Less Is Best--lowering your standards

In this picture, David and Laura look to be exactly the ages they were when I was twenty-nine, at the time I had my surgery. They’re sitting in a chair at Dot and Bill’s house, Phil’s parents who stayed with us and took care of them for the ten days I was in the hospital and for five weeks after. Had it not been for them I’m not sure how we could have survived. 

Bill was a hospital administrator and Dot a housewife, so they were available almost any time we called, and we did often.  They lived two and one-half hours away—always were willing to drop everything, come to our house or let us stay the weekend with them, or longer. They kept the kids when we wanted to go on vacation, or just get away for the weekend when the kids got older. 

It was in Sturgis, where they lived, that I wrote He Has Made Me What I Am. I knew I needed uninterrupted time and that Dot would take care of the kids royally. I wrote the entire series of thirteen lessons in one weekend. 

Never did I ever have to worry if they were being taken care of. Her care always surpassed mine. I never had that motherly instinct that supposedly every mother is born with. I've only heard one other mother say that she wasn't born with one either. I guess Dot was born with both of ours.

Laura developed a very close relationship with Dot because she was always there for her, giving her her undivided attention when I could not. Regretfully I was so focused inward that nothing else seemed to matter around me. 

I have minimal memories of Laura’s childhood, especially the very early years. Knowing little, but some, about emotional detachment, I would say we qualified. I explicitly remember the night terrors that would come years later.

Dot is now widowed twice and lives within two miles of us. Laura, now twenty-nine (the age I was when I had the surgery) spends as much time with her as she can.  You can see the closeness between them; it’s quite obvious. 

With Dot and Alton (whom Dot married after Bill died) was one place Laura lived when I insisted she moves out when she was in college. She was living at home, I was speaking nationwide and our values did not mesh. I made a wrong decision I painfully regret it now.  (If I could take it back I would.) In some of the most difficult years Dot was there, even then.

David has told me he has very few memories of me actually spanking him, which is great, but I do. One of the few memories he does have, however, is extremely funny, looking back; it was not at all then. I was getting ready to spank him in the bathroom and as he was backing up to get away from me, he stepped inside the commode. Oh, how I wish I had had a sense of humor! What a laugh we could have had. I’m sure the spanking would have fallen by the wayside.

I mention all of this to say, children are resilient. If you’re suffering from depression, or some other mental illness, or your life is just a mess right now, you’re probably doing the very best you can. Don’t be too hard on yourself. There was a time when I considered a successful day just getting to the end of it alive. Remember? Supposedly, children will even put up with abuse just to be with their parents.  

Even though David and Laura are very different, they both learned something from my illness, each in their very own way. 

David says he is determined not to be an angry parent and make the same mistakes I did. He is a very patient, loving, active, caring father – everything I wasn’t. 

Laura is now a mental health counselor, working with children from grade school through high school. She has first-hand experience with dealing with adversity, though not nearly to the degree she sees daily.

God can take a very bad situation and make something very good come out of it.

Ultimately how did I become a better parent? Basically, I lowered my standards. When I have said that’s what I did, some have said that’s unacceptable. God doesn’t think so. 

Look at why my standards were so high and what God thinks about lowering them.

1) I was rarely praised and felt like I was never ever going to be good enough. My dad had been a very strict disciplinarian, believing praise would go to a person’s head. 

“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Romans 8:1 NIV

2) The only form of discipline I’d ever known was spanking. I honestly didn’t know any other. I remember being spanked frequently, which may be a wrong perception, I admit. But it has always been mine.

“Parent, don’t come down too hard on your children or you’ll crush their spirits.” Colossians 3:21 The Message

  

3) I was a perfectionist, largely because of the above. God does not require perfection, he requires faithfulness. He expects us to fail. That’s why Jesus was in the plan. 

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.” Romans 3:23 NIV

4) I was saved by works, not by grace. Grace simply did not exist. I look back one generation from my parents and I understand why. It did not exist for them so they could not pass it down.

Nearing the end, in a nursing home, dad hopes he’s going to heaven when he could rest assured. 

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast.” Ephesians 2:8, 9 NIV

5) I did not understand the nature of a child.  Being the youngest child, and having never babysat, I had never been around children. I expected them to be little adults, knowing not to spill the Cheerios. If they did it was a corporal offense. 

"When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. 1 Corinthians 13:11a NCV

Even though this entry may not apply to you at all, I hope it helps those of you with children, who may be worrying about what effect your illness is having on them and that it gives you permission to lower your standards. God probably isn't being as hard on you as you’re being on yourself. Accept yourself just as you are. Give yourself the grace God extends to you.

The First Lesson I Learned

I regret being the mom my children had to grow up with, teetering between anger and depression all the time, especially for David who took the brunt of it. I have asked his forgiveness many times when overcome with guilt looking back. He learned what not to do – one of the pluses of my insanity.

If not depressed and down I was a time bomb on the verge of exploding. When I say that anger and depression go hand-in-hand, I lived it. On a dime, one could turn into the other, without a moment's notice.

Like the night Phil had to pull me off of David in the hallway because I was so angry when he was approximately three years old. I don't even remember now why.

Like the time I picked David up when he was two, throwing him into the couch, and the time I had to call Phil to come home from work because I feared what I might do.

