de·pres·sion (/diˈpreSHən/)
Noun
| |
Synonyms
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Life Less Sweet: Documentation of my struggle with depression and anxiety.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Getting On the Same Page: Depression
Though depression is becoming less stigmatized these days, the average person still doesn't have an adequate picture of what it actually looks like. In an effort to bring forth an accurate description of depression, I did what any red blooded American would do...I googled "depression definition". The FIRST thing that came up was EXACTLY what I was hoping to find.
de·pres·sion (/diˈpreSHən/)
de·pres·sion (/diˈpreSHən/)
Friday, April 26, 2013
Fluff Pieces
I've been trying to decide what to write about tonight. There are a few strong inspirations...but I'm not ready to write the pieces. I have to wait for blood test results and doctor appointments. I have to really mull over what I write to make sure I am treating it fairly. I have to be delicate with delicate issues. My quandary comes when I need to decide to be silent for a few days or to write some fluff pieces while I wait to write the other posts.
Because not every post needs to be hard hitting and expository, I think I am going to go ahead and do a few fluff posts. I promise to relay pertinent information and not just fill space. Maybe the simple act of writing will help me figure out how to present my tougher stuff.
Because not every post needs to be hard hitting and expository, I think I am going to go ahead and do a few fluff posts. I promise to relay pertinent information and not just fill space. Maybe the simple act of writing will help me figure out how to present my tougher stuff.
Monday, April 22, 2013
Weighty Issues
I'm annoyed. And, frankly, concerned. I haven't lost any weight on my diet. There was an initial 3lb weight loss...but that was short lived. I carefully watched calories, cut out dairy, grains, sugar, and caffeine and have not lost any weight. Though I haven't been perfect, I've generally been following my diet tenets. There should be SOME sort of change, even if it's small. There isn't. The last few days, I've just been eating whatever I want. No weight change.
This happened to me last year. I swallowed my pride and returned to Weight Watchers after 10 years. In, 2002-2003, I lost 100lbs with WW. Beginning in 2004, my weight slowly crept up...then it SHOT up after I began hormonal birth control the year I was married. My first pregnancy kept me at the same weight for a while, then a few months after birth I gained 20 lbs. I miscarried in 2009 and gained 12 lbs. in 6 months. I maintained a 10 lb. weight loss with my last pregnancy only to gain 20 lbs. in the months following his birth. I just kept gaining a few pounds every month until I found myself heavier than the very first moment I first stepped into Weight Watchers.
In 2012 I went to my annual check up and my doctor was very concerned about my weight. She suggested am insanely low calorie diet or bariatric surgery. I didn't know what to think. I researched several options. Bariatric surgery is NOT for me (for many reasons) and I have the added issue of mental health with regard to the low calorie diet. In the past low calorie diets have made me irritable and emotionally unstable. Since I'd had success with the Weight Watchers program in the past, I decided to go at it again, hard core.
I followed the program and began exercising 3 times a week. I did this for 4 months...and GAINED 3 lbs. My doctor, my WW coach, everyone was just SURE that I was not really following the plan. I knew that I WAS. I asked my doctor to run some tests on my blood to check for something that might be causing this. They found nothing. I got discouraged and gave up. I was wasting my time and my money.
So, here I am in the Spring of 2013 at my VERY heaviest. I don't feel well and I am uncomfortable. Here's the thing though. I'm following my diet. Again, not perfectly, but I have CERTAINLY modified my eating habits in such a way as to promote weight loss. Yet, nothing. I think there is something wrong. I am going to see my doctor again on Thursday. If she doesn't think we need to investigate this further, I have decided to go see a naturopathic doctor at KU Med.
I don't mind being a curvy woman. I have a heavy German frame and I will never be within the American BMI guidelines. I want to feel better. Being uncomfortable, tired, depressed, and cranky is not a fun way to live. Clearly, I am willing to do hard work. It's just frustrating to be punished for my efforts.
This happened to me last year. I swallowed my pride and returned to Weight Watchers after 10 years. In, 2002-2003, I lost 100lbs with WW. Beginning in 2004, my weight slowly crept up...then it SHOT up after I began hormonal birth control the year I was married. My first pregnancy kept me at the same weight for a while, then a few months after birth I gained 20 lbs. I miscarried in 2009 and gained 12 lbs. in 6 months. I maintained a 10 lb. weight loss with my last pregnancy only to gain 20 lbs. in the months following his birth. I just kept gaining a few pounds every month until I found myself heavier than the very first moment I first stepped into Weight Watchers.
