One of the popular "comforting" statements Christians use when they are talking with someone who is struggling is "God will not give you more than you can bear." I can't even say how many times I have heard that statement in the last 18 months. I would like to ban this statement and anyone who uses it.
I realize that it is often difficult to know what to say when someone is going through something you have never experienced personally. Most people have good intentions when offering some cliche; they simply do not know what to say so they fall back on these little sound bites of hope. However, good intentions aside, telling someone who is being destroyed by the storm they are in that what she is going through is not "more than she can bear" is the equivalent of spitting in her face. It is smug and arrogant to presume that you know what someone can or cannot live through. If you are someone who has never stood where that person is standing, if you are someone whose life is going pretty well, this statement is waving your own blessings in that person's face.
The last year and a half has been more than I can bear. I have been shattered, broken, whatever metaphor you want to buy. I have been brought so low by the things that have happened that I cursed God, screamed at Him, denied Him, taunted Him. I have considered suicide or driving away and simply leaving everyone I love. I have pulled over on the side of the highway and screamed at the top of my lungs, beating the steering wheel. I have lain sobbing on the floor, I have been unable to rise. I have been moody and sarcastic, withdrawn and hateful. Bitterness has taken a hold of me, turning every good thing that happened into a mockery of my pain.
When I finally decided to seek help through therapy, I was in a place so low that I truly did not believe that God existed. How could He exist and allow me to be in so much pain? If He loved me and wanted me to live for Him, how could he allow me to be in such a dark tunnel that I no longer cared if I lived or died? The things I have been through have not brought me any "lessons" from God; they have not been Sunday school learning experiences.
The therapist I saw (and am seeing) has no particular faith or at least not one that he uses like a weapon the way "Christian counselors" have in the past. But at our very first meeting, he used Jonah and the whale as an example. He compared me to Jonah, stuck in that dark belly of a whale with no control over where the suffering would take me. Jonah had turned away from God, which is how he ended up in that dark belly. He told me that everyone suffered and that perhaps now was my time to suffer. That while I had no control over my future or when my suffering would end, I did have control over my attitude while I suffered. After that, I began to start taking stock in myself. I began to journal my successes and remind myself of things I was capable of. I began to believe in myself again, believe that I could live through the suffering and come out on the other side whole.
Shortly after that, things took a turn for even worse. I was blindsided by the things that followed. It seemed impossible that life could possibly get any worse and yet, here I was facing MORE. I am still facing these things, still attempting to survive them. But now, I know that I CAN face them. I know that it will be hard and painful, that I will sob and scream and curse but that I will survive. I know that I will fail myself and my children time and time again but that I will always rise again.
I also know that the God I believe in is real. I know that HE can bear my cursing, bear my screaming and defiance. I know that the idea of Christians walking through the storm with a smile and a proverb is the creation of humankind, not the creation of God. David, in the Old Testament, railed at God, accused God of abandoning him. David wept and sobbed and refused to listen to God. He knew that God was big enough to absorb these things, that God loves us despite our human failings and that God will not forsake us because we do not pretend to love the pain we are in.
Remember that when you offer someone who is struggling the "more than you can bear" statement, you are telling that person it is not okay for her to fall apart. You are distancing yourself, in effect telling that person to stop complaining and buck up. Instead, offer that person a shoulder to cry on or take on one of that person's responsibilities so that he or she can fall apart for a few minutes. If you love that person, let him or her scream at you, say horrible things about God or life, let that person release the valve of his or her suffering. Remind that person that God can take it; He is big enough to take on their curses and screaming, that He always forgives and never forsakes. Let them know you know how unbearable it is and bear with them.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Theme for the Week: I Am Old
I've nearly survived the first week of being a full time college student,working part time and trying to balance this with being a mom and wife. I'm hoping that this magically gets easier because this week has been one of the hardest, longest weeks I've had to get through in a very long time.
The first day on campus, I had myself worked up into a state of anxiety that I could not shake off. When I get overly anxious, I am easily confused and disoriented. Even though I had gone to college on this very campus for two straight years, I could not get my bearings. The campus itself is not enormous and is basically laid out three parallel rows of buildings and parking lots but I wandered aimlessly, the crowds of young students with their backpacks making it impossible for me to take a moment, stop, and figure out where I was. I found my first two classes, made my way to the union building and sat staring into space for awhile, trying to process before I faced the afternoon classes.