My only form of discipline, coupled with yelling, was spanking which my dad had passed down to me.  My hand extended from his belt.

With each offense, the more I spanked, the more I yelled, and the angrier I got. I eventually had to forbid myself from yelling, to avoid escalation.

Add to my anger and depression my obsession with vomiting and you get a woman struggling with mental illness while appearing all together as she taught a Bible class.

The year David was born, Cindy Payne, our campus minister's wife at the time, suggested I teach the Tuesday morning ladies' class. Having taught as a teenager and in Northern Kentucky when Phil was in law school I willingly agreed, choosing the book "Full of Joy" which God knew I needed. I taught until I had the surgery, for three years.

After awakening from the surgery a different Teresa, I awoke to the fact I might be worshiping a false god. I felt I didn’t know the real one. 

I intensified my search for God by reading my Bible voraciously. Morning, noon, and night I read everything I could get my hands on about God and depression, like Max Lucado’s books God Came Near and No Wonder They Call Him the Savior, I read in one setting.

I started teaching again as soon as I could, regurgitating on Wednesday nights what I learned as I studied.

I wrote a series of lessons entitled He Has Made Me What I Am, words that resounded in my ears after hearing them sung on a Sunday morning in 1987 when Laura was three. 

“Glory be to him forever. Endless praises to Christ the lamb. He has filled my life with sunshine. He has made me what I am.” 

Having taught Full of Joy in 1984, singing these words now three years later, I felt like God was speaking directly to me, wanting to fill me with what I so desperately needed.

I've included the actual hand-out recommending to my class that they read at least one. The enormity and sincerity of my search are apparent.

I was becoming a true disciple of Jesus, a learner – one who sits at Jesus’ feet. In my going back and forth and back and forth to God feeling hopeless, he in reality was building my faith, exposing my soul to both him and me.

Time spent in the pit was God’s way of increasing my knowledge which inevitably would increase my faith.

My greatest desire when David and Laura were very young was to write. Because I searched for God, I wanted to share what I was learning with others. 

I was offended when our minister quipped back to me, “What do you think you have to offer?” when I shared my excitement with him about writing a book. Apparently, he and God knew the timing wasn't right and the wisdom I needed was beyond my years. What I am writing today is the book I wanted to write thirty years ago.

Instead of writing, God wanted me to speak.

My first speaking engagement was at the Green County Church of Christ on June 1, 1985, when Laura was just thirteen months old. The day's topic was She Has Done What She Could.

How ironic I was asked to speak on The Love of a Christian Mother when I viewed my children as intrusions more than gifts from God.

Rather than change a diaper, read The Little Engine That Could, throw the ball, hold and cuddle and pay attention, I preferred to write.

Surely God agreed that telling others about him, sharing the lessons I was learning, and putting them into print was superior to motherhood. Apparently not. I became frustrated because the doors shut that I wanted to be opened.

Doris Black, at the same ladies' day in Alabama where she said the phrase wondering in the wilderness, which described what I was doing, used 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18 as the springboard for her three lessons:

“Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”

I can still hear the sound of her voice when she explained, to Give thanks in all circumstances means that you thank God for your situation. Say, thank you, God, for my situation, whatever it is.”

I can also remember thinking, “Doris, you have to be kidding? You have no idea what my situation is -- what I’m going through right now.”

So I decided to put hers and Paul’s admonition to the test. I came home and started thanking God for my situation.

Thank you, God, for David, such a precious little boy.
Thank you, God, for Laura, such a precious little girl.
Thank you, God, for Phil, the best husband in the world.
Thank you, God, for Dot. How could I have survived without her?
Thank you, God, for home, a refuge in the time of storm.
Thank you, God, for everything.
Thank you, God, for my situation.

Previously I thought in no way could my situation be God’s will. But then my thoughts turned to Job. God, himself, suggested to Satan he tempts Job.

Max Lucado opened my eyes to the fact that God and Satan work together, hand-in-hand. I read his words in disbelief. Now I know they do. God cannot tempt but he can test. Satan can only tempt. They work simultaneously. But God always wins.

Nothing has ever happened to you that hasn’t first gone through God’s sieve of approval.

The storm you think is hindering your faith is actually building it. If he brings you to it, he will see you through it. His shoulders are big enough to carry you out. He will not let you go through more than you can bear. He knows exactly how much that is.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds,” James tells us, “because you know that the testing of your faith” ultimately ends in maturity.

The insanity you may be going through right now is not in vain. Through adversity, God really does build your faith.

I had to keep going back to God and going back to God to get through the day. I had no idea that this was his stepping stone to ultimately plant my feet on the rock.

This was the first lesson I learned: to thank God for my situation. 

Not in Control

Not only did three types of depression converge, three things happened beyond my control: a doctor had performed two episiotomies that would cause untold problems in the future, an inexperienced nurse had pulled an organ out of my body, thinking I was passing a clot, and a second surgery had to be performed because I was hemorrhaging from behind the bladder, for some unknown reason.

When I woke up from surgery was I going to be a different Teresa? The answer was a resounding, "Yes!"

For the first time in my life I was not in control. I could not lift my children, cook, get out of bed, shower, shave my legs, make love to my husband, even urinate, without someone or some thing assisting me.

I came home wearing a supra-pubic catheter to let the bladder heal until it could work on its own; I wore it twelve days.