In 2012 I went to my annual check up and my doctor was very concerned about my weight. She suggested am insanely low calorie diet or bariatric surgery. I didn't know what to think. I researched several options. Bariatric surgery is NOT for me (for many reasons) and I have the added issue of mental health with regard to the low calorie diet. In the past low calorie diets have made me irritable and emotionally unstable. Since I'd had success with the Weight Watchers program in the past, I decided to go at it again, hard core.
I followed the program and began exercising 3 times a week. I did this for 4 months...and GAINED 3 lbs. My doctor, my WW coach, everyone was just SURE that I was not really following the plan. I knew that I WAS. I asked my doctor to run some tests on my blood to check for something that might be causing this. They found nothing. I got discouraged and gave up. I was wasting my time and my money.
So, here I am in the Spring of 2013 at my VERY heaviest. I don't feel well and I am uncomfortable. Here's the thing though. I'm following my diet. Again, not perfectly, but I have CERTAINLY modified my eating habits in such a way as to promote weight loss. Yet, nothing. I think there is something wrong. I am going to see my doctor again on Thursday. If she doesn't think we need to investigate this further, I have decided to go see a naturopathic doctor at KU Med.
I don't mind being a curvy woman. I have a heavy German frame and I will never be within the American BMI guidelines. I want to feel better. Being uncomfortable, tired, depressed, and cranky is not a fun way to live. Clearly, I am willing to do hard work. It's just frustrating to be punished for my efforts.
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Exercising Demons
This Friday I spent my day as a substitute in Elementary PE. I've subbed PE before and mostly enjoy it. Even though I am not in the best shape, I can keep up with Elementary kids if I have to...plus, there's not usually a lot of actual exercise as the teacher. Two weeks ago I pitched 6 games of kickball. Needless to say my hip flexors paid for it, but it was FUN! Yesterday...yesterday was not fun. Yesterday reminded me of why I hated PE so much when I was in school.
I hated gym class. Well, to be more accurate, up until 6th grade PE was fun and I enjoyed going. Though I had been overweight since I was in 1st grade, I had no anxiety about this class. I was not made to feel subhuman or to be ashamed of my athletic abilities. The year I turned 11 and went to 6th grade, that all changed. My dad retired from the Army and we moved to a small town in Western Kansas.
From the first day of PE at my new school, I knew my life was going to be hell. First, the kids already knew the drill of PE. I did not. I had moved from a different system in DoDD schools. They all knew that class started by running "the backstops". I had never been made to run as a warm up. It was a really long distance too...I'd say 1/4 mile at least. So, of course my confused, fat, slow self did not do well at this task. My classmates were cruel. There were many degrading words tossed at me from the boys and irritated, eye rolling, sighs from girls who were tired of waiting for me to finish running so they could get on with class.
But, once class started it wasn't any better. In the past, PE had been about games and coordination building. Starting in 6th grade it was fierce competition. I realize that sounds hyperbolic, but I assure you, these kids took athleticism very seriously. If you weren't athletic, you were just in their way. Our teacher did nothing to remedy this. If anything, that's how she liked it. I was even made to write an essay instead of participate in the gymnastics unit because the teacher thought I was too fat to do tumbling. There was no fun...just rope climbing, record setting, winning, and losing. And, I, the new fat kid, was always cause for losing.
Wanting to fit in, I tried to play girls volleyball, softball, and basketball. I was met with teammates who ran me over and a lot of time on the bench. When I wasn't getting nasty looks or frustrated comments from the other girls, I was being completely ignored. The coaches were irritated by my lack of skill and could barely contain their annoyance at my presence on the team. So, not only were the other girls being bitchy about winning, the coaches were in silent agreement. In SIXTH grade!!!!!
This continued for 4 more years, all the way through the cursory High School PE class. Along the way, I did learn that there were a few things I enjoyed (like archery). Really, though, most of Junior High and High School PE was about dressing out enough times to get my C and talking to my friends instead of playing the game. Would I rather have been playing? YES! I couldn't take the ridicule...so I quit trying. It was truly much easier to take flack for not trying than to do my best and be met with vicious comments.
