A Mountain I'm Willing To Die On, Part Two

If you haven't read the original post, please start here.

I’m not a smart man. But I know what Love Is. - Forrest Gump

Several years ago at church, Craig and I sat through a sermon condemning homosexuality. As I listened to the sermon, which was based upon two lines of scripture in the New Testament, every fiber in my body rejected the message. My palms sweated, my heart pounded, and I started to feel queasy. I left the church building that day on fire and didn’t get a good night’s sleep for a month.

Instead of sleeping, I spent my nights scouring scripture, researching the positions of different denominations, and praying and praying and praying some more. I wrote this to several ministers: “I am a Christian and a seeker and I’m trying desperately to reconcile God’s commandment to love my neighbor without judgment and the church’s stance on homosexuality. Would you discuss this with me?” Not one minister wrote back. Every morning when the sun finally came up, I’d call Sister at work. She’d answer her phone with: “We’re gonna talk about the gays again, aren’t we, Sister?” Yes, Sister. Yes, we are. Clear your schedule.

Figuring out my stance on homosexuality felt like a life and death decision. When I described the intensity of my concern to other Christians, most would say, “but, why? You don’t even have a gay family member.” This response was very confusing to me. Isn’t the whole point of Christianity that we are all family? That we should love our neighbors as ourselves? That if any of us is hungry, we are all hungry? That if any of us is oppressed, we are all oppressed? According to the Jesus I read about in the Gospels, these people who were being persecuted for their sexuality WERE my family. The children who were killing themselves because the world (and the church in particular) would not accept them WERE my children. And I thought that being a Christian required me to love them, to ache for them, to fight for them with the same urgency I would have if I were fighting for myself. The fact that I had never met them before was completely inconsequential, according to Jesus.

I have these new friends named Jaime and Laura…they’re gay and married. They love each other very much. I recently looked through their photos and noticed that their wedding looked a lot like mine. Actually, their lives look a lot like mine, except that their son, Simon, is very sick with a heart condition. So I’m not sure they really give a rat’s ass right now if Christians “accept” them or call their love for each other “sinful” or not because they are quite busy caring for each other and Simon and running between hospitals and home and having a brutiful life together. But I’m glad they slowed down enough to know me, because my life is better with them in it. I love them, and I love Simon.

The following exerpt is based on one of my favorite passages from Huckleberry Finn, and I think it sums up the decision I’ve made about Laura and Jaime’s family.

“Whenever I think of the word “empathy,” I think of a small boy named Huckleberry Finn contemplating his friend and runaway slave, Jim. Huck asks himself whether he should give Jim up or not. Huck was told in Sunday school that people who let slaves go free go to everlasting fire.” But then, Huck says he imagines he and Jim in “the day and nighttime, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a-floating along, talking and singing and laughing.” Huck remembers Jim and their friendship and warmth. He imagines Jim not as a slave but as a human being and he decided that, “alright, then, I’ll go to hell.” - This I Believe, 172

When I say things like this my Christian friends get very alarmed. They say to me: Aren’t you afraid of saying and writing these things? Aren’t you afraid of God?

Well, yes. But when I consider discussing all of these things over with Jesus one day, when I imagine telling Him what I thought I heard Him saying to me, when I explain how my heart understood His message, I realize that I’d be much more afraid to stand in front of Him if I didn’t write these things. I know my Jesus, I love Him, and I think if he needed me to believe that homosexuality was a sin, He would have mentioned it. He didn’t. When deciphering the message of Jesus, I weigh the Gospels heavier than any other part of the Bible. And when Jesus said that marriage was between a man and a woman, he was responding to a question about divorce, not sexuality.* And even the Gospels… well, even though they are gospel to me, I accept that they are also interpretations of what Jesus said and did and meant…we don’t have a single written word directly from Jesus. He could have left us something….he could have left another list of rights and wrongs when He came to Earth, but he chose not to. The only words he ever wrote were in the sand. . . words that He knew would disappear almost immediately. ** The answers, my friend... are blowing in the wind. Why? I don't know. Maybe He wanted us to know him well enough to make our decisions about Him based on our relationship with Him. Maybe He wanted us to wrestle with Him, to work out our own faith with fear and trembling. That’s what I think, anyway. I think I’m starting to recognize His still, small voice. And I’m betting everything on my belief in our relationship, on my understanding of His character and love. Aren’t we all? And if I’m wrong, and I very well could be . . . I don’t really think He’ll send me to hell for it. I think He knows I’m doing the best I can down here. I know He knows that. I believe.

And while we’re at it . . . that still, small voice suggests to me often that He'd appreciate if Christians picked up a couple more issues other than homosexuality and abortion to address. You know, maybe a couple He actually mentioned…like care for the poor and sick and lonely and hungry and imprisoned and widowed and orphaned and recently immigrated.