Still having stretch marks from having a baby, I could no longer conceive.  Not being able to lift ten pounds I had a five month old little girl who needed to be carried.

Being the care-giver, I was now the one being cared-for. God had removed the props that defined me. Being forced to come face to face with myself, I became aware of  the smallness of my greatness.
When I was less than two years old, the story goes that when momma told me not to go out in the rain that I said, "Al-bite" and went out anyway. I was the strong willed child James Dobson wrote about in his book I entitled, it just hadn't been written yet. Now that strong-willed child became the helpless adult.

At the time of my surgery I thought I had had faith. I thought I had walked by it for twenty years.

I had been a Christian since the age of twelve, attending three services faithfully every week, marrying a Christian whose dad was an elder, and teaching or attending Bible classes all my life.

I had lived for twenty-nine years thinking I had had faith, when in reality I had never had a problem so large I couldn't handle it. I learned if you can see the solution, then it's not by faith. "When we come to the end of ourselves we come to the beginning of a vital relationship with Jesus Christ."* Remember?

Control had never been an issue for twenty-nine years. God had always agreed with my decisions. (That is absolutely laughable now that I'm fifty-eight years old looking back to a young woman half my age.)

I did not have a clue what real faith was or looked like. But, now that God had my total, undivided attention he could teach me. The pit would be deep. I had a lot to learn.

My best friend from 1985-1990 was Belinda Curtis when her husband, Tim, was our campus minister. Belinda died on November 5, 2013, just twenty days ago.

How ironic that on the day Belinda died, I created UP DOWN DISTRACTED. How proud I know she would have been, had she have had the opportunity to read about me now, so different from the me then.

I consider Psalm 40:1-4, the passage she told me to read, to be the one passage I've held onto, and shared, more than any other, especially when it comes to giving advice to the mentally ill.

Psalm 40:1-4
I waited patiently for the Lord;
he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the slimy pit,
out of the mud and mire;
he set my feet on a rock
and gave me a firm place to stand.
He put a new song in my mouth,
a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see and fear
and put their trust in the Lord.

Slimy pit, and mud and mire, perfectly describe where I was. It would take ten years for my feet to be planted on the rock. I wanted to stand on the firm place then. God's timing is perfect and I was, and am, a slow learner.

All I could do was cry and wait, cry and wait -- all the person in Psalm 40 did -- two requirements necessary when being put through the fire.

The perfectionist I was, God would humble. I had been so full of myself he could not work through me. He would make a person so full of herself come falling at his feet.

I believe God placed Dr. Pfohl in my life in 1992, to teach me this lesson -- eight years after my surgery. When the student is ready, the teacher comes. He would be the one to verbalize, "Perfection is not a goal, it is a disorder."

"Where are you, God?" I asked over and over again. "Why am I here? Have you forgotten me?" He would answer years down the road, "You are never closer to me than when you're being carried -- where you are right now." I know today he spoke the truth. But I felt, then, he had never been farther away.

I was getting ready to learn my first lesson.

* Approaching God  by Steve Brown

Soon

Because I have tried and failed every day since Monday to post again (I might add I can't wait) I'm convinced this blog is important or Satan wouldn't be interrupting me so much. The interest has caught me completely by surprise and humbled me greatly. I love, love, love to write (I can't think of any other thing that I'd rather do) but writing does not come easily for me. Honestly I'm a much better speaker and teacher. But right now I'm being compelled to write. I promise to get back with you ASAP. Just have had too many irons in the fire to do what I want to write justice. I'm just now getting to the "meat" and the lessons I've learned. I  need four to six hours of uninterrupted writing time. Seriously.

Should you want to comment or ask questions, since I'm moderating the comments before they're being published (they're coming directly to me by email) please do; I would love that. I will never publish anything that's private without your consent. Feel free to email me any time at TBKimbel@bellsouth.net or you can message me on Facebook if you're a member.

Thanks for reading. I'm anxious to write again soon. I have not forgotten you.

Thanks!

Anger Turned Inward

No twenty-nine-year-old woman is supposed to have a baby and then five months later a hysterectomy and bladder repair. Right? Those two surgeries only happen to women in their fifties, sixties, and seventies, don't they?  Or at least that's what I thought.

Within nine months our family had changed from having one child and two incomes to having two children and one income. Health and homeowners insurance which my job had provided, now had to come from a private source.

My husband left an existing law firm to start a private practice. He had to have a double hernia repair and I a hysterectomy and bladder repair.

I, the strong-willed child was now the helpless adult. I, the fixer, had more problems than I could repair and I was angry.

I was angry at my mother-in-law for running my household so smoothly. I was angry at myself for being so weak. I was angry at my children for being children.

I was angry at my surgeon for having to perform the second surgery. I was angry about my inability to work. I was angry at Phil for asking me not to work.

I was angry at God for allowing something so terrible to happen to me at such an early age. I was angry at God for changing my plans.

When I learned that the definition of depression is "frozen rage" I could understand why I was so depressed. Just knowing those two little words made all the difference in the world.

Looking back from the age of fifty-eight to when I was twenty-nine, exactly half my age right now, I understand why I was so overwhelmed and thoughts of suicide surfaced.