For 7 years I thought I hated to exercise. I avoided it and made cutting jokes about it. I stayed sedentary because I didn't want to be faced with nasty looks and comments from the people around me. This of course led to excess weight gain...which led to negative feelings about myself.
My freshman year of college I needed another hour to be full time, so I took a karate class. IT WAS SO MUCH FUN! I loved going and I loved moving my body. Feeling braver, I took a kickboxing class. LOVED IT! Later on I would try yoga, zumba, and krav maga (Isreali self defense). All of these activities were fun and made me feel good. Was a good at them? No, no I was not. But it got my body moving, my heart rate up, and my brain chemicals flowing! It felt great.
I was angry though! For all of those years, I thought I hated exercise. I was convinced that I was too fat and slow to participate. In reality, I just needed to find something I enjoyed and that didn't make me feel worthless. So, yesterday when the students in the class I was subbing began to resemble the faces of the mean kids that I was in PE with, I could feel myself getting mad.
The game was 6 base kickball. While it wasn't rocket science, 6 bases it a lot to referee, especially with all of the nuanced rules and hyperactivity of elementary school kids. I had a tough time making all of the calls. Before class started, I explained that I would do my best to be fair, but I wasn't familiar with the game. They agreed to help me out and to give me the benefit of the doubt. Dirty little liars! By the second inning of every 5th and 6th grade class, I had kids who wanted to lynch me. These normal, healthy, 10-12 year olds turned into raging beasts once the game began. They were yelling at me and yelling at each other. Little eyes were rolling and body language was tense and angry. If I missed a call, I could see a little glint of violence in the eyes of some of the kids. It was NOT fun.
I just kept thinking, "This is ELEMENTARY school PE...this is not serious enough to verbally abuse your substitute for missing an out and berate your teammates for a bad kick!!". I wondered, of those kids who had not Hulked out on me and lost their minds to the game, how many of them were starting to hate exercise? How many of them were hating their life a little? How many of them would only take PE while they had to and then quit moving their bodies altogether?
Elementary PE should be about skill building. It should be a time to learn about your body and all of the cool things it's capable of. Exercise should be enjoyable, especially when you are a little kid. If you want to play to win...join an extracurricular league. Get your winning fix there (even though I think many kids, coaches, and parents take little kids sports WAY too seriously). School sponsored physical education should not be a petri dish for ruthlessness, thinly veiled bullying, and winning a kickball game at the cost of someone else's self worth.
I hated gym class. Well, to be more accurate, up until 6th grade PE was fun and I enjoyed going. Though I had been overweight since I was in 1st grade, I had no anxiety about this class. I was not made to feel subhuman or to be ashamed of my athletic abilities. The year I turned 11 and went to 6th grade, that all changed. My dad retired from the Army and we moved to a small town in Western Kansas.
From the first day of PE at my new school, I knew my life was going to be hell. First, the kids already knew the drill of PE. I did not. I had moved from a different system in DoDD schools. They all knew that class started by running "the backstops". I had never been made to run as a warm up. It was a really long distance too...I'd say 1/4 mile at least. So, of course my confused, fat, slow self did not do well at this task. My classmates were cruel. There were many degrading words tossed at me from the boys and irritated, eye rolling, sighs from girls who were tired of waiting for me to finish running so they could get on with class.
But, once class started it wasn't any better. In the past, PE had been about games and coordination building. Starting in 6th grade it was fierce competition. I realize that sounds hyperbolic, but I assure you, these kids took athleticism very seriously. If you weren't athletic, you were just in their way. Our teacher did nothing to remedy this. If anything, that's how she liked it. I was even made to write an essay instead of participate in the gymnastics unit because the teacher thought I was too fat to do tumbling. There was no fun...just rope climbing, record setting, winning, and losing. And, I, the new fat kid, was always cause for losing.
Wanting to fit in, I tried to play girls volleyball, softball, and basketball. I was met with teammates who ran me over and a lot of time on the bench. When I wasn't getting nasty looks or frustrated comments from the other girls, I was being completely ignored. The coaches were irritated by my lack of skill and could barely contain their annoyance at my presence on the team. So, not only were the other girls being bitchy about winning, the coaches were in silent agreement. In SIXTH grade!!!!!
