trash cans in the kitchen: one for trash, one for recyclables.

There’s a tiny powder room we’ve come to call “The Hobbit Bathroom” because it’s tucked under the stairs and reminds us of a cozy, little hobbit hole. It only contains a toilet and pedestal sink. But last week I purchased a brick red, circular bath mat for the floor, a hand towel with a bright bohemian-style print and a ceramic soap dispenser with embossed florals. Sometimes it's just the little touches that start to make a house feel like a home.

I don't think it will truly feel like home until all my books are shelved, though. Our last home had an entire wall of built-in bookshelves. Plus I had two freestanding bookcases. Even then I had books in boxes. Yes, I have a lot of books. But in this new house there is nowhere to put my books. I've packed them all away in boxes and am not sure what I'm going to do with them. I've already donated loads of them and the ones I kept are like my friends. I can't get rid of my friends! I'm not sure what to do about this.

Whenever I'm feeling anxious about this new living situation, I find I can calm myself by straightening things up. There's something inherently soothing about putting things in their place, isn't there? When we first moved and everything was still in boxes and crates, life felt far more chaotic. Now that I've been able to put things away and sort things out, life is starting to settle a bit.

I've been thinking a lot about how home is tied to our identity. A place doesn't really feel like home until you've LIVED in it for awhile, right? Made memories. Shared celebrations.

I want to do more to make this new place feel like home but then I think: "What's the point? We're probably moving again soon." It all feels so temporary and fleeting, like there's nothing to hang onto. 

But isn't that all of life? All of it is fleeting and temporary. Everything changes. The key, I think, is to find joy even in the midst of uncertainty and change. I'm finding it slowly, one little corner at a time. 

Two months ago we sold our home of ten years and moved to a smaller rental house in a different city. Matt is going through a career change and we had to move for his new job. But it all happened so fast—the house sold in four days, the escrow was only two weeks long, everything had to go, go, go—and I've found myself sort of stumbling around in the wake of all this change trying to find my bearings.

My new painting corner in the rental house

We moved to Irvine, California which is, apparently, one of America’s safest cities. This is comforting but also, oddly surreal. I’ve never lived anywhere with such an astonishing level of orderliness.

Everything is precisely planned and in its place. All the hedges are trimmed, the grass mowed, the trees clipped, the sidewalks swept. The “village” where we live—which is to say, the tightly defined neighborhood enclave with its own entrances and boundaries—feels more like a resort than a neighborhood. There’s a large resort style community pool, park and playground. There are gently winding sidewalks laid out ten feet away from the curb. Perfectly spaced trees line the streets. The public schools are top-ranking. Everything is imminently walkable and livable. I've never lived in such pristine environs.

But there's also something disconcerting about living here. I don’t really see my neighbors. Most people park in their garages and enter their homes that way. The garage door goes up and the garage door goes down. There's no chance to say hello. In my old neighborhood, most people parked in their driveways or on the street in front of their homes. So many little conversations and neighborly chats happened on the way to and from our cars. It's funny how something so simple as parking in one's garage cuts off the opportunity for community building.

There's another significant difference here. Children don’t play outside. Older kids walk to and from school but there are no little kids playing ball in the street or hide and go seek in the front yards. Because I don't really see my neighbors, it took me several weeks before I realized that my immediate next door neighbor doesn’t even live there. It’s an empty house. So is the house across from me. From asking around, I’ve learned that this is fairly common in Irvine. I don’t know what to make of this. Do people just buy homes and then leave them empty, living elsewhere?

Living in such an orderly neighborhood comes with a lot of rules, I've learned.

If you want to paint your house, you have to get the color approved by the homeowner’s association. If you want to park your car outside the garage, you have to get a permit. If you want to swim in the pool, you have to sign in. If you want to sneeze, you need approval. 

There’s a security guy who goes around writing tickets for cars parked without permits. I suppose that’s the only thing you can ticket people for in the safest city in America.

My neighbors are quiet and keep to themselves. In the two months we've been here, nobody has introduced themselves. They’re not unfriendly, per se. I think they’re just private. But it does feel rather isolating. I'm accustomed to super friendly and chatty neighbors. I'm accustomed to knowing everyone and having neighborhood get togethers. Here in Irvine it's like we're all living on our own little islands. You don't know the person who lives ten feet away from you. There's no sense of community. I guess that's normal?

There’s a woman who lives several houses down from us and when she brings her dog out for a walk, she doesn't actually walk the dog. She carries him. And she does this while wearing heels. She walks out of her house in high heels, carries the dog for awhile, puts the dog down by a bush to do its business. Then she picks the dog back up and carries him home, clip-clopping past my house in her heels. There's nothing wrong with the dog as far as I can tell. When he's down on the ground he walks normally. It's not like he's lame. But for whatever reason, he gets carried around. I find this wonderfully amusing.

