The Gravity of Adulthood

Do you remember the childhood moments when you'd watch your parents laughing with friends, enjoying a glass of wine, corralling the kiddos and calling the shots?

I remember thinking, "I can't wait to be a Mom.  I want to stay up late and know adult things--like when my parents always say, 'I'll tell you when you're older.'  I'll feel so mature and in charge."

Well, last night we sat at Sunday dinner, drinking wine, revoking dessert privileges and giving them back after service rendered (serving everyone else dessert first), chatting about trips to the Galilee and such when it hit me.

Apparently, I'm an adult now?!?!?!?

I agree, Ceci, it's ridiculous!

So many day dreams ago, I wanted be cherished by my husband and have kiddos to snuggle and love, wear the pants and the like and now here I am.  And it's crazy.  and wonderful. and nutty. and exhausting and gratifying. and truly my vocation.

But I will admit, it scares me sometimes.

As I have shared in bits and pieces through past blog entries, I have struggled with anxiety and depression off an on basically since puberty.  Various forms of mental illness run in my family, along with addiction.  Because of this prevalence, I've always been very in tune with my mental state, and not at all opposed to whatever treatment is needed.

Since I'm all about busting through stigmas, I will be transparent and say that I am on anti-depressants and will likely be for the rest of my life.  Any time I have gone off them, my anxiety is crippling and  my depression an abyss of self-deprecation.  My meds do not strip me of emotion (as I'm sure you can gather), but give me a more solid foundation from which to function.

As I once again have shared before, I had pretty intense PPD with Jacob and not-nearly-so-bad with Cecilia.  Irrational fears consumed me---frightening, violent fears----like what would happen if we slipped on an icy bridge into cold waters and I couldn't get the kids out of their seats, or what if Kev was hit by a car on his ride home from campus, or what if I contracted some crazy form of staph in my c-section wound, or [insert your own suffocating horrors here].

Thanks to the Lord, familial support and modern medicine, these anxiety-ridden moments are very few and far between.

But, it happened last night, all thanks to Ira Glass.

http://gothamist.com/attachments/nyc_arts_john/Ira%20Glass.jpg

 Podcasts normally help lull me to sleep--not because they are boring, but because the voices soothe me, just as the dishwasher or the sound of my parents' voices did as a child.

[I want to give a caveat to more gentle readers---I'm going to be referring to a This American Life segment that was very disturbing, so proceed with caution].

I don't know if anyone else heard the recent This American Life episode "Slow to React," but it was jarring.

Really, the first full story was, and I still haven't recovered, as the whispers of one man's journey through abuse haunted the moments of my day.

In short, David Holthouse shares the story of a violent rape he suffered as a child, the ensuing tortured years of silence, his plan to murder the aggressor 20 years later, the eventual discovery of his childhood diary by his mother thus foiling his murderous plans, which in turn results in a face-to-face meeting with and conditional forgiveness of his perpetrator.

Yes that is a mammoth run-on.

If you want to listen to the story in his own words, go here:
http://www.thisamericanlife.org/radio-archives/episode/425/slow-to-react

After listening to this story, I felt a white hot flush begin the the depth of my belly, calling to arms my every nerve center and pint of blood, hatching fingerlets of tension that wrapped my heart, seize its functions and threaten to steal my breath.

Kevin thinks this sounds dramatic, but for those of you who have suffered an anxiety attack, you know Every. Word.  Is.  True.

What have I done, bringing children into this world?

                What I have I done exposing innocents to such darkness?

                                  How will I protect them without planting fear in their hearts?

How will I allow them the freedom to explore our world, without them falling victim to various beasts of prey?

And there I lay.  

In darkness and torrential rain.  

My husband snoring next to me, 

and my children peacefully asleep. 

  I concentrated on every breath.

In.  Out.  In.  Out.

And I call to mind one of Jesus' most common imperatives:

They had all seen him and were terrified. But at once he spoke with them, "Take courage, it is I, do not be afraid!  Mark 6:51

"Do not be afraid; just have faith."  Mark 5:36

Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows.   Luke 21:18

Do not be afraid.  Do not be afraid.  Do not be afraid.  Do not be afraid.

With reckless abandon I surrender to this command.  I offer my fear, my trembling, my anxiety, my worry, my concern.

I don't want it anymore.

I don't pretend to solve the problem of suffering, nor embrace to the notion that nothing bad will every happen to me or my loved ones because I love Jesus.  

Anyone who knows my family knows that's the truth....can I get an AMEN?!?   Our life story reads like a tragically triumphant Jobian epic.

All I know is that I want to believe our world, at it's core, it beautiful and true.

I want to trust that there are many good, honest, loving people who wish the best for others.

I want my children, 

my Jacob William, 

                                  

 my Cecilia Rose, 

 and those future blessings known only in the mind of God, to be free from crippling fear, to be fully, vibrantly alive.

And you know what?

So it shall be.

Come on,  y'all, sing it from the rooftops, 

Do not be afraid.