When It’s Not Just Depression

My journey with battling depression and anxiety has been long, and it recently took an interesting turn nine months ago. I decided to record my story here in case it helps someone else.

I can remember fighting anxiety and depression in grade school, when I was dealing with bullying that involved death threats, rape threats, and sexual assault. I had also survived a home explosion and witnessed the abuse of a close friend. (You can search my blog for more on this.)

All of that is to say, by the time I was 15, I had been through a lot of trauma. I was very blessed to have parents who got me into counseling with a Christian psychologist.  After several months of counseling and training in coping strategies, I was put on Zoloft. I noticed a difference about a week in. I’ve been in and out of counseling since, depending on whether I could find a good counselor each time I’ve moved. But I’ve been on Zoloft since.

I gave birth to my first baby when I was 28. The depression and anxiety was serious. I didn’t reach out for help because I thought the depression was mainly due to some really difficult things going on in my life then. The anxiety was also much worse than the depression, and I was unaware that postpartum anxiety is a real thing.

Three years later, I gave birth to my second baby, and my world fell apart. The nurses became alarmed before I even left the hospital. My OB immediately increased my Zoloft to the highest dose. By the time I went home a few days later, all I could do was sit and tremble and cry. I felt like the weight of the world was crushing me. The feeling of dread and dysphoria was so intense that it drowned out everything. I remember we jh ate at Qdoba, and I just sat at our table and cried. In public. I couldn’t stop shaking. I was trembling uncontrollably. I was so nauseous I gagged every time I tried to eat. I loved my new baby, and I loved my husband and toddler. I forced myself to hold and nurse my baby because I knew that’s what Normal Me would do, but that’s about all I could handle.

We had a consultation with an integrative pediatrician who specializes in oral ties and is also a licensed breastfeeding consultant. We went to have my baby checked for tongue and lip ties. I remember the doctor saying, “Your baby is fine! But you’re not. Your postpartum anxiety and depression is very severe.” The doctor explained that the same thing happened to her with her fourth child. She said that progesterone (a hormone) is very high during pregnancy, but then it drops quickly after childbirth. For some women, it plummets so low and so quickly that they go into progesterone withdrawal. I was in withdrawal. The shaking and the nausea made so much sense now.

The doctor prescribed me progesterone injections, which consisted of sesame oil, progesterone from yams, and benzyl alcohol. The nurse gave me one injection while instructing my husband, and my husband gave me the second injection. I had about seven more injections to do, one injection every other day. My husband did these for me at home. I remember riding home in the car, those first two doses kicking in, and I felt like I could breathe. I felt like my lungs were no longer crushed. I even felt like eating by the time the two hour car ride was done.

By the end of the course, I felt so much better that it took me several months to realize that there is a difference between “better” and “good.” I was better, but I wasn’t at a good level yet. When my son was 7 months old, I realized I was surviving, but I wasn’t thriving. My kids deserve to have a mom who is thriving. So I made an appointment with my family doctor. We discussed my Zoloft dose, and in that conversation, my doctor was a little alarmed I had been on Zoloft for 16 years. She said the risk of serious side effects increases with time, including heart attack. My mom’s side of the family has a fairly strong history of heart disease, so I was concerned. My doctor also explained that since I had been on Zoloft for so long, it was extremely likely that my body had developed a tolerance to it, causing the Zoloft to be ineffective. I was on 100mg. We decided to wean down to 50mg and check back in two months.

I went through some symptoms that are similar to withdrawal but are officially termed discontinuation syndrome. I was very nauseous, dizzy, irritable, and experienced strong sensory overload, especially with sound. This lasted about a week. But after that, I didn’t feel any different. I felt no more depressed or anxious than I had been. So I went back to my doctor, reported it, and then decreased down to 25mg. Once again, I had the same discontinuation symptoms for a week, but then no change.

It was around this time that I also started incorporating magnesium glycinate. I was taking two capsules of the Nested Naturals brand. The magnesium had quite a noticeable effect on my anxiety. If taking magnesium orally for anxiety, glycinate is the best form and does not have a laxative effect.

