Check it out, not the performance from yesterday, but one of their performances of the same routine:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-ncc4kZ55g - 8 minutes. Dan's little brother John is in there somewhere. He plays trumpet.
We spent the day yesterday in San Antonio at the
Alamodome. Why, you ask? To watch John's band perform at the
UIL State Championship. It was cool. I wish we could have gotten there earlier to see more, but it would not have been wise. We have four kids, two of them toddlers. Need I say more? Well, if you want or need audio substantiation behind this and many other choices we make in similar situations, I've loaded up the only "picture" I got from the trip. And, yep, that's me laughing myself into tears, literally. It really is true, not a stereotype at all, that insane people laugh a lot, You know, they're coming to take ma away, ha ha, ho ho,
hee hee, to the funny farm where life is beautiful,
et cetera,
et cetera - What is that from, by the way? As usual, I digress. But, seriously, try listening to that full blast for 3 hours and see if you don't go just a
tiny bit insane. You can't tune it out. Dan wants to get me an
iPod, says it would be worth the investment, but I am skeptical. I can hear it from every room in the house. They can probably hear it next door! Dallas and Noah did none of this when they were small. They were such fine little gentlemen (at least that's how I remember it, but my memory can be a little fuzzy because I also said I would never get pregnant again after Noah because pregnancy was so uncomfortable! Never say never - I really stop myself now before I say never and end up having to change the phrase to hardly ever). This "fuzzy memory" is why I thought it would a good idea to have another, and then Savanna waited until right after Bailey was born to start the screaming.
Hmmm. Is there a correlation there? Well, she taught Bailey very well, so now they double team me. She gets that from me. The teaching part. Not the screaming! The first time you hear it, you jump, because the
frequency reaches a tiny little section in your brain that is reserved for those special irritants that get your attention immediately, like fingernails on a chalkboard, that "this is a test of the emergency broadcast system...", Dan's favorite: teeth scraping against your fork,
bloodcurdling screams - wait - that's what
they do! And it really feels like they are poking my brain! God was so wise to give them to us when they are so small and helpless so we can fall in love with them with that forever kind of love or else, well... or else! I can't say why else because I just can't imagine why anyone would hurt children, no matter what they do. That's what the laughter is for! I am possibly one of the most tightly wound people I know. I am almost always like a stack of books that is really high, and it can only hold maybe one or two books. You're not sure though if it's one or two, heck, maybe you've got comic books and can fit ten or so. I should be so lucky. With me, they usually pile on a dictionary! So if I can endure this on an almost daily basis, then anyone can. I can teach you: laugh! It really does help. It drives them crazy though. They don't understand what is so funny. Oh, right, I continue to digress. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah. John's band was awesome, man! The kids liked it, too, which was a plus. Hey, you notice the good times and enjoy them so much more when you suffer sometimes (or lots of times!). Which reminds me, I got a CD from
http://www.saintjoe.com/ called "15 Things to Do in the Midst of Suffering" by Jeff
Cavins. I haven't listened to it yet, but I wonder if it mentions that. Jeff
Cavins' "Great Adventure" DVDs are great also, that's what I went there to get. I saw it in RCIA, but it is so much information so fast, I want to listen to it a few more times, and have Dan listen with me, too. It's a Bible timeline history power packed on 4 DVDs. Great if you appreciate seeing "the big picture."
I have suffered from depression for most of my life, but when I have thoughts of suicide, I pray, actually I have conversations with God and Jesus and it always starts like this: (PAUSE - I don't get to this til the end of the post, I digress many more times, so you might want to just stop here and come back later when we post some family stuff! The following is just some personal journaling I did for me, really, and for others who suffer from depression or know someone who does). Of course, first I am crying. Not just crying.