If you can find the source of your anger, more than likely, you'll understand why you're depressed and/or falling apart. I've seen people who knew but wondered why, and then I've seen the light bulb come on when they've identified the source of their anger.

If depression is anger turned inward then rage is what happens when depression thaws. Depression and anger are different sides to the same coin -- what some people can't understand.

I not only had one source of depression, but I also had three.

I was predisposed to depression as a child. Mental illness runs on both sides of my family. "My first recollection of showing signs of depression was before the age of ten," if you remember, was the first sentence of my first entry entitled "The Journey Begins."

I suffered from post-partum depression after both David and Laura were born. Not until years later, when it was publicized by the media, did I know what to call it. The picture I posted was taken the day David was born. The glass was half empty for months after delivering both children.

And then I had a situation caused by having major surgery, with complications, beyond my control.

Put the three sources of depression together and you get a recipe for disaster -- the path to the perfect storm. I say "perfect" because what I am sure of today is that God was in control. Today, I have no doubt. But twenty-nine years ago I wouldn't have believed it.

The deeper the pit, the more time God has to teach you about Himself and you.

The Bottom Falls Out

The first time someone comes to me falling apart I ask them "what's going on in your life? Have things changed? Has anything happened out of the ordinary?" Generally, they tell me something that goes like this: (I'll use me for an example.)

First of all, on May 5, 1984, I had a baby. She, Laura, was my second child. He, David, was my first. He was born on April 25th, three years prior. She came on the due date which was David's too.

With him, I  had had a very easy labor but a very difficult delivery. In the final stages when I was getting ready to push, Dr. McKinley saw I was getting ready to tear so, without any numbing, picked up the scissors and cut two diagonal episiotomies which doctors hadn't performed since World War II.

I screamed bloody murder. Words cannot describe the pain I felt. I will never forget it. I have no idea how many stitches I had. I just knew the pain was indescribable. (Ask David today and he will tell you he's never met anyone with a bigger head. Seriously. He has little ears but a huge head.)

The labor was short, the delivery horrific, which caused major problems down the road that were life-changing.

I woke up at 3:15 a.m. in labor with Laura which, as I said above, was her due date. I woke Phil up around 3:30. Called Kathy Witty to come to take care of David around 3:45. She walked in about ten minutes later. Seriously. She said she was laying there awake and knew when the phone rang it was me. We walked out the door at 4:05 and drove to Glasgow doing about 85 mph.

I walked into the hospital eight centimeters dilated.  The nurse said "Hold on honey. We'll get you prepped. You're getting ready to have a baby."

Once again I gave birth naturally less than two hours later. (Don't ask me why I chose to go natural again.  I must have had a hole in my head. When I see women today who've just given birth after having an epidural, I am in utter amazement. Hair coiffed, makeup on, totally put together. Me? A different story.)

This time Dr. McKinley numbed me BEFORE the episiotomy. Yes, I had to have another one. I have no idea how many stitches this time.

As is normal after giving birth (or at least it was normal back in 1984) a nurse came in to massage my belly. I might add she was a young, inexperienced nurse, who years later I learned had been pulled from another floor because there were so many women in labor that night and they didn't have enough nurses. (The picture is actually of her and Laura.)

Thinking I was passing a clot, she asked me to go to the bathroom and sit down on the commode. She would get a bottle of hot water and at the same time I would push she would squirt the water and hopefully, the clot would dissolve.

About thirty seconds into my pushing she realized it was not a clot, but an attached body part--(I'm actually not sure whether it was my uterus or my bladder. Dr, Yurchisin, who later performed the hysterectomy said it had to have been my uterus.)

I'll never forget the look on her face when she asked who my doctor was and that she needed to call him. I told her Dr. McKinley. She left, came back, and told me he was coming as soon as possible.

A few hours later he came to my room, examined me, and told me he had seen one other woman worse than me. That my uterus/bladder had come out of my body but he thought Kegel exercises would take care of it. Yeah. That's right. The Kegel exercises would take care of my uterus/bladder coming out of my body. :-)

Five months later, on October 15, 1984, I entered Greenview Hospital for a vaginal hysterectomy and A. and P. repair, plus surgery to lift the bladder all at the same time.  In layman's terms, it was a hell of a lot of surgery. (I've always taught my children if they were going to curse, to make it count--say it at the right time. And somehow I think I should have typed the word "hell" right there. Don't you?)

My bladder (I know this for sure) would come out of my body even just walking to the mailbox. Every time I was upright for any length of time I would have to push it back up in me to keep it from sticking to my underwear. I could easily see it if I tried. (Let your mind just go to see what other complications I might have had.)

I went into surgery at 8:00 a.m., came out at 12:00, hemorrhaged for two hours, never regained consciousness, went back into surgery at 2:00, and came out at 6:00. Dr. Yurchisin said I was hemorrhaging from behind the bladder--that he had had to take out every stitch to see where the blood was coming from.

Before ever waking up I started screaming for more pain medication. At first, I was given morphine shots every ninety minutes and then Tylox pills, as many as ten a day.

I wore a suprapubic catheter to void the urine which was retained in a bag on the side of my bed. I could not sit, stand, or walk without someone assisting me. At first, a nurse bed bathed me. Later Phil carried me to the shower, put me on a chair, washed my body, and dried my hair. I was hospitalized for ten days. On October 25, 1984, I came home.