This continued for 4 more years, all the way through the cursory High School PE class. Along the way, I did learn that there were a few things I enjoyed (like archery). Really, though, most of Junior High and High School PE was about dressing out enough times to get my C and talking to my friends instead of playing the game. Would I rather have been playing? YES! I couldn't take the ridicule...so I quit trying. It was truly much easier to take flack for not trying than to do my best and be met with vicious comments.
For 7 years I thought I hated to exercise. I avoided it and made cutting jokes about it. I stayed sedentary because I didn't want to be faced with nasty looks and comments from the people around me. This of course led to excess weight gain...which led to negative feelings about myself.
My freshman year of college I needed another hour to be full time, so I took a karate class. IT WAS SO MUCH FUN! I loved going and I loved moving my body. Feeling braver, I took a kickboxing class. LOVED IT! Later on I would try yoga, zumba, and krav maga (Isreali self defense). All of these activities were fun and made me feel good. Was a good at them? No, no I was not. But it got my body moving, my heart rate up, and my brain chemicals flowing! It felt great.
I was angry though! For all of those years, I thought I hated exercise. I was convinced that I was too fat and slow to participate. In reality, I just needed to find something I enjoyed and that didn't make me feel worthless. So, yesterday when the students in the class I was subbing began to resemble the faces of the mean kids that I was in PE with, I could feel myself getting mad.
The game was 6 base kickball. While it wasn't rocket science, 6 bases it a lot to referee, especially with all of the nuanced rules and hyperactivity of elementary school kids. I had a tough time making all of the calls. Before class started, I explained that I would do my best to be fair, but I wasn't familiar with the game. They agreed to help me out and to give me the benefit of the doubt. Dirty little liars! By the second inning of every 5th and 6th grade class, I had kids who wanted to lynch me. These normal, healthy, 10-12 year olds turned into raging beasts once the game began. They were yelling at me and yelling at each other. Little eyes were rolling and body language was tense and angry. If I missed a call, I could see a little glint of violence in the eyes of some of the kids. It was NOT fun.
I just kept thinking, "This is ELEMENTARY school PE...this is not serious enough to verbally abuse your substitute for missing an out and berate your teammates for a bad kick!!". I wondered, of those kids who had not Hulked out on me and lost their minds to the game, how many of them were starting to hate exercise? How many of them were hating their life a little? How many of them would only take PE while they had to and then quit moving their bodies altogether?
Elementary PE should be about skill building. It should be a time to learn about your body and all of the cool things it's capable of. Exercise should be enjoyable, especially when you are a little kid. If you want to play to win...join an extracurricular league. Get your winning fix there (even though I think many kids, coaches, and parents take little kids sports WAY too seriously). School sponsored physical education should not be a petri dish for ruthlessness, thinly veiled bullying, and winning a kickball game at the cost of someone else's self worth.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
How Does My Garden Grow?
"I'm an old Southern woman and we're supposed to wear funny looking hats and ugly clothes and grow vegetables in the dirt." ~Steel Magnolias
I am neither old nor Southern and unlike my cinematic friend Ouiser Boudreaux, I LOVE to garden. While flowers and ornamental landscaping are not really my thing, I thoroughly enjoy growing vegetables. My dream is to eventually replace 1/3 or more of my back yard with vegetable garden space. "What does this have to do with depression?"you might ask. Well, let me explain.
First, having a home garden increases the availability of healthy and nutrient rich food. I grow lots of green leafies (lettuce blends, arugula, chard, kale) which are high in vitamins, minerals, and fiber and low in calories. This year I am adding some heirloom potatoes, pole beans, and my third (and final) attempt at my favorite herb, CILANTRO! There are always tomatoes in my garden as well. Many veggies are still missing from my little garden, but it's a good start. I need tons of vegetables to keep my body and mind healthy.
Besides producing nutritious foods, my garden also provides my the opportunity to move my body in a meaningful way. I don't like to exercise. I WILL, however, spend 4-5 hours digging holes, removing sod, and preparing beds for my plants. My legs, abs, and arms ache after a long day of gardening. But, I love it and will do it again the next day without hesitation! Using my body in meaningful ways creates balance and uses excess energy that might otherwise be spent being sad.
While I am moving my body, I am also absorbing precious, precious sunshine. Sunlight affects serotonin production...depressed people often have low serotonin. Working outside gives me access to this free remedy. With regard to sun exposure and skin cancer, I have just made the decision that moderation is important. I do not generally use sunscreen. My skin takes sun well so I've never really needed it. I also recently learned that it blocks Vitamin D absorption. All people, depressed or not, need vitamin D for calcium absorption and immune system health. Instead of sunblock I use shade and shelter to protect myself from excess sun exposure.