I have yet to unpack my books or hang pictures. I guess a small part of me is hoping we'll move back to my old neighborhood. Back to my "real" home. I know this is magical thinking. I just feel so displaced. Ten years is a long time to live in one place—at least, for me—and I put down roots. I knew everyone and everyone knew me. I felt attached to everything in my old neighborhood. The trees, the roses in my garden, the mourning doves that came every spring, the way the light came in through my front door in the late afternoons, my painting area, the twins' room, the wallpaper in my bedroom...

I've been thinking a lot about what makes a home. Is it the house itself? Is it the people? If you move your belongings from one place to another place, is the new place Home? Does owning your home make it more home than renting it?

The landlord wouldn't allow us to bring dogs to this rental home and we were in such a rush with the short escrow that we had to re-home them. I miss my dogs more than I can say. So much has changed in the last year and I wonder if I'll ever feel like I'm truly HOME again. Even our family dynamic is changing. Our oldest child has moved out permanently. The next kid moves out in a year. I feel a sense of loss over this. When I think of my family, somehow the image in my mind is stuck in the past. All the kids are little. Everyone is happily ensconced in our old home. The dogs are running around the back yard.

That season of my life is over and I'm having a hard time letting go.

All I can do is take it one day at a time. It's summer now and the kids are out of school. They wake up later. I let them sleep. I have my morning coffee alone in a quiet house. Today I’ll do some laundry and we’ll go to the community pool. I’m trying to sink into the rhythm of summer.

A few weeks ago I was driving near my old neighborhood and thought: "Should I drive past my old house?" But then I decided against it. I couldn't bear to see it. I miss it too much.

This past week I found myself incredibly impatient with waiting. There are a lot of changes happening my life right now and I wanted things to hurry up and get done. I just wanted it OVER.

It takes courage to wait well.

Perhaps this is why the Psalmist writes of waiting on the Lord: “Be of good courage and He shall strengthen thine heart, wait, I say, on the Lord.” Psalm 27:14

The default state of my heart is restlessness and wandering. It is only when I staple my heart to the promises of God that I find rest. God’s promises are unfailing. I have to remind myself that God isn’t working on my time table. And even when it seems that God isn’t working at all (or that God has abandoned me), I have to remind myself that God’s ways are not my ways and I can’t go on only what I see but must trust that God knows what He is doing.

Waiting is about trusting.

Perhaps this is why waiting is so hard. It's a test of our faith.

Waiting in faith means trusting that God knows better than I do. So often it is my own tangled thinking that gets me in trouble. In fact, my very best thinking often lands me in the precarious position of clinging to things I’m supposed to let go of or grasping for things that are not meant for me. It’s far better for me to learn to “let go and let God” which is a phrase I learned in 12-step groups.

So, if waiting is about trusting which is an exercise of faith: how do we find equilibrium and contentment while waiting?

I find it by yielding to God. Usually this happens through prayer, service or practicing gratitude.

It’s nothing profound or complicated. It’s usually just a small moment of intentionally yielding my life, my plans, my ideas back to God. When I do so, I feel the release. It feels like the weight has been lifted off my shoulders. That’s when I realize I’d been carrying a burden I wasn’t meant to carry. I was thinking that it was all on my shoulders. But it’s not all up to me. This is the gift of grace: yielding back to God and letting Him handle the things I can’t do on my own.

Waiting is about taking it one day at a time.

Perhaps of all the lessons I learned in 12-step groups, the most important was to take it one day at a time. It sounds simple but the practice of living one day at a time is actually really difficult. My tendency is to live in the future or in the past. I want to control what happens next or I refuse to change with the times and just keep doing what I’ve always done (even when that doesn’t work anymore).

It's so tempting to "run ahead of God." I want to know the exact outcomes, I want to know HOW things will work out and WHEN. I would like advance warning and minute-by-minute updates. But that's not how life works. It's not how God works.

God works in His own time according to His own ways. God is not on my schedule. And that's OK. I can learn to wait (and learn to wait well) by accepting that waiting is big part of life. Everyone has to wait for things whether they like it or not. Instead of throwing an tantrum and trying to manipulate things to work out the way I want them to, I can rest with courage.

Waiting is about learning patience.

Sometimes this means I let my mind focus and rest on other things besides the thing I'm waiting for. In most cases there is little I can do to speed things up or make the waiting go faster. I usually don't have control over how long things take. Patience is a difficult virtue to learn precisely because I am so impatient! 

I am finding that God wants me to find delight in the waiting. This means I can find other things to do. One of the best ways to wait well is to use that time to serve others. When I'm focusing on what others need, I am less focused on what I don't have. When I am giving myself to others I find God giving Himself to me. And that is the best gift of all. It is the gift of grace. 

I find God in the waiting.

I quit taking two of my psychotropic medications and suddenly, I believe in God again. [ NOTE: I did this under my doctor's care and according to his orders. I didn't quit my meds just because I wanted to. Don't do that! ]

So, yeah. Apparently one of the side-effects of mood stabilizers is atheism. At least, for me. Somehow, these drugs seem to shut down the God-receptors in my brain. Here’s how it happened:

Last month I developed a rash from Lamictal. It gave me a good scare because my doctor had warned me that sometimes Lamictal can cause a FATAL rash (Google “Lamictal rash” for fun pictures).