Bad crying. A good cry - yes, crying can be good. In a good cry, your lips tremble first because you are trying not to cry, and then the tears start welling up until finally one falls. You can't count it as a good cry unless you let the tears fall. Otherwise, you are stifling your emotions, which is not good. Stifling too many good cries can turn into a bad cry, the kind of cry you have and think "where did this come from?" In a good cry, sometimes you sob a little, sometimes you don't. A good cry isn't necessarily about anything at all but a compilation of things that you just need to let go. Like when you cry because you dropped the flour all over the floor. It's not about the flour or your clumsiness. And a good cry alleviates pain, never causes pain. You feel better afterwards, not like you are just stopping crying because you don't have any more energy left or because you have to go fix dinner, thus the stifling. When you are this deep into depression you don't just cry. Your body heaves. You have trouble breathing because the sobs are so heavy. You hurt in a place that is not anatomical or else people would be getting that body part removed all over the place, and it is the worst pain you have ever felt. I have had a kidney stone, countless migraines, broken feet, been in many car accidents, and gone through four natural childbirths, yep that's right, no painkillers or anesthetics, just an
Enya tape, Dan's hand, and lots of breathing. I'm one of those people more afraid of the big needle in my spine than of a little pain, and if there is a drug-free way to cure something, that's my first choice. Just say No! So of all those painful things I've experienced, depression is the most painful. It
hurts your heart. The first time I heard that phrase was from the mouth of a babe. From Dan's brother, John, the same John in the video above, when he was three. Someone did something that hurt his feelings and he said "You hurt my heart." His phrase. Children are the most clever of humans. A child of three knows where his feelings come from without ever going to medical school! When you are depressed, you hurt in your heart. The dictionary says "pain and ache usually refer to physical sensations (except heartache); agony and anguish may be physical or mental," but that is not true. Whoever wrote that has never suffered from depression. It does hurt, very badly. And just like when people who are in great pain wish for death, so do the depressed. The pain
fuzzes your brain so much that either you can't remember when you last felt good or you view those memories through skewed lenses, the opposite of rose-colored glasses. Sometimes you dismiss the thoughts of suicide because you realize how much you would be hurting the people that love you. Or if you are feeling like no one loves you, you do not want to make a mess on their floor or worse not die but leave them a vegetable they have to take care of and hate you even more. So I couldn't have met Jesus at a better time in my life because I certainly would not be alive right now and neither would Dallas & Noah & Savanna & Bailey. From one soul to four. I was just reading about rats because we watched the Ratatouille DVD last night, great movie, and one article was about breeding rats. The person writing it said that you should only breed rats to to help better the species, so you don't want to breed rats with defects. Huh? If that's the case, then I shouldn't have had children at all. All the way to age 18 (when I fell in love for the first time), that was my choice. I hardly dated at all, didn't even kiss a boy until I was 17, and the only reason that happened was because this boy was seriously flirting with me.
Unbeknownst to me, he flirted with
everyone! I mentioned in passing I had never been kissed (ah, the allure of a conquest), and then he became
quiet suave and said all the right things, particularly, he greeted me always with, "Hey, gorgeous" with a devilish grin that sold it, even to me who
hardly ever ever believed compliments, rare as they were, but always believed disparagement. A boy I had a huge crush on in junior high used to call me flat chested. He also
commented frequently about my huge honker. It was torture. Even though I was almost always first chair, which is supposed to be represented by the seating arrangements in an orchestra, I was forced to sit in between him and another kid who was not mean. The object of my affection was usually second and Mark was third. Mark and the meanie (as he will
thus forth be known as to protect his identity; he eventually quit orchestra, ending my crush - out of sight, out of mind, out of heart - so not many people will be able to figure out who he is. Like most childhood meanies do, he grew out of it and stopped doing it after junior high.), they were buddies, and geniuses at cutting up. So how does she fix this? By punishing me, making me sit second chair between them. This did not stop them from cutting up. Like I said, they were geniuses, I always fell for the smart ones. Not the lookers that everybody loved. That's too easy. I like challenges. I liked him before he was mean to me, but I didn't stop liking him when started calling me names. For the most part, they stopped cutting up when she was conducting or lecturing but as is the nature of first year orchestra, she was often going over to the violins to give some one on one instruction. They needed it most -
oy!. Add to the head splitting noises list: novice violin playing. I originally chose violin but scratched that the first time I played it. It hurt my brain! So it was between cello and viola all the way up to the night we bought my instrument. I would have chosen viola because it was cheaper; I was afraid we couldn't afford the cello. So I told my parents I could not decide, and my dad said he liked the cello which was cool because so did I. Anyway, when she was helping them, the meanie would say things like my nose was in the way, I was as flat a
s Kansas, etc. ha ha. He thought he was
soooo funny. So I would move my fat nose so he could chat with his buddy. It was torture. Pure torture and so unfair. I mean what was the point in even trying out for 1st chair when the only time I got to sit there was at concerts -
he got to sit there, the
meanie. The injustice. I mean, really, I'd rather have my nose than his, but I never made fun of him. Love is blind.
