Crying on the inside

I wrote the following some time back in June. Having just re-read it, I decided now was as good a time as any to post it. It arose out of an article I read (there's a link below). You might want to read the article first...

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It seems to me that tears are a very misunderstood thing. If you look miserable, someone, somewhere will probably say “cheer up, things might be worse”; (and being of a flippant turn-of-mind – that phrase always makes me think: “so I cheered up, and they were right… things were worse.”) But you try not to be flippant, or rude; so you give them a wan smile, and agree – things could be worse. But inside you’re crying – crying for the loss you just experienced, crying for the pain you’re in, crying for the loneliness you feel, crying for any one of a million reasons of which this person knew nothing. On the other hand, if you plaster a smile onto your face, someone, somewhere, will come up and say “what have you got to be so happy about, don’t you know the world’s going to hell in a hand basket.” So you wipe away the smile, and agree that yes, the world is indeed in a bad place. But inside you’re crying – crying because you haven’t got whatever it takes to cry on the outside, crying because no-one noticed how false your smile was, and all the pain it was hiding.

I started thinking about this when I read an article that one of my friends posted on Facebook: https://nadirahangail.com/2016/05/25/mind-your-own-womb/

It speaks of the pain of three different types of women: (1) the 30-year-olds who’ve been trying for a baby for a long time, but no success; (2) the 34-year-olds with 5+ children castigated for ‘over-populating’ the world; and (3) the 40-year-olds who only have one child, an unexpected miracle… but wanted more.

It made me think of adding another section: the 60+-year-olds, with no children, and for whom the chance has gone. It might go something like this:

A 60-year-old woman, no husband, no children. “You’re so good with children. Why didn’t you ever have one of your own?” “Oh, no particular reason” she replies with a smile. But on the inside she’s crying – crying for the babies she never carried; for the husband she never met; for the illness that dried up her womb; for the God-children that never came her way; for how alone one feels without a family round you; for the lifetime connections she never made with other people; for the fiancé she lost in the war; for the man who hurt her so deeply she found it hard to trust men again; for the beating she received that damaged her womb for ever; for the rape that built a barrier between her and everyone else. She cries for the virginity she’s lost to men who don’t care. Cries most of all that it’s too late, and there will be no more chances.

These aren’t all me (well, maybe one or two). I see people around me who carry these griefs with them. I’ve never forgotten the despair in the voice of some friends, many years ago, as they said, “It’s the crashing disappointment, month after month, as you realise that once again you’re not pregnant.” In that situation all we could do was love them, and pray for them; our prayers for them were answered – not everyone gets such a happy ending.

The spectrum of how women (and men – don’t forget they too suffer some of this) cope with this situation is broad. At one end, some women learn to live with the pain of childlessness with grace and dignity; somewhere in the middle are the rest of us; and finally at the other end of the scale are the women who become so disturbed they need psychological help. Each person in this situation will fall somewhere along this coping spectrum; wherever they are, each one needs love, support and maybe healing.

We can cry out all our grief to God as we lie in bed at night, and he will bring comfort. But that comfort can soon be shattered as once again we are confronted by a friend’s new baby (or worse – new grandchild) and inside, something dies just a little. We find ourselves torn between rejoicing in the joy of our friends, and once again facing the fact that it’s too late for yourself.

I don’t have any amazing conclusions, or bright insights to offer. I don’t know how we can heal this amount of pain. But I do know that our God is a place of refuge, and a source of healing.

Never a good time to die

This coming Friday, Dad and Barbara would have celebrated their 37th wedding anniversary.

The death announcement in
the Redditch Advertiser

On Sunday, it will have been exactly 5 months since he died. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about him, and how much I miss him, and how much I’d like to talk to him again.

I’ve recently been thinking about all the good things that God put in place before my dad died. I want to name them here before they get forgotten in the passage of time.

A but fuzzy - but it was
blowing a gale and
we were all frozen!

The first thing that springs to mind is that the three of us had a really good holiday In November, just a few weeks earlier. I shall carry the memory of that holiday for a long time.