Last week I was stuck at a stop light behind a Luxury SUV sporting a huge abortion bumper sticker with a picture of a baby that read, “It is a poverty that a child must die so that you can live how you wish.”- Mama T.

Well, okay. Fair enough. Mama T certainly removed the plank in her own eye before discussing the specks in others. She took a vow of poverty and dedicated her entire life to serving the least of these. She also announced at a Nobel Peace Dinner that any woman considering an abortion could instead give her baby to her Sisters of Charity, and they would find a way to care for it. Mama T earned the right to step in by constantly stepping up.

But for the rest of us, some of whom are most comfortable addressing pro-life issues vehicularly . . . might we also discuss how many starving children our car payments could feed every month? Isn’t it also a poverty that children must starve so that we can drive what we wish?

I just think that if we are going to call ourselves pro-life, we must also agree that starvation and poverty and disease and immigration and health care for all and war and peace and the environment are also pro-life issues. And that if we really care about making a difference and honoring God- given life, we might want to meet with the Man in the Mirror before calling anybody else out. And maybe in the meantime we could have a bumper sticker made that says: "We are all Confused Hypocrites. But God Loves Us anyway, which is Good News. So out of Gratitude, We are Trying to Remember That We Belong To Each Other." I'd buy that one.

My point is that this gay ship has sailed, I think. We’re gonna have to sponsor another revolution because for the gays, the times, they are a’ changing already. Gay people wrote to me by the hundreds to tell me that they read the post again and again, pretending that the letter was from their own parents. Therapists requested my permission to use the letter with their gay and straight clients to teach them about unconditional love. Churches from all over the country asked to use the post in their weekly bulletins. A student at UC Berkley told me that her professor of religious studies distributed the letter to all of his students. I felt very humble about this, which is why I only wear my homemade “THE RELIGIOUS STUDIES PROFESSOR AT UC BERKLEY DISTRIBUTED MY POST TO ALL HIS STUDENTS” T-shirt to bed. And sometimes to the grocery store, when I'm having an insecure day.

But I also received challenging responses to my post. None were mean-spirited, none were offensive. People are better than we give them credit for.

Many people said that they agree that people are born gay, but that it is still a sin to act on it. These people suggested that homosexuals should remain celibate.

But my understanding is that celibacy is a sacred calling, not a hiding place or a consequence. Celibacy is like…it’s like we all have the same capacity to love inside of us, the same amount of light to shine……and most of use that light, that love, like a laser…it’s all concentrated and focused on one partner. But the celibate hears a call to use his light, his love, more like a flood light. He knows that if he’s not required to shine a laser on one person, that his light can be dispersed to many more….maybe not burning a hole into another heart, but lighting up entire rooms. He can reach more people with his love through celibacy because it’s not all focused on one person. Ghandi felt called to be a flood light instead of a laser…and heeded the call to celibacy while he was married. His wife accepted this as the way he was being called to serve his God and his people. And so celibacy…it’s a sacred calling to love. And I fear that when we suggest that homosexuals save themselves by choosing celibacy, that we insult both the gays and the celibates. Celibacy is not a Plan B.

Other Monkees have explained that they believe that homosexuality is a sin, but no more of a sin than pride and anger and selfishness. And since we are all sinners too, we shouldn’t judge the gays. Hate the sin, love the sinner type thing. I don’t know. I guess I have just always accepted the fact that we are put on this Earth to love. To Love God and love our neighbors. And those sins, pride, anger, and selfishness…those sins get in the way of loving God and loving our neighbors. So we should fight them tooth and nail. We should fight them to the death. But homosexuality…I can’t see how a woman sharing her God given light with another woman interferes with her Loving Her God and Loving Her Neighbor.

Unless we come back to: because it says so in the Bible. And we have faith that our understanding of the Bible is infallible. We believe that our human minds can grasp the meaning of all scripture perfectly and so we have faith that homosexuality is a sin.

But you know what the Bible also says? The Bible says “And these three remain. Hope, Faith, and Love. And the greatest of these is love." ***

There will come a point when hope and faith cease to exist. When the next world is revealed, we will know . . . we won’t need hope or faith anymore. Those two are temporary. Hope and faith exist only to help us make it though this life.

But LOVE. Love is eternal. Love never ends. The love we offer and receive in this world we’ll carry with us into the next. The greatest of these is love. When in doubt, I choose love above any particular ideas offered to me about faith.

And that means that I love my gay friends, without agenda. And I love my friends who believe that homosexuality is a sin, without agenda. And I love my friends who are terrified for my soul when I write this way, without agenda.