Now, these things never came up when I was listing all the horrible things about myself when I was depressed. Lucky for me, I don't care what I look like, although I do prefer to be well
kempt. I never cared about looks, or else I never would have kissed that boy. He was very skinny, sort of dopey looking actually. He was a
kikker which I was not into at the time (this is what you called them fellas that wore cowboy boots and tight jeans and listened to country music, from
KIKK, which I believe is no longer a country radio station), and he smoked. So my first kiss was against a pool table in his garage, country music in the background and tasted of carrots and smoke. It was nasty and delicious at the same time, a lovely paradox. Why carrots? He ate carrots because he thought this would get rid of the smoky taste. That doesn't work by the way, in case you are looking for tips on hiding
smoke smell. Nothing works, not even brushing your teeth and eating breath mints or chewing gum. It's on your breath and your hair, and especially your fingertips. (Believe me, I know. I might write about it some other time as to why, but I smoked for a couple of years
after my dad died). My parents smoked, and I hated it.
Every time I opened my backpack, I was greeted by smoke wafting from my satchel. I tried for so long to get them to quit because I loved them and did not want them to die. I even wrote a research paper on the effects of smoking chock full of resources and even photos of blackened lungs; I worked very hard to be sure I would get an A on it, so I would have a reason to make them read it, because I love them. They got mad at me though. Who would have thunk it? That didn't stop me from trying. I didn't think it was a hopeless cause because after I became Christian, it irritated me immensely, like fingernails on a chalkboard, when they said "GD." To me, it was literally like someone was cursing my Father. You mess with my family, you mess with me. Every time they said it, I would simply say "Gosh Darn it!" I was offering them an alternative. This is exactly how I discipline my children, go figure. You do what works without hurting someone, even if they are hurting you. It took a few years, but they eventually stopped doing it. They just said dammit. Still cursing, but a compromise. I'm quite persistent when I want something. It's ironic what they listed as Dad's cause of death: nicotine addiction. It's like I knew. I think God was telling me because He knew how much I loved him, preparing me for what was to happen. My life is such a complex maze filled with twists and turns, and I sometimes keep ending up going down the same path over and over which is okay because I am smarter each time I go that way again and I see something new that I didn't notice before. It's like in
RCIA when I was learning about the structure of the mass and the Bible. When you see the "big picture" you have one of those "aha" moments and the thing that was an enigma to you before is now this beautiful thing that you want to keep looking at because you just cannot believe how beautiful it is. Life is beautiful. It's a gift that you are not supposed to return, or you will hurt your giver's heart. Ultimately, this is what saves me from myself when I am suicidal. When my soul is aching, I think of Jesus on the cross (I had to stop just now to cry a little bit, a good cry).
When my soul is aching, I think of Jesus on the cross and of his suffering. He was human, like me. He suffered, like me. But it wasn't his bodily wounds that hurt him. It was his heart that ached. The Sacred Heart of Jesus. He loves all God's children with that forever kind of love, because you loved them from the beginning. The kind you can't get rid of even when your children are hurting you or screaming at the top of their lungs, pushing your "crazy" button. You forgive all those things because your Father forgives you. Study the Theology of the Body some time.
http://www.theologyofthebody.net/ Even if you are not Catholic or Christian, it is fascinating. I missed most of the class on that because we had to go to the church to practice something for baptism. My curiosity was piqued, however. It's works like this that explain why Pope John Paul II was pope. I used to think it was sort of awful for the Catholic Church to be so ornate and that the money could be better
spent on the poor and needy.
But I think differently now. I believe the churches are so beautiful because they are a reflection of the beauty of love. The love God has for us, and the love that we give back to Him, as is spoken about in the Theology of the Body and is represented in the mass and the Trinity, the love that goes back and forth between the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. (Although even the poorest of churches are also beautiful. My favorite church is still the one I went to in Reynosa with my friedn Anna on a missions trip with our church. It was beautiful because you could see God's love reflected in the people, all of them, and when you can see that in the midst of such poverty, it is one of the most beautiful things you will ever see). Oh, boy, I am digressing again. It's one digression after another. But digressions can be a beautiful thing, especially when you are reflecting.
Back to the no dating (I went the wrong way with that, again with the maze metaphor), part of that was because the boys weren't asking but mostly it was because what's the point? I was thinking scientifically, like the rat lady. The point of dating is to find a mate and propagate the species, and I was not planning on propagating. Logically, with my genes, it would not be wise. My favorite class in high school was anatomy. Partly because Mr. Dennison was super cool and mostly because I was amazed by the human body and wanted to figure out what makes it work. My favorite class in college was microbiology (when I was a nursing major, my second favorite was Library Science, ha ha, also science but it was a Children's Literature course). Most people feared microbiology class, it was legend at
TWU because it was hard to pass, but for me, it was a breeze because I was so fascinated. I wanted to know all these little bugs that I couldn't see but knew were there. Knowledge really is power and getting to know about something you are afraid of helps you fear it less. I was a self-proclaimed
germophobe, I cringed at the sight of door knobs. This first began when we studied pond water in 6
th grade life science, or was it 7
th grade? Anyhow, before this I was completely unaware of an entire race of beings that were everywhere but we couldn't see. I once revelled swimming in Lake
Livingston, but after this, I never did it again. Once I touched a door knob, I could feel the bugs crawling on my hands until I washed them off. Hand sanitizer was invented for freaks like me! I settled down quite a bit after microbiology, but what really cured me was having a baby. You'd think the opposite and that I would get more narcotic - ha ha.
