Well.  My mom said that yesterday’s post made her want to throw herself off a building.

So there’s that.

But on another note, I got some emails from people who were saying that they’ve been there, felt that, got the t-shirt.  Go figure – it seems that loneliness runs in the culture these days.

Thank you, friends (W, C, M, L, H, and G), for your words of solidarity.  We should have a club.  It can be called the Walking Wounded.  Our mascot can be Toad the 3-legged dog.

Greta once heard a sermon in which the pastor (Richard Dahlstrom – holler) compared life to a barn.  You can keep your barn empty, and therefore, very clean and orderly – but that’s not what a barn is meant for.  A barn is made to house LIFE.  And if you invite life into the barn, then you’re bound to have to shovel some shit.

Except I think that Pastor Richard probably didn’t said “shit.”

Guys, I don’t even really say “shit.”  Sometimes the blog flies away from me, and all of a sudden, I’m a cusser.  In real life, I only say cuss words when I stub my toe (often) or Gabe drags the kitchen trash all over the living room (thrice now).

Anyhow, I’ve passed this barn analogy along to a few people, and it seems really pertinent to me all of a sudden.  To invite others in is to welcome the mess.  In a way, it’s what we’re made for.

A few months ago when I was in Nashville, I heard another pastor (Craig Brown – holler again) say that we’re so quick to say that we don’t need Jesus – that is, until we come into contact with other people.  Then, all of a sudden, people are bugging us and letting us down, and we’re failing and disappointing them and becoming the worst versions of ourselves – and without warning, we realize that we need a savior.

I tend to like the idea of being self-sufficient.  I don’t like to need anyone or anything – because what if the needing is met with… nothing?

But luckily, my needing isn’t met with nothing.  There’s grace enough for you, and – miracle of miracles – grace enough for me.

Oh, sigh.  Le blog.

Sometimes (a lot of times), I come to this space and watch the curser blink – blink – blink, just not knowing what to say.  These posts provide such a tiny glimpse into my reality, it’s hard to attempt to paint an accurate picture of what’s going on.  What you see here is a small window – what I don’t communicate far outweighs what I do.

I’m in a strange season right now.  One might argue that I’ve been in a “strange season” for almost 2 years – or almost 30.  I’ve been waiting for a change in the tides, a shift in the forecast – but it’s nowhere to be seen.  And so I walk and wait, and listen and ask, and hope to God that I feel some wind on my face soon.

But last Friday, I cried for the first time in a long time.  I was there on Greta’s couch, telling her honest words that have been stuffed down inside, finally feeling it so necessary, so vital, to just lay my fears bare.  She listened (something she is so good at), and asked questions (another skill of hers).  And then, she compared my life to a big room, and said that it seems I’ve relegated myself to a very, very small corner – that, having ruled out all other areas as “unsafe,” I’ve retreated to the perimeter.

And it’s true.  My back is to the wall – but at least it can’t get stabbed, right?

I’ve recently found myself stiff-arming friends and community in the name of self-protection.  I didn’t used to be this way – I’ve always been ultra-connected and involved with the people around me – but lately, it just hasn’t felt all that safe to let the walls down.

So I’m safe.  But I’m lonely.

In some ways, my life here in Denver looks very, very different than what I had hoped for.  But I don’t know that that’s anybody’s fault but mine.

Forgive me, friends – but these days, it feels next to impossible to string sentences together.  I am walking through a hard time – one of the hardest – and sometimes, it’s like a cinder block tied to my ankles, pulling me down, down, down.

I am not dealing gently with myself, as I should.  Instead, I am running myself into the ground, demanding a lot, believing harsh words, burning the candle at both ends, and losing sleep.  I feel out of control in just about every arena, and, as I told a trusted confidant last night, I don’t know when I’m going to not feel tired.  I would give anything for a wide open schedule and absolute silence.

I do really well in absolute silence – but currently, and honestly, most of the time, life is a cacophony.

In the meantime, at least I can laugh at these:

I told some new friends last night that I’m struggling with some sadness – the death of some hope, the grief of some disappointments.  It’s not depression – because trust me, if anyone knows depression, it’s me – it’s just sadness.  For some legitimate reasons.

Sometimes life is just sad.

Don’t you sometimes wish that your old broken heart could just be made into something new?