The day before dad died, I filled my car up with petrol. What’s so amazing about that? Well the thing I usually leave it until I’m running on the smell of it, but this time there was about a quarter of a tank left. But if I hadn’t filled up that night I wouldn’t have been able to make all the journeys over the next 3 or 4 days that I needed to; and I can imagine running out of petrol and being stranded before I’d noticed.

Auntie M usually goes home immediately after Christmas, before new year. This year, for the first time ever, she decided to stop longer, and so was still with us on the day dad died. What’s so remarkable about that? Of all our family she lives 4+ hours’ drive away… and doesn’t drive (rest of us live less than an hour apart). That meant she was involved and didn’t just get a phone call later that day.

Flowers from the grave. My cousin Chris made the cross (left),
in the colours that Dad would have liked; Ian, Gill and me
bought the one above.

Before Christmas I was reminded about a task I would have to do for the church music, in the new year. Unusually, I decided to do it there and then, instead of waiting until new year. I never do that. I always work right up to deadlines. But on this occasion, the job was already done, so I didn’t have to worry about it.

As I look back, I know there is never a good time to die; never a good time to loose people from our lives. But also, I can see the hand of God preparing me, in these simple, practical ways, to cope with all the grief that was to come. The grief is still there, but I’m learning to live with it – slowly.

God bless you.

Walking through the valley of the shadow of death

"Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me." Psalm 23:4 (NLT)

I know it’s been a while since my last post; I’m really not good at this blogging thing… or maybe I just had nothing to say up until now. (Not quite true… because actually, I came across a draft post I wrote for this blog – but it turned out to be a complete rant against my GP, so I didn’t publish it; I’m glad I didn’t, because over these last few weeks since Dad died, she’s been amazing.)

Most of the following came from what I can only term a ‘waking dream’. Since Dad's death I’ve not been sleeping very well; I can get to sleep, but wake up after a couple of hours, and that’s it for the next 2 or 3 hours. So during these occasions, sometimes I get up and do stuff, sometimes I pray/think, and sometimes I lie there pretending to be asleep, in the hope it becomes a reality! On this occasion, I was thinking about how grief feels, and what analogy would best describe it, and God showed me the following picture.

Some valleys are wide, some are narrow; some are deep, some are shallow; some are light and bright, others are full of shadows. Psalm 23 talks about ‘the valley of the shadow of death’; I don’t think it’s a valley – I think it’s a chasm. Imagine one of those films where our hero is walking through Antarctica, when all at once, a great chasm opens beneath him, and he falls, tumbles and slides his way deep into the chasm. Once there, there’s no way back – the only way is forward. That’s how grief feels to me.

On 5 January, five weeks ago yesterday, my father died unexpectedly. I was plunged into an overwhelming grief that felt exactly like that chasm in the ice, which I just described. It’s as if I slithered into another dimension, down an ill-kept, bumpy, rocky, and steep helter-skelter (with all the pain and fear - and none of the pleasure), tumbling and sliding over and over, ending up in a bruised and bloody heap at the bottom; then looking blurrily around, wondering where I was and how I got there.

Before me lies a well-trodden, wide path, from the footprints of all those who walked this place before me, and in expectation of all those waiting to come after. From this point on, the path is a long steady uphill climb, which winds its way along a river of tears. To my left, the river; to my right the steep chasm wall is sometimes close by, and sometimes separated from the path by scrubland, where very little grows. As I walk along, there are occasional springs of sweet water rising up, or dropping down the walls, offering a small oasis to stop and rest, and stare up at the sky far above, and the sunlight, which never quite reaches down this far, but which lights the top edges as a guiding light and beacon of hope.

Occasionally I meet other people also walking the path. Some are almost sprinting along, eager to reach the end; most of us offer a helping hand to one another, to get us over a rough patch, before being separated once again. One or two tell tales of how they tried to climb out of the chasm by going straight up the walls, only to fall back even more bruised and broken. I even saw one person curled up in a little ball, caught up so deeply in their own keening grief that they were oblivious to all those who passed by, or who stopped and offered a hand.