I get food, I get exercise, I get sunshine...but what truly makes gardening a treasured hobby is that I see results! Again, I am an achiever. I delight in seeing things succeed. When I harvest the vegetables I need for a dinner salad, I feel amazing! I helped make this lettuce! I contributed to the life of these tomatoes! That's cool. I also tend to give myself grace with the garden. Last year my cucumbers died about half way through the year. I didn't beat myself up. I did what I could to make them live and it didn't happen. Oh well.
The oddest reason that I enjoy having a garden is that it makes me feel connected to my ancestors. Weird right? Every time I am working in my garden my mind wanders and I begin thinking about the generations of women who came before me. They HAD to have gardens or their families would starve. This was their work...their vital contribution to their families. It's a common thread of humanity. I feel honored to join in the proud line of women who have used land to sustain life.
This week, I excitedly anticipate the coming of sowing season. I am neither old nor Southern...but I will HAPPILY grow vegetables in the dirt!
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Death By Chocolate
I may or may not have made brownies today. I may or may not have eaten a LOT of them. I feel terrible! I am sick at my stomach and never want to eat chocolate again. I didn't even eat dinner.
It may not be fun to eat healthy, but it sure beats nausea.
On a mental health note, my puppy accidentally got some brownie...I am anxious that he's going to die. It wasn't much and he seems fine, but I probably won't sleep well tonight.
Update: Praise God, I slept awesome last night!!! Also, the puppy lives!! Let's hear it for hybrid vigor!
It may not be fun to eat healthy, but it sure beats nausea.
On a mental health note, my puppy accidentally got some brownie...I am anxious that he's going to die. It wasn't much and he seems fine, but I probably won't sleep well tonight.
Update: Praise God, I slept awesome last night!!! Also, the puppy lives!! Let's hear it for hybrid vigor!
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Foster Failure (it's a long one)
Dear friends, I have alluded to this many times over the course of this blog. I've had a series of down days this last week (and even now) and it's come up in my brain again. I'm obsessing and feeling guilty again and I need the catharsis of writing about it. If you feel up to it, indulge me by allowing me to put it out there. While I clearly have a serotonin deficiency, "down" times are often triggered. For the last year, my trigger has been our undertaking and failure of being foster parents.
The Beginning:
When my youngest son was 6 months old, I was rocking him back to sleep in the middle of the night. As I was staring sleepily into the crib, I suddenly had the vision of a tiny black baby sleeping peacefully in it. It made my heart happy. What a beautiful picture of love to have a sweet brown baby in my home! But, we aren't black, so with the memory of that little mental photograph, I began to think about ways that God might be working to bring that about. One thing led to another and suddenly we were signed up for 30 hours of training to become foster parents. We passed the training and passed the home study and became licensed in September.
Since I had been on an antidepressant for nearly a year, I was feeling MUCH better and thought we were up for the task of taking on a new kiddo. We thought that, during this season of life, adding a ministry to what we were already doing (parenting young children) made sense. Around the end of October, we got a call. There was an African American brother and sister that needed to be moved because their current guardian was not able to get them to their preschool (which was mandated). We were told that they were sweet little kids who were affectionate and had minimal developmental delays. It sounded like a great first placement!
The Middle:
The day they came I knew we were in over our heads. Instead of being a sweet, affectionate 3 and 4 year old, they brought with them earth shattering chaos. They didn't get along with my children. My four year old suffered enormous amounts of stress and was the target of many vindictive plots to see him get punished. My one year old was constantly being pushed over and having toys taken away from him. They needed constant attention and affection. They cried every hour of every day about something and intentionally injured themselves to get attention and affection. They had never had rules or been disciplined and hated the boundaries we set for them.
The key word in this is constant. I mean every minute of every day for 8 months was incessant craziness and upheaval. For 6 months I ran on adrenaline, caffeine, and Zoloft. Around the 6 month mark, I just ran out of steam. I didn't have anything left to give to anyone. I was totally depleted. In addition, every time we tried to get a break, something happened to prevent it. One weekend, when my husband and I planned a get away, our then 16 month old came down with chicken pox. The next time we planned a whole week out in the country as a core family vacation (without foster kids), my husband's grandmother died and instead we drove for 24 hours to attend a funeral in Tennessee. I could NOT get a break. I even signed up for a gym membership to get an hour of free babysitting and time to work out, but it was so chaotic to get them loaded into the van, driven to the gym, checked into childcare and taken home that it wasn't even worth the break!