Laura was five months old. David was three. I came home with the instructions not to lift as many as ten pounds. My husband's parents moved in with us for five weeks to take care of the kids, keep Phil from going insane, and do everything I could no longer do. I told Dot, "The kids are yours. Treat them as though they're your very own."

I went to my bedroom where I stayed for five weeks. We hired someone to turn our closet into a half bath so I didn't have to walk far to get to the bathroom.

What you've just read is "my story." I'm sure if you're falling apart or depressed you've got a similar one. You may have just never connected the two -- how you feel with what you've just been through.

Do you remember the quote I passed along in the post called "The First Panic Attack?" I said, "God made our bodies in such a way as to handle our stress until our minds are ready."

My body knew more about me than my mind would admit. Basically what it was saying was, "Listen up. You've put me through hell for the last three years and I'm not going to take it anymore. I'm shutting down. I don't want to hurt anymore."

When someone recounts something like I just wrote, I tell them they have every right in the world to be depressed. They deserve it. If they weren't, I'd be concerned because no one could go through what I went through and be unscathed.

My body basically said, "Look at what you've put me through. I've felt so many emotions, so much pain that you're not going to do this to me anymore. I'm shutting down. Sinara. Hasta la vista baby. I'm outta here. I'm going to be numb for a while. I'm checkin' out."

Like a muscle stiffens to protect itself when whiplashed, the body shuts down to keep itself from hurting any longer. The mind won't admit all the Hell it's gone through but the body knows. An alcoholic's body knows, long before his mind admits, that he needs to stop drinking. Likewise with someone who smokes.

Here's the Holmes and Rahe Stress Scale. Take it and see if your body isn't telling you why you might be stressed.

Life Event		Value	Check if this applies
1	Death of spouse	100
2	Divorce	73
3	Marital separation	65
4	Jail term	63
5	Death of a close family member	63
6	Personal injury or illness	53
7	Marriage	50
8	Fired at work	47
9	Marital reconciliation	45
10	Retirement	45
11	Change in health of family member	44
12	Pregnancy	40
13	Sex difficulties	39
14	Gain of a new family member	39
15	Business readjustment	39
16	Change in a financial state	38
17	Death of a close friend	37
18	Change to a different line of work	36
19	Change in the number of arguments with the spouse	35
20	A large mortgage or loan	31
21	Foreclosure of mortgage or loan	30
22	Change in responsibilities at work	29
23	Son or daughter leaving home	29
24	Trouble with in-laws	29
25	Outstanding personal achievement	28
26	Spouse begins or stops work	26
27	Begin or end school/college	26
28	Change in living conditions	25
29	Revision of personal habits	24
30	Trouble with boss	23
31	Change in work hours or conditions	20
32	Change in residence	20
33	Change in school/college	20
34	Change in recreation	19
35	Change in church activities	19
36	Change in social activities	18
37	A moderate loan or mortgage	17
38	Change in sleeping habits	16
39	Change in the number of family get-togethers	15
40	Change in eating habits	15
41	Vacation	13
42	Christmas	12
43	Minor violations of the law	11
0

Note: If you experienced the same event more than once, then to gain a more accurate total, add the score again for each extra occurrence of the event.

Score Interpretation

Score	Comment
300+	You have a high or very high risk of becoming ill in the near future.
150-299	You have a moderate to high chance of becoming ill in the near future.
<150	You have only a low to moderate chance of becoming ill in the near future.

The Book Journey

If you notice on the right hand side, I've posted the names of nineteen books that I've entitled "The Book Journey" that chart my wondering and wandering through the wilderness, from earliest to latest. (There are many more I've omitted. I just feel like these are the most important. If you can concentrate, latch onto one and read it. My top two picks are,  "You Can Be Happy No Matter What" and "Winning Over Pain, Fear and Worry.")

When my mentor, Doris Black, was speaking at a Lady's Day in Decatur, AL. I was attending once said,  "Yes, Teresa, we've all had our own wandering in the wilderness, haven't we?" I looked at my wandering differently. It was the first time I could identify what was happening and give it a name. I knew the rest of Moses' story and felt like if God had hand-picked Moses to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, then he surely had a plan for me, perhaps too, to be a leader one day. And he did, and I am. I see God's plan unfolding every day of my life, though God is not in a hurry to unfold it like I am.

If you notice there's a progression from "Your God Is Too Small" in the '70's, when I left home and got married (remember coming from a conservative church and family)  to "The Stress Myth" in the '80's, (when we moved back to Bowling Green from Northern KY., where I taught high school English and Phil went to Law School) to "Too Hurried to Love" in the early '90's (when David and Laura were children) ending with "Victory Over Depression" in the late '90's when I started seeing the light. Let it be known assuredly that just because I'm on this side of the wandering,  I still deal with some form of  anxiety, mania, depression, obsession or compulsion every day. It's okay if I always will. I've learned many lessons along the way that have caused a transformation--my ability to cope. My relationship with God has been strengthened, which is God's intention. I have a different perspective on life as a result of the mental illness. It's in the mind that a Christian is transformed. That's what God wants. The lessons work when put into practice. My goal is to enlighten you so you too can have the tools to forge ahead successfully. One of the major difficulties in this process, though,  is that the mind that needs transforming is the very mind that is sick. Transformation is a life-long process measured in baby steps, not leaps-and-bounds. God never gives up on his creation. Why should I?

