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.

Journey to Bulembu: A Pandora’s Box for Monique

For this post, I asked Monique van Haaren to share her story of Bulembu. What makes the Bulembu part of the story so magnificent is the backstory. So, that’s where she starts. Part II will take you on her trip (with me) to Bulembu. I know you’ll be as touched by this story as I continue to be. Monqiue, the floor is yours…

For the first four years of my life there was only silence. Because of significant hearing loss, I heard nothing. I was sent to a school with other children who were deaf or had some hearing loss. Being at this school meant I would learn how to live life without the sounds of life. It also meant being away from my parents and younger sisters except on the weekends. Hearing aids taught me how to maneuver through the daily grind but I never felt like I belonged. I didn’t belong with the other children at the boarding school, and I certainly didn’t belong at home. The silence in my heart was deafening.

I spent many years struggling with depression, and in 1990, I went to a psychiatric hospital for treatment. I lived there four days a week for more than a year. But the problems persisted so much so that I stopped going outside of my home. I was terrified of meeting and talking with people, always feeling like I didn’t belong. The only person who ever really made me feel accepted was the man who became my husband, Rene. We have two beautiful children, 15-year old Glenn and 12-year old Kim. But each day with them meant that they were now locked in the same prison with me, a bedroom with the curtains drawn with no connection to the outside world. Thankfully, my parents were there to help and they cared for Kim for the first year of her life.

The van Haaren's: Rene, Kim, Monique and Glenn

Slowly, I developed the courage to seek ways to leave the house so I decided to volunteer at a place that serves people with mental challenges. My job was to serve coffee and talk with them. While I enjoyed it, I still felt afraid that I didn’t belong.

One year ago, a co-worker gave me a CD of The Canadian Tenors. Not thinking much about it, I took it home and put it in the CD player. I wasn’t really expecting anything. After all, I had never really “heard” music before so why would this be different?

When the music started, I found myself at the kitchen table shaking uncontrollably and weeping. I didn’t know how it was happening but I knew that I could “hear” music for the first time in my life! Suddenly, I heard emotions and feelings, in myself and in the singer’s voices. This is what my therapist calls the opening of Pandora’s box for me! I listened to the CD over and over and every time, it was the same as the first time. I felt determined to find out more about this group, The Canadian Tenors.

Interestingly, I started “meeting” a lot of Tenors fans on Facebook. They all spoke of similar life-altering experiences while listening to their music. Whether their songs helped them through a particularly difficult time in their lives or they felt healing from an emotional wound, souls were being touched in profound ways.

Through these new Facebook friendships, I felt safe. I was still at home, so there was no way for people to reject me. But I also wanted to change things in my life. I didn’t want to live like this anymore. My first thought was to go listen to The Canadian Tenors in a live performance. But the closest place to me here in the Netherlands was a show in London. How could I not go? Yes, I was terrified but I had to go! I ended up meeting so many of the people I had befriended on Facebook. And to my amazement, they all seemed to accept me as I am. I had the chance to meet the Tenors after their performance, which was even more emotional and inspirational than I ever imagined. They were so genuine and interested in ME. They wanted to hear more of my story and made me feel special. For the first time in my life, I felt like I could do so much more!

I went home inspired to learn more about them and to try to figure out a purpose for my own life moving forward. I discovered the charitable work the Tenors were involved with in the town of Bulembu. The stories of the people in Bulembu touched me. I felt a connection with them and understood the struggles they were trying to overcome. My heart was ready to do more.

In exploring ways I could try to help, I had become fast friends with Theresia, who was also becoming more involved with The Canadian Tenors and Bulembu. To start, I translated the Bulembu web site into Dutch so my fellow citizens could learn and understand about the mission in Bulembu. Some of us decided to host a Canadian Tenors Fan Day in Holland and raise money for the benefit of Bulembu. It was all still very safe because I was back in the comfort of my own home. But I knew there would be more, and I knew more meant leaving that comfort zone.

It was September 2010; almost time for the annual Voices for Bulembu concert featuring The Canadian Tenors. Two shows in British Columbia would raise money for the Bulembu charity. Theresia and I began talking about going together in an effort to learn as much as possible so we could both continue to support the charity with our respective talents. And so we made our plans. I flew from Amsterdam to Vancouver by myself to meet a woman I’d never met in person and stay in a town I’d never been to before and to participate in activities and meetings I’d never dreamed of all while speaking a language I hadn’t used much before. Talk about a Pandora’s box!

In the Netherlands, I could always read lips in social settings. Reading lips in my native Dutch is easy. Reading lips in English is altogether different. I had moments of wondering what the heck I was doing but the entire trip was a success for me! I felt that, through The Canadian Tenors, the people in the organization of Bulembu International, and other fans I’d met at this event, I belonged on this earth, and I could be the person God intended me to be!

