The Silent Page

Today is the first day I have felt somewhat normal in weeks. Many. Weeks. Since I returned from Austria at the beginning of this year, I have been plagued with near debilitating medical issues. I even thought I might not be able to go to Bulembu. Thankfully, a diagnosis was made and medicine was prescribed. But it wasn’t the right solution, and I have since become a guinea pig to doctor’s trying to find the right cocktail that will do the trick. In the meantime, there are days when I can barely get out of bed. Today is the first day I haven’t had a moderately painful headache or full-blown migraine in more than a month. Remnants of PTSD crept back into my life creating anxiety that made me fearful to even leave my home.

And work? Ha. Forget work. If there was enough energy to make it downstairs, I’d consider that a good day. There have been a few projects here and there, for which I am thankful. But my blog…

I consider this blog to be the window to my soul. I know God has called me to write, and I don’t mind opening the shades so people can get a glimpse inside. But I’m the type of writer who believes that writing just for writing’s sake is ineffective and pointless. I’m reminded of the story of Bartimaeus, the blind beggar. When he heard that Jesus was coming, he tried to position himself close enough but the crowd was too much. So, he yelled, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” The crowd told him to be quiet but Bartimaeus only yelled louder. When Jesus heard his cry, he called him over and asked him what he wanted. He replied, “My rabbi, I want to see.” Instantly, Bartimaeus was healed, and he followed Jesus. (Mark 10:46-52)

Bartimaeus spoke when he needed to and when it mattered most. And when everything was on the line, he didn’t give up. I liken myself to Bartimaeus when it comes to writing. I write only when I feel there’s something important to say. I can’t blog just to blog. I must make a difference. What I write must matter to the reader. Otherwise, why bother? Bartimaeus believed Jesus would heal him if he just yelled loud enough.

This is where the similarities between me and Bart end. I feel like I have been screaming at the top of my lungs, but Jesus hasn’t been listening. Yes, I know in my head that God always hears us. Moving that knowledge about 12 inches lower to my heart is a different story. When depression takes over, you stop believing in everything and everyone, including yourself.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve opened up my blog in the last three weeks, wanting desperately to write something that matters. Instead, I would just wait; not for inspiration but for death to wash over me because I don’t have the courage to do it myself. So, another day would pass and another page would remain silent.

Until today when there is a glimmer of hope. But I’ve seen this movie before. And I know how it ends. I wonder how long the page will remain silent this time.

The Art of Healing: For Andrea

Those who suffer with depression know how debilitating it can be. Add anxiety into the mix, and you’ve got a concoction that can spell disaster for the person experiencing it. This was true for Andrea, who has struggled with depression intermittently since childhood. Periodic anxiety attacks have kept her from venturing out as often as she would like.

During her first year back in Canada after having lived in Minneapolis for several years, Andrea had been introduced to the music of the Canadian Tenors. A life-long music lover, she decided to see them in concert with the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra in January 2009. It also happened to be Clifton Murray’s first performance with the Tenors. Whatever anxieties Andrea might have initially felt disappeared while listening to what she describes as a gorgeous blend of voices that were simultaneously rich and ethereal.

In March 2010, Andrea and her husband were vacationing in Las Vegas and travelled to St. George, Utah for two Tenors concerts. The very real fear of having a panic attack in a public place is always at the forefront of her mind as it was before each of these concerts. But remembering what she felt at the last Tenors concert was all the motivation Andrea needed to keep those fears at bay. For her, their heavenly voices provided a calming diversion that gave her the feeling of almost being transported to another time and place.

Speaking to the Tenors after each of the shows lifted her spirits by seeing their warm, gracious and witty personalities. What inspires Andrea most is their humanitarian efforts.  She says their music is a reminder that there is beauty in a world that is so often troubled. In her own words: “Their voices are a divine gift, and their charitable efforts inspire and show us we can all make a difference in the world.”

The men of the Canadian Tenors are indeed gifted and committed to giving back through their philanthropic efforts, including their charity, Voices for Bulembu. Fans such as Andrea are rallying their support through the fan fundraiser known as Raise YOUR Voice for Bulembu. The Tenors will perform two Voices for Bulembu concerts on Saturday, September 18, at Mission Hill, BC and Sunday, September 19 at the Chan Centre for Performing Arts in Vancouver, BC. The money raised by the fan fundraiser will be added to the total raised from the concerts with proceeds going to the Bulembu Foundation.

The fan fundraiser dollars will be miniscule in comparison but is a token of appreciation for the inspiration and joy the Canadian Tenors have brought to so many lives all across the world. They can’t cure cancer or depression. They can’t erase painful memories or prevent future scars. But they can lift our hearts and bring us smiles in times of pain. They can give us moments of pleasure and they can make a difference in our lives and in the lives of the children of Bulembu. If they can do that for us, what can we do for them to show our gratitude?

