Learning to Love Myself

For the past two weeks, I've tried not to miss a day. I'll admit it was pretty awkward at first, and I felt like I was lying. I recall sheepishly looking at my reflection in the mirror, somewhat avoiding my own gaze, and mumbling "I love you, Krissy." Whew! I'm done with that for the day. This is weird, and going to be a long month of this. But as the days went by, I started to stare back at myself with confidence and reassurance. I was even protective of myself. I began to say out loud, "Krissy, I love you. You are beautiful and good, and I am going to take care of you. I'm going to protect you and keep you safe." It's nice to feel something that inside of me is changing...

I guess I've battled it much of my life-- just didn't know it.

I would see depression from the worst side of it-- suicidal, not being able to get out of bed, sleeping too much, eating for comfort.

And anxiety to me meant uncontrollable panic or stress-- all-consuming, paralyzing worries of always doing the wrong thing, of messing up.

I didn't realize there was a spectrum, a gradient. And because of this, perhaps I was on the road to the deepest, darkest places of these diseases because I wasn't getting the help I needed.

I've been coping with this sense of worthlessness-- one that comes and goes, and I tried to keep at bay by staying busy. The busier the better, because it meant less time I had to be left with my negative, self-destructive thoughts. Thoughts of never being good enough, never pretty enough, never smart enough. Never measuring up to standards I assumed everyone else had placed upon me. Feeling I was a complete failure and let-down, and measuring my success on whether or not those I cared about were happy with, and proud of, my efforts.

My self-worth stemmed from what I did rather than who I was. In my mind I was worthy of love and respect only if I earned it. Only if I performed well.

This bled into every aspect of my life-- music and performance, education, motherhood, and my marriage. And that anxiety put me on edge. I would snap at my kids when I felt like my world was falling apart because of my own weaknesses, and then mentally torture myself for having made such a stupid, awful mistake. I would grumble to myself about my husband coming home from church and falling asleep on the couch rather than helping me with the kids.

And when the anxiety overwhelmed me, the depression set in. Those days would feel dark and gray, as I wallowed in my apparent inability to do anything right. I would spend hours on my knees, my tear-stained face resting on my bed, as I prayed to Heavenly Father to make me a better person. In reality I wanted Him to magically make me perfect, free from what made me human-- failure. I was tired of it, and thought my life could only be worthwhile if I was free of it.

Something would always snap me out of these depressed states. Perhaps a friend needed help, and I needed to go outside myself and serve. Or I had to attend a meeting at the school. In spite of my reluctance to engage, I would clean my face, take a deep breath, put on a smile, and go and do. And then I would forget about myself and my woes for a while. But the underlying problem was always there, looming.

Early this year, for my birthday, my mother-in-law gave me a book written by Jane Clayson Johnson called Silent Souls Weeping. The book highlighted numerous cases of depression, and of how we all too often suffer alone, in silence, hoping that we can just pray it away. I had thought by reading the book I would come to understand better those suffering with depression, and particularly severe depression, since I assumed it was the only kind out there. But when I finished the book, I took a long, introspective look at myself.

I thought about how many times within the past several months I had wished that I ceased to exist. Death didn't seem appealing to me, because I felt I would hurt people by taking my own life. And I was tired of hurting and disappointing others because of my mistakes. But if I could just disappear, I thought that might be the best option. I felt like George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life when he tells the Clarence the angel, "I suppose it had been better if I'd never been born at all."

And I knew then that I needed help. I probably had known for years, but was afraid to get it-- afraid to be seen as weak or fragile or needy. Mental illness scared me, and perhaps I feared being diagnosed at all.

Throughout the summer I visited with Dr. Bethea several times. For the most part she let me talk. We talked about family, fears, broken hearts, and unfilled dreams. And that's when I made a breakthrough. Through all these years, I had been trying to make everyone happy, but myself. I had been trying to care for everyone, but me. And the irony of life is that I will be able to better love and serve others if I know how to love and serve myself first.

I talked with Drew last night about this very idea. He's hard on himself for his mistakes, just like me. He likes to make people happy, just like I do. But I've tried to explain to him that while he can try to make people happy, he can't hold himself responsible if it doesn't work. He isn't responsible for others' happiness.