On August 21, 2019 I took my last dose of Zoloft. The discontinuation symptoms were pretty rough this time, but I was honestly waiting for much worse. I was waiting to have panic attacks where all I could do was lie on the floor and hyperventilate like when I was a teenager before Zoloft. But that never happened.

I checked back in with my doctor. I was ecstatic that I was doing so well off of Zoloft. I felt no worse. But I didn’t feel any better either, and I wanted to feel better. My energy was lacking, and it needed to improve. I still didn’t have the motivation to do hobbies like I did before my second child was born. I felt very strongly that the problem I was facing was hormone related. I remembered how my lack of energy and motivation began the day I gave birth. I felt that the brain fog and memory issues were more than just “mom brain.”  I remembered how effective the progesterone injections were, and I felt strongly that my progesterone was still not right. I asked my doctor if we could test my hormones and see if any were too low or high. She said that hormones could not be my problem, that it would be a waste of time to test them, and that I’d have to ask my OB anyways. She offered to write me a prescription for an antidepressant I hadn’t tried yet. But I wanted something to help me with the root of my problem. I didn’t want something to treat the symptoms. And I wanted something without risk of side effects, if possible.

It just so happened that around this time, a clinic opened up in the city near me that practices functional medicine. I was impressed that the doctors’ goals are to find the problem, and they were willing to do testing to discover what the problem is.

At my consultation, we talked about my history of anxiety and depression, and we decided it was very likely something was off concerning my hormones. Unfortunately, the clinic does not accept insurance, so I had to save up for the hormone test. While I saved up, my energy dropped dramatically. During October and November, I barely had the energy to be a functioning mother. I got my kids clothed, cleaned, and fed every day, but doing more than that was extremely difficult. I was usually in tears by 4 or 5pm, and making dinner seemed like an impossible feat. This felt different than depression; it felt like a physical exhaustion. These months were very difficult for me and for my family.

I did the DUTCH Hormone test in October, and I had another appointment with my nurse practitioner to discuss the results in November. I walked into the appointment thinking I’d be told the same old, “Everything’s normal; we don’t know what’s wrong.” Instead, my NP said, “We have a lot to cover. We got some answers.”

TEST RESULTS

My estrogen (estradiol) was a little below normal. Just as I suspected, my progesterone was low. In fact, it wasn’t just in the low end of normal or a little below normal; my progesterone had gotten to the postmenopausal range. I am only 31 years old. Progesterone should be between 6.0 and 20.0. Mine was at 1.8.

My adrenal hormones were also low. Cortisol is the “stress hormone”. Too much is obviously bad. Too little means you don’t have the proper amount of energy. This is why I was struggling to accomplish goals, to enjoy hobbies. This is why I felt lost in fog. In the chart, the red line should be between the low and high ranges, peaking in the morning. My cortisol (the red line) never peaked; it just consistently dropped. This is why I felt like death by the end of each day.

The results also showed that my body is making some hormones, but then my body fails to convert those into useful forms. For instance, my DHEA levels are good. But my body is failing to convert it into the useful form of DHEA-S in the adrenal glands. This is another reason my energy is gone.

My results also showed that my body has a good amount of methylation activity. (Methylation is a way the body detoxes the daily toxins we encounter.) Despite this activity, methylation is not happening. Some substances are not being detoxed. Other substances that should be converted into something useful are not being converted (like the DHEA). My glutathione (an antioxidant that helps detox) is low. This could be because I have an MTHFR gene mutation, or it could be due to inflammation, or both. Eventually, I plan to have an MTHFR test done.

You know what did not have abnormal levels? Dopamine. And the results for the neurotransmitters showed that my serotonin is likely normal. Zoloft is an SSRI that targets serotonin. My test results essentially show that Zoloft – or any SSRI – would not help me. This explains why I didn’t feel any worse when I got off Zoloft. It is possible, however, that the extreme lack of energy I felt in October and November could be related to stopping Zoloft, which does increase energy. (This is why Zoloft has a black box warning for suicide – because in some people, it doesn’t treat the depression, but it does give them enough energy to plan and carry out a suicide attempt.)

My NP and I did discuss my use of Zoloft. Back when I was a teenager, the Zoloft probably did have a positive effect. I don’t regret using it. I truly had been through so much trauma that I needed both counseling and medication. Antidepressants and medications have their place. However, I was at the point where I felt this was no longer the right answer for my body.