Because listen – here’s the thing. After my wrestling match with God, I wasn’t really exhausted enough. I still came up swinging. For a little while, I felt angry. Angry at anyone who had a different understanding of scripture than I did. Angry at people who taught that God disapproved of homosexuality. Prideful about my position, really. And then one day God sat my butt down with the Bible again.

And he said something to me like, “Wait a minute, Lovie. Yes, I love those gays, but I love the ones picketing against them every bit as much. That’s the point.”

And There’s the rub. There’s Christianity. It’s not deciding that one group shouldn’t be judged and then turning around and judging the other group. That is not being a peacemaker. Peacemakers resist categorizing people. They find the light, the good, in each and every person. They don’t try to change people, except by example. They know everyone has something important to teach. They are humble about their ideas and their opinions. They try to find common ground, always.

I now have friends who are gay and friends who preach against homosexuality. I have friends who are ministers and friends who are atheists. Listen, I even have a new friend who is a Dallas Cowboys fan. With God, all things are possible.

The point is – if you’re hungry - you are all welcome at my table. None of you is less welcome than the other. This place is a banquet table for gays and straights and prudes and hoochies and cheerleaders and tuba players and pharisees and alpha moms and slacker moms and tax collectors and fishermen and choir girls and heathens. It's a banquet table where people who are different can come together and share a meal and maybe not change each other’s minds, but possibly soften each other’s hearts.

Oh, yes…we can do that. We already have.

You do not have to agree with me to love me.

So at this table, this Momastery table . . . we talk to each other in soft voices, and we smile and we say, “pass the wine, please,” and we ask about each other’s children. Sometimes we even pass around some pictures. We share our families with each other. And we also share some of those magical laughs when we can’t speak and the tears are rolling and we’re gasping for breath and our stomachs hurt like we just did a hundred crunches. Maybe we even pee a little. And maybe in the middle of all that, we start knowing each other as people instead of categories. And we accept that we are different, and we understand that each person’s choices are her own, and so we don’t have to be angry with each other. We are free to love each other.

She told me that once she forgot herself and her heart opened up like a door with a loose latch and everything fell out and she tried for days to put it all back in the proper order, but she finally gave up and left if there in a pile and loved everything equally.- Brian Andreas

Love,

G

*Mark 10

**John 8

***1 Corinthians 13

Calm Down- She Can't Read

When Craig got home last night, this is what he found on the couch.

Don't judge - acknowledging the problem is half the battle.

Speaking of Anti- Depressants . . .

Monkees, meet the newest love of my life.

Theo Cutie-Pie Melton.

He’s so fluffy I’m gonna DIE! (Have you seen Despicable Me? If not, please do.)

When Craig and I started looking for a dog, I wrote on Facebook that I needed advice “for a friend” who was considering dog adoption. I couldn’t admit that the friend was actually me because I didn’t want anyone trying to talk some sense into me.

In response to my request, my old friend, Mandy, sent me a long email with lots of wonderful advice about rescue dogs. Mandy is a dog trainer and spends most of her time and heart taking care of homeless doggies. Mandy asked me specifics about what kind of dog we were looking for, and I told her that I wanted a near-comatose dog. I wanted a semi-stoned dog. I wanted a dog that likes the couch as much as I do. I told her that basically, I wanted an adult, hypo-allergenic love bug. She promised to keep her eyes open as she visited the local shelters.

Last week Mandy emailed me and said something like: “I may have found your dog. Just did a behavior evaluation on a stray Lhasa Apso that was the chillest, most gentle dog I’ve ever seen. He’s white, probably about five years old, and he’s got a Brando-like underbite that makes him so ugly he’s cute.”

When I read the ugly thing, I knew he was mine. With the exception of husbands, I always choose the ugly one. Craig won’t let me choose our Halloween pumpkins anymore because I always insist that we purchase the ugliest one in the patch. It is extremely upsetting to me to consider that if ignored, the deformed pumpkins might perish without ever having fulfilled their pumpkin potential. It’s just so unjust. Who decides what deformed or ugly mean, anyway? Tears me up, those different pumpkins. I can almost hear them whispering to me “Pick me! Please, Pick me! You are our only chance!” We’ve also had a number of extremely rough looking Christmas trees in our home for this very same reason. I love a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. So obviously I fell in love immediately with this Charlie Brown dog.

When I told Craig that Mandy found our dog, he said, “NO, Glennon. I am not feeling a dog right now. No. No way.”

And I looked at him for a minute and then said, “That’s cute, honey. Are you done now?”

And he paused and said, “Yeah. I’m done. When can we visit him?”

So the next day we told the kids we were going to visit some homeless doggies and love on them for awhile.

When we arrived, the shelter people led us through a huge room of kennels. Every single dog was barking like mad. It was a little chaotic and intimidating. Amma was scared.