Freudian slip? nah! - I meant
neurotic! It took me a few seconds to find the word but I kept saying narcotic - it was making me neurotic!!! Babies are so dirty. Dirty, dirty, dirty. But they are also so cute. Cute, cute, cute. And how can I look at something so cute and imagine him covered in all those nasty little bugs? I would go insane, well, more insane. So I gave up. I still wash my hands after every diaper change (Hand sanitizer does not cut it. I can still feel the bugs, they just smell better!), but that's not crazy, that's good sense! But spit
up's okay. Not vomit, but spit up is different than vomit, similar to the 3 second rule. The more time it's in there, the more yuck factor.
Well if you've made it this far into this post, then you must really care about knowing me, and I will share with you one of my most private moments that I don't normally share. I am not looking for sympathy, but empathy rather, and to help others who are sad. Misery does
not love company, but it helps. I have realized that the more people I tell about depression, the less power it has over me. Plus, it helps to have people who can notice you are getting sad; they often do before I do. Sometimes the downward spiral is gradual, like when I was pregnant with Bailey. Sometimes it is sudden, like after my dad died. There was a time not too l
ong ago when I could not speak 3 words on the subject of my sadness without bursting into tears. It was taboo. People ask, "how are you?" all the time, but we are all trained to say "fine." I usually ponder the question for a bit before I answer while I carefully decide if this is a person I tell the truth or just say"fine" to save them the agony of having to listen to my answer to a question they really didn't want to know the answer to. I am even more careful now that a loaded question like that got me into a lot of trouble and turned my world upside down, twice in fact. Both times, however, the consequences ended up being worth the trouble. Something very bad happened, but then something very wonderful followed, both because of the incidents. I can't wish it didn't happen. So you may want to stop playing with me because I am broken, but I hope that you won't. I suffered alone for so many years, hiding my feelings from most everyone. You do it because you are afraid no one will love you or those that do love you will stop because you are broken, like the toy a kid loves and plays with until it breaks and gets thrown in the trash. I, however, was devastated when my mom threw away my cookie monster because she kept having to sew him back together. Could be why I have clutter issues; I have trouble throwing things away. Could also be why I always root for the underdog, even when they are not so nice, like Tom, Wile E. Coyote (I didn't want them to actually eat Jerry or the Roadrunner; I just wanted them to get to taste victory), or when they are persecuted like Jesus and like the American Indians and the Jews when I would read history stories. Empathizing would leave me in tears. When you suffer alone, you suffer twofold because you do not allow anyone to help you. No one can help you if they do not know. But you will always fear that telling people will make them go away because they do not understand. Some people, as in the case of my first real boyfriend, freak out because you are crying because they just don't know how to deal with you when you are that way. He thought I was crying because of something he did because it was just too odd a concept for him that I did not know why I was crying. His way to get me to stop crying was to cover my face so I couldn't breathe or eventually to hit me (just once). Well, yeah, that works (I never cried in front of him again after he hit me), but it's not the best way to help someone who's depressed. If someone you know is crying a lot for no reason or even for good reasons but
a lot, then they might be depressed. What would be better is to find someone who is experienced with depression and ask for help dealing with this person. Then, if you care about this person and want to keep them in your life, read a little bit about depression. It's not that complicated really. Just imagine a time when you felt really sad about something, like maybe when you found out someone you
really loved died. Imagine feeling like that all the time with varying levels of sadness, but it just won't go away, no matter what you or anyone else does. I have even been told I like to be sad. What? Who likes to be sad? Yes, sometimes I feel more comfortable being sad, and it is a little tricky coming out of a depression because you feel comfortable with the sadness. Not feeling sad is new, and you have to start learning to act and react differently to things. If you can relate to what I am saying here or know someone who has depression, then you are not alone. You are never alone. Even when you are in the deepest darkest hole, so deep that you cannot see the light anymore, you are not alone. Jesus is right there in your heart, even if you don't know Him or believe in Him. He is the lamp unto your feet, the Light of the World. Go to church, any church that you feel comfortable with, and ask for help. Even if you are not Christian and have no plans on becoming so, you will find help. I used to think that the mass was boring, that people were just chanting those prayers from memory and not really feeling and that if we all pray the same, we must be boring God to tears. It may be that way for some, but it's good to memorize prayers and pray them together. God loves it, He loves the other way, too, and I believe it is part of his plan for us. When you are most desperate and delirious with sadness, it's hard to make words, complete thoughts and sentences. But prayers, just like the ABC song, can
become glued to your brain and not escape your mind when most other words do. When you have prayers that you learned when you were young deep down in your heart and mind that you learned when you were most impressionable, these prayers are part of who you are. This is what I hope for my children. Even if they end up in a different religion or no religion, which is highly unlikely but their choice to make, they will have the strongest foundation that I helped lay for them. And who doesn't enjoy or feel a sense of pride when they look at something they helped build, no matter how tiny your part was in the process; even better when others are in awe of your creation. Mom, Dad, look what I did! These prayers are weapons and shields against the demons in your life, whatever they might be. Pray the rosary daily, and it will heal your heart. The sorrowful mysteries are the salve for the depressed. I did not know about the rosary when I had these conversations with God, but I was meditating on the sorrowful mysteries. If Jesus could suffer such grief for His children, so can I.