I did feel overwhelmed with these results at first. I wasn’t expecting so many things to be in abnormal ranges. I then felt a lot of anger and sadness that I had been made to feel so foolish for asking my old doc for a hormone test, that I had been so brushed off and dismissed. But I also felt relief that I had found a nurse practitioner who listened to me, who fought for me, who was willing to pore over pages and pages of test results, meet with a team of doctors to discuss healing, and spend so much time explaining all this to me.

My NP and I discussed the gameplan. These hormones are too low, which is due to inflammation, but we still hadn’t discovered the cause of the inflammation. The goal is to learn the cause. Possibilities included a chronic infection or food sensitivities. The test for the chronic infection was very affordable, so I did that one right away. It came back clear. This leaves us with food sensitivities.

The food sensitivity test is over $300, so I am once again saving up. My goal is to have that done by February 2020. Once I know what foods I need to cut out, the inflammation levels will drop, and my body will start regulating hormones the way it should.

For now, my levels are so low that my body needs help getting them back up. I need to function, and I need to be there for my kids. I need to do more than survive. My NP discussed my results with other doctors and also considered some special needs, such as the fact I am breastfeeding. We can’t do anything too potent, and we can’t do any strong detoxes. (Strong detoxes while breastfeeding can dump toxins into the breastmilk.) My NP and her team recommended four supplements to help me. Pregnenolone will help raise my hormones in such a way that cancer is not a concern. I am also taking DHEA to help give my body a boost since I’m not converting that well on my own. I am taking Methyl Renew, to help support my body’s methylation function. This supplement is mainly B vitamins. Lastly, I am taking glutathione, since those levels were low. That will also help me detoxify correctly. I won’t need to be on these supplements forever. This is to get me back on my feet.

I’ve been on the supplements about 2 months now, and I am finally noticing a difference. I’ve organized my kids’ closets. I’ve completely reorganized our storage room and dropped things off for donation. I’ve caught up on things that have been on my to-do list for months. I still have bad days, especially since it is gloomy winter, but I’m doing better than I was a year ago.

My point in sharing all of this is this: If you feel you are struggling with depression or anxiety, and if you feel like medication is not the right answer for your situation, find a doctor who will help you. You might have to look around, and you’d probably have to look into functional, integrative, or holistic doctors, but there are answers out there. If you are a woman who is struggling with depression, anxiety, or extreme brain fog and lack of energy after childbirth, please consider having your hormones checked. You may not have much support in the journey. Our culture is used to prescriptions that act like bandaids. Finding the root cause is hard, and tests aren’t cheap. Yet, I have no regrets.

Last week was my first Christmas without Zoloft in 16 years. It’s the best Christmas I have had in several years. No sudden bouts of weeping. I truly enjoyed celebrating Jesus’ birthday with my family. Today, something in our oven caught fire, and I had to put it out. This is a HUGE trigger that is guaranteed to cause a panic attack and flash back of the home explosion I survived as a child. No flash back. I extinguished the fire, then comforted my daughter, and we moved on with our day together.

I’m getting better!

One-Year Anniversary of our Call

Today, July 3, 2017, makes one year since my husband was ordained as a pastor after graduating from seminary and being installed at the church where he has been Called. Time flies!

For those who don’t know from my past entry on Call Night, a graduating seminarian who will be a first-time pastor gets a Call. This is something the seminary professors do with churches requesting a pastor. They prayerfully consider where each seminarian should go. They try to take into consideration if the seminarian is married, has kids, wants to be near family, wants to be rural or urban, or has any health issues. However, nothing is guaranteed. Ultimately, you go where God puts you.

Both my husband and I grew up in south-east Michigan, although we had lived for four years in Indiana for the seminary and one year in Illinois for vicarage (internship). My husband grew up in a rural town with a population of about 5,000. I grew up in the suburbs with a population of about 31,000. We requested that we be within a day’s drive of family – the closer the better – but no more than 8 hours. We said we wanted our daughter to grow up knowing her relatives. We also had some health concerns that definitely ruled out three states. We requested no inner-city church, because the traffic and the crime would really cause me health problems concerning my anxiety disorder. We had no idea where we were going to go; we only knew it would be in America.