Sometimes voices are carried on the breeze, from friends high above in the sunlight. They offer encouragement and love. Other voices whisper from the deep shadows in the cliff walls, telling me there’s no hope, or offering me a quick way out. But exceeding all this, is the invisible hand of Jesus, supporting me when I stumble, lifting me when I fall, carrying me when I’m weak, drying my tears when I cry. It’s his voice I want to hear most in my ears, offering me words of encouragement, peace, love, care, and rebuke; words of serenity, support, promise, guidance, admonishment, and healing; words of rest, refreshment, stillness, direction, and assurance.

It’s not as if I’m a stranger to losing people; I’ve walked this path before, but never so deeply or painfully. The totally surprising aspect to come out of all this, is the positive effect grief has had on my eating. For the first couple of weeks, I went through the phase that most people go through of not feeling hungry, not wanting to eat, and feeling like I was forcing down every mouthful. I sort of expected that – and it isn’t what I’m on about.

The first surprise is that I didn’t immediately revert to old patterns, and try to assuage the grief with food. Second, despite reservations, because I couldn’t concentrate long enough to cook, or even decide what I should eat, I resorted to a few ready meals. But already I’m getting back in the habit of cooking instead of using these, so that’s a major step forward (and in truth, they really don’t taste as good as I remembered!). Third, despite experiencing an extra-strong craving for chocolate, I found I was able to buy a handful of small bars, and then ration them out to one (or occasionally two) per day. Mary says that I’m moving away from many of my old habits, and making far more connections to the new habits I’m trying to develop. She feels that although this was happening before Dad died, his death has speeded up the process.

So it seems that grief can have a positive effect… who knew!

I hope these thoughts help you and bless you on your journey out of the darkness, and into His most glorious light.

The Downward Spiral

For 20, maybe 30 years, now, I've suffered from recurring depression. I can be fine for months, maybe even several years, without a problem, and then suddenly, for no reason I can discern, life becomes overwhelming.

Sometimes it's not so bad, and I can pull myself out of it within a few weeks, but at other times, like now, life feels a bit like a plane in a war movie, that's been fatally hit, and is now spiralling nose-downwards to crash into the earth – sometimes the pilot escapes, and parachutes safely to the ground… and sometimes he doesn't.

My 'parachute' is a combination of anti-depressants and habit; medication doesn't solve the problem, but together, they take the edge off, enough for me to function, and find ways firstly, of coping, and then gradually to find ways to improve.

Several years ago, I was asked the question: "what keeps you going through the bad times?" This was a question put to me in church; I wanted to be really holy and say that it's God who keeps me going – but actually, that's not the whole truth. Over the years I've realised that what actually keeps me going in the hard times is habit.

I'm in the habit of getting out of bed in the morning; of showering; of eating; of going out to work, and so on. In the midst of depression, these habits can help me to function in a way that makes me look 'normal'. I find it harder to get out of bed, I find it even harder to have a shower, and some days – if I'm not planning on seeing anyone, or leaving the house – I don't bother. The arts of cooking and cleaning often desert me altogether, so food becomes anything instant I don't have to think about, and the house gets more and more dusty around me (both of which combine to deepen depression).

Again, habit can come to the rescue here: as you will now know, I have a problem with food, but recently, working with Mary, I've been trying to eat more healthily; I'm really hoping that this habit will step in and keep me going on this path. With Mary's help, I've been putting strategies in place that will help me to cope: how not to forget stuff, how to eat properly after a late night at work, how to remember to take my insulin and meds, and how to plan ahead so I know what I'll be eating in the evening, so I don't spend futile hours sitting in front of the fridge, opening and closing the door a few times, desperately searching for inspiration.

Another habit I want to regain is that of baking my own bread - it's cheaper, it's healthier, it tastes better, and because it's more satisfying, I eat less of it. Eighteen months ago, I began making soda bread (which is so quick and easy it was mixed, shaped and baked within about half an hour!). Then six months later, I acquired a second-hand bread-maker from a family member who didn't use it. That moment transformed my (bread-eating) life – and up until about 2 months ago, I never bought bread again. Not sure what happened 2 months ago, but I suddenly gave up making my own, and started buying these crappy-tasting rolls for my sandwiches. (Maybe that should have been a sign of encroaching depression…?) This last weekend, I realised the time had come to make a new start, and deliberately didn't buy bread – this morning I tasted my own bread again for the first time in several weeks – and honestly, I don't know why I stopped! The taste is so much more amazing than I remembered, and made me realise how dreadful the crappy-tasting rolls had been. What was I thinking?! One thing I'm sure of is that this habit absolutely must continue.