But then we got to the very end of the row of kennels, and in the very last cage . . . this little fluffy guy quietly walked toward us, peeked his head out, wagged his tail and licked Chase’s hand. No barking, no jumping, just wagging and kisses.

Craig later said that Theo seemed to be saying, “Well . . . there you are. I knew you’d come. What took you so long?”

We walked him outside to the shelter’s courtyard and played and played and played together.

After an hour we decided to apply to adopt him. We knew we couldn’t get the kids’ hopes up, so I kept my poker face on.

The next day the shelter called us and said that our doggie was very close to becoming our doggie. And they also said that we could pick him up as soon as they sent him to be groomed and neutered. They explained that since Theo was a stray, we was quite matted and dirty and needed to be freshened up.

I called Craig and said:

Husband -We have a problem. No way are they grooming him before he comes home.

Craig: Why, honey? (A little too wearily, I thought.)

Me: Because! I don’t want him to think that he has to be all cleaned up and pretty in order for us to want him! No way. He comes home just as he is. We’ll clean him up. I love him all jacked up. He comes home all jacked up.

Craig: I can’t say I really understand that.

Me: Well, that’s fine because I understand it enough for the both of us.

Craig: Silence.

*Sister beeps in on call waiting*

Me: Gotta go, husband, sister is calling.

Husband: Sigh of relief.

Me: Sister! They want to groom Theo before he comes home and this is unacceptable!

Sister: Why, sister?

Me: Because I don’t want him to feel like we didn’t love him enough as he is to bring him home.

Sister: Oooooookay. Let me try to understand. You …..don’t …want….him…to…feel….like…you…didn’t…love….him…..enough.

Me: Why do people always repeat what I say verrrrrrrrrrry slowly and make it sound all crazy???

Sister: It doesn’t sound crazy because it’s being repeated slowly, Sister. That’s not the reason. The things you say sound crazy before they’re repeated. We are just hoping you’ll hear the crazy if we repeat it back to you.

Me: Whatever. Listen, Amma’s pretty now, but do you remember what she looked like when we got her? We didn’t insist on a make-over before she came home.

Sister: Silence. You are unreasonable, Sister.

Me: Silence back. Well. Hm. While we are on the subject of unreasonable, Sister, I feel obliged to tell you that I find it completely unreasonable that you continue to try to reason with me after having known me for THIRTY THREE YEARS.

Sister: Hm.You have a point, Sister. Yes, you do. Go get your dog. We’ll groom him later.

Me: Kay. Thank you. But I’m taking him back to the shelter next week so they can send him to get neutered. I don’t want Theo to think that part was my idea. That’s on them.

Sister: Silence. Fine, Sister.

So I went to pick him up at the shelter on Thursday night. I was extremely nervous for this final meeting. Let’s just say that I don’t always have the best luck with adoption interviews. So I called one of my bffs, Christy, because she fosters dogs and often facilitates interviews with potential families. When she answered I said, “Oh my god I’m on my way for my final interview and what if they ask if I take anti depressants and what if they read the blog and what if they ask me if I ever inhaled and just oh my god.”

And Christy said, “Glen. Breathe Deep.This is not like adopting a person. Just don’t mention Michael Vick and you’ll be fine.”

So I took a deep breath and walked into the shelter. And I began my interview with a lovely dog trainer named Feather. And as soon as she started talking, I knew I’d be okay. I mean, really - anyone who dedicates her life to helping animals or young children is okay in my book. It seems to me that these are two of the only vocations for which there can be no other motive than gentleness and love. Because when you are working with animals or children, there are usually no grown-ups around to give you kudos or respect or much money. It’s just you and the powerless ones and God.

So, as you would expect, Feather was good to me. And half-way through the interview, Sister showed up at the shelter. Because, well, because Sister always shows up. And now since she is John’s, he’s gotta show up, too. Which he doesn’t seem to mind too much because he is wonderful.

Sister was so excited she looked like she might pee. A new nephew, you know. The previous night she had arrived at my house with a doggie car seat and a zebra striped doggie bed and thirty dollar Bed Head strawberry banana doggie detangler spray. I know. But that’s sister. When they brought my doggie out, Sister held him first.

When Tish was born, Sister was the first one of us to touch her. She held Tish’s hand first. Before me, before Craig. It’s natural for us. My babies are her babies.

And then I left the shelter with my doggy. Just me and him. And he sat in my lap the entire ride home. He was a little shaky. But that was okay, because so was I. I cried a lot.

Because God finally let me adopt somebody. I am going to take such good care of my precious somebody.

When we got home, Craig was waiting on the floor in the foyer and Theo walked straight over to him and laid down in his lap - belly up, ready to soak up some love.

Then we gave him a bath. That was interesting. Moving right along.

The next morning we let Theo wake up each child, one at a time. The kids didn’t know he was coming home the previous night, so when they woke up to their very own doggie licking their cheeks – well . . . it was a good morning.