Sleepless in Indy

How much sleep do you require to be fully functional? Me? Oh, about 10-12 hours. No, seriously. Sleeping has always been one of my favorite hobbies. Beyond that, I just need a lot of sleep. Always have.

One of the downsides to anxiety and PTSD is that sometimes you sleep a lot and sometimes you don’t sleep at all.I have actually gone for days with no sleep. And I have fretted for years over my strange sleeping habits. I can recall being absolutely frantic if I didn’t get enough sleep, fearing that my lack of rest would result in one of the worst motor vehicle accidents ever known to man. All of it caused by me.

As a youngster, I required copious amounts of sleep but when you’re young, you’re also invincible. (Aren’t you?) Oh, I still enjoyed sleeping but I found ways to cope. After 9/11, sleep became my bitter enemy. Sleeping pills eventually became my BFF before they turned me into something straight out of the movie “Pet Cemetery.” Once I was able to ween myself off the pills, I tried sleeping without an aid with much success at failure.

Being married makes sleepless nights an even greater burden. I mean, a wife is supposed to be at her husband’s side in their bed at night, right? But I eventually discovered the guest bedroom, hoping that I would be seen as the respectful wife for wanting to ensure her husband got enough sleep to go to work and bring home the bacon, which I would then cook. Instead I often felt like the unrepentant wife who was only looking out for her own comfort. At first, Kurt would notice my absence.

“Come back to bed, honey. It’s ok,” he would say.

So, I returned to our bed only to curse the incredibly bright light on his digital alarm clock – a light I am certain the International Space Station can see clearly without the aid of a telescope – his snoring, and the cat, who followed me from bed to bed and made sure I felt like a sardine crammed into the proverbial can no matter how much room there was for both of us. My restless body syndrome had me bouncing around like the best of jumping beans, giving me more ammunition for guilt over keeping Kurt from a restful night.  But now, he doesn’t even know when I leave. Each night he goes to bed next to his wife and won’t know whether she’ll be there when he wakes up the next morning until his eyes are forced open by the screaming of his alarm clock (which can also probably be heard on the Space Station).

When I was single and starting out as a writer, I loved writing until the wee hours of the morning. But that usually meant I had to sleep half the day. Not exactly the ideal scenario for married life. But I have learned to let go of the angst. Our good friend, Larry, showed me the way. When he confessed his own sleeplessness, I learned that he didn’t fight it. He’d get up and read or pray or both then return to bed for another hour or two before waking rested. Sheesh. Why didn’t I think of that?

Before I discovered the guest bedroom, I would flip and flop to find the perfect position and then clinch my eyes shut as tight as possible, willing myself to sleep. I would pray, count sheep and go through the alphabet thinking of boy and girl names for every letter. I tried melatonin, exercise, deep breathing, reading, watching TV, wine. You name it. I would go to bed earlier and earlier every night only to fall asleep quickly but wake up again at some ungodly hour. After hearing Larry’s story, I was inspired to try it for myself.

At first I would watch Red Eye with Greg Gutfield on Fox News Channel or play on the computer. But Facebook can be a lonely place at 3 am unless you have friends in foreign countries or you know other locals with insomnia. Eventually I decided to try writing, which, by the way, is what I do for a living.

It was just like the old days when I felt free to be creative – just me, the pen, the purring of my kitty and the silence of a world at rest. But if I was up in the middle of the night writing, I’d require some amount of sleep during the middle of the day. Was that such a bad thing? I am a writer, as I have already established. Where do I need to be at 8 am? No where. Writers don’t work 8-5. My part-time PR gig affords me the leisure of coming in usually no earlier than 10 am, and I’m usually home by 1:30 or 2 in the afternoon – which, by the way, is a terrific time for a nap!

I check emails, return phone calls, do a bit of cleaning or grocery shopping before hubby comes home and I’m cooking bacon again. He and I spend our evenings together before he retires for the evening. Even if I’m not sleeping at his side for 8-10 hours every night, I am still at his side. He’s no worse for the wear, and I am at peace knowing that no one is missing out on anything by me working in the middle of the night for a few hours. Besides, what I’m working on at that hour could help pay the mortgage! And that’s never a bad thing.

So, if you’re sleepless in your town, check me out of Facebook. If I don’t answer, I’m probably just allowing creativity to rule the night.

Forgetting to Write

I can’t believe how long it’s been since I last wrote. I thought I would need to write more often, but, to be honest, I’ve been feeling great. I honestly thought I would write when I was feeling good in the hopes that I’d be able to allow for deeper introspection. But, I got to the point where I was writing only when I was feeling depressed. And that only made me feel worse. Since the 7th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I have felt great and haven’t struggled with any issues.