Twelve years ago, I ended up being off sick for six months with depression. It took me about another 8 weeks to back into full-time work, on a phased return. I don't ever want to go there again – that was quite possibly one of the lowest moments of my life – and it was hell. I want to keep working. I want to keep eating well, and living well, and I don't want the depression to rule my life. Like any other chronic illness, I want to learn to live with it, not under it. I really believe that with God's help, this is possible. True – only time will tell, and I may end up regretting these positive words; but God is bigger than any illness.

Speaking of habit – that goes for spiritual matters also (and I'm not preaching, here - I'm telling of a lesson I live): In the good times, build up habits of regular bible-reading, worship and prayer-time, and those habits will get you through the bad times. You may not feel that God is close, but that doesn't matter – what matters is that he is still there, despite what you feel. OK cliché alert here, but it seems completely apt: Just because the sun doesn't shine or show its face doesn't mean it isn't in the sky – it's just hidden behind clouds.

I hope my words are of some help. God bless you.

Post-heavy cold recovery

Apologies, but this is a bit of a poor-old-me session; the POMs kick in quite often, though I usually try and minimise their effect on the people around me. But as this is my journal of the lifestyle change I'm trying to make, and this is all relevant to me, I decided to record the moment -- so if you can't cope with my POMs... don't read any further!

Last week I should have seen Mary, but she cancelled because she's on holiday. But then again, on Tuesday afternoon I began such a heavy cold that I only slept a couple of hours that night; so there's no way I'd have gone to my appointment on Wednesday morning. So far that's the only good thing about this cold -- it's timing has been quite good (as colds go, you understand!).

Spent the next three days in bed (or more accurately, not 'in bed' but 'on armchair', with legs up and back sloped back as far as I could manage -- and still breathe -- which wasn't very far at all). By Wednesday evening, my ribs ached from coughing and throwing up, and I was so tired I didn't know what to do with myself; after three hours in bed, I gave up trying to go to sleep, and instead, put on some washing, filled the dishwasher, fixed the boiler (topped it up - I'm no plumber!), and cleaned a bit of the bathroom (wiped out the sink, and put bleach down the loo). After which I retired to my armchair again, and finally managed to drop off for 20 mins... but it was just enough to stop that 'restless' feeling of being unable to lie still, and allowed to me to get to sleep in bed - thoroughly propped up by half-a-dozen pillows (yes, really -- count them -- 6). There I managed a blessed four hours; not enough, but enough to satisfice (yes, that's a real word - look it up!).

So here we are at Monday morning, and I'm finally back at work -- counting the cost of absence. But in my mind, the real cost has been the work that Mary and I were doing on trying to come to terms with my emotions; I don't 'do' emotions -- at least not in public -- and anything that hurts or I can't cope with has just been suppressed for so many years that I don't really know how to access them any more. The problem is they're still there, festering away, leaking their poison into the rest of my life. So this week, I've forgotten to take some of my insulin, I've eaten some not-so-good-for-me stuff at the wrong times (like biscuits), I've forgotten to take my tablets, I've done no exercise, and my shoes don't fit because everything has swollen up. Not exactly the poster-girl for the work we're trying to do. I could use the excuse that I've been ill, but that's exactly what it would be -- an excuse... and anyway that somehow feels like 'cheating'.

I can already hear Mary's voice telling me not to be so hard on myself, but if I wasn't, who would be? Someone has to rescue me from myself. But the truth is I feel flat and empty right now. And where is God in all this? Well, he's there -- 'he's here' would be a better rendition -- but I have to admit I've hardly thought about him at all this last week... selfish to the last. But this one thing I'm sure of -- just because I haven't thought about him, doesn't mean he hasn't thought about me. He's done nothing but think of me, and sit with me.

