I walked into the psychiatric clinic with the feeling of a million eyes watching, fingers pointing at me, taunting me. I took in the waiting room and the people therein. They didn't LOOK crazy, they looked normal. Or at least I think they did. You see I had been brought up in an era, an era of the church that is, where therapists and psychiatrists were looked upon negatively. There was a belief that mental issues were akin to spiritual oppresion and that all matters of the mind could be dealt with in the Pastor's study and with prayer. Now, dont misunderstand me, I am not in any way implying that we should not first pray for out infirmities. Having said that, I will make the point that mental illness is as much a physical ailment as heart disease, diabetes or cancer.
I was nervous waiting for the therapist, not sure what to expect. I was eventually called into her office which was comfortable and relaxing. There were not finger puppets or water colors for me to "express" myself, just a couch, some nice decorations and plants. She sat down at her desk and we made small talk for a bit. She didn't ask me about how I felt about my childhood, mother or father, she just asked me what had brought me to her office. Voice quivering, blinking back tears, I explained some of the things I had been suffering and then I began to tell her the events that had taken place in my life over the last two years. As I retold my story with all it's sordid details, I observed the good doctor as her eyes widened her chin dropped to her chest and her mouth gaped open.
As I finished my story I felt completely spent, drained. Envision a balloon that has been filled with air to the braking point and then suddenly all of that air has been let out in a matter of seconds, and now said balloon lies limp and deflated on the floor, that's how I felt, but it felt good! It was nice to tell a completely unbiased, non judgemental person whom I had never met in my life how I felt. It was liberating.
Her reponse to my story and symptoms? "Shawnacee, I am diagnosing you with PTSD and depression".
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Anxiety's Story
I needed to write! That's what I thought. Tell my story, finally get it out there. It would be threapeutic, writing has a way of healing me. Its as though the stress flows from my brain, thru my arms and out my finger tips as I pound the keyboard. And that is exactly what I did. I told my story in blog form, entitled "Finally".
What I thought would be a short blog series turned out to be a very LONG series of blogs. The more I typed the more I remembered. At times I wrote with tears streaming down my face. At other times I pounded out my anger on those keys and ended my sentences with a lot of exclamation points. I was obsessed, and my husband noticed. I felt driven to release the pent up emotion and deep secrets that had plagued me for years.
The response of the readers was remarkable. I had expected perhaps a hundred or more people would read my story, never envisioning that it would touch thousands. I was stunned! At last count that one series of blogs has had over 20,000 hits. I received private messages on facebook from people I had never even met before who had loved ones, or who they themselves were suffering the same thing I and my late husband had suffered. It gave me great pleasure to know that in some small way I could be a voice to all those people who remained silent in their pain.
Write a book! Write a book about this! Was the request of many. I called Headquarters and explored their methods of publication. I considered self publication. However there was one problem. The telling of the story had pummelled me, destoyed me, sent me to my knees emotionally once again. I didn't see it at first, but I finally realized that I was in a deep, dark sea of depression brought on by dredging up things better left under the blood. I was beaten to a pulp. I did not have the emotional strength to write a book.
It was hurting my relationships. I had to let go of this, let it be in the past where it so desired to be. I could not spend my life living and reliving over and over again the events that led up to August the 6th 2009. I had to move on, put one foot in front of the other and just walk! I had not relaized the toll that writing that blog had taken on me. And so, I decided to shelve the book idea and with the encouragement of my husband, I went to a "head doctor", a therapist............................................
What I thought would be a short blog series turned out to be a very LONG series of blogs. The more I typed the more I remembered. At times I wrote with tears streaming down my face. At other times I pounded out my anger on those keys and ended my sentences with a lot of exclamation points. I was obsessed, and my husband noticed. I felt driven to release the pent up emotion and deep secrets that had plagued me for years.
The response of the readers was remarkable. I had expected perhaps a hundred or more people would read my story, never envisioning that it would touch thousands. I was stunned! At last count that one series of blogs has had over 20,000 hits. I received private messages on facebook from people I had never even met before who had loved ones, or who they themselves were suffering the same thing I and my late husband had suffered. It gave me great pleasure to know that in some small way I could be a voice to all those people who remained silent in their pain.
Write a book! Write a book about this! Was the request of many. I called Headquarters and explored their methods of publication. I considered self publication. However there was one problem. The telling of the story had pummelled me, destoyed me, sent me to my knees emotionally once again. I didn't see it at first, but I finally realized that I was in a deep, dark sea of depression brought on by dredging up things better left under the blood. I was beaten to a pulp. I did not have the emotional strength to write a book.