We decided to name him Theo because Mandy’s maiden name was Theobald…and since she found him for us, Theo seemed right.

Theo is so chill that yesterday I got worried that maybe he was sad, so I took him to the vet.

I have since learned that you don’t take your dog to the vet just because he looks sad.

Anyway, the vet assured me that Theo is perfectly healthy, just extremely calm.Theo doesn’t mind if you pull his tail a little or mess with his food or even if 15 children at the playground surround him and squeal and pet him all at once. He can’t be rattled. We hadn’t even heard him bark. Until . . .

. . . yesterday evening when we were sitting outside and one of my neighbors brought over her very large, very sweet Labradoodle. And this Labradoodle calmly walked over to sniff me. And Theo went nuts. He leaped out of my lap and all thirteen furry pounds of him started barking like mad at the dinosaur-sized Labradoodle and I had to pick Theo up to carry him inside. On the way in, Craig said: he was protecting you. And so I acted embarrassed and apologized to my neighbor and then scurried away and took Theo inside to the couch and cried and snuggled and kissed him for an hour.

My knight in white furry armor.

Look, I don’t know what this life is doing to me. But with every new love experiment, of which Theo is one, my heart just gets smooshier and smooshier until I worry I'm going to lose all form and turn into a blob of goo. It’s like one of these days I am just going to melt into this beautiful world.

I think I just really, really love my dog. Thank you, God.

Home to Myself

“It seems like everywhere I go, the more I see, the less I know. But I know, one thing, that I Love You.”

Since I find it impossible to understand what’s going on in my own head, I would never try to describe what goes on in yours. But Sarah’s post and the amazing comments that followed got me thinking about the difference between navigating the normal highs and lows of motherhood and real depression. Since, over time, I have suffered through the effects of both an extremely dramatic personality and true depression, I thought I should try to describe the difference between the two. For me.

I come from a long line of dramatic Irish personalities. We are an emotional bunch – my family. Our highs are high and our lows are low. We love easily, but we cry and yell easily, too. We are quick to hug and quick to anger. Now I know that you won’t believe me, because I am so sweet and calm on this here blog. But that is because no one in my house is awake yet. After people wake up, I tend to get dramatic. I often struggle through the day. Trudge through the day. I have to take a lot of deep breaths. I experience joy, too, everyday. But I am not the type to roll with things. I get very down - for reasons that I can never identify. I decide, thirty times a day, that no one in the history of the world has ever had a harder life than I do. When I say this to God and He brings homeless people to mind, I actually think, well - at least they don’t have to SWEEP.

I also worry. Worry, worry, worry. Obsess might actually be a better word. Not about the plight of the Sudanese…I TRY to worry about things like that, but I ACTUALLY worry about whether I chose the wrong throw pillow for my new couch. I snap at my kids for acting like kids. I resent them for getting hungry three times a day. And even though I don’t believe in mommy guilt, I feel guilty all the time. If I could choose a phrase to describe the polar opposite of my personality, it would be “easy-breezy.” As a matter of fact, I call Sister daily crying and whining and I CANT DO IT ANYMOR-ING and I always end the conversation with “Whatever. I’m easy-breezy, Sister.” And she says, “I know you are, Sister. I know you are. Me too.”

Sometimes I get so upset that I become debilitated…I’m talking crumble to the ground, tears, head in hands… the whole she-bang. My break downs appear to be brought on by one little thing… like a grocery bag breaking in the driveway - and so Craig will say, “It’s okay honey, it’s just a grocery bag,” and I’ll say: "IT”S NOT A GROCERY BAG! IT’S EVERYTHING! WHY CAN’T YOU SEE IT’S EVERYTHING???” And I don’t want anyone to try to fix it or fix me - I just want to be upset. I just need to be upset for awhile. Because life is upsetting, obviously.

I’m just A LOT to deal with on a daily basis. And I know this. I do not cruise through life. I sort of crash through life. But I also “WOW” through life, too. And so it’s okay. I’ll take the lows with the highs. Basically, I really like myself. And I think I’m an awesome mom. God chose ME for these kiddos and He knows me better than anyone, so I’m gonna be myself. My kids don’t need some fake idea of a perfect mom, they need me -Glennon, the real person. I get that.