Well, he messed up yesterday. Nothing big-- just failed to come home from his friend's house when he was supposed to, so he had to face the consequence we had previously agreed upon. He went in his room and sulked, not because he was mad at me, but because he was mad at himself. I could tell he was beating himself up for making such a "dumb" mistake. I asked him if he would do that to me, if I had made a mistake, and he admitted he wouldn't.

We then talked about the two great commandments. He knew the first one, to love God. And when asked about the second, he responded, "To love our neighbor." I reminded him that he was leaving out an important part. To "love thy neighbor as thyself."

"You know what that means, Drew?"

"No..."

"That we're expected, after we first love God, to love ourselves. We can't love our neighbor very well unless we love ourselves first."

Dr. Bethea had recommended a book to me at our last meeting four weeks ago-- The Art of Extreme Self-Care by Cheryl Richardson. Extreme... Boy, self-care is serious business! Twelve chapters of enlightenment and 30-day challenges. She advised the reader to read the entire book first, and then choose which challenge to do first, suggesting the challenge I really, really did not want to do.

The idea of telling myself everyday that I love myself seemed ridiculous at the time, and I knew I would feel ridiculous doing it! So, with some hesitance, that was the first challenge of my maiden voyage toward better-- extreme-- self-care.

And for the first time in more years than I can count, I feel like I am actually beginning to love myself.

So over the next year, I will be sharing my journey with you. My intent is to be open and honest, as I find joy through pain, even opposition. Feel free to join me.

Not Quite a Vacation

The kids are on their second week of school, but the same end-of-summer small talk with other moms still occurs. I’m approached with…

“Ugh, I’m so glad that school has started and that we’re back on a schedule, aren’t you?” I smile in validation, all the while thinking, Nope, I’m not glad. I hate it.

“My kids got to do some really cool camps! Like baseball, and drama, and dance, and…” Camps? Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of those… Tried ‘em a few times. Not a fan. I have to drive there, and then home, and then back again to pick them up, and then back home. That’s like school. I just want to go to the beach with my kids and eat hotdogs and ice cream.

“Hey! I saw the pics on Facebook of your amazing vacation! How was it?!” (Screech!) Wait, what? Did you just say “vacation?”

Kevin had a professor in graduate school, a family man, who taught us that there is a distinct different between vacations and family trips, and the two should never be confused. Ever. The difference? Basically, children. One includes them, and the other does not. He was an electrical engineering professor; therefore, a man of logic, reasoning, and efficiency, and he must be correct. He has thought about it, come to a hypothesis, tested it, and found it to be true. So. He’s right.

I will admit, we had an amazing family trip this summer. Two and a half weeks of exhausting adventure, driving from the Pacific Northwest coast to San Diego. We explored Snoqualmie Falls and braved the glass floor from the top of the Space Needle in Seattle. We met up for a family reunion on the Oregon Coast, looking for sea stars and anemones in the tidepools around the majestic Haystack Rock in Cannon Beach and letting our Florida toes barely touch the icy ocean water while our Utah cousins dove in to body surf. We climbed the Astoria Column, played in the snow still surrounding Crater Lake, visited my grandparents’ old house in Grants Pass, walked through sacred Redwood Forests, skipped rocks on the Smith River, drove across the Golden Gate Bridge, ate ice cream at Ghirardelli Square, watched the sea otters and admired the crashing waves around Morro Rock, and then spent another week with family in San Diego.

The pictures are awesome, the memories priceless. But, no, it was not a vacation.

We also had our credit card number stolen two days before we left-- had to cancel them. We wouldn’t get our new cards in time for our flight, so I had them mailed to my parents’ home in San Diego. “No worries,” we said. “We’ll just use our debit card.” We didn’t anticipate that the rental car company wouldn’t accept debit cards as a holding card for the minivan, even though we had already paid for the it. They weren’t going to give us the van until Kevin pulled out his wallet and said, with some reservation, “We could use my corporate card...” Problem solved.

Then in Tacoma, the hotel I booked was… well… one of those hotels. You know, the ones where more people are living there than staying there? I realized what kind it was when we pulled up to check in, and there was a kids’ scooter sitting out front alongside a skateboard, their owners a group of kids just hanging out in the lobby shootin’ the breeze with the desk clerk. I chuckled and thought, Oh, boy… Our non-smoking room reeked of cigarette smoke, Kevin ran into a domestic dispute almost turned violent (until he intervened) on his way to the front desk to pick up a can of Lysol air freshener, I couldn’t sleep because I heard yelling and foul language all night long, and we could only eat our free continental breakfast if we brought a voucher proving we were staying in that hotel and were eligible to eat it.