It was hurting my relationships. I had to let go of this, let it be in the past where it so desired to be. I could not spend my life living and reliving over and over again the events that led up to August the 6th 2009. I had to move on, put one foot in front of the other and just walk! I had not relaized the toll that writing that blog had taken on me. And so, I decided to shelve the book idea and with the encouragement of my husband, I went to a "head doctor", a therapist............................................
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Anxiety Speaks
Approximately two years ago I wrote a series of blogs about the untimely and tragic death of my late husband, Reverend Tim R. McCary. This created a sort of, for lack of a better way to phrase it, "fan following" of which I still experience today. Don't get me wrong, it's not a BAD thing, just different. In fact, only today I fielded private messages from followers attempting to attain my personal cell phone number. Apparently I now have ALL the answers and have Jesus on speed dial, lol. Sadly, it seems as though there are plenty among us who have faced the same battles as Tim, which ultimately cost him his life.
I should feel flattered you may say. Hardly, I would gladly pass the experience of losing someone to suicide or sending a son off to the frontlines of the "war on terror" in Iraq to someone else in a heartbeat. But then again, no I would not, I would not wish that on my worst enemy.
So, if I am so vocal on Facebook and in my blogs, and freely say what eveyone else is thinking but do not have the internal fortitude to speak aloud, then why was I shaking like a leaf wishing the floor would open up and swallow me at Camp Meeting? Good question. And I think I have the answer, but first, a little of my personal valley thru the shadow of death........
__________________________________________________________________________________
I stood in the shower of my new home, the water mingling with my tears as I cried. What was wrong with me??? I was happy! So very, very happy!! So why was I so so sad?
I slept all day long every day. A feeling of worthlesness and wandering around aimlessly, as if lost pervaded my thoughts day to day. Who was I? What was my role in this play called life?
I felt like a foreigner in a foreign land. Living a dream. Watching my life unfold as if from a distance. Was that really me down there, no longer a Pastor's wife? How do I live life in a normal manner? A life where I am not leading and guiding and speaking and planning and giving and giving and giving, and just living?
And then, there were the nightmares. Every single night the nightmares, and they were always the same. The funeral, the casket. Tim, not gone afterall, but alive. I had been mistaken about his death. But what about Paul? My beloved Paul who had become my whole life? I longed for Paul but my morality called me back to Tim. If he were not deceased then surely I was still his wife, living in sin!!
I would awaken panting, in a cold sweat. Relieved to have Paul at my side yet once agained sickened at the reality of Tims suicide. I longed for the return of Christ just to be free of the horrible reminders and deep seated emotional pain. Would I ever be free???
TO BE CONTINUED
I should feel flattered you may say. Hardly, I would gladly pass the experience of losing someone to suicide or sending a son off to the frontlines of the "war on terror" in Iraq to someone else in a heartbeat. But then again, no I would not, I would not wish that on my worst enemy.
So, if I am so vocal on Facebook and in my blogs, and freely say what eveyone else is thinking but do not have the internal fortitude to speak aloud, then why was I shaking like a leaf wishing the floor would open up and swallow me at Camp Meeting? Good question. And I think I have the answer, but first, a little of my personal valley thru the shadow of death........
__________________________________________________________________________________
I stood in the shower of my new home, the water mingling with my tears as I cried. What was wrong with me??? I was happy! So very, very happy!! So why was I so so sad?
I slept all day long every day. A feeling of worthlesness and wandering around aimlessly, as if lost pervaded my thoughts day to day. Who was I? What was my role in this play called life?
I felt like a foreigner in a foreign land. Living a dream. Watching my life unfold as if from a distance. Was that really me down there, no longer a Pastor's wife? How do I live life in a normal manner? A life where I am not leading and guiding and speaking and planning and giving and giving and giving, and just living?
And then, there were the nightmares. Every single night the nightmares, and they were always the same. The funeral, the casket. Tim, not gone afterall, but alive. I had been mistaken about his death. But what about Paul? My beloved Paul who had become my whole life? I longed for Paul but my morality called me back to Tim. If he were not deceased then surely I was still his wife, living in sin!!
I would awaken panting, in a cold sweat. Relieved to have Paul at my side yet once agained sickened at the reality of Tims suicide. I longed for the return of Christ just to be free of the horrible reminders and deep seated emotional pain. Would I ever be free???