But every once in awhile – something scary happens to me. A black, heavy, murky fog sets in over my heart and my head. When this happens, I do not alternate between super high and super low. During these awful times I alternate between super low and super numb. The fog is so thick that even when I get still and try to find my way home to myself - I can’t. During these times, none of my usual tricks….quiet time, sunshine, exercise, friends, prayer . . . none of them help me find my way through the fog. I can go through the motions of the day . . . I remember what to do - pack the lunches, smile at the kids, sweep the floor, hug my husband….repeat. I just can’t remember why any of these things matter. The love, the life that usually infuses each of these tasks with meaning is gone. I become like a robot. I have completely lost myself. Gone is the joy, the drama, even the suffering that makes me, me. This state of mind has nothing to do with my dramatic personality. It is more like a complete loss of my personality. I’ve suffered this loss three times in my life. Once when I was much younger and suffering from bulimia and alcoholism. Once after my second child was born, and again about a month ago. I have come to believe that this loss of myself is what is commonly accepted as depression.

This last month, when I realized that I had lost myself again, I called my doctor who told me it was time for some help. She prescribed a pill for me and I brought the bottle home and told Craig that I was going to start taking the pills immediately. His face lit up like a Christmas tree. I said, “Be patient though, husband. They take two weeks to kick in.” Craig’s face fell and he said frantically, “What? Well then maybe you could just take a whole bunch at once. Maybe that would work faster.” Clearly, the preceding months had been as hard on him as they were on me. He loves me. He loves his high and low wife. He wanted her back. He didn’t want to medicate me away. He wanted to medicate me back.

Last year I was having a hard time dealing with my usual anxiety about life and love. I emailed my friend Josie and said, “I can’t take the intensity in my head anymore. I need to relax. I’m gonna medicate myself. What do you think?” I hadn’t talked to Josie for years, so I don’t know why I emailed her. I guess if you listen hard enough, God will always point you towards the right person. Josie wrote back and said, “A friend once told me that if medicine allows you to be more yourself, take it. If it doesn’t, don’t.” I really liked that. And that advice helped me decide NOT to take medicine back then. Because the truth is that myself is dramatic and anxious and obsessive and ridiculously intense and you know, a little WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

But myself is not numb. When I get numb, I take my own hand and help myself find my way of the fog, back home. And medicine helped me this time around. I’m grateful.

I’m also hesitant about taking medicine. Not for the reasons that many others are. I’m not embarrassed. Ever, really. It’s a gift, my shamelessness. I know that I’m only gonna get one go ‘round on this beautiful Earth and I want it to be a good ride. I figured out a while back that there is no award for she who suffers most. No way, Jose. Not my bag. I think it’s a strong and brave and inspiring thing to find out who you are and then find a way to be it.

No, I’m hesitant to medicate away my depression because I worry that my depression fuels my writing. What medicine does for me is help me to relax into life a bit. Craig’s perspective is that when I’m on it, I am the same Glennon, I just “struggle a little less.” I agree. I struggle a little less. And I also lose the feeling that if I don’t write I will die. This is how I feel when I’m depressed. Since I lose my joy and meaning, I come to the blank page to create meaning and joy, to get it back. Because I become desperate to make sense of things. And that desperation, I’m afraid, is what makes my writing good. So it scares me, I guess, not to be depressed. A lot of really good writers are depressed. But, as Craig says . . .“Honey, don’t a lot of good writers also kill themselves?”

True, dat.

Anyway, even if my medicine dulls my creativity a little, I think that at this point in my life, I’m willing to risk it. I think I’d rather be a good friend to myself and Craig than a good writer. Yep, I would. How nice of me. I really do like myself.

Love You,

GDo

Postpartum Depression, A Guest Post by Sarah

"Even if your hands are shaking . . . and your faith is broken. Even as the eyes are closing . . . do it with a heart wide open. Say What You Need to Say..."

Thank you, Sarah...for being brave enough to Say What You Need to Say.

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Hi, my name is Sarah and I have post-partum depression.

Thanks to Glennon, who has cured me of the need to measure up to her blogging standards, and after much agonizing, procrastinating and rewriting, it finally dawned on me that I don't need to tell you all my story and teach you something about post-partum depression (PPD).

Instead, I just want to have a conversation. And maybe while we're talking, you might have a “me too” or “aha” moment. Because I believe that it's not PPD that kills mothers, it's the silence that surrounds it. It's how much like an untouchable you feel while experiencing it; an outcast. Even among your closest, most supportive friends, spouses, sisters, mothers. At least that's how it felt to me. By admitting I had PPD, I felt I was breaking the universal law decreeing that women are born to be warm, natural, stable mothers. Like I was breaking up the band...

Things are much better now, but I still don't really feel like a true success story–my oldest son turned 4 years old in November, his little brother turns 2 in March. I'm still dealing with PPD, but in ever-changing ways. Just when you feel like you've really gotten one over on it, it bites you in the ass. That has been the hardest lesson for me, that I have to be ever vigilant in order to maintain the balance I've clawed may way back to. Frankly, it tires me to be that vigilant. But on most days, I'd tell you—joyfully--that I love my children, my husband, my life as a mother.

