Standing on New Feet

Things are a little rough.  I won’t go into details, but they are.

Normally, I would be losing it right now.  And, I’m not going to lie, panic is on the cusp, but we are so loved.  And as rough as today is, it is not three years ago.

Three years ago, I had no strength.  I had no hope.  Depression and anxiety were trying desperately to claim me.  I loved my girls.  So much.  But I didn’t know how to survive.

I remember being at church for a missionary luncheon.  My older girls were in a play room and Patrice was just tiny in my arms.  A wonderful lady, one of the missionaries to the Philippines our church supports, offered to hold Patrice so I could eat my lunch.  As she held her, I thought, my girls are safe and loved here.  I should run away so they can have a better life without me.

More than once I sat in the bathroom and cried.  I cried so often in the basement, it became a conditioned response.

But the days kept coming.  I kept fighting.  The battle was ugly, including three hospital stays, but hell had a name, bipolar depression.  Things with names can be fought.  And fought it was.

Here we are, three years later.  And I am ok.  I am not med free, and know the chances of that ever happening are slim to none, but I am healthy.

I am not just surviving during this rough time.  I am standing beside my husband.  I am able to think, pray, feel and love.  He isn’t having to carry me.  We can be, for the first time in a long time, partners.

I am standing on new feet.  They feel kind of wobbly, like they are on stilts, but I’m here.  Standing.