I must confess, I have never ever walked a tightrope. I could walk along a balance beam when I was younger but that was enough. My balance is definitely not what it used to be either! My fear is not of heights, it is of falling. I don't mind how high up I am, but I do mind how safe I am and what the potential is for fallling.
While I have never walked a tightrope, I feel like a lot of my life is finely balanced and if I were to wobble and lose that balance, everything will spiral down. For a while I would say I'd fall and it could go either way I'd either fall in to the depths or I'd fall on the other side and be ok. Maybe more like wandering along a cliff edge in a storm- will I be able to stand my ground or will I fall to my death? As I started writing this post today, I realised something. Until now, not once have I ever considered that there's the option of staying on the tightrope; wobbling but regaining balance and continuing the walk until I get to safety. Until now I have not once considered that I don't have to fall.
Does this mean I am miraculously better and from now on will only focus on getting to the end and refuse to admit that falling is a possibility? It does not. But it has given me another option.
Years ago I came across the quote "What if I fall? but my darling, what if you fly?" It so simply describes my fear- flying has never been an option before. More recently I learnt that it's actually part of a longer quote. And now, nearly half way through this year, it's become even more relevant. The day of my breakdown at the start of May, a friend posed the question to the youth group "What would you do if you could not fail?" 7 weeks ago, I didn't dare answer although I knew exactly what my answer was. Now? The answer is: live truly free.
This is the whole quote, by Erin Hanson. I'll leave this with you.
“There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask "What if I fall?"
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?”
Monday 24 June 2019
Monday 10 June 2019
Brain emptying...
Hey blog,
It's been a while. Quite a while in fact. This year is zooming past faster than I care to admit. I'm once again back in that recovery zone: the one where you miss days because your brain isn't there; where tracking days is sometimes too painful because of all the wasted hours; the one where days seem endless because you just wish breathing wasn't essential. These past few months have been a visit back to the hell that is depression. Not the kind of depression I can push to one side and keep going, because I've learnt to live with that. This depression is the one where darkness descends and the world is too big and too small simultaeneously and you just want to step off the edge of the planet and cease to exist. It's been a battle that has left me exhausted. Now, don't get me wrong, I live with depression every single day and have done for over half my life but this episode is a rare occurence. 4 years ago, everything fell apart and I didn't think I could possibly carry on. Somehow I did and with the odd bad period but nothing as significant as that breakdown. Until now.
Since the end of January my mood began to drop, slowly at first then all at once. I spent days with my head screaming at me that nothing is important and to give up and stop living. I held it at bay, sought help, dropped some of my work load but nothing really changed. Then March came and so did the instruction that I was absolutely not allowed to be alone at any time. I was embraced in to the family life of a friend for three weeks and things were brighter, not quite there but enough to be ok again and take care of myself. The school holidays came and went and I was doing good, until I felt the sudden drop in my very core- the one that means "it is not going to go well from here". That dread, I couldn't shake it, so I phoned for help and sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. And then pulled myself out of my bed and went back to work. And there I sobbed at a friend. And then I pulled myself together and did exactly what I needed to do. I got hugs as I left. I made one throw-away comment and that's the last thing I really remember with clarity. Somehow I took myself home, via a supermarket, bought food and flowers, tidied my house and sat down and waited for the right moment. And as I sat there, completely numb to the entire world and sobbing because I was so exhausted, my phone began to ring. I don't know why I answered the phone, but I did. And that phone call saved my life.
That long weekend was a blur. It involved being picked up by my boss, sobbing for hours, a million phone calls and visits from the community team, the word "section" being mentioning more than once, spending a day in bed staring in to space, an assessment for inpatient, a referral to day hospital, medication increases, sleeping tablets, plastering a smile on my face for church and a friend's wedding, being signed off sick.
The four weeks that followed involved time with friends, sleep, baking, gardening, a failed stint at day hospital, so many appointments, more time with friends and rest. And somehow, just over one month later, I am sat here back at work, with a clear mind and renewed resilience. My head is so much clearer now- I can follow conversation, be around lots of people, get work done properly, appreciate everyone arounnd me. There are so many positives but there's one thing no-one mentions in recovery from mental illness. Exhaustion.