In the union building, I found the commuter lounge and tried to settle in for a bit but figured out very quickly that I had stumbled on the meeting place for a bunch of odd, Sailor Moon obsessed, group of gothic video gamers. When the guy in the kilt showed, I fled upstairs to the open lounge. Once I ate lunch,I was able to use the hour and a half break time I had to look at the campus map and talk myself back into a normal state of mind. I felt much better and was able to navigate the rest of the day without a problem.
I had yet to buy my text books or parking permit (and was rewarded with a ticket! because paying an exorbitant amount of money to commute does not mean I have the right to park without paying for that too!) so that night when I got home from classes, I looked over the syllabi I wrote down the assignments due Wednesday and tried to figure out which ones I could do that night and which I would need the textbooks but most of them I needed the text books for. I work all day Tuesdays but left a little early so I could make it to the bookstore (the one I work at does not sell textbooks) before it closed. I was then up until after midnight doing work, with a 6am wake up call for the day to start.
The workload panicked me. I've been out of the game too long and I felt like I was muddling my way through it. I felt stupid and thick and like I've set up myself for humiliating failure. I'm surrounded in class by young, unfettered kids with hours and hours to read and who speak easily in class immersed in the game of learning. I'm rusty and old and overburdened with other responsibilities. The worst part is the English classes all have some group assignment requirement, one of the classes has a group research/presentation project as a quarter of your grade. When they started talking group projects, I felt a hive coming out on my lip. How in the world am I going to fit working with a bunch of teenagers on a project into my schedule?
And the culture on campus! The young guys over sprayed with cologne and their pants hanging down, the young skinny girls with juicy or pink on the butt of their sweatpants. The orange tans and the texting and peacock tail courting rituals. I knew it was going to be this way but it makes me feel old and frumpy and uninterested in meeting anyone at all.
I hope as the semester goes on, it gets easier and becomes more routine. This week I feel like I've bitten off more than I can chew. I see my kids for an hour or so before bedtime, I haven't looked at a school note or spelling test list all week (I also haven't wiped anyone else's bottom all week so there's that.). I'm taking Thursdays off at work for a while until I acclimate as well and I keep telling myself it's only a few months. I can get through this. I can do this. I hope.
The first day on campus, I had myself worked up into a state of anxiety that I could not shake off. When I get overly anxious, I am easily confused and disoriented. Even though I had gone to college on this very campus for two straight years, I could not get my bearings. The campus itself is not enormous and is basically laid out three parallel rows of buildings and parking lots but I wandered aimlessly, the crowds of young students with their backpacks making it impossible for me to take a moment, stop, and figure out where I was. I found my first two classes, made my way to the union building and sat staring into space for awhile, trying to process before I faced the afternoon classes.
In the union building, I found the commuter lounge and tried to settle in for a bit but figured out very quickly that I had stumbled on the meeting place for a bunch of odd, Sailor Moon obsessed, group of gothic video gamers. When the guy in the kilt showed, I fled upstairs to the open lounge. Once I ate lunch,I was able to use the hour and a half break time I had to look at the campus map and talk myself back into a normal state of mind. I felt much better and was able to navigate the rest of the day without a problem.
I had yet to buy my text books or parking permit (and was rewarded with a ticket! because paying an exorbitant amount of money to commute does not mean I have the right to park without paying for that too!) so that night when I got home from classes, I looked over the syllabi I wrote down the assignments due Wednesday and tried to figure out which ones I could do that night and which I would need the textbooks but most of them I needed the text books for. I work all day Tuesdays but left a little early so I could make it to the bookstore (the one I work at does not sell textbooks) before it closed. I was then up until after midnight doing work, with a 6am wake up call for the day to start.
The workload panicked me. I've been out of the game too long and I felt like I was muddling my way through it. I felt stupid and thick and like I've set up myself for humiliating failure. I'm surrounded in class by young, unfettered kids with hours and hours to read and who speak easily in class immersed in the game of learning. I'm rusty and old and overburdened with other responsibilities. The worst part is the English classes all have some group assignment requirement, one of the classes has a group research/presentation project as a quarter of your grade. When they started talking group projects, I felt a hive coming out on my lip. How in the world am I going to fit working with a bunch of teenagers on a project into my schedule?