Back home, I started preparing for the Fan Day event in October, which ultimately raised nearly $4,000. I ended up doing a presentation for the guests at the Fan Day and one for a local school who expressed an interest in supporting the orphans of Bulembu. The tremendous support and encouragement I received gave me a new desire: To go to Bulembu! And that opportunity came along when Scott Campbell asked for a team of people to travel to Bulembu to become voluntourists. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, a trip of a lifetime. I received complete support from my husband and children, and I would make the trip with Theresia.

Monique and Theresia prepare to leave Schipol in Amsterdam for the long flight to Johannesburg and Bulembu.

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?

The Art of Healing: For Monique

For the first four years of her life, Monique didn’t speak. She didn’t speak because she couldn’t hear. But she went undiagnosed until a teacher suggested her parents consider hearing loss as the culprit. It was then that her parents decided to send little Monique away to a special school. She needed help they couldn’t give her.

With hearing aids, she could hear, but barely. She had to learn to read lips. She had to learn to speak. She learned to “feel” music through the rhythmic sensations that resonated through the floor. All Monique knew was that she was away from her family. She returned home each weekend but it was only long enough to whet her appetite for more. Her sisters had a family. She had… no one.

Feeling unloved and unlovable, Monique sheltered herself from friends until she met the man who would become her husband, Rene. They met when she was just 16 but he was committed to loving her for who she was despite her limitations. This was going to take some getting used to. By the time she was 18, she was bed-ridden with depression; torn over this new-found unconditional love and a history that suggested she wasn’t worth such a fairy tale ending. Add to the confusion, new technology and upgrades to hearing aids that made discovering new sounds possible yet frightening.

Monique and Rene, who live in the Netherlands, added two children to their family. Her depression worsened. She was unable to leave her home because of the anxiety she felt due to her hearing impairment. She was unable to work, to sustain relationships outside of her marriage, unable to care for her children. Rene continued to stand by her side as she began therapy for her depression. For Monique, it was a long, agonizing process of coming out of her shell.

Only three years ago did she finally have the willpower to step outside of her home and do volunteer work to help people with mental challenges. As she helped others, she continued to heal. In March 2010, a colleague where she volunteered gave her a CD of a group called the Canadian Tenors. Monique took the CD home, pressed play and sat at her table to grab a bite to eat.

Without warning, her body began to shake uncontrollably as tears streamed down her cheeks. She trembled as she listened to the voices but couldn’t fully hear the words emanating from the speakers. She listened to the song again and again. And slowly, the words became clearer. The four different voices were now distinct. The instruments were vibrant and melodious. And for the first time in her life, she could feel the music. Only this time, the music didn’t start from her feet. It started at the center of her being and spread through her entire soul.

The words of the song, “Home I’ll Be” have a special meaning for Monique. She has discovered that she is now indeed Home. No other voices have touched her and helped her heal from her depression like that of the Canadian Tenors. No other music and voices has helped her to feel music in the same way – with pure, unadulterated emotion. No other music has inspired her to reach beyond her comfort zone to a world outside of her home to attend concerts in London and Vancouver, vacation in Italy, and to do volunteer work for Bulembu, for which the Canadian Tenors are ambassadors through Voices for Bulembu.

For Monique, music has brought her to a place of healing that, although not yet complete, is a place of comfort; a place she can call home.

What is the Art of your Healing?

The Unkept Journal

I am so excited to be traveling a couple of hours north of Indianapolis to spend the weekend with some of the women from my church small group. We’ll be hanging out at the Mahseh retreat center on Lake Bruce, and I am certain it will be a wonderful time of fellowship and rest. Outside of the beauty of the area and the women with whom I’m spending time, I get to do a mini-presentation on journaling. I decided to share some of my notes with you.

I call this the Unkept Journal because I hate keeping a journal. Keeping a journal can have a negative connotation. Part of being a successful journal writer is the psychology behind it. And if you feel something is negative, you probably aren’t going to be too passionate about participating. Besides, our lives are filled with keeping things: Women are kept. The house is kept. The yard is kept. Doesn’t that sound heavy? Well, just let it go. Don’t keep a journal. A journal is meant to be like friendship or a nice glass of wine – light, engaged, enriching, pleasing, and yes, spontaneous at times.

I recently read the book Writing Through the Darkness: Easing your Depression with Paper and Pen by Elizabeth Maynard Schaefer. In it, she says, “Journaling is journeying inside yourself to see what really lies there below the surface. It is crawling on your knees, using an archaeologist’s brushes to clean off the artifacts of your mind – the memories, ideas, emotions and plans, be they ancient or recent, fragile or sturdy, simple or ornate. Journal writing is focused on healing and recovery.”

How do you get started? Start simple. Here are the basics:

• Pen – I recommend writing long-hand instead of typing on a computer. Writing long-hand discourages something we all do when we sit down and pound our thoughts on a keyboard; edit. When you start editing, you stop writing. And editing is a form of self-criticism. Allow yourself to melt into the feeling that comes with putting pen to paper.
• Paper – That one seems rather obvious considering the first point, doesn’t it?
• Place – Write anytime you can share your thoughts with yourself without being interrupted by anyone else’s demands on your attention. If that’s while you’re soaking in a tub, then soak. If it’s by a river stream in the mountains, go there. Just be intentional about not letting anyone or anything interrupt you.