I'll start things off by laying it out there and doing what Brené Brown, a wonderful researcher, teacher and writer, calls “speaking shame:"

I suffered from PPD with both of my kids, but didn't get help until the second one. Yes, I went to therapy weekly once I got help, for over a year. Yes, I just saw my therapist again a few weeks ago for the first time in almost 6 months. No, I'm not taking medication. But I think almost weekly about trying it just to see whether I'll feel better more consistently. Yes, my husband is supportive and wants me to get better. But no, he doesn't really understand it and might never do so.

Yes, my oldest son would tell his Daddy that he didn't want to be alone with me because I “yelled at him and cried all the time.” No, I didn't think I was suicidal, but then had thoughts about how much better off my family would be without me. Running away was another possibility.

Yes, there were a few times when I was afraid I might hurt my second son. No, I did not tell that to my therapist. Yes, I put him in his crib, crying (both of us), and walked away when I felt that way. No, I never hurt him. Yes, it ripped a hole in my heart, and continues to, when I think about it. Yes, I'm caught off guard many days with waves of nausea-inducing shame for aiming that much anger toward a small, helpless baby. Yes, I have a normal, loving bond now with both of my boys.

Yes, walking, fresh air and time alone helped. Yes, yoga helped. No, bubble baths and wine did not help. Yes, getting four consecutive hours of sleep for several nights in a row helped, a lot. Yes, I seethed with hate for my husband for a long time, for no clearly apparent reason. Yes, our relationship suffered. No, we never went to couples counseling. Yes, I wish we had. Yes, I had to hire a babysitter to stay with me and my sons when my husband played golf every Monday night during the summer my second was born. Yes, I called him on the phone, hysterical, the first time he tried to leave me alone with my two boys to play golf. Yes, I was working full time when I was in therapy, still fighting PPD. Yes, it sucked. Yes, I did tell a few colleagues.

No, I don't plan to have any more children. Yes, I'm happy with that decision. No, I didn't have complicated pregnancies or deliveries. Yes, I needed and enjoyed therapy.

Of course, there is much more, but I think this is enough for now.

Home

"Home is where you are." - ED

It’s five am on Sunday morning. The kitchen is quiet and cold, but I have my monkee hoodie, my mug of coffee, and inspiration to keep me warm. It’ll be one of those days when mommy’s tired and cranky by three - it always is when I get up so early to write. But to me, this precious writing time is worth any price my husband and children have to pay for it.

I know I haven’t written to you about my personal life lately, and that’s a conscious decision. My vision for Momastery is that it’s about Life, not just my little life. I have learned that there is a difference. This might be one of the most important things I’ve ever learned.

Writing about Life instead of my life is a spiritual discipline for me. Remembering and exploring the difference between the two . . . stepping outside of my personal circumstances each morning and writing to and about all of us helps me maintain perspective about the ups and downs in my little life. It reminds me that Life is much too important to take my little life too seriously. It helps me remember that even when my world has stopped spinning, the world hasn’t. It reminds me – G, even when your little life is on hold, Life goes on. Join in.

I do this every morning because when my life here is done, I don’t want to discover that I was so concerned about dropping a stitch in my little square, I never stepped back to soak in the beauty of the entire quilt.

Even so - I know that you’d like an update on our little family. Here goes.

Last April we sold our home, abandoned our suburban lives, and moved to a teeny town on the Chesapeake Bay. I was feeling overwhelmed by the pace required to keep up with our lives. I dreamt of fewer school and social obligations and more family time and slower days, wide open spaces and sunsets on the water. So we sold our home and rented a beautiful old Victorian house on Main Street in a gorgeous old fishing town. It was glorious. We decided to stay there forever and raise our kids on the water. I love the water.

Here is what I learned.

The bay is beautiful, but not as lovely as Manal. The morning sound of the birds on the bay comfort me, but Adrianne’s ridiculous laugh comforts me even more. Watching my kids splash in the bay is wonderful, but not nearly as wonderful as watching them play with their Aunt Christy. There is no substitute for girlfriends. God made some beautiful things – and the Chesapeake Bay is one of them - but I’m pretty sure women were His best work. I was lonely without mine.

I have always been confused about friendship. I have never felt good at it. All of its keeping in touch and actually answering the phone and navigating group dynamics and remembering birthdays and showing up at things and returning emails seemed like overwhelming pressure. I have a reclusive side, which makes it challenging to maintain friendships.

Even so, I have managed to keep a small group of “best friends” from college. They take such incredible care of each other. They make friendship look so natural, so effortless. And I always felt loved by them but also a few steps removed. I couldn’t do it the way they did it. Couldn’t be all in like they are with each other. I always kept one foot out. Partly because I have a very hard time feeling part of any group. Groups are so hard. But also because everything they relied on from each other…advice, help, a shoulder to cry on, shopping partners . . . I get from my Sister. I am ashamed to say it, but I never really thought I needed them. But after a few months in my new town it became clear that it was going to be very, very hard to make friends. And impossible to replace the ones I already had. Marriage and parenting become extra hard without friends with whom to discuss how wonderful and hard they are.