And the culture on campus! The young guys over sprayed with cologne and their pants hanging down, the young skinny girls with juicy or pink on the butt of their sweatpants. The orange tans and the texting and peacock tail courting rituals. I knew it was going to be this way but it makes me feel old and frumpy and uninterested in meeting anyone at all.
I hope as the semester goes on, it gets easier and becomes more routine. This week I feel like I've bitten off more than I can chew. I see my kids for an hour or so before bedtime, I haven't looked at a school note or spelling test list all week (I also haven't wiped anyone else's bottom all week so there's that.). I'm taking Thursdays off at work for a while until I acclimate as well and I keep telling myself it's only a few months. I can get through this. I can do this. I hope.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Adventures in Bookselling
Right before Thanksgiving I took a part time job at a friend's book store. It's actually a pretty ideal job, easy to do once you know how to run the software plus it is a small enough business that there will most likely be plenty of time for me to do course work those two days a week.
I laughed when the owner warned me that the hardest part of the job was the customers but I had no idea how right she was. I started working just as the holiday shopping began to ramp up and and some of the characters that have come in are so ridiculous that I have been telling the owner if she ever closes shop, she should write a book.
Just today I had the worst kind of customer come in, the cranky old sourpuss. These are the old women for whom nothing is ever right, you know when they walk in the door with their tight lipped grimaces and tight gray perms that they are the type to send food back endlessly at a restaurant, complain about their kids/grandkids but then grouse about how they never visit, etc. Today's COS had a list of books and authors in her hands but refused any help to show her where any of them might be (alphabetically arranged but apparently still unclear), complained that the stairs leading up to the used book room were too steep (even though I offered to go up for her and bring down any books by authors she was looking for), and then before she left made sure to let me know that she'll be heading to a different bookstore in the next town over where the books are easier to find. Because it is necessary to ruin someone else's day for the fun of it.
I started just as the holiday shopping was ramping up and that was the best time for me to get to know the next worst kind of customer-the one who saw this book? with that red or maybe green cover? on that morning show? and don't know genre, author, or any of the keywords in the title. These customers will drape themselves across the counter while you are searching on google, trying to see the screen and offer more "helpful" hints-I think it was a man? And then after the show, this cook was on? On one memorable occasion I had a cranky old sourpuss who also fit this category and who, when Google and I could not read her mind was so rude and slammed the door so hard that her daughter came back to apologize later.
Then there are the outright lunatics. One morning, a man called with a loud booming voice and at first, I thought maybe he was just a little slow and I tried to humor him on the phone. After about fifteen minutes of listening to him go on and on about his living situation and his financial situation and his inability to spell, I began to realize he was actually a certifiable nutjob. Not only did his voice give me chills but he kept repeating "My name is Robert J. Smith but you can call me Chris". Turned out later that his name seemed so familiar because it is actually the name of one of the local ambulance chaser law firms. He called four more times in the next half hour until we convinced him that if he came in and prepaid, we'd order the very expensive rare seafood cookbook and it would be in before Christmas. He did come in the following week (just as scary in person as on the phone) and prepay for the book and then proceeded to call daily to check on it's status.
There are also the regulars--the guy who orders Catholic books and has asked me to call the monks a few counties over to find out where they get their books, the guy who orders these huge graphic novels, the guy who comes in reeking of cigarette smoke so strongly that it lingers for hours after he leaves, the girl who orders every book in a series based on television (Murder She Wrote, Monk, etc), the Vietnam vet who watches the history channel all day and then calls to say "find me a book on the Japanese bombing of Australia in 1942 and a book on the rules of rugby" and of course, the nice book club ladies who seem uninteresting but then will order books with half naked firemen on the cover.
Working here has been an eye opening social experiment for me. I'm not invested enough that the cranks or the loons can upset me and it certainly makes for some interesting stories to tell my husband when I get home. I think it's going to be a nice diversion as I head into the school/kids/work chaos.
