Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted, after three hours of mediocre sleep, RE-sleep “training” a certain baby girl, taking a certain puppy out to pee, and fighting coyotes off m’ certain ducks all night.
You read that right: coyotes. Me. Fighting. They came to steal kill and destroy, but I came with muddy flip-flops and a back porch light, shaking and scared to death because according to one of my friends, coyotes will EAT YOUR FACE OFF.
Not this face. Not this night.
So in addition to my nocturnal barnyard adventures, depression and anxiety have been laying the smackdown on my candy ass. If you haven’t been through this, then let me put it to you straight: remember the torturous panic you felt when you were five and you lost your mom at the store for .04 seconds? It’s that feeling, for no reason at all, alternating with a preteen angst so fierce it would make your ninth-grade self shiver in her combat boots.
Also for no reason at all.
Everyone is out to get me, including my 8-month-old, but especially my husband. The only person who loves me is my mom. These are the thoughts, people, about ten to twenty percent of the time, depending on the week. They make no sense and I can see that they make no sense, which makes me really feel crazy, and that rockets me into full-out hyperventilation mode. I’m talking throwing up (all the air I can’t breathe). Screaming into a pillow. Crying until I’m literally dehydrated and limp and beaten.
Breathing. Walking. Showering. Sleeping. One thing at a time, you guys. I’m not a miracle worker like idk, Tony Danza, so I’ve made an appointment and I want you to know that, lest you call the orderlies to come take me away, because you Internet people are in on it too. Pretty sure.
Somebody tell me I’m not the only one.
I know king Saul from the bible suffered from some kind of depression, and king Solomon said that everything under the sun is futile, but let’s talk about king David for a second: a super-sane man after God’s own heart. He once wrote these words:
“You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it; you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings. My sacrifice, O God, is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart you, God, will not despise.” –psalm 51, verses 16 and 17.
…and I find them to be exactly my thoughts. Granted, David wrote this and the rest of his lengthly spiel after he sinned majorly by arranging the death of a man whose wife he knocked up, but still. Sometimes all we can do is go to God in our hurt and helplessness and brokenness, with nothing to offer but a sad crappy heart, saying simply “Please…”
And that’s where I’m at. All the crazy hormones and off-kilter chemicals in my body can’t make God love me less, and He is there with me, in the creepy dark, fighting with me, and for me; and I know I am loved and protected.
The thing about coyotes is that they will not eat your face off. They sound freaky from afar, but in reality they’re as small as foxes, and wretched-looking; and though they are ballsy, I am bigger and stronger and smarter, and those coyotes WILL be beaten.
I will update you on my progress.