Sadly, even my oldest son (then 4) was suffering emotionally. He had become withdrawn and sad. Once he stayed the night with my sister and told her that he wanted to go live with her because there weren't any foster children. He oscillated between melancholy and hyperactivity and always seemed to be in trouble.
The End:
Fast forward to the end of June...8 months. It had been insanity since day 1 and there was no end in sight (they are, by the way, still in care almost a year later). For the last few months, I literally felt like I had been hit in the head with a shovel every day, I'd even stopped taking my Zoloft. It wasn't working anymore and it was making me fatter. I reasoned at least if I had to be miserable either way, I could at least drop some weight. I was getting more tired and the foster kids were getting worse. The little boy became more despondent and started having weird episodes of zoning out, had memory problems, and began to tell outrageous fibs. The little girl became more sassy and mean and began acting more like a 15 year old than a 5 year old (in many, many ways). The last weekend in June it all fell apart. A new (new-ish...we'd seen inklings of it previously) behavior popped up from the little girl. We tried to train and teach her to make a different choice, but she saw that it was a hot button issue and took delight in continuing with this behavior. She also thought it would be fun to violently threaten my husband...not to his face, but by telling out oldest son what she "planned to do" to daddy. I had an urgent and overwhelming feeling that this situation was no longer safe for my children.
We have a family friend who is a foster veteran. On the night I finally decided enough was enough, she was there to speak truth and kindness to me. I felt guilty for breaking our commitment. I felt like I was letting God down and the foster ministry down. We were giving up on these orphans and that felt wretched. She gave me some wonderful wisdom. "God's giving you a STOP sign," she said, "you can either choose to plow through it and think that only you can save these kids...or you can accept it. You are not the only people who are capable of caring for these children. God will provide what they need." Those words were a salve to my weary heart. We took the stop sign. It turned out to be wise as a few days later it became abundantly CLEAR that this was no longer a safe situation. We'd made the right call.
It was yucky. When the little girl left, they told her she was going to have to go to a new place because of her bad choices...she responded with "YAY!". That stung. We had loved them and provided a stable, structured, kind environment for them. We'd read to them and prayed with them every single night. We'd given them special birthday parties and opportunities to learn about their interests through sports and dance. I had poured myself out for them to the point of mental exhaustion. I didn't understand why she hated us so much.
We were cut off from them immediately after they left. I no longer knew where they were or how they were doing. I didn't even really get to say goodbye to them. It wasn't the way that we pictured this ending. We were planning on a sweet goodbye when they found a family to adopt them. That didn't happen. They ended up in a good situation, but they had a brief stay in an orphanage while they waited. The thought of that was guilt inducing.
The Fallout:
Beginning on the day they left, I wrestled with depression and obsession. "What could I have done differently?" looped in my brain every minute of every day. I couldn't make mental sense of what had happened to me and to my family. I'd have days of peace followed by weeks of gut wrenching guilt and shame over disrupting this placement. I confessed any sin I could think of but still felt condemnation. It's all I could think about and talk about. People that I loved stopped wanting to hear about it.
My oldest son was ANGRY. We had to work hard to restore our relationship and bring him back to normal. He was acting out at school in bizarre and disconcerting ways. We consulted a pediatric psychologist about him. I was worried that I had ruined my child because of my desire to serve God and my city.
We spent the whole fall and most of winter insulating ourselves from everyone but close family and friends. I started seeing my therapist more regularly. I went back to work.
My blog began in January and I've kept you abreast of the status of my heart. It's not great. Since going back on my meds, it's better, but I still have days when I feel awful about the whole foster situation. We've decided not to take any more placements. We've even decided to freeze our respite license for 5 years (and will likely let it lapse after that). My relationship with my oldest son has improved tremendously but we still have times when I have to kind of go back and explain some things that went down while we had our placement.