EWTN shows The Holy Land Rosary every day. I have a little booklet called "The Seven Day Bible Rosary" that I got from
http://www.presentationministries.com/ (they have lots of little publications you can get for free, well nothing is
really free, it is run on donations.) It has all the prayers and a good explaination of how to pray the rosary. So depression makes you want to die, but you really don't want to die. The sickness makes you
think you want to die. And you know yourself better than anyone, so you can be pretty good at convincing yourself. When I have a migraine, I beg Dan, seriously, to chop my head off. He never does, though. Immense pain makes you want to die. My first suicide attempt was when I was 12. I became Christian when I was 13, just in time. Here is what God and I talked about, between the gut wrenching sobs. It's amazing my parents never heard me:
Why?
Why can't I die?
It's not fair when there are so many people who want to live.
Why can't you take me and let them live?
It's so unfair.
Please, please, please take me.
I want to be with you so badly.
I love you so much.
If you loved me, you'd take me.
Please, please kill me.
They would all be so much better off without me.
Nobody loves me, I'm a waste of space.
Please take me.
I want to be with Jesus and You.
Please help me.
Make it stop.
Please, make it stop, make it stop.
It hurts so bad, I can't do it anymore.
I'm stupid, and will never be good at anything.
I'm not worth it.
Why?
Why do You love me?
I'm so
mad at You for loving me.
I could be free if it wasn't for You.
Why, God, why?
Please, please,
please take me.
There is no such thing as an unanswered prayer. God answers all prayers if you listen to him.
And the answer to the questions, why? I didn't know then, but He helped me through it. Sometimes you just need someone to talk to. Talk to God. He is a very good listener. Why does He love me? Just because I'm me. Why do you love your children? Same thing. You will love them whether they are flipping burgers at McDonald's or if they are the one that cures cancer. You will even love them if they are murderers or criminals, because you will never stop hoping they will change. Even the darkest heart can change. And every soul, no matter how flawed the vessel may be, is given the gift of life and deserves a chance to experience life and love.
These conversations would go on for hours, at night, alone in my room except when we had Twinkie. When she diappeared, I was devastated; my depression worsened because she made me feel better. She was a fickle cat, most are. Like Candace and my children, I loved her with that forever kind of love because I also held her when she was a baby. She sat at the foot of my bed, but when I cried, she gently stepped up to my face, licked my tears and then sat there until I finished, periodically rubbing my face with hers. She would let me hold her, pet her, she purred her shaky little purr. Many times it kept me from having a bad cry. Some might say that she just wanted to lick the salt off my face, but I know she was giving me kisses and hugs. She knew I was hurting and wanted to help me. I believe God gave her to me. I picked her because she was the runt; she had a crooked tail. She was the undercat!
I faught so hard with God because I believed that people who commit suicide go to Hell. I no longer believe this. I believe God saves children who are not able to choose Him and the mentally infirm because they also are not able to make healthy choices. God is a loving God and would not punish you for suffering from an illness. I did not fear Hell because I felt like I was already there. My fear was that I would not get to see Jesus. Jesus saves, He really does. Like the song that speaks my heart, "I'm waiting for a another time and another place", but not before it's my time. It's a beautiful song these words are from. It was on a tape an amazing woman made for me of inspirational songs; her name is Julie Hrachovy. Another in the line of souls God placed along my path to help guide my way through this complex maze of life. They have a 30 second clip of the song on Amazon.com, but you should really find a way to hear the whole thing.
... where there is no sadness...