Today, concentrate on my book journey, the titles, my thinking and know there is hope.

Keep reading and share with a friend.

Perfection--that unattainable goal

His name is Dr. William Pfohl, a local child psychologist who, for some unknown reason, agreed to see me. My first of four appointments was on September 2, 1992, the same year I saw Dr. Emsley with colon problems. He like Dr. Emsley, (note last post) said another life-changing sentence that has become my "go-to" quote when I counsel someone suffering from anxiety and depression. Not believing it keeps the cycle going, when if internalized, can be part of the solution.

"Perfection is not a goal, it is a disorder."

"What!" I said. "Would you repeat that again?" I asked in disbelief. Again, Dr. Pfohl said, "Perfection is not a goal, it is a disorder." One more time I asked, "Do you mind repeating that, just one more time?" "I've never heard that before," I exclaimed.  And one more time Dr. Pfohl said, "Perfection is not a goal, it is a disorder." I absolutely could not believe my ears. I heard someone, for the first time, give me permission to be less than perfect, fallible, sinful, ME.

As I've explained earlier, I grew up in a very conservative church, saved by works, not by grace. My dad was a very strict disciplinarian I "split a gut" for. I "should-ed" myself to death and said "no" to nothing. I was a "sinner in the hands of an angry God," unaccepted "just as I am." How could I possibly give God anything less than perfection?

"Depression often symbolizes that you are holding on to an unattainable goal."

I wish I could find this starred, underlined, highlighted-in-yellow sentence, that I know is on the left hand side of that big paperback book's page I probably gave away to some other struggling depressed Christian who thought he could be perfect too. If I knew the name of the book or the author I'd say go buy the book this afternoon. I am grateful the author knew what I should have been taught as a child yet was just now discovering.  I believe years of panic, anxiety and depression could have been avoided. His words fit together hand-in-glove with Dr. Pfohl's words, "Perfection is not a goal, it is a disorder."  My unattainable goal was perfection -- something I could never achieve. For the very first time I knew my being a perfectionist was  contributing  to my depression. With the shackles off, I gave myself permission to be less than perfect and accept God's  grace, just as I am. I felt a huge burden lift  -- one hundred pounds lighter. I felt acceptance, not scrutiny, mercy, not rejection. God became something other than "resident policeman" who was the god I knew as a child. J. B. Philips, in his book "Your God Is Too Small," describes him perfectly. "Your God is too Small" was one of the first books I read trying to discover what was wrong with me.

The word "perfect" in scripture means "complete" or "mature." It does not mean sinless perfection. Anyone who believes he can be perfect is deluded and exudes arrogance. To say I can be perfect flies in the face of God. "All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away." Isa. 64:6 All  means every one of us. Our righteous acts are our very best ones. I simply cannot perform one that's not filthy.  That's why I need God's grace. That's why I need a Savior.

There is a huge difference between striving for perfection and coming to Jesus, accepting God's grace. One involves pride, the other involves humility. Nothing is more humbling than falling at the foot of the cross saying to God " I need you. Heal my brokenness."

When we come to the end of ourselves we come to the beginning of a vital relationship with Jesus Christ. We have to.

Who I Am

I assumed when I created this blog that only my friends on FB would read it and perhaps a few others who might run across it. I never dreamed it would have almost 1000 page views in only eight days, which tells me I miscalculated the number of people who need it.  I'm wanting to write daily, which was never my intention. I will keep writing as long as you keep reading. Somehow, it just feels right, right now, to fill you in on who I am and why I'm compelled to write.

I am a fifty-eight year old grandmother, exactly twice the age of the person you're reading about. I can write with conviction that there's a light at the end of the tunnel because I've seen it. I've been there and done that when it comes to battling depression, having OCD, anxiety, panic attacks, manic-depression and, early on, even thoughts of suicide. I have no fear of losing a job or what others think. It's just my time to write. My intention is not to take the place of your doctor, counselor, psychiatrist, etc., or even present myself as an expert in any way.  I just want others who're ashamed, fearful to talk or simply don't have a clue about what's going on, to recognize something in me that might apply to them.

I'll be honest with you. The journey can be difficult. There was a time, in my thirties, that a successful day was just making it to the end of it alive. A good friend told me to try having just one good day. Then try having two. She understood that for me, life was hard, progress was slow, and had to be measured in baby steps .

Don't let people who think mental illness is a sign of weakness, or that it doesn't exist or that it's a lack of faith discourage you, make you feel bad about yourself or guilty.  Attempting to live with yourself and the disease is hard enough as it is. Having to deal with an uninformed or misinformed person, puts unnecessary guilt on  you that compounds your problems. Try to find a friend who will listen, one you can trust -- one that will let you say anything or nothing at all. If you have no one who understands, then keep reading this blog.