I wrestle, not with God, but with the concept of suffering. Today, the halls of our church were freshly painted with saying like "City Renewal Is Hard" and "City Renewal Is Messy". Instead of falling in line and agreeing (I do on some level), I felt a physical pain in my heart. I couldn't do it. I wasn't willing to sacrifice my sanity (I'm not being dramatic, I mean it) and wasn't willing to put my children on the alter of service to our city. On one hand, I am proud that I had the courage to say I couldn't do it any more. But, on the other hand (the heavier hand, if I am honest) I feel guilty and ashamed that we let down two of our cities orphans by admitting that their mess was more than we could handle.
That begins a cycle of doubting my faith and doubting my devotion to God. Am I unwilling to do hard things for Him or was this just the wrong hard thing for me? I sit here, defeated, bawling all over my laptop. I hurt and I don't have any answers.
Tonight, in the sermon, the pastor said that we can't hope in ourselves, because we always fall short...even short of our own moral standards. I fell disgustingly short of my own moral standards. Good Christians don't say they are weak, they pray and God makes them strong enough...right? Good Christians don't give up on the unlovely people, they stick with them until the bitter end...right? I don't know. Here's what I do know...I didn't...I couldn't.
I also know that God loves me. He loves me in my grossest most vile and sickening moments. He is greater than I could ever hope to be. I have to hope in Him...I have to or my heart will die. In moments like this, the knowledge of His unfailing, unwavering love is all I have...ALL I have.
The Beginning:
When my youngest son was 6 months old, I was rocking him back to sleep in the middle of the night. As I was staring sleepily into the crib, I suddenly had the vision of a tiny black baby sleeping peacefully in it. It made my heart happy. What a beautiful picture of love to have a sweet brown baby in my home! But, we aren't black, so with the memory of that little mental photograph, I began to think about ways that God might be working to bring that about. One thing led to another and suddenly we were signed up for 30 hours of training to become foster parents. We passed the training and passed the home study and became licensed in September.
Since I had been on an antidepressant for nearly a year, I was feeling MUCH better and thought we were up for the task of taking on a new kiddo. We thought that, during this season of life, adding a ministry to what we were already doing (parenting young children) made sense. Around the end of October, we got a call. There was an African American brother and sister that needed to be moved because their current guardian was not able to get them to their preschool (which was mandated). We were told that they were sweet little kids who were affectionate and had minimal developmental delays. It sounded like a great first placement!
The Middle:
The day they came I knew we were in over our heads. Instead of being a sweet, affectionate 3 and 4 year old, they brought with them earth shattering chaos. They didn't get along with my children. My four year old suffered enormous amounts of stress and was the target of many vindictive plots to see him get punished. My one year old was constantly being pushed over and having toys taken away from him. They needed constant attention and affection. They cried every hour of every day about something and intentionally injured themselves to get attention and affection. They had never had rules or been disciplined and hated the boundaries we set for them.
The key word in this is constant. I mean every minute of every day for 8 months was incessant craziness and upheaval. For 6 months I ran on adrenaline, caffeine, and Zoloft. Around the 6 month mark, I just ran out of steam. I didn't have anything left to give to anyone. I was totally depleted. In addition, every time we tried to get a break, something happened to prevent it. One weekend, when my husband and I planned a get away, our then 16 month old came down with chicken pox. The next time we planned a whole week out in the country as a core family vacation (without foster kids), my husband's grandmother died and instead we drove for 24 hours to attend a funeral in Tennessee. I could NOT get a break. I even signed up for a gym membership to get an hour of free babysitting and time to work out, but it was so chaotic to get them loaded into the van, driven to the gym, checked into childcare and taken home that it wasn't even worth the break!
Sadly, even my oldest son (then 4) was suffering emotionally. He had become withdrawn and sad. Once he stayed the night with my sister and told her that he wanted to go live with her because there weren't any foster children. He oscillated between melancholy and hyperactivity and always seemed to be in trouble.
The End:
Fast forward to the end of June...8 months. It had been insanity since day 1 and there was no end in sight (they are, by the way, still in care almost a year later). For the last few months, I literally felt like I had been hit in the head with a shovel every day, I'd even stopped taking my Zoloft. It wasn't working anymore and it was making me fatter. I reasoned at least if I had to be miserable either way, I could at least drop some weight. I was getting more tired and the foster kids were getting worse. The little boy became more despondent and started having weird episodes of zoning out, had memory problems, and began to tell outrageous fibs. The little girl became more sassy and mean and began acting more like a 15 year old than a 5 year old (in many, many ways). The last weekend in June it all fell apart. A new (new-ish...we'd seen inklings of it previously) behavior popped up from the little girl. We tried to train and teach her to make a different choice, but she saw that it was a hot button issue and took delight in continuing with this behavior. She also thought it would be fun to violently threaten my husband...not to his face, but by telling out oldest son what she "planned to do" to daddy. I had an urgent and overwhelming feeling that this situation was no longer safe for my children.