(I’ve written about this before – but back then, I was a much better writer.  This girl’s getting rusty.  Thanks for still reading anyway.)

I went to the dermatologist yesterday.

I have an age spot.

At least, I’m calling it an age spot.  The doctor called it a “sun freckle,” and I was like, lady, I’LL SHOW YOU A SUN FRECKLE.  This spot is 5mm by 4mm – much larger than I am comfortable chalking up to just a “sun freckle.”

(To be fair, let’s remember that I have a flair for the drama when it comes to physical woes.)

I wanted her to burn it off, but she said no.  (Why does no one ever indulge my desire for the quick fix?  *pout*)  Instead, she gave me some bleaching cream to use twice a day for 3 weeks.  If it doesn’t help, then I’m supposed to stop using it because if I use it for too long, it could cause paradoxical darkening.

“What’s paradoxical darkening?” I asked, doe-eyed and naïve.

Well, Annie, paradoxical darkening turns out to be exactly what it sounds like.  The cream is supposed to fade the spot – but if you use it for too long, it can have the opposite effect and make it worse.  Get it?  Paradoxical darkening?  Get it?

In any case, it made me think of one of my favorite quotes – one that I’ve written about before, but surfaces frequently enough in my thoughts that it’s worth mentioning again:

“Crying is all right in its way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do.”
-C.S. Lewis (The Silver Chair)

Indulging my feelings is all well and good for a moment or two.  Everyone needs a good cry.  Everyone needs the freedom to acknowledge when they feel left out, or left behind, or unwanted, or unseen, or just tired and sad.  But at some point, it’s time to decide what to do – otherwise, the very thing that was supposed to make you feel better only winds up making you feel worse.

I’m making a plan.

And in the meantime, I am bleaching the devil out of this spot.

I don’t feel much like writing these days.  I’m tired and sad – and those things don’t make for good fodder.

Sorry that the blog has been pretty lame for a while now.  I don’t even know why I’m apologizing – or who I’m apologizing to.  I guess it just feels like the only thing to do.  Life changes, as do the seasons, as do our hearts – and sometimes we get tired and sad.

I struggle with depression – I always have.

But I’m also a Christian.

I’m a depressed Christian.

I can be both, you know.  They are not mutually exclusive.  I can be both.  What it means is that I’m not the one in the front row singing, “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart!”  Instead, more often than not, I’m the kid in the back, responding with the bewildered and suspicious echo: “Where?”

But God is bigger than the way that I feel.

Some of you may not believe that.  Sometimes, I don’t believe it either.  But I suppose that this is where Mark 9:24 comes in handy: “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.”

No drugs required.

I have 5 different possible directions to take this post, all of which are saved as fragments of Word documents on my desktop.  I have been trying to write for days, but quite frankly, everything that is coming out is baloney.  All I can do is stare at the wall.

Y’all, I am exhausted.  And when I am exhausted, I get super pessimistic and woebegone.  Another car honks at me, and I burst into tears.  I find myself presented with chocolate peanut butter brownies, and immediately eat 4.  And then I eat half a frozen pizza.  And tortilla chips.  And maybe some cream cheese on a spoon.  My mind wanders when it should be focused, and I am serious when I should be playful. When I feel overwhelmed, human interaction is the first thing I cut out.  I criticize my body, my abilities, my decisions.

I do not like who I become when I am exhausted.  And I do not like how other people experience me when I am exhausted.

So I’ve been staying quiet.

I’ve been writing in this open venue long enough to know that there are certain things that I should not share.  There are certain times that I should not write publicly.  There are certain emotions that should not be accessible to just anyone.

I make my insides far too available.

But I’m learning to protect my heart, trusting it only to those who have earned it.

So forgive my silence as a simple act of self-preservation.

Today, I am back to reality – back to Nashville, back to the heat, back to work, back to the gym, back to balancing my checkbook, back to routine, back to a schedule.

It feels quite wretched, so much so that I accidentally started bawling last night when I got back – “accidentally” being that I didn’t mean to… it just happened.  Then Julie and Mel and I laid in a circle on my bedroom floor, each of us curled on our side, and I felt a little bit better.

But returning from vacation can feel unstomachable – especially when the previous 12 days had been full of so many good things: family, mountains, ocean, orcas, food, wine, Seattle, music, friends, and dancing to Backstreet Boy’s “Larger Than Life” at Miranda and Will’s wedding.