Proof that I am not exaggerating:
http://www.halushki.com/2009/02/retail-book-store-pass-fail.html
I laughed when the owner warned me that the hardest part of the job was the customers but I had no idea how right she was. I started working just as the holiday shopping began to ramp up and and some of the characters that have come in are so ridiculous that I have been telling the owner if she ever closes shop, she should write a book.
Just today I had the worst kind of customer come in, the cranky old sourpuss. These are the old women for whom nothing is ever right, you know when they walk in the door with their tight lipped grimaces and tight gray perms that they are the type to send food back endlessly at a restaurant, complain about their kids/grandkids but then grouse about how they never visit, etc. Today's COS had a list of books and authors in her hands but refused any help to show her where any of them might be (alphabetically arranged but apparently still unclear), complained that the stairs leading up to the used book room were too steep (even though I offered to go up for her and bring down any books by authors she was looking for), and then before she left made sure to let me know that she'll be heading to a different bookstore in the next town over where the books are easier to find. Because it is necessary to ruin someone else's day for the fun of it.
I started just as the holiday shopping was ramping up and that was the best time for me to get to know the next worst kind of customer-the one who saw this book? with that red or maybe green cover? on that morning show? and don't know genre, author, or any of the keywords in the title. These customers will drape themselves across the counter while you are searching on google, trying to see the screen and offer more "helpful" hints-I think it was a man? And then after the show, this cook was on? On one memorable occasion I had a cranky old sourpuss who also fit this category and who, when Google and I could not read her mind was so rude and slammed the door so hard that her daughter came back to apologize later.
Then there are the outright lunatics. One morning, a man called with a loud booming voice and at first, I thought maybe he was just a little slow and I tried to humor him on the phone. After about fifteen minutes of listening to him go on and on about his living situation and his financial situation and his inability to spell, I began to realize he was actually a certifiable nutjob. Not only did his voice give me chills but he kept repeating "My name is Robert J. Smith but you can call me Chris". Turned out later that his name seemed so familiar because it is actually the name of one of the local ambulance chaser law firms. He called four more times in the next half hour until we convinced him that if he came in and prepaid, we'd order the very expensive rare seafood cookbook and it would be in before Christmas. He did come in the following week (just as scary in person as on the phone) and prepay for the book and then proceeded to call daily to check on it's status.
There are also the regulars--the guy who orders Catholic books and has asked me to call the monks a few counties over to find out where they get their books, the guy who orders these huge graphic novels, the guy who comes in reeking of cigarette smoke so strongly that it lingers for hours after he leaves, the girl who orders every book in a series based on television (Murder She Wrote, Monk, etc), the Vietnam vet who watches the history channel all day and then calls to say "find me a book on the Japanese bombing of Australia in 1942 and a book on the rules of rugby" and of course, the nice book club ladies who seem uninteresting but then will order books with half naked firemen on the cover.
Working here has been an eye opening social experiment for me. I'm not invested enough that the cranks or the loons can upset me and it certainly makes for some interesting stories to tell my husband when I get home. I think it's going to be a nice diversion as I head into the school/kids/work chaos.
Proof that I am not exaggerating:
http://www.halushki.com/2009/02/retail-book-store-pass-fail.html
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The year ahead
When I think about 2009, my mouth goes dry and my heart starts to race in a sort of post traumatic stress syndrome kind of way. It was, without a doubt, the worst year of my life to date.
It actually started in 2008 when my husband began to suddenly suffer from migraines. We wrote it off as stress as first. We were living in a new city, far from our hometown with three kids under five. S was working 70 hour weeks at his new job while I attempted to form a new life as at a stay at home mom in a new place.
In early 2009, I began to pester S to see his doctor about what seemed to be a sinus infection. But even with strong antibiotics the sinus infection continued to grow worse, leading to vertigo so severe he couldn't stand up without falling. The doctor called it "benign position vertigo" and ordered an MRI to check for deposits in his ear canal and a visit with a neurologist.