The First Panic Attack

My first full-blown panic attack occurred on February 12, 1987. I was thirty-two years old. David was six and Laura was three. I had been talking on the phone to a friend early that morning when during our conversation I told her that my left arm was going numb, my neck and shoulder were stiff and my heart was pounding out of my head. At my friend Melanie's insistence, I called the doctor who told me to come to his office immediately, then called Phil and told him that I was bringing Laura to his office so I could drive on alone to see Dr. Burt. An EKG confirmed my heart beating approximately 160 beats a minute and not slowing down. Since it was a normal sinus rhythm, Dr. Burt recommended I spend the night in the step-down unit of coronary care, just to be safe. So I was admitted for observation. Later in the afternoon, the heart rate, which was on its way down, went to 186 beats per minute when one of the elders who had been visiting me left. (If you only knew the entire story, you would be smiling too.) Immediately the nurse rushed in, took me into the coronary care unit, hooked me up to the monitors, and gave me a shot in the back of my hand. I asked if I was having a heart attack. He said he didn't know but that I was in good hands, and not to worry. I asked if he would call my husband because I didn't want to be alone, especially if it was a heart attack. He said he would. Phil came shortly thereafter. At the end of a three-day, two-night hospitalization in coronary care, I was told to go home, take 5 mg. of Valium, as needed, and learn to say "no." I had had a panic attack.

I was born into a very conservative family, raised by a very strict father, who thought spanking was the only form of discipline, and who put the fear of God in me. He became an elder in our very little, very conservative church where everyone was related, "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God" in his thirties. We were fearful Christians saved by works, not by grace. I was never good enough, nor ever going to be good enough, for God to accept me "Just As I Am" even though we sang it regularly. I had to dot every "I" and cross every "T," making sure I did everything perfectly, all the while being judged by self-righteous people whose eyes were fixed on each other rather than Jesus. I was afraid to disappoint my f[F]ather -- both of them. I could never do enough or be good enough to be accepted or loved unconditionally. At least that was my perception. This is what I call "colon attack" "high blood pressure" or "ulcerated colitis" religion. Putting that much stress and pressure on anyone causes some sort of breakdown, eventually.  

In October of 1990, three years after the first attack, I saw Dr. John Tapp with severe colon problems and migraine headaches. During the new-patient consultation, I remarked that I had "split a gut" for my parents, especially my dad. Near the end of my visit, he asked,  "And what brought you here today?" And I answered "My colon." And he said, "And what did you say to me when you first came in? That you had split a gut for your parents? You believe there might be a connection?" And the penny dropped.

Having been raised the way I was raised, saying "no" was something I thought a Christian could not do. If I said "no" to you, I was saying "no" to God. So at the age of thirty-two, I felt I absolutely did not have a choice but to say "yes" to anything church related.  I was a busy mom with a part-time job working one week a month as a reporter hearing disability cases with the Administrative Law Judges who came down from Louisville to Bowling Green. I taught a large lady's Bible class at Greenwood Park where my husband was the deacon in charge of benevolence. Not only was it his responsibility to meet the growing needs within the church and community, but he and I also took it upon ourselves to personally help needy individuals who just crossed our paths. I kept a log of every person we helped, every meal I cooked, and every person we had in our home for fellowship. Eventually, keeping the log got as laborious as the jobs we were attempting to do. I was "yes" -ing myself to death, unable to say the word "no." I literally had to practice saying it out loud, if I did what Dr. Burt recommended.

I teach  a lesson called "The Four Seasons of a Woman's Life." The season I was in was the season of nurturing. It's during this time that the Mary/Martha syndrome surfaces and option overload comes into being. Mom has to learn to say "no" to something or go crazy. Since I never did, I over-extended myself. These are the words I used to describe myself when I wrote and delivered the lesson the very first time: wife, mom, lover, nurse, counselor, maid, teacher, taxi driver, cook, worker outside the home, entertainer, friend, daughter-in-law, daughter, mother-in-law, aunt, and sister. Add to that list, a Bible class teacher, soon to become a nationwide speaker. Now add to that a mind that was preoccupied with vomiting (you can read about it in my last post)and you get a frazzled individual awaiting her first panic attack.

Being raised by a very strict father, saved by works and not by grace; having expectations of perfection, all the while knowing I fell far short; being loved conditionally regardless of how hard I tried, along with my inability to say "no," we're all contributors and reasons I panicked.

"God made our bodies in such a way as to handle our stress until our minds are ready." This was the best sentence a doctor ever said to me, which would come five years after the first panic attack. My second panic attack requiring an ER visit would come in 1991. I saw Dr. Emsley, a gastroenterologist in 1992 continuing to have colon problems. He said the sentence I will always remember.

If you have headaches, the problem is not the headache itself; the problem is what's causing them. The pain is an indicator telling you that something else is wrong. If you have panic attacks the problem is not the panic attack itself. The panic attack is an indication that something else is wrong, MENTALLY. Hence the name "panic" rather than "heart" attack.

The Anxiety and the OCD

When I first created this blog last week, I had no idea where it was going. My intention was to post maybe four to six entries I'd already posted in "Teresa's Treasures" and be done with it. However, since writing the second article, I've wondered who might need the entire story and how many more people I could help by sharing it all. I have actual documentation of names of doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, and counselors I've visited, with exact dates of  illnesses and hospitalizations. For some reason I've kept them. Maybe now I know why. If you see a reflection of yourself in what I write, hopefully you'll see the same light at the end of the tunnel I've seen as well. I have found my voice and am compelled to write. ~ 

Along with depression came anxiety. As a baby I was put on phenobarbital to the point of near addiction. I had to be weaned off slowly. We know today it's a dangerous drug, something unknown then. As a child I had severe stomach aches, especially at night. Mom-ma would come rub the knots out, as I called them, and as I relaxed I would vomit. I got sick before tests in eighth grade algebra class, before every speech in college and on my wedding night. The very first day of my very first job I called in sick throwing up from anxiety. With any change or major event came a physical illness precipitated by anxiety.