1999 never sounded so good.  Not even in 1999.

In my absence from real life (i.e. The Internet), I missed Michael Jackson’s funeral, Steve McNair’s murder, Sarah Palin’s resignation, any 4th of July festivities, and the electric bill.  Also, I gained 10 lbs.

Not that I know.  But I KNOW.

I’m overwhelmed with all that I have to catch up on, make up for, rein in, cut out, and resume.  My inbox piled up with emails while I was away, but don’t worry – no one called me except for collections agencies looking for one “Daniel Perkins.”

Today, I sally forth, and will dig myself out of this funk.

I don’t have much to complain about.  My family is intact, and healthy, and stable.  We all love each other, and we all love Jesus.  I have amazing friends, live in a fantastic city, and every need is provided for.  I have opportunities for adventures, and the freedom to pursue basically anything I want to right now.  Life is good – right?

Then why do I feel so shitty?

Lately, I’ve felt weighed down by some heavy burdens – the same old junk that has haunted me my entire life.  How bad has it been?  Oh, just bad enough that I left a dinner party IN TEARS last night.  I mean… the mortification.  I felt completely out of control.

Sometimes, I feel completely out of control.

Here in Nashville, there’s an organization called Magdalene.  Women with histories of violence, prostitution, and addiction are invited to live in community together for two years, free of charge, where they build relationships, “do life” together, and ultimately, have a chance at experiencing healing.  They also run a cottage business called Thistle Farms, in which they sell hand-made bath and body products.  Recently, I was given the chance to review their new book “Find Your Way Home” – and I wanted to share a little bit about it.

In this book, the women of the Magdalene community tell snippets of their own stories – they have lived through things that I, in my sheltered existence, cannot imagine.  But as they write, “We do not share the same experiences, but we all have been in need sometime in our lives.”  And that is why this book spoke powerfully to me – I saw a universal need for love, for acceptance, for truth, and for rest.  Thank God that Magdalene exists for these women who have not found these necessities anywhere else.

It’s a quick read – I finished it in one sitting – and it lists their 24 “rules” for living together.  Some of the lines that struck me?

Even though we may feel lonely when we cry, we are never truly alone.  Our despair is part of a larger chorus howling for justice that stretches back to the prophets.

We are God’s children in flesh and spirit.  We never have to live in shame for all the things that have been done to us or that we have done to others.

I needed these reminders – reminders that God loves me exactly where I’m at, and that it’s never too late.  We’re never too far gone.  Healing can happen, iron bars can be broken, and change is possible.  It’s totally possible.

Because if the women of Magdalene can continue fighting, then I will, too.

“If you had no job, you could be so productive!”

This is basically the biggest lie since “There are no cats in America.”

I believed it. I fell for it. I spent my working days fantasizing about all that I could get done if I didn’t have a job: reading, writing, exercising, cooking, cleaning, organizing – in general, getting it DONE, and becoming the woman that I’ve always dreamed of being.

But there is a problem: when one has nothing on her schedule, no time constraints, no responsibilities – not to mention, no income – then it’s hard to do ANYTHING. Laziness begets laziness. In theory, I now have all the time in the world to do things – and so it’s no big loss if I don’t do it now. So I don’t really do anything at all. Except make cookies. And check our mailbox everyday at 2pm.

My mind, completely un-stimulated, has been a dry well. I have had nothing to write about – no creativity whatsoever. PZC says that his best writing is done when he’s supposed to be doing something else – and I agree with him. When I sit down with the grand expectation and intention of writing, and I have no time constraints, and no deadlines, and nothing to prod my brain, then I usually wind up with nothing but a blank page.

Last night, Julie and Mel came upstairs to find me in the child’s pose on my bedroom floor, silent and depressed. All of our friends had gone home after our St. Paddy’s Day barbeque, and I was feeling so sad I could hardly stand it. Why? Why does sadness sometimes hit me out of nowhere, like an Atlantic swell?

They got down on the floor with me, and scratched my back, and made me laugh, and then we all talked about our lives, our hopes, our disappointments. In the end, because I have the best roommates in the universe, we prayed together.

It’s a new day. I am grateful to wake up in it. And I am hopeful for what it might contain.