The way seminarians in the Lutheran Church Missouri Synod learn of their first call is very… dramatic. The seminarians all sit up front as a class, just like graduation. Meanwhile, the wives, kids, family, and friends sit in the back. (Thankfully, my parents, sister, and parents-in-law were there to support me so I didn’t have to go through this alone.) We go through a very long church service, which is both aggravating and wonderful at the same time. Aggravating, because you just want to know where you are going to live. Wonderful, because the hymns, Bible verses, and sermon have such a beautiful peace that strengthens and encourages you.

One-by-one, the seminarians are called by name and then told the name of the church, city, state, and district they are Called to. Some seminarians get more than one church, which is happening more and more, especially in rural churches, as Christianity weakens in America.

This is how the seminarians, their wives, and their kids learn where they will live. After the service, a seminarian can quietly refuse his Call, but this is rare, and to do so means you may never get another Call. It’s not good for one’s career. However, when one accepts a Call, one does so assuming that this could be the only Call one ever receives and/or accepts, and it could be where he stays until retirement. Of course, many pastors do receive other Calls during their careers (in a much less dramatic way), which they prayerfully consider and then either accept or deny. A pastor will usually stay at his first Call for three-to-five years to get a foundation under his career and not cause too much change at once for that congregation.

(A nervous wife waiting for the service to begin)

Frank and I had been receiving hints that we were getting a Call to Michigan, and we were delighted that we would be by family. When I heard my husband’s name called, followed by Missouri, I was in shock. Absolute shock. I had never heard of the town. I had never even been in the state of Missouri. Not only was it not Michigan; it was a drive even further than 8 hours away. I suddenly felt like there was this gaping chasm between my family and me. I looked down at my baby, and I couldn’t imagine her growing up without her aunts, uncles, and grandparents. My heart just hurt. I said, “I have to go. I have to leave.” And I walked out of the church and went to the basement where the bathrooms are. My mom and sister followed. When they caught up to me, my mom said, “It’ll be okay.” And then my sister – who is so strong, rarely emotional, so level-headed – burst into tears and grabbed me up into a hug. And then all three of us stood in the basement, sobbing.

After the service, during pictures, I was just numb. I was relieved to finally no longer be wondering where we were going. We weren’t being sent off to Alaska or some other terrible cold state; so that burden had been lifted. Everyone kept coming up to us and saying, “Perry county! You’re going to Perry county!” I wanted to scream, “WHAT IS PERRY COUNTY!?” (I had forgotten my Lutheran history lessons… it’s where Lutheranism was brought to America!)

(After the Call Service with our announcement poster)

Although it was getting late in the evening, the seminarians and their wives meet with their new district president. We found the room where we were assigned and met the Missouri District President. I liked him immediately. He put me at ease. He described our town, and he made it sound charming. The one thing that concerned me was how rural it was… a town with less than 500 people. This was more rural even than the town my husband grew up in. The Missouri DP said the one thing he could say about our congregation is that they need a pastor who will connect with them and just love them. We can do that, I thought to myself. I have a passion for loving people who have been through difficult times.

(Graduation)

The next few months were spent with Frank finishing up his classes, graduating, receiving an academic award, and packing, packing, packing. All with a baby. When our daughter was 9 months old, we locked up our tiny apartment for the last time. I got in our car with my mom. My dad got in his car. Frank got in the Uhaul, and we were off for a long, long day of driving. Thankfully, our daughter was so well-behaved in the car and never fussed… until the last two hours. Then she made up for it by crying the entire two hours.

(Moving Day)

We pulled into town just after it got dark. We weren’t sure where the house was, so we pulled into the church parking lot. We got out and were greeted by 10-20 people who had come to meet us and help us unload. They pointed out the driveway, which was hidden in the rural darkness. We asked if we could walk through the house once before everything was brought in, just so I could plan what went where. (I had all my boxes color-coded with post-its according to what room they belonged in.)