With the anxiety came compulsions or, I'm not sure, maybe the other way around. My dad had migraine headaches, the type that included vomiting. The only bathroom we had was by my bedroom which meant I heard every sound he made. Some people get sick quietly and some people raise the dead; my dad was the latter. Since his and moms bedroom was down the hall,  I knew when I heard the sound of rapid feet coming down the hardwood floors what was coming next: sounds I remember to this day--God-awful sounds. With pillow over my head and fingers in my ears I would mumble or hum until the sounds stopped. My heart pounded out of my body and head. Sometimes this was repeated numerous times throughout the night. As I grew older and this happened more and more, I anxiously awaited it happening every night. I developed a constant irrational fear that never went away. Vomiting became my obsession, still existing today, manageable with medication. I cannot take less than I take. I take the least medicinal amount.

In my twenties, after my children were born, all I could think about was vomiting. It never left my mind. I would not allow my children to have sleepovers or go to anyone else's house for fear of being exposed to a stomach virus. I would not touch a public door-knob or drink out of a public water fountain or use a public restroom. If and when we ever ate out, which was rare due to my fear of germs or seeing someone vomit in public, I would pan the room waiting anxiously, checking out who looked like they would. If someone ever did we had to leave immediately. I sit facing the fewest people even today, preferably on the edge of the room. Once going to a baby shower, before ever entering the front door, someone leaving said a family member was at home sick with a stomach bug. Immediately I turned around and left. My children attended Rockfield Elementary which had very small gymnasium. Every year during their annual Christmas program rather than watch the performance I waited for that one person to throw up and one usually did. I experienced what I did not know were my first minor panic attacks when I went but had to make myself go. I had recurring dreams of going into a dormitory bathroom with row after row of commodes. The lids would be open with vomit all over the floor, on the walls and people's heads would be in the toilet. I dreamed this repeatedly. I woke up thinking about vomit and dreamed about it at night. I could go on and on. Surely you get the picture. 

Among friends one night I mentioned my fear of vomiting, never knowing how unusual it was. I had no idea there was an illness called Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or OCD. I made an appointment with Dr. Max Kinneman, a Neurological  Psychiatrist who proved, through a simple test, I had a chemical imbalance, an extremely over-active hypothalamus. I was put on Paxil which was also successful for treating the depression.

The time had come for me to learn a new vocabulary and familiarize myself with the language psychiatrists, psychologists and counselors speak.

This type of anxiety is the type that has to be medicated. No amount of prayer, faith, encouragement, advice can make it go away. Had it been able to, I would have experienced it. I remember sitting through  many, many lessons taught by well-meaning preachers or teachers wondering what is wrong with me. Why can't I just snap out of it? I couldn't.

If you are one of these people who suffers acute anxiety with no explanation, please seek treatment. I'm not qualified to tell you where to go but I do suggest you find someone familiar with mental illness, i.e., anxiety and OCD. For years I tried to make it go away with no success, not until I was properly medicated. I'm not talking about dealing with "do not worry" type of worry Jesus talks about in the Sermon on the Mount. I can deal with that. I have learned the lessons I teach called "Overcoming Worry and Anxiety." The reasons I can teach them with conviction is because I've had to put them into practice. I consider myself not a worrier. But I do consider myself someone who suffers from Generalized Anxiety Disorder who must be treated with medication in order to lead a productive life. Some people have it who cannot go out the door. I am no longer that individual.

The Journey Begins

My first recollection of showing signs of depression was before age ten. We were eating supper around the kitchen table, and I started to cry. Momma asked where the tears came from, and I answered I didn't know. I just felt extremely sad. She wanted to help, but I didn't know the source of the pain, and she was left wondering what to do.

My next recollection was sitting front and center in Ms. Connie Wilson's seventh-grade classroom. In the middle of a perfectly normal day, in the middle of approximately twenty what I thought were perfectly normal seventh graders, I sat with tears flowing down my face. Looking straight at me, Ms. Connie asked if I was okay. I said yes but continued to cry.

Fast forward to Beta Convention, my senior year of high school. While everyone else was off doing what teenagers do when they leave home, I was with my mom, falling apart again for some unknown reason. Vaguely I remember her taking me to a department store for a make-over, even wearing the makeup to the performance that night. It was her way of getting me to snap out of it. Once again, I remember feeling sad and lonely in the middle of a large crowd, not knowing why.

Fast forward to my sophomore year of college in Patricia Pearson's Biology class. I had cried for days and days yet continued to go to class. My boyfriend, who would later become my husband, had become friends with Ms. Pearson the year before when he had taken the same class. I felt comfortable enough to tell her that, for some strange reason, I could not stop crying, regardless of how hard I tried. I would be okay if she saw the tears to just ignore them. She agreed that sometimes she felt the same way and completely understood. Once again, sadness and loneliness engulfed me for some unknown reason, sitting in the middle of a class of over one hundred people.

Thus the origin of my depression. This is how I remember my journey began.