Now you’re probably wondering: What do I write about? Journal from the heart. Use writing prompts if you have to. (There are lots of terrific books out there that can help, such as the one I mentioned above.) Ask yourself questions:

• What surprised me most about today?
• What moved me most today?
• What do I most want to remember about today?

Don’t force yourself to write every single day if your personality and lifestyle won’t make that possible. Don’t re-read everything you’ve written. Write when you’re bored, happy, grumpy, annoyed, or just gazing out into space. The unkept journal is much more likely to bring you joy and help you look forward to writing than a journal that is kept.

Do you have an unkept journal? How do you make it work for you? I’d love to hear your comments.

I’m a Survivor. Are You?

“For as he thinks within himself, so is he.” Proverbs 23:7

The underlying causes of posttraumatic stress disorder are still not entirely understood. But many in the mental health arena believe it appears to be both neurobiological and related to the way a person thinks. It has also been suggested that there are two parts of a trauma that contribute to the reaction of a trauma: what actually happened and what the survivor thinks happened.

Not everyone who has experienced a traumatic event goes on to develop PTSD. But there are some risk factors that may make a person more susceptible; risk factors including an especially severe or intense trauma, previous history of trauma, a concurrent mental health condition, concurrent stress life events (such as divorce); lack of support systems or negative familial or community response; and a history of family members with depression or PTSD.

As I have continued to research PTSD for my forthcoming book I have discovered so much about the way a person responds to a traumatic event. In some ways, I’m not entirely proud of the way I responded to the events of 9/11. I was scared. Too scared to do much of anything, including help. But, I have also come to discover that I’m a survivor.

Ben Sherwood is the author of a book called The Survivor’s Club. I haven’t read it yet but am anxious to do so. He was on Glenn Beck’s program yesterday and had this to say about survivors: “The most effective survivors face reality and then develop a plan and they are adaptable in the face of new situations and new challenges.”

Our human response is to want everything to be ok, like I did on 9/11. This phenomenon is called the Normalcy Bias. But in order to survive a disaster, you’ve got to have a plan and take action. I didn’t necessarily have a plan of action before 9/11 because I certainly never imagined in my wildest of dreams that I would come face to face with a terrorist attack. But as things began to unravel around me – personally and professionally – I started putting a plan of action together. It didn’t happen right away because I was still in Normalcy Bias mode.

No one wants to think of worst case scenarios. But we live in a world where we must face the reality of anything is possible. We shouldn’t live in fear but we certainly need to understand – NOW – how we can be survivors.

So Far So Good

After my diagnosis of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (thanks to my doomed suicide attempt), I was assigned to an out-patient mental health facility. The length of my stay would depend on my own participation, or lack thereof.

Initially resistant, I also looked forward to moving forward. The entire group consisted of about 18-20 (more or less) people at any given time and four licensed therapists. We would spend parts of our day in a classroom-type setting where one of the therapists would teach us all about depression, anger, grief, sadness and all the other emotions most of us were experiencing. Thanks to my own previous issues, depression and subsequent therapy sessions,I could have taught the classes myself. More often than not, I felt frustrated that we spent so much time on such elementary issues.

Other parts of each day – about two to three hours – were spent in smaller groups where we focused on one or two of people and simply let them talk. For me, this was the meat I was hungry for. This was also the place where most of the intimate details of each person’s plight came to light. The four therapists split up among two groups. Suzie and Mike led my group. The other two – whose names escape me for the moment – knew of my trauma and some of the details through bits and pieces I had revealed in “class” and through the regular check-in’s the therapists conducted with one another.

Lunch was also part of each day and provided a much more relaxed environment. The therapists often joined us during lunch if they weren’t involved in a private counseling session or in-take of another patient. One particular day, I stood next to one of the other therapists… we’ll call him Phil since I can’t seem to recall his real name. We greeted each other for the first time that day even though it was already lunch time.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“So far so good,” he replied. “You know, it’s like that joke – have you heard it? This guy jumps out the window of a high-rise building. On his way down, he passes a window washer who greets the jumper by asking, ‘How’s it going?’ The jumper says, ‘Oh, so far so good.’”

About 10 seconds of silence passed as I gazed at the look of shame, shock and despair on Phil’s face.

“Oh my gosh,” he exclaimed. “I am so sorry… I just realized what I said… are you ok?”

I blew off his ignorance with a smile and a “Oh, sure. I’m fine. No big deal.”

But I wasn’t fine. My mind’s eye returned to some of the images that put me in this hospital in the first place. I avoided him for the rest of the day and Suzie helped me lick my wounds. Eventually, Phil searched me out in genuine concern to profusely apologize again and to make sure I was ok. I appreciated his sincerity and concern for my well-being.

In the end, it all turned out ok. And in some ways, I can chuckle at the irony. And perhaps that’s why I am so incredibly careful of the words I choose to use around someone who may be in pain – with or without my knowledge.

And with each passing day I can say, so far so good.

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.