Battles

Another weekend ending, a new week about to begin. Somebody asked me today if I was ready for it, and I said I felt like I was going into battle. Not that I've ever fought in a battle and know what that would actually feel like. I would hate to be a soldier, to have to rely on my strength and speed and my ability to make decisions under extreme pressure. Fortunately, my battle is only metaphorical.

We had a relatively quiet weekend, both of us in Baltimore with no plans to leave the country for a while. I wasn't very easy to get along with this weekend. I was hermit-like on Saturday and had become depressed by mid-afternoon. Today was a little better, started out with a jog and was non-stop activity until we came home with dinner. But we were both in bad moods by that point -- we had disagreed about what to eat and I think R had just had enough of me. He gave into my desires, as he's prone to do, but he wasn't happy about it. Then he got into a minor yelling match with a guy in a white Lincoln who accused R of cutting him off. Fortunately, nobody got out of their cars and no guns were pulled and I managed to keep my eyes on the copy of Citypaper I was flipping through.

So I am reminded that Richard's patience is not without end. He gives and gives, but it does wear him down. I do wear him down.

This weekend I confessed to R that my eating issues have been problematic of late, which he of course figured but it was nice to come clean. I also confessed that I've been utilizing the anti-anxiety medication pretty regularly, that perhaps I don't trust myself to have it. It wouldn't be a problem except that I think it's helping the depression to creep back into my life and it makes me quite tired most days, even the days I don't take it. I've glimpsed too much hope to slide back into depression now. So R will hold onto those meds for me; I'd like not to rely on it anymore. It's too easy to numb the discomfort and fear.

So I'm praying that I'll be giving R something more than a half-empty bottle of pills; hopefully, I'll give him back myself. Hopefully, I'll continue the battle for true life.

Monday

It's another Monday, another day of feeling distracted and preoccupied and unable to concentrate. When I was in the fourth grade, I woke up with a headache every Monday morning (and thus began my love affair with migraines...but I'll save that for another post). I hated Mondays. Mostly because I was involved in community theatre; we'd have 3 performances a weekend for 6-8 weeks, and I absolutely loved being at the theatre. I loved being on stage and backstage and putting on costumes and being with fascinating people in the dressing rooms and hearing grown-up (sometimes quite risque) conversations. I would plummet into depression after each Sunday matinee performance, knowing the weekend was about to be swallowed up and I'd have to survive 5 long torturous days before I'd return to the theatre. Five days of school with all its pressures to perform in a different way, five days of insecurity about not being one of the pretty ones or the popular ones or the rich ones; sure, I was one of the smart ones, but I lived in terror that I wasn't the smartest, and that was what mattered in my mind: the superlative.

The Monday migraines have fortunately not persisted. The insecurities have twisted themselves into new costumes, they've grown new layers and convinced themselves they are more complicated than they used to be. But really, are they any different? Isn't it still about being good enough (the best), about people approving of (loving) me, about proving my (great) worth? The performing never ends.

There's a verse or two in scripture about "dying to self" -- I am keenly aware that I am very much living for myself, although I like to fool myself into thinking I am not; I am front-and-center, I am the star of the show. I'd like for someone to kick me off the stage, but perhaps it's my responsiblity to bow out gracefully or to let someone else have the solo.

I'm ending this post before the theatre metaphor gets any more out of hand. It's Monday, I can't be expected to demonstrate coherence so early in the week.

For my husband: first movement

I've been seeing a psychotherapist for the past year or so. (Let's be honest: I've been seeing this psychotherapist for a year...there were others before her.) One of her favorite "tools" is affirmations -- she believes that if we recite affirmations to ourselves, things that we want to be true about ourselves but that we do not believe are true, we will become capable of growing into those truths. The affirmation she instructed me to speak as of Wednesday: "I used to be a self-destructive person. I'm not like that anymore." Self-destruction is a strange thing. Why would anyone want to destroy herself? Why so much pent-up self-hatred? I don't know if it's even self-hatred or just a fear of being ordinary, a powerful attraction to dysfunction to escape the frightening reality that I am nothing special, just like everyone else, nothing worth concerning yourself over. Any way you look at it, it's a little pathetic. But any way you look at it, the self-destructive tendencies exist and they are strong.

Over the years, they have presented themselves in different ways: drug and alcohol misuse, eating disorders, damaging relationships. And the toll it takes is frequent bouts with depression and frequent seeking out of new or recycled self-destructive habits. As I said, it's a little pathetic.

The difference now is that I'm married. My husband, understandably, is not convinced that self-destruction is the right path to take (and of course, on a conscious level, I am not convinced either, but we're not talking about conscious thought processes at the moment). Richard wants to see me happy and healthy. He wants me to be free to live. He doesn't ever worry about me being ordinary or normal -- he knows who I am and he still loves me. Why? Why would God make us all to be so small, so insignificant, so fleeting, and yet love us and give us significance? And how could I not doubt this beautiful truth?

Richard, I love you. I thank you for caring so deeply about me, although I don't understand why. I pray you will have patience and perseverence and continue to believe that I am worth concerning yourself over. I don't expect it's an easy thing to do. I'm trying to live and I find it difficult and confusing and more than a little pointless sometimes, but I'm trying. And I do love you.