On Surfacing

Human emotion is something Jesus totally understands. He is, after all, God. And man. To know that He knows is a comforting thing.

Especially on days like today where I feel such a wide range of human emotions and my heart is pulled from one end of the spectrum to the other as I experience human things. To know that the Lord, My Lord, also felt what I feel and experienced human things as I experience them is comforting. I need to know on days like today that Jesus was like me.

Way back in December of 2004 we miscarried our first baby at 12-ish weeks. Shortly after that I started taking an anti-anxiety medication at the recommendation of my doctor, and it was a lifesaver to me. The miscarriage alone, while a horrible thing to go through that I would not wish on a single person, was not the main problem I was facing at the time, but it was the tipping point of years and years of hurt and pain and stuffed emotions and just one too many deaths for me to deal with.

Medication was a buoy to me during that dark time. I was able to surface from depression for the first time in many years. I got pregnant again, and stayed pregnant, and Leah was born. Then Susie. I increased my dose after Susie was born - bless that child. For at least 6 years - the majority of my adult life thus far, I had succeeded at navigating with the help of medication. This was a good thing for me - I would not have made it otherwise. It was, literally, a Godsend.

But there were downsides to living life medicated. For one, the SSRI I took, even in the small doses I took, totally hampered my creativity. At the time it was a necessary price to pay, but I missed the part of me God had made that created out of emotional vibrancy. I quit writing, except for blogging, which was hit and miss at best (and still is, for other reasons though. Blonde haired, blue eyed reasons.) I also missed my God given empathy. Empathy is not an easy thing to have or to feel, but God gives it and it's a ministry that I once had but was numbed under medication. Believe it or not, I missed crying for good things. I used to be moved to tears for things like beautiful music, astounding sunsets, other people's emotions - and this, though the world would laugh at it - is a good thing, it's a God thing. To be tender hearted enough to respond with emotion to the beauty of God's creation and the intensity of feelings He has put in us, created in His image... it's part of what makes His children different than the majority of the human race. I missed this Christ-like realness in my life. Being able to hold my tears was more convenient, but it masked the real me. I missed me.

Earlier this year, when I quit my day job and came home to my real job, one of the things God challenged me on was this medication. Was I really willing to trust Him with my life? With all of it? If He was God as good and big as I said I believed Him to be, would I not let Him heal my mind and make me whole again?

I have this thing with God - to all of you it's crazy, but that's ok. It's me and God. We have this thing where if He says go, or do - I WILL go and do. I may ask Him more than once if I heard Him right, but when I have, I have to obey. Just have to do it. I don't get to do life my way, and heaven help me, I don't want to. So when God so gently suggested that I put this in His hands and give it up, I did.

Weaning yourself off an SSRI is one of the hardest things to do. Maybe not as hard as an addictive drug, but it's still hard. Brain shakes. Mood swings. Feeling like you're not really walking on the ground. Sensory issues. Uncontrollable crying. Bad. And I did it the doc's way, too, but God, that was a rough month or so.

And then, one day, I was me again.

I remember a mini-epiphany I had at the park this past summer. Sometime in June, shortly after becoming a Quitter, I was pushing Susie on the swings and thinking this is so hard. I feel so vulnerable. So un-in-control. I don't know what I'm doing here. It was an idylic summer day - soft breeze, blue sky, puffy clouds - and I was in the throes of withdrawal; from medication, from my old job, even from my old blackberry... feeling like I was swimming up from the bottom of a dark lake where I could feel, hear and see almost nothing... swimming up to a big bright light at the surface of the water that was getting bigger and brighter and more and more shimmery the closer I got to it. Swimming is tiring. I thought I would never get there. And the water was getting warmer and choppier the closer I got to the surface, too. Fast forward to August - same park, same little girl, same swing. Deja vu. (Another emotion not felt on SSRI's.) But this time I am easily able to distinguish a difference - I've broken the surface of the water this time! I'm swimming in the hot summer sun! The sky is as brilliant and crystyllic as it's ever been and I am gleefully frolicking with my daughters in the surf of life. I can feel it and it's awesome.

Two ways of life. Both ways, I'm swimming. One way I swimming underneath it all, the other way I'm swimming on the surface, under the sun. Under the Son.

After navigating the rocky shoals of withdrawal, I've hardly noticed a need for the anti-anxiety medication. Not a real serious need, as I once had, after my miscarriage. But I have noticed some other issues that I have to deal with.

Anger. Muting my feelings for almost 6 years means I got about 6 years behind in learning how to handle anger. I never knew I had a temper. I guess I do. God, I'll take an order of grace please, over-easy.

Disappointment. Not feeling strong feelings one way or another means I didn't much get my feelings hurt, because whatever you want is fine with me. Now having feelings means they're out there and I'm more vulnerable than I've been since high school. Yikes.

Frustration. And not surface level frustration like you get when they mess up your order at the drive-through, but deep frustration that deals with heart issues and life issues in you and those around you.

Is it worth being unmedicated, to have to deal with these things? From a humanistic standpoint, I'd say no - pass me the Lexapro, and make it snappy. But from a spiritual standpoint?

I hate it, but the answer is yes.

See, the benefit of seeing things clearly is that you can see the good things and the God things brilliantly. But you can also see the muddy and mucky human things in stark contrast to the brilliance of Christ. As a believer, I'm drawn to the brilliant. I abhor the muck. I want it out. I have to be in it to see it. I just don't want to be in it forever.

Today was one of those pre-med days when I felt so deeply a love for my Father and His creation, while also feeling so deeply some old hurts finally popping up to the surface like flotsam dragged under and finally set free. God, it hurts to see this mess in my life, but at least it's on the surface now where we can see it and You, in your unending mercy and grace, can gather it up and toss it into a different sea where it'll never surface again.

I know enough about God to know that He can redeem everything for His glory in the life of a believer. Nothing I've ever been through or will ever go through is wasted to Him. This is training. I'm training for a marathon; the prize is Christ-likeness. And HE is exalted. So I will train. Could I do any less for my King? I am not my own. I was bought with a price.