So Craig and I started talking about what this all meant for us. It’s a journey, our marriage. We try one thing, then try another. We see what works and what doesn’t. We get to know each other better with each new try, and then we fix things for each other and try not to lose our patience. We try to be tireless with each others’ hearts. Craig is an expert at these things. I am learning.

In the end, we decided to move back. Back to Northern Virginia. Back to the burbs. Back to our friends. Mostly because it became clear that I needed to. As a recovering alcoholic and bulimic, true loneliness is dangerous territory for me. I don’t know how it works, but being plugged in to others is one of the keys to my sobriety. And there was one lonely night in our teeny little town when I glanced at the wine bottle on top of the fridge - just for a couple seconds too long. That scared the bejesus out of me. And sweet Craig knows…if I go down…the whole fam damily goes down. So listen, here is what we did.

We bought a house in one of those planned communities in which I swore I’d never live. Where the HOA spray paints the grass green and the backyards and closets are about the same size. I know. Big change. But listen.

I live within a mile of Gena, Casey, Manal, and Megan. We can walk to each other’s houses and our little ones are all in school together. And when Craig calls and says he’s going to be late, I call my girls and say come over right away. And our million collective littles run around my house and we mamas talk and drink Diet Coke out of wine glasses because Manal’s mom told her it tastes better that way. It really does. And we make nine frozen pizzas and I burn most of them and Gena looks at me in the middle of the chaos and says, I can’t believe this. I can’t believe how lucky we are. 15 years. We’re mamas together.

And I look at Gena - and all of these Genas flash before me.

I see her in a sparkly gown that she wore to a dance her freshman year in college. And then I see her in a black graduation gown, holding her diploma. And then I see her walking down the aisle in a gorgeous wedding gown. And finally I see her in the blue hospital gown she wore when she had her first child, Tyler.

And I think, we are growing up together . . . kind of like sisters do. We’re friends. And I know we’re friends because I need you. I don’t understand why. I’m just grateful that I do.

And I turn to watch Gena’s little girls chasing mine through our house in their Snow White dresses and I think….Yep. I found my Water. I found my Small Town. My water and my small town are my friends. And I’m all in. It's like The Alchemist. Sometimes you have to go away to discover that you left everything you needed Back Home. But the journey was necessary.

And is our new (old) life here perfect?

Hells no.

But here’s what I’ve learned, finally. I am not going to be perfectly happy anywhere.

If I live by the water, I will miss the burbs. If I live in the mountains, I will miss the water. If I live in the burbs, I will miss the mountains. If I watch House Hunters International, I will miss Costa Rica. And I’ve never even been to Costa Rica.

The point is that I have done the experiment, I have moved six times in eight years, to very different places…chasing peace and joy. And I stiiiiiill haven’t fooooound what I’m looking fooooor. I am a slow learner. But I do eventually learn. So listen- I am finally ready to accept that there is no geographic location that offers perfect joy and peace. Because, like Bubba says: Wherever you go, There you are. That’s the problem. Not where you are, but that you are. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me seven times…..

There is a scripture that says “quit wearing out your shoes.” And I think I finally know what that means. One of the keys to happiness is accepting that this side of Life, I’m never going to be perfectly happy where I am. So I might as well get busy loving the people around me. I’m going to quit deciding whether they are the right people for me and I’m just gonna take a deep breath and start loving my neighbors. I’m going to take care of my friends. I’m going to find peace in the ‘burbs. I’m going to quit chasing happiness and sit still long enough to see it right in front of me.

Now here’s the important part of all of this. I’ve been thinking a lot about what these discoveries in my little life mean about Life. What does do my discoveries about friendship mean for all of us?

Because I am starting to know you Lovies pretty well. So I know that some of you are reading and nodding and thinking about your own close girlfriends and feeling grateful for them. But I also know that there are many, many others reading and feeling sad because they don’t have close girlfriends. Because they’ve been hurt or ignored or left out by women. I have been, too. I know how that feels.

I’m reading a book right now called The Twisted Sisterhood about all the ways that females hurt each other. It’s making me sad and frustrated and inspired. I want us to all take better care of each other. We ladies need to learn how to love each other better through this tough life. And I’d like to talk about how. What better use of our time here than to explore ways to make more women feel welcome and loved and safe?

How do you feel about female relationships? Do you have them? Do you want them? Are they satisfying? Are you afraid of them because you’ve been hurt? All of the above?

Love You. Take Care of Each Other.
G