I was just trying to think about a verse to illustrate what I'm talking about and I remembered one that says something about 'the eyes of the Lord watch over us', so I looked it up, and thought I'd put it here - notice what he does for the 'crushed'(!). Lord you are truly amazing.

Psalm 34: 15-19

15 The eyes of the Lord watch over those who do right;
    his ears are open to their cries for help.
16 But the Lord turns his face against those who do evil;
    he will erase their memory from the earth.
17 The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help.
    He rescues them from all their troubles.
18 The Lord is close to the brokenhearted;
    he rescues those whose spirits are crushed.

19 The righteous person faces many troubles,
    but the Lord comes to the rescue each time.

Hope

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." (Romans 15: 13)

These are words I'm hanging on to at the moment. About 3 years ago, I was diagnosed with an eating disorder. No I'm not anorexic, I'm not bulimic, and I'm not skinny and underweight – just the opposite. My diagnosis is that I overeat; I overeat to compensate for all kinds of stuff (I find that 'stuff' is a great word, and covers a whole gamut of meanings). So for the last 2 years I've been working with a psychologist from a clinic in Warwick which deals with people like me – who have eating disorders of all kinds. They aim to sort out the whole person, and work with us to help us find our way through the morass of baggage we all carry with us from the past… and I have 50+ years of past, so there's a lot of baggage to sort through.

So it's taken me this long to get to the point of being able to talk and write about all this. Right now I'm trying to be as cool and clinical as possible, so I don't get carried away into a quagmire of emotions and loose what I'm trying to say.

As I said in my first post, I'm really doing this blog as a form of aide-memoire; I need to chart my travel along this path. I'm told that I've reached a key moment in this walk – but to be honest it doesn't feel that way to me. Right now, I feel like there's two of me – there's the me that really wants to change, that really wants to start eating the right foods, in the right quantities, that will help me initially to lose weight, but in the long term will help me to change, (I'm trying to avoid the word 'normal' here!), to live a life where I'm not hiding behind all these walls I've built around myself – and that's definitely easier said than done. But then there's the me that keeps sabotaging the work, and I suddenly find – without consciously noticing – that I've bought and eaten a ton of chocolate, or a giant-size meal, or whatever it might be. I even asked my psychologist (let's call her 'Mary') if I was developing a split personality, but she was absolutely emphatic that no I'm not; what I'm going through is completely normal. 'Normal' is the very last thing I feel right now. Anyway, I think that's enough for now, I can feel all the emotions welling up, and need to go deal.

God bless you for reading.

Plenteous Redemption

Post number 2 (I wonder how long it will be before the novelty of counting them wears off!).

I was enjoying a classical music CD in the car on Saturday, when I heard the choir sing: "in him is plenteous redemption" It's a phrase taken from Psalm 130: 7 "O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is mercy and loving-kindness, and with Him is plenteous redemption." I've never thought of redemption as having a measurable aspect to it before. Redemption is what Christ did for us on the cross. Psalm 103: 4 says "He redeems me from death and crowns me with love and tender mercies." and Hebrews 9: 12 says “With his own blood – not the blood of goats and calves – he entered the Most Holy Place once for all time and secured our redemption forever.”

In its simplest form redemption is this: imagine you take something valuable to a pawn shop because you need the money. The pawn-broker lends you the money, and promises that you can buy back the object within a certain time-limit, for a particular price. A short time later you go back to the pawn-broker with the money, and redeem (ie, buy back) the object. It’s a one-time thing (though of course, you could re-pawn the item and re-redeem it again several times over). The word 'redeem' originated in the Greek markets and was about buying slaves. Jesus has bought us and set us free from slavery – we are redeemed!

But what we are offered is not just redemption, but plenteous redemption: plentiful, abundant, copious, overflowing, bounteous, ample, profuse, and lavish redemption. (Yes, sometimes a Thesaurus can be a wonderful thing!). “God freely and graciously declares that we are righteous. He did this through Christ Jesus when he freed us (redeemed us) from the penalty for our sins.” (Romans 3:24)

May God bless you as you ponder these words.