I remember walking into the living room through the front door. I was overwhelmed. This was my home… for at least the next 3-5 years, if not more. I hadn’t lived anywhere for longer than a year since we were married. I walked into the kitchen and came to a stop. It was all brand new. The cabinets were a light-wood color. The backsplash was a brownish-copperish color. All the appliances matched in color. And so much counter space! So many cabinets! After having teeny, tiny apartment kitchens, I was thrilled. It even had a double sink with a window over it. And a tile floor, which made me so very happy after having a dining room in the apartment that was carpeted, which does not mix with a baby.

 

There were so many things I loved about the house… a huge basement, windows in every direction (unlike our apartment that had windows only on the north wall), a huge yard, three bedrooms and three bathrooms. But I was also overwhelmed. Everyone started unloading the truck, and really all I could do was make sure my crawling baby was happy and out of the way. I didn’t know anyone, and in the flurry of activity, I was struggling to remember names. Most of the boxes got unloaded, and we called it a night. Everyone left, and we started getting the beds set up, figuring out where to sleep and how.

The next few days were a struggle for me. Members of church dropped by to donate food, do some last minute repairs on the house (they had remodeled the kitchen and basement before our arrival), or just to say hello. I couldn’t eat any of the food, due to breastfeeding a baby with food allergies. It did help feed my hungry husband and parents, though! My baby, although breastfed, did not latch. This meant I had to pump for 20 minutes every three hours in order to feed her and keep up my milk production. That, in turn, meant that I had to constantly close myself off from everyone and hide away while I pumped. It seemed like every time someone dropped by, I was pumping. I could hear voices I didn’t recognize talking with my family, and I didn’t get to join in the process of getting to know our visitors. I knew my family was  unpacking things without me helping them decide where to put it. I love help packing, but I actually enjoy unpacking and organizing everything myself.

I also struggled with being so rural. A drive to the grocery store meant 30-40 minutes. So if we went to the store, that was 40 minutes, plus, say, 40 minutes to shop, and then 40 minutes to get home. That’s two hours. That meant, if I pumped at 1pm, we could leave at 1:30 when I was done pumping and put everything away. Two hours for the store got me home at 3:30, and I needed to pump again at 4. There was no time for anything more than a quick lap around the store to get what was needed. In addition to this, I needed to coordinate my daughter’s feeding and nap times and proper storage for breastmilk. Due to the food allergies, I sometimes couldn’t find what I needed at one store, so I would need to go to another, but I didn’t have time.

I was tired, overstimulated, and so unsure of the future.

Sunday finally came, and we went to church. We got to meet the congregation. Another pastor preached for the last time. Later that afternoon, Frank was ordained and installed in a special church service, and then there was a meal with everyone afterwards. Again, I couldn’t eat much due to food allergies, so I nibbled on a few things and spent most of my time making rounds so I could meet everyone and try to memorize names. One thing I knew immediately – we were blessed with a congregation who was inviting, warm, and just so excited to have a pastor. Everyone loved our daughter, and I knew that although she was going to grow up without her relatives, she would have plenty of church family.

(Ordination and Installation Day)

The first few months were difficult for me, which was no one’s fault. My clinical depression, anxiety, and post-partum depression were kicking my butt, along with all the new changes – a baby, a career change, and a big move. The depression got so bad, I even became suicidal, and I had to start seeing a doctor and get counseling. Depression is a disease that has a terrible way of lying to you, convincing you that you are worthless and your family is better off without you. We also discovered the house was full of brown recluse spiders, which are pretty common in most older houses in Missouri and very, very difficult to get rid of. I’m not afraid of bugs, but I was TERRIFIED of my baby getting bit by these venomous spiders, especially since we were finding them in her toys, by her crib, etc. It really triggered my anxiety and OCD.

I share all these trials for the sake of other seminary wives and wives of pastors. You can be Called to the best congregation possible, but still deal with debilitating depression simply because it is a huge change, and it’s one you have absolutely no control over. If you need to do counseling, do it. There is no shame in asking for support during such a huge transition.

Slowly, as I learned more about my surroundings, met more people, got to know our congregation, I settled down. I learned our church and small town are very active. They have all these traditions that we experienced for the first time: the first funeral, first wedding, first baptism, the church carnival, the county fair, the Christmas country church tour, the children’s Christmas program, Christmas Day, Holy Week, Confirmation, Easter Sunday, the church chicken dinner, Vacation Bible School, the church softball team, the parking lot 4th of July party. We are always busy doing something with people from church and the people of the town. We’re never lonely. We feel so welcomed.