Anyway, so there I was with two rashes. One on each leg. And I was like: OMG WHAT IF THIS BECOMES FATAL? So, I went to the doctor and they took me off the medication immediately. And then wonderful things happened:

1. I didn’t die,

2. the rashes went away

3. and I began to feel my life again.

Mood stabilizers numb me out. I mean, sure. I don’t have mood swings. I don’t have mania. But I also can’t feel ANYTHING. Everything is just blahhhhhh.

In the past three weeks I’ve felt my life coming back to me. It’s like my emotions are coming back to life. And here’s the best part: I have faith again. Remember how just last month I was deep in the throes of a spiritual crisis? I mean, I was doubting EVERYTHING about my faith right down to whether the Resurrection was real. Also of note: I was on TWO mood stabilizers.

What if my doubts were the result of medication? What if the mood stabilizers also numbed out my spirituality?

That freaks me out. But it’s also kind of a relief because for awhile there I thought I was becoming an atheist. I was reading memoirs about people losing their faith. II was reading research about how lack of dopamine in the brain affects the ability to believe in God. I was getting all depressed because I felt alone in the universe and very, very small. So insignificant. I wondered if God even cared about me anymore.

I don’t know what to make of all this. I didn’t realize that my faith in God was so dependent upon brain chemistry. Does my faith require a certain combination of neurotransmitters in order to exist? At the very least it seems to require a certain combination of neurotransmitters in order for me to FEEL like my faith exists.

Is my faith so weak that it falls apart when my brain isn’t producing the right chemical balance? Or is my faith’s sensitivity an indicator of its great strength? I can’t decide which it is.

Regardless, this experience has shown me in unequivocal terms that I am a deeply spiritual person and that I rely on my spirituality to help me get through life. I need prayer. I need words from Scripture. I need the Sacraments. These things nourish and sustain me. They ease my anxiety. These things provide true and real comfort to me.

But in order for me to feel my faith, I can’t be numbed out completely on psychotropic medication. It’s a delicate balance, finding the sweet spot where the medication is helping me but not causing intolerable side effects. Becoming an atheist is, for me, an intolerable side effect!

This whole thing has made me question whether faith is something within our control. I used to believe that faith was something I was in charge of; something I could manipulate simply by doing x,y and z. Praying, reading Scripture, doing Bible Studies, going to church...I simply assumed that if I did all of these things then I would have a vibrant faith.

Little did I know that my faith was more about whether or not I was on mood stabilizers.

This makes me wonder if faith is something God gives to people rather than something people get as a result of working at it. It seems to me that faith is more of a gift, something God gave me rather than anything I did or didn’t do in order to have it.

Of course, there are “best practices” for creating an environment where faith can grow. It helps to have a faith community. It helps to be married to a believing spouse. It helps to know how to pray and read Scripture. It helps to know how to meditate. But ultimately, I’m beginning to believe that faith isn’t something we work for, faith is a gift. It’s something given to us.

Honestly, this makes a lot more sense to me. It also gives me greater compassion for those who simply can’t believe. I used to think that unbelievers were choosing their lack of faith. I sort of looked down at them, assuming that if they just prayed more, hung out with other people of faith and engaged in faith practices, then they would have faith. But I don’t believe that anymore. I mean, I lost my faith not because I got disillusioned with the church or because I wasn’t praying or going to church. I lost my faith by taking a few pills every morning. And I got it back by not taking those pills. So, yeah. It wasn’t like I chose it. It just happened.

Once again this makes me ask the question about whether or not what I believe is real and true. But that question no longer bothers me. It’s real enough for me. That’s all that really matters. I have a mustard-seed faith and even if it can’t be proven scientifically, the truth is that it provides me with tangible benefits. It makes me a less anxious person. It makes me a more loving and compassionate person. It helps me live according to my values. It’s a faith that works even if it’s a faith I didn’t work for. It’s just there.

This past Easter was one of the happiest I could remember. I could FEEL my love for Jesus again. I felt such gratitude for His friendship; such gratitude for His love for me. And I was relieved to discover that Jesus hadn’t gone anywhere. My bout of atheism hadn’t changed anything for Him. He remained faithful. He remained loving. He continued to offer me the Eucharist. I find that so comforting. I find it so truly wonderful that God loves me with such unconditional love. And that that love is not dependent on whether I believe in it. That love just IS.

I am walking away from this experience having learned (once again) that God is so much bigger than I thought He was. And I am so so grateful for that. God is bigger than my imagination. God is bigger than big. Love is bigger than I imagined it. Love is not dependent on my ability to conceive it or categorize it or control it. It’s entirely OUT of my control and that is the most wonderful thing of all.

Side-effects of faith may include: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

I hope you liked reading my thriller last week. In case you haven't caught up yet, I finished that one and have now begun writing a new story called LEAVING CALIFORNIA. It's about a guy named Sam who returns home after ten years away. He's only home to attend his mother's funeral and doesn't plan on staying long. But then he sees Sarah. His childhood sweetheart. Will the bonds of the past convince him to come home or confirm why he needs to leave again—this time for good?