He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. ~ Psalm 147:3

Archive for the ‘Anxiety Disorder’ Category

Keep Going! If You Stop, You’ll Never Get There!

Nearly two years ago, my husband, Buck, and I decided to renovate our house. We’re finally in the last room. YAY!

Because we have furniture in the room, we have to do sections at a time. Meaning, we cut and pulled up the carpet and padding, then, I pulled up the staples and carpet strips and scraped and swept the floor. As you can see from the photo, Buck has to fix the subfloor where it got wet from the leak we had a while back. I was really hoping to get this much of the floor done, but our strength gave out and we had to call it a day.

This morning, I felt like someone beat me up in my sleep. Ever since my bout with a ruptured disc a few years ago, my back ain’t what it used to be when I jogged 20 miles a week. In plain English, it hurts like hell! And this floor thing is not at all what the doctor ordered. Plus, I have an anxiety disorder. And it’s not just my body falling apart. Oh, no. Buck’s knee swells and hurts him all the time. And he’s diabetic and has PTSD.

So, we’re either the dumbest two people on the planet or we’re a couple of masochists. Take your pick and we’d have to agree with either one.

In all fairness, though, we decided to renovate our house ourselves because it needed to be done and we don’t have the luxury (money) of having someone else do it for us. Plus, we were 71 when we started. Most people are either dead or in nursing homes by then, not on their hands and knees and climbing ladders renovating their homes.

During this anything-but-fun-process, I’ve sometimes treated God as my Fairy Godmother. Of course, I know better than to think He’s going to snap His fingers and poof! the carpets are up, the floor is down and all my furniture is back in its rightful place. But there were moments when my brain shut down and my heart screamed, Do it, Lord! Wave your magic wand and make all this madness disappear!

When I prayed for God’s help, He didn’t rip up one piece of carpet, pull up one single staple, or lay down one vinyl plank. He didn’t paint the walls or help me organize the mess we created. Nope! None of that. He could have. He’s God, after all. Heck, He created me from dust. Nothing is too much for Him.

But, He did help me. He gave me strength when I didn’t think I could move another inch. He dried my tears of anger and frustration. He sent me a family of Wrens on the back porch to help take my mind off the chaos and remind me that He is still near. Throughout this madness, He has been there cheering me on, telling me when I need to stop, and helping me to stay focused when the process gets distorted and my attitude gets twisted out of shape.

Today, I am tired. My body hurts. Buck’s body hurts. I wish we were done. I wish someone would come and finish it for us. But we’re closer to our dream today than we were yesterday. And in spite of my suffering and tiredness, God will give me the strength and dogged determination to finish!

If you’re in a hard place right now and can’t find your way through, God is always there ready and completely able to help you. It may not be the help you want, but it will be exactly what you need to keep going.

Why? Because . . .

My sister-in-law, Shirley and I laughed our heads off the other week when she told me of the time she had to write a paper on “why?” for a course she was taking. When each student  had finished their scenario they could leave.

A few moments later, Shirley slid out of her chair, turned in her paper and strutted out the door ignoring the wide-eyed stares as if she had suddenly grown another head.

In two lines, she wrote:
Why?
Because . . .

And she got an A! 

If only the answers to all our why’s were so simple.

And funny!

Sadly, though, they’re not.

Like when we moved in the house we live in now, why did I sit on the floor balling my eyes out? Why did I get so enraged and physically ill when the neighbor’s dog kept me awake barking all night? Why did my insides explode at the sound of loud music, dirt bikes, and ATV’s racing through the neighborhood? Why did I feel so exposed and afraid, like I was living in a house without walls? Why did I want to move every waking moment of every day?

Why?

Why did I cry every day to and from my new job and could’t sleep a wink night after night till I finally quit and took a job working at home?

Why?

Why did the empty nest syndrome suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks although my son had already left home and been married for several years? Why did I wear his old, thread bare shirts he left behind for weeks on end?

Why?

Why did I always feel like a legion of spoiled brats were kicking and screaming inside me and I couldn’t hear myself think or figure out which voice was mine? Why did I cry all the time? Why did I feel like I was on a never-ending ferris wheel of high’s and low’s? Why did my heart feel like it was being slaughtered with a chainsaw?

Why?

Why did I burn with uncontrollable rage? Why did I want to punch the world in it’s hideous, grimacing face?

Because . . .
My brain is twisted, like looking through a distorted mirror in a fun house minus the fun. And when your brain is twisted, you see things that aren’t there. You hear things no one said. You feel things that don’t even make sense to you or anyone else.

And it’s a living hell.

If I could unzip my skin and expose my soul you’d see the bloody bandages of self-destruction scattered around, and the walls and barbed-wire fences I built. You’d see the blood, sweat, and tears of trying to fit in, to belong, to understand what I did so wrong that the whole world turned against me. Then, you will only see a glimpse of the pain I’ve endured before I even started first grade.

Although I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, it doesn’t make it any better. It’s a bit comforting knowing there’s a name for it, but  medication is expensive and often makes my symptoms worse instead of better. And sometimes if the medication works, I can’t tolerate the side-effects. Counseling in the past helped tremendously, but nothing of late helps me at all. However, I have an appointment with a new doctor who specializes in BPD.

Maybe help is on the way.

Time will tell.

My weaknesses have made me strong . . . even tough. “Badass mama” my son jokingly calls me. Though it took nearly a lifetime, I’ve finally embraced my God-given Choleric/Melancholy temperament and stopped pretending to be the gentle, easy-going Phlegmatic like my brother and like my mother tried forcing me to be.

It’s been a long, tough battle I fear I will never win on this earth. But, through it all, I’ve learned to laugh at myself . . . one of my many coping mechanisms. Even after slamming the door and bawling my eyes out for however long it takes for me to become human again, I can laugh.

Eventually.

Well, after a day or two.

Okay, at least in the same year!

Why?
Because . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

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