I also experienced my first Missouri winter. The winter of 2016-2017 was mild in the midwest, even in Michigan, it was still even more mild in Missouri than in Michigan. My family kept sending me pictures of all their snow and gray and slush. I kept an eye on the temperatures in Michigan. Meanwhile, although cold, it was nothing like Michigan in Missouri. We had two dustings of snow and one ice storm. The weather was mild enough for me to go for a walk. I didn’t hate being outside in winter like I did in Michigan and Indiana. Autumn stayed much later, and spring started much earlier. All of that meant that my seasonal depression was very, very mild. I had a few rough days, but not rough weeks or rough months. This alone makes me want to stay in Missouri forever.

We also experienced our first tornado in February. We only had hail damage that resulted in a new roof. The next town over was struck by an EF-4 tornado, tragically causing one death. The way the towns and churches pulled together to help those who lost their homes was inspiring. All the grocery stores had food drives. The community groups on Facebook organized donations. Churches raised thousands of dollars at door-offerings. It was a type of neighborly love I rarely saw in the city.

And that neighborly attitude is always present. Whenever one person drives or walks past another person, he waves a hand. Whenever I am out for a walk with my daughter, people stop to say hello, offer us fresh vegetables, talk about the calves being born. It’s this little town that time forgot.

One year ago, as I sat in this house, wondering what the future held, I felt so unsure, unsteady. I knew God’s plan for my husband, but what was my calling? What was my purpose? Today, as I sit here typing this, aside from missing my family, I never want to leave this town. The people here are important to me. I have fallen in love with the rolling fields and the country sky. I have adapted to the culture here and decided I was meant for this way of living my entire life. It’s a good place to raise a family. It’s a good place to make friends. It’s a good place to grow in faith and knowledge of Jesus. God knew what He was doing when He Called us here, and I couldn’t be happier. I’ve learned that it’s okay to be scared, as long as I still trust in Him. I don’t know if it is God’s plan to keep us here until my husband retires, but if it is, that would make me happy. I don’t know if it is God’s plan to move us to another Call or Calls in the future, but if it is, I will trust in Him.

Ten Years of Self Injury Addiction Recovery

Today is a really big deal for me. Today marks 10 years since I last gave in to an addiction of self harm.

I don’t talk about this much. Honestly, I’m terrified to be public with this. I’m the seminary wife. I’m the soon-to-be pastor’s wife. I worry that people in the church will see me as a strange, twisted person – because what kind of person purposefully hurts herself?

However, I’m terrified not to talk about it. I am scared to death that somewhere out there, someone – maybe even a Christian like me – is struggling with self harm, someone who could be helped by my story. If I stay silent out of fear of judgment, then what did my experience teach me? What did it mean for me to go through that if it can’t be used for something bigger?

I’m sure there will be people who will hear of my past or see my scars and find me unworthy to be who I try to be – unworthy to be a pastor’s wife, a teacher, a leader, unworthy to be a mother. That’s something I need to face and something I need to learn how to deal with. The title of my blog, Broken Quiet: Writing Without Wearing the Mask, are all about breaking that silence, removing that mask, and helping people through my experience. I believe that’s why God allowed me to go through all that I survived – to help others.

So here it goes…

When people hear about cutting (or any form of self harm), they often picture some goth/punk/emo teenager who needs to get over an identity crisis and stop looking for attention and have a stronger faith. There are so many things wrong with this assumption.

First, many of those struggling with self harm are not teenagers; many of them are adults – some who started younger, and others who started in adulthood. Sadly, children also deal with self harm. It’s in our grade schools. It can start young.

Second, a person’s style of dress does not mean they are or are not depressed. You can have a blonde-haired girl who wears pink dresses every day, and she still may be dealing with depression. Appearance means nothing.

Third, sometimes self harm is not about attention, but sometimes it is – and that is okay. When someone is depressed, shouldn’t we be telling them to get help? Shouldn’t we be telling them that they need the attention of their parents/guardians, their teachers, and a counselor? Give these people positive attention. Help them see that they have meaning, because they are having trouble seeing it on their own.