My whole body hurts with the effort it takes to get up and dressed every morning. If I don't have to be up and somewhere, I end up napping mid-morning. By 6pm I struggle to stay awake. This is the hardest part because when my brain was at a reduced speed, my body didn't mind- everything slowed together, but regaining stamina? Mentally I'm there, physically I feel about 6 months behind. Despite being active while I was off, my fitness has significantly decreased. Walking is draining. My face hurts with the effort to keep my eyes open sometimes. The frustration at physical exhaustion is the least pleasant part. My brain cannot work out why my body is not back up to speed; why it hasn't bounced back in the same way. I know I will get there and eventually I'll be back at full capacity but patience with myself isn't my strong point. I'm learning, once again, that I have to take it slow, baby steps, balancing life with recovery, prioritising my health over others. It's tiring and a challenge and I know this battle isn't won yet. I'm thankful, that despite everything, my faith hasn't been completely shaken. I know God is sustaining me. I know He is with me. I know He is sufficient. I know He loves me, even when I feel worthless. I know God is good. Always.
It's been a while. Quite a while in fact. This year is zooming past faster than I care to admit. I'm once again back in that recovery zone: the one where you miss days because your brain isn't there; where tracking days is sometimes too painful because of all the wasted hours; the one where days seem endless because you just wish breathing wasn't essential. These past few months have been a visit back to the hell that is depression. Not the kind of depression I can push to one side and keep going, because I've learnt to live with that. This depression is the one where darkness descends and the world is too big and too small simultaeneously and you just want to step off the edge of the planet and cease to exist. It's been a battle that has left me exhausted. Now, don't get me wrong, I live with depression every single day and have done for over half my life but this episode is a rare occurence. 4 years ago, everything fell apart and I didn't think I could possibly carry on. Somehow I did and with the odd bad period but nothing as significant as that breakdown. Until now.
Since the end of January my mood began to drop, slowly at first then all at once. I spent days with my head screaming at me that nothing is important and to give up and stop living. I held it at bay, sought help, dropped some of my work load but nothing really changed. Then March came and so did the instruction that I was absolutely not allowed to be alone at any time. I was embraced in to the family life of a friend for three weeks and things were brighter, not quite there but enough to be ok again and take care of myself. The school holidays came and went and I was doing good, until I felt the sudden drop in my very core- the one that means "it is not going to go well from here". That dread, I couldn't shake it, so I phoned for help and sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. And then pulled myself out of my bed and went back to work. And there I sobbed at a friend. And then I pulled myself together and did exactly what I needed to do. I got hugs as I left. I made one throw-away comment and that's the last thing I really remember with clarity. Somehow I took myself home, via a supermarket, bought food and flowers, tidied my house and sat down and waited for the right moment. And as I sat there, completely numb to the entire world and sobbing because I was so exhausted, my phone began to ring. I don't know why I answered the phone, but I did. And that phone call saved my life.
That long weekend was a blur. It involved being picked up by my boss, sobbing for hours, a million phone calls and visits from the community team, the word "section" being mentioning more than once, spending a day in bed staring in to space, an assessment for inpatient, a referral to day hospital, medication increases, sleeping tablets, plastering a smile on my face for church and a friend's wedding, being signed off sick.
The four weeks that followed involved time with friends, sleep, baking, gardening, a failed stint at day hospital, so many appointments, more time with friends and rest. And somehow, just over one month later, I am sat here back at work, with a clear mind and renewed resilience. My head is so much clearer now- I can follow conversation, be around lots of people, get work done properly, appreciate everyone arounnd me. There are so many positives but there's one thing no-one mentions in recovery from mental illness. Exhaustion.
My whole body hurts with the effort it takes to get up and dressed every morning. If I don't have to be up and somewhere, I end up napping mid-morning. By 6pm I struggle to stay awake. This is the hardest part because when my brain was at a reduced speed, my body didn't mind- everything slowed together, but regaining stamina? Mentally I'm there, physically I feel about 6 months behind. Despite being active while I was off, my fitness has significantly decreased. Walking is draining. My face hurts with the effort to keep my eyes open sometimes. The frustration at physical exhaustion is the least pleasant part. My brain cannot work out why my body is not back up to speed; why it hasn't bounced back in the same way. I know I will get there and eventually I'll be back at full capacity but patience with myself isn't my strong point. I'm learning, once again, that I have to take it slow, baby steps, balancing life with recovery, prioritising my health over others. It's tiring and a challenge and I know this battle isn't won yet. I'm thankful, that despite everything, my faith hasn't been completely shaken. I know God is sustaining me. I know He is with me. I know He is sufficient. I know He loves me, even when I feel worthless. I know God is good. Always.
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