One morning, before we had could even schedule either of those visits, I heard a loud thump in the kitchen and found my husband on the floor. His eyes were rolling back in his head, his body convulsing, and he was completely unaware of my presence. This would be the start of an adrenaline fueled maze through emergency room visits, tests of every kind imaginable, fifteen different neurologists, a week in one of the top hospitals in the country, three endocronologists, five cardiologists, an MS specialist and finally a diagnosis of a rare genetic disorder studied by only a handful of doctors in the world for only the last fifteen years.
On top of doctor visits, prescriptions, tests, ER visits, and jargon I could barely understand, I had to continue raising my kids while living a day's drive away from family and friends. I had to continue to get my daughter to school on time, supervise homework, make sure everyone ate regularly, keep up on the laundry, and manage our dwindling finances while battling insurance companies and keeping family and friends up to date.
While watching my husband fade away, I had to learn how to demand attention and respect from doctors and nurses. I had to learn how to be loud and forceful, had to learn that for every good doctor, there are fifteen arrogant know-it-alls ready to dismiss you without even reading your patient history. I had to deal with people I loved and trusted saying hurtful things or disappearing completely.
In September, our savings gone and still without a diagnosis, we had to pack up our kids and move into my in-laws' home defeated and exhausted. In November, we met with a world renowned doctor who handed us the diagnosis with such gentleness and kindness that it wasn't until we left his office that we realized that he was not able to give us the one thing we still needed--hope. This diagnosis is not the earth shattering kind like cancer or a brain tumor but it has completely changed our lives. We do not know what our future holds, there are no studies or tests, only experimental medications and questions.
This space is where I hope to write about the next phase, the place where we try to carve out a new future from the wreckage. Where I will write about joining the teenagers and twenty somethings on campus as a full time student pursuing a degree that will let me support my family eventually. Where I will write out the ways in which we are changed. And where, hopefully, I can find some funny and bright moments to light the way.
It actually started in 2008 when my husband began to suddenly suffer from migraines. We wrote it off as stress as first. We were living in a new city, far from our hometown with three kids under five. S was working 70 hour weeks at his new job while I attempted to form a new life as at a stay at home mom in a new place.
In early 2009, I began to pester S to see his doctor about what seemed to be a sinus infection. But even with strong antibiotics the sinus infection continued to grow worse, leading to vertigo so severe he couldn't stand up without falling. The doctor called it "benign position vertigo" and ordered an MRI to check for deposits in his ear canal and a visit with a neurologist.
One morning, before we had could even schedule either of those visits, I heard a loud thump in the kitchen and found my husband on the floor. His eyes were rolling back in his head, his body convulsing, and he was completely unaware of my presence. This would be the start of an adrenaline fueled maze through emergency room visits, tests of every kind imaginable, fifteen different neurologists, a week in one of the top hospitals in the country, three endocronologists, five cardiologists, an MS specialist and finally a diagnosis of a rare genetic disorder studied by only a handful of doctors in the world for only the last fifteen years.
On top of doctor visits, prescriptions, tests, ER visits, and jargon I could barely understand, I had to continue raising my kids while living a day's drive away from family and friends. I had to continue to get my daughter to school on time, supervise homework, make sure everyone ate regularly, keep up on the laundry, and manage our dwindling finances while battling insurance companies and keeping family and friends up to date.
While watching my husband fade away, I had to learn how to demand attention and respect from doctors and nurses. I had to learn how to be loud and forceful, had to learn that for every good doctor, there are fifteen arrogant know-it-alls ready to dismiss you without even reading your patient history. I had to deal with people I loved and trusted saying hurtful things or disappearing completely.
In September, our savings gone and still without a diagnosis, we had to pack up our kids and move into my in-laws' home defeated and exhausted. In November, we met with a world renowned doctor who handed us the diagnosis with such gentleness and kindness that it wasn't until we left his office that we realized that he was not able to give us the one thing we still needed--hope. This diagnosis is not the earth shattering kind like cancer or a brain tumor but it has completely changed our lives. We do not know what our future holds, there are no studies or tests, only experimental medications and questions.
This space is where I hope to write about the next phase, the place where we try to carve out a new future from the wreckage. Where I will write about joining the teenagers and twenty somethings on campus as a full time student pursuing a degree that will let me support my family eventually. Where I will write out the ways in which we are changed. And where, hopefully, I can find some funny and bright moments to light the way.
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