I find it odd that I have been feeling so great though. It’s not like I have been avoiding the issue. In fact, it’s quite in my face lately. I started a book and have been faced with my own trauma as well as others a lot lately. The book will be a compilation of stories from people who have been through a trauma, been diagnosed with PTSD, and then found a place of healing through their faith walk and through therapy. The purpose is to bring hope to others who have been through a traumatic event and haven’t found hope in their current situation.

It’s been a fascinating journey so far, and I am so honored to be able to write these stories. I just hope I do them justice! In my work on this book, I have been able to tell my story to a variety of people. Talking really is cathartic! It’s also been helpful to me to remember that I’m not alone in my struggle with PTSD. Hopefully others will find that same sentiment through the book.

I had the pleasure of speaking to the Carmel United Methodist Church a few weeks ago and shared my story. It was difficult, and I did have a few moments of flashbacks. But, it was also good because others were encouraged – or so they said! A few were profoundly impacted, and I am honored God was able to use me. And I want Him to continue to use me! No matter how difficult it becomes, His name be glorified!

If I have struggled with anything, it’s in a situation that came up a few days before the anniversary. I was already struggling a bit with some anxiety and grief. I had a meeting with a dear friend over some other writing opportunities he and I were exploring. In the course of our conversations, he divulged that he doesn’t believe the 9/11 attacks were caused by terrorists. He is a believer of the many conspiracy theories that float around. I did my best to share my own experiences with him so he could see it from an eye-witness account; and to see that there is no possible way our government was behind these horrendous acts of terror. He encouraged me to “prove” to him that he was wrong, and I am right.

I left the meeting in tears – a complete basket case. I knew they (conspiracy theorists) were out there but never thought I’d meet one. And I certainly didn’t ever think one of them would be someone I consider a friend. Thankfully, Bill Blew, a close friend and business associate (and Christian conciliator) came to the rescue and helped our mutual friend understand how his words were dangerous, especially for me. Our relationship was healed, thankfully. He remains a dear friend and always will be. Whether I have changed his mind or not, I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I know what I went through. I know the evidence presented, the research proved, and that I need to move on. And I can’t be responsible for other people’s beliefs. I just know that I need to honor God with my words and deeds, which brings me back to the book.

It is incumbent upon me to give people the hope that comes through the saving grace of Jesus Christ. And that can’t happen when I place false judgment on our government (whom God appointed) or on anyone else.

And so, I move on with the book. I hurt for people who have been through their own traumatic experiences and hope their participation will allow for additional healing for them and for those who will read the book.

Afraid of Going Back

I was so very excited when I started this blog. I didn’t think twice about the memories or the pain that might come back through those memories. In fact, I expected to find tremendous healing through the writing. I knew it might be painful but that’s why I call it the Journey Through the Great Sadness. It is a journey, and I expect to come out the other side well.

My PTSD symptoms came on not long after I relocated to Indianapolis nearly six years ago. The only problem is: I didn’t know that’s what was going on. I found ways of stifling what I was feeling. My husband and I and my wonderful mother-in-law took a trip to Iowa to see my brother-in-law and his friend three years ago. It was a wonderful long weekend with them but I can recall that as being the weekend where I started going downhill – fast. I can recall the overwhelming sadness and despair and pain. I still had no clue what was going on at that time. I just knew that what I was feeling was getting worse.

In recent days, I have struggled with those feelings again. Perhaps it’s knowing that the July 4th weekend marks the unofficial beginning of a painful journey. Perhaps it’s knowing the anniversary of the attack is just months away. I have felt a great deal of depression again although it ebbs and flows. (Today is a good day.) For that reason, I have been afraid of writing. I am afraid of going back to that place.

Part of me doesn’t want to think about it or talk about it or write about it. But I also know how cathartic it is for me to do all of these things.

My anxiety has been rather high too. The election is also a few months away and, for some reason, I can’t get it out of my head that there will be another attack either before the election or in the final days of President Bush’s term. My senses are heightened, and I hate that feeling. I don’t want to keep looking over my shoulders to see who is possibly going to do what. I don’t want to go to a public place to celebrate our Independence Day. As much as I love racing, I don’t want to be here when the NASCAR Cup series comes to town for the Brickyard 500. I don’t want to be any place where there are large gatherings. Isn’t that silly? To be afraid of being in public.

I know another attack will happen. It isn’t a matter of if but when. I don’t want to be there when it happens. I don’t want to see it, smell it, hear it, feel it.

I’m afraid of going back.