The following week in California, my oldest daughter came to me wondering if she had eczema on her scalp. Oh, no, I panicked, and rushed over to check her head. Lice. Are you freaking kidding me?! I checked her two sisters, and they had it, too, just not as bad. We put their hair in French braids, and continued with our plans that day to meet up with my sister-in-law and her kids, having made sure to warn her of our plague. She was gracious and understanding, and didn’t seem worried. Once we made it to Morro Bay that evening, we stopped at a drugstore to get lice treatment, and spent the next two hours combing out their hair in the hotel room.

The next morning, I received a text from our bank notifying me of suspicious purchases of digital items on Amazon with our debit card. My debit card number had been stolen, too! I reported it immediately, and the card was cancelled. And then we had no money—no credit card, no debit card, and I had used most of the cash I had in my wallet to buy some little mediocre painting from a “starving” street artist in San Francisco the day before. I only had four dollars in my wallet. In desperation, we ate the granola bars we had in the car for breakfast as we drove to our bank’s nearest branch twenty minutes away to take care of the problem.

By the time we arrived to my parents’ house in San Diego, I was spent. I declared that I didn’t want to do anything or go anywhere for the whole week. For the most part, that’s what we did—nothing. The kids played in the backyard on the giant tree swing, ran around with their cousin, watched an unhealthy number of movies, and organized their annual lemonade stand.

And when we got home, I needed a vacation from our family trip.

By the looks of things, that may not come for a while.

Forever Now

Dang you, Michael Bublé! You had to do it, didn’t you? You just had to try to make me cry. Well, it worked, okay?

I knew I would. And usually I try to avoid these sappy songs and videos that pull at your heart strings and make you regret every ounce of anger you’ve ever felt at your kids. You end up wanting to drive over to the school, check your kids out, and never bring them back for fear that their childhood is slipping away and you’re totally missing out on all of it and have completely wasted your time worrying about dumb, insignificant tasks like laundry and dishes and groceries.

So, Mr. Bublé, you succeeded. Now, I’m looking at the clock, watching the minutes tick away until I can pick them up in an hour and half. And hour and a half! That’s, like, an eternity!

But, seriously, that song. That video. “Forever Now.” It’s true. So true.

My oldest daughter is fifteen and a half—just started tenth grade. She has her learner’s permit to drive, and she’s taking AP classes. When she sings, she sounds like she’s twenty years old, and she has just barely passed me in height. (I’m pretty sure her three younger siblings will also pass me up.) And, truly (I mean, truly) I could have sworn I, too, “just met” her. I was just seeing her eyes open for the first time and tucking her in at night, holding her hand while we walked, or singing the same three songs to her every night before bed while she sucked on her fingers and held her stuffed tiger underneath her nose, her big blue eyes fixed on me in the moonlight.

I’m not sure I’m ready for this whole child-turned-adult thing… But I’m sure praying she’s ready.

Now, through the years I’ve made mistakes, which is all too easy with your first child. The Guinea Pig. The Hey-let’s-try-this-method-and-see-if-it-works kid. Life’s not fair for her. All of us know that. But she’s cool with it, for the most part. I just remind her every once in a while, that we’ve never parented a child who is fifteen and 168 days old before and that she needs to be patient with us.

But, you know, I think we’ve done some things right. She (finally) keeps her room clean (which may be just to spite her sloppy younger sister, but we’ll just say it’s from good upbringing). She bathes regularly, dresses modestly, and doesn’t feel the need to wear a ton of make-up. She’s confident and comfortable in her own skin, and has always been so. She genuinely cares about people, and is a hard-working student. And she is a gifted musician. I remember the days when she was little and we prayed that we would be able to potty-train her—that we’d be home-free once she jumped that hurdle. Two years later (yup) that day came, and we rejoiced ever so briefly till we realized she next needed to learn how to read. We thought, Okay, once she learns how to read THEN she’ll be good to go! Well, now we stare at her driving permit everyday anxious about the fifty hours of driving time she needs before she can get her license next summer.

And I need her to drive. Badly.

While the sun may be setting on our time at home as a complete family of six, I see the glimmer of dawn on a new beautiful day—an entire lifetime of adventure for her, and a front-row seat for her dad and me. Just as you say, I—we love her “forever now.”

Ugh! Hang on, I have to go change the laundry…