We have a family friend who is a foster veteran. On the night I finally decided enough was enough, she was there to speak truth and kindness to me. I felt guilty for breaking our commitment. I felt like I was letting God down and the foster ministry down. We were giving up on these orphans and that felt wretched. She gave me some wonderful wisdom. "God's giving you a STOP sign," she said, "you can either choose to plow through it and think that only you can save these kids...or you can accept it. You are not the only people who are capable of caring for these children. God will provide what they need." Those words were a salve to my weary heart. We took the stop sign. It turned out to be wise as a few days later it became abundantly CLEAR that this was no longer a safe situation. We'd made the right call.
It was yucky. When the little girl left, they told her she was going to have to go to a new place because of her bad choices...she responded with "YAY!". That stung. We had loved them and provided a stable, structured, kind environment for them. We'd read to them and prayed with them every single night. We'd given them special birthday parties and opportunities to learn about their interests through sports and dance. I had poured myself out for them to the point of mental exhaustion. I didn't understand why she hated us so much.
We were cut off from them immediately after they left. I no longer knew where they were or how they were doing. I didn't even really get to say goodbye to them. It wasn't the way that we pictured this ending. We were planning on a sweet goodbye when they found a family to adopt them. That didn't happen. They ended up in a good situation, but they had a brief stay in an orphanage while they waited. The thought of that was guilt inducing.
The Fallout:
Beginning on the day they left, I wrestled with depression and obsession. "What could I have done differently?" looped in my brain every minute of every day. I couldn't make mental sense of what had happened to me and to my family. I'd have days of peace followed by weeks of gut wrenching guilt and shame over disrupting this placement. I confessed any sin I could think of but still felt condemnation. It's all I could think about and talk about. People that I loved stopped wanting to hear about it.
My oldest son was ANGRY. We had to work hard to restore our relationship and bring him back to normal. He was acting out at school in bizarre and disconcerting ways. We consulted a pediatric psychologist about him. I was worried that I had ruined my child because of my desire to serve God and my city.
We spent the whole fall and most of winter insulating ourselves from everyone but close family and friends. I started seeing my therapist more regularly. I went back to work.
My blog began in January and I've kept you abreast of the status of my heart. It's not great. Since going back on my meds, it's better, but I still have days when I feel awful about the whole foster situation. We've decided not to take any more placements. We've even decided to freeze our respite license for 5 years (and will likely let it lapse after that). My relationship with my oldest son has improved tremendously but we still have times when I have to kind of go back and explain some things that went down while we had our placement.
I wrestle, not with God, but with the concept of suffering. Today, the halls of our church were freshly painted with saying like "City Renewal Is Hard" and "City Renewal Is Messy". Instead of falling in line and agreeing (I do on some level), I felt a physical pain in my heart. I couldn't do it. I wasn't willing to sacrifice my sanity (I'm not being dramatic, I mean it) and wasn't willing to put my children on the alter of service to our city. On one hand, I am proud that I had the courage to say I couldn't do it any more. But, on the other hand (the heavier hand, if I am honest) I feel guilty and ashamed that we let down two of our cities orphans by admitting that their mess was more than we could handle.
That begins a cycle of doubting my faith and doubting my devotion to God. Am I unwilling to do hard things for Him or was this just the wrong hard thing for me? I sit here, defeated, bawling all over my laptop. I hurt and I don't have any answers.
Tonight, in the sermon, the pastor said that we can't hope in ourselves, because we always fall short...even short of our own moral standards. I fell disgustingly short of my own moral standards. Good Christians don't say they are weak, they pray and God makes them strong enough...right? Good Christians don't give up on the unlovely people, they stick with them until the bitter end...right? I don't know. Here's what I do know...I didn't...I couldn't.
I also know that God loves me. He loves me in my grossest most vile and sickening moments. He is greater than I could ever hope to be. I have to hope in Him...I have to or my heart will die. In moments like this, the knowledge of His unfailing, unwavering love is all I have...ALL I have.
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