TO BE CONTINUED
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
I was no longer like a little bird, I was a colt, all legs, neck and arms. And skinny? Skinny does not quite cover it. I wall all bones, white flesh, freckles and hair, a LOT of hair, It seemed that my appendages grew as rapidly as my shining glory. My mother had a difficult time fitting me with tights as they were never long enough and bagged ambarassingly around the ankles due to my thinness. Most days you could find the crotch of my tights hovering somewhere around my knobby knees. I would pull and pull on the waistband of those tights, but somehow, that crotch remained. There was so much open air between the waistband and crotch that I could have transported an entire Mariachi Band in that sucker.
Life was grand if it weren't for the fact that my cousin Kim had received the Holy Ghost before me. Nine months older than me, we were more like sisters than cousins, and those few months always seemed to give her a leg up on me. I would sway back and forth at the altar, eyes squeezed shut, imagining abused puppies just to get a tear to roll down my cheek. And when I was actually really and truly under the power of the Holy Ghost, well, I capitalized on those stammering lips.
Boy I tell you I stammered the heck outta those puppies, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not speak with tongues. Kim was so proud of herself that she had received the Holy Ghost and I was just sure that she looked down on me as some sort of heathen. Of course, I made sure that I was baptized on the same night as her, no way was she gonna get ahead of me in that department. As I came up out of the cold water, teeth chattering I prayed that somehow, someway, a few foreign words would escape my lips.
The thug life was my destiny I assumed. I told myself that I would NEVER be able to "yield' to the Holy Ghost properly. What did that mean anyway? The sisters in the church, including my "fully saved" cousin Kim would gather around me, holding my arms up, alternately telling me to "hang on! Let go"! And of course, yield. I was so confused, which one should I do??? I was a pitiful mess, sure that I would most certainly split the pit if the trumpet sounded before I could receive the Holy Ghost. Then came camp at Camp Sylvester.
I could take you to the place where I was sitting when the camp evangelist gave the altar call asking for those who wished to receive the Holy Ghost to come forward. I went forward once again, lacking faith. I raised my hands as the tears begin to flow as my friends gathered around me. After a long while they all dispersed and I stood there with stammering lips determined to speak with tongues. Suddenly, I felt a presence beside me and heard the voice of Reverend James Prather speak into my ear, "the devil is a liar". At that very moment it was as if something broke within me and I immediately began to speak with tongues and rejoice. I was so elated and could not wait to tell my friends and my mother!!
Unfortunately the lure of worldly music and dancing plagued me as well as my cousin Kim. However, we found a scriptural way to enable us to dance to the Bee Gee's without guilt and conviction........................
Life was grand if it weren't for the fact that my cousin Kim had received the Holy Ghost before me. Nine months older than me, we were more like sisters than cousins, and those few months always seemed to give her a leg up on me. I would sway back and forth at the altar, eyes squeezed shut, imagining abused puppies just to get a tear to roll down my cheek. And when I was actually really and truly under the power of the Holy Ghost, well, I capitalized on those stammering lips.
Boy I tell you I stammered the heck outta those puppies, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not speak with tongues. Kim was so proud of herself that she had received the Holy Ghost and I was just sure that she looked down on me as some sort of heathen. Of course, I made sure that I was baptized on the same night as her, no way was she gonna get ahead of me in that department. As I came up out of the cold water, teeth chattering I prayed that somehow, someway, a few foreign words would escape my lips.
The thug life was my destiny I assumed. I told myself that I would NEVER be able to "yield' to the Holy Ghost properly. What did that mean anyway? The sisters in the church, including my "fully saved" cousin Kim would gather around me, holding my arms up, alternately telling me to "hang on! Let go"! And of course, yield. I was so confused, which one should I do??? I was a pitiful mess, sure that I would most certainly split the pit if the trumpet sounded before I could receive the Holy Ghost. Then came camp at Camp Sylvester.
I could take you to the place where I was sitting when the camp evangelist gave the altar call asking for those who wished to receive the Holy Ghost to come forward. I went forward once again, lacking faith. I raised my hands as the tears begin to flow as my friends gathered around me. After a long while they all dispersed and I stood there with stammering lips determined to speak with tongues. Suddenly, I felt a presence beside me and heard the voice of Reverend James Prather speak into my ear, "the devil is a liar". At that very moment it was as if something broke within me and I immediately began to speak with tongues and rejoice. I was so elated and could not wait to tell my friends and my mother!!
Unfortunately the lure of worldly music and dancing plagued me as well as my cousin Kim. However, we found a scriptural way to enable us to dance to the Bee Gee's without guilt and conviction........................
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