I am a strangely private person. I say that because I keep my 'stuff' close to the vest. I'm not one to let people know if something is going on with me. I don't share my problems, or discuss my difficulties. However, once I gain a little understanding and truth about my process, I will share it all. Down to the last gory detail. Showing every bump, bruise and scar. Why?
Because I am supposed to.
I have to.
It's my job.
It's my call.
I wouldn't be me if I didn't.
I am working it all out. This 'call' I have that drives me. I don't have a tag line or a self help motto to explain what I do. I'm working on it. But I know my audience. I know my peeps.
They are the women who are writers at their core, but did like Daddy said and got a real job.
They are the women, like me, who have spent decades trying to power through the cycles of depression and overwhelming dissatisfaction.
They are the women who cry themselves to sleep alone and broken in a house full of people. They cry out of guilt and shame for not being "quite right".
They are the women who no matter how hard they try can't seem to find success.
They are the women who are so tired of trying to will their minds into being healthy that suicide is on the table as an option.
They are the spiritual women, particularly the Christians, who pretend to be fine because they cannot bear to hear that if only they had a little more faith, things would change.
They are the woman who no matter how you slice it, feel like "it's" all their fault,
They are the woman who power through life until the motor gets dry and raggedy before finally sputtering to a halt.
I . Know. All. About. It.
Lying on a hospital gurney desperate and afraid.
Feeling like I am going to explode grief and sadness.
On my worst day frantically searching for some little piece of my self, but realizing there was nothing left of me. The bottom finally caved in and the real me was sucked away.
My best day - was when I laid on a gurney in a cinderblock room waiting to be admitted into a behavioral health hospital. Arm thrown across my eyes, wearing scrubs, listening to screaming and crying outside the doorless room. It was my greatest moment.
For those of you who are like me, don't let anyone tell you God is not in your pain.
I share because I am back. In my right mind but accepting that my right mind is someone else's crazy. Feeling capable and strong, except for when I feel inadequate and weak.
I am back, as imperfectly as anyone could be, but I am here. Alive and Well. And if I can 'do it' a whole hell of a lot of people can.
Allow me to paraphrase a bible story.
Thomas asked, "How do I know it's you? How do I know all of this...is possible?" Jesus showed him his wounds.
Alive and well is possible and you don't have to fix everything to get it. I have the scars to prove it.