Lastly, religion. When a Christian is shocked that I would do such a thing, I point out that several people in the Bible did the same, including Job (pronounced jobe). I read through the entire Bible, and I found several more verses describing people who cut themselves when facing extreme grief. These include Leviticus 19:28, Leviticus 21:5, Deuteronomy 14:1, 1 Kings 18:28, Job 2:8, Jeremiah 41:5, Jeremiah 47:5, Jeremiah 48:37, Hosea 7:14, and Mark 5:5.

I was a Christian, and I was a cutter. The time my faith was strongest was probably during the years I was cutting. Why? Because I needed God more than ever during that time of my life. I relied on Him just to get me through a mundane day. And honestly, now that I’m “normal,” I miss that, because now I have to constantly remind myself that I need God. I don’t turn to Him as naturally as I did before. All this is to say that people who self harm come from all sorts of religious backgrounds. Christians should not assume that a person has no faith just because s/he is struggling with a self harm addiction (or any addiction). However, I must add that I give all credit to successfully fighting this addiction the past 10 years to God. There is no one else who can do what He has done for me – no other person and no other god can love me like my God loves me.

If I haven’t lost you yet, allow me to tell you my story.

I had been through bullying and sexual assault at my grade school. The summer between 7th and 8th grade, our furnace exploded during an air conditioner installation. I was dealing with depression, anxiety, and PTSD – but I didn’t know it. I didn’t know that my feelings were symptoms, and so I hid them. I hid them so well, not even my parents knew what was going on.

By the time I was 15, I was a complete wreck. The smell of a burning candle would make me relive the explosion. (I didn’t know this was a flash back.) I could barely muster up the energy to get through a day of school, because school meant smiling and pretending that I was normal, and a continuous act is exhausting.

One day, during the autumn of my sophomore year, I was giving my cat her medication. This required that I cut her pill in half using a pill cutting tool. The pill cutter sliced my finger. I immediately started scolding myself. You stupid idiot. You can’t do anything right. You deserve that cut. You deserve to bleed. At that moment, something clicked. Before I even knew what I was doing, I started dragging the pill cutter over my skin, creating several cuts. I got a very calm, sleepy feeling. I cleaned everything up, left the bathroom, and relaxed.

Thus began my habit. Create some cuts on my arm or leg, feel calm and peaceful, continue on with my day. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, like I just couldn’t handle one more thing, I turned to my razor, and soon I was feeling calm again.

A few months into this routine, I came across the term “cutting” online. I had never heard of it before. I had no idea other people did what I did. It shocked me and scared me that this was something people got professional help for. Finding out that I was a cutter made me realize just how serious my feelings were – that I really was dealing with a beast called Depression.

And yet, I hid. My routine was working for me. Cutting calmed me. Looking back, I realize I only became more withdrawn. The thoughts behind cutting were not healthy – believing I needed to be physically punished for every little mistake. Perhaps cutting helped me cope in some ways, but overall, it was a dangerous game to play.

About that time, teachers were noticing a change in me. After several comments, I admitted to my parents that I had been considering suicide and had even tried to swallow pills once. It was decided that I should start counseling. My dad found a Christian counselor for me.

Around Christmas time, one of my best friends discovered my self harm secret when she grabbed my arm. She said she couldn’t keep this secret for me. She told her dad. If I didn’t tell my parents, her dad would tell mine.  I was angry at her. I felt so betrayed. I decided to take as much control of the situation as I could and tell my dad while I was in counseling. I knew he would be heartbroken, and I wanted the counselor to be there for him. (By the way, this girl is one of my very closest friends to this day.)

That night was the worst night of my life; it was even worse than the night of the explosion. My parents were hurt, confused, and so worried for their child. They received news no parent wants to hear about their daughter.

Counseling was the best thing for me, though. I found out why I always felt so calm and sleepy after a cutting session; self harm is a chemical addiction. When a person’s body is hurt, the body sends messages to the brain, and the brain releases endorphins to act as pain relievers. Eventually, a person comes to rely on that sudden release of endorphins, and an addiction results.

Addictions have a way of escalating until they control you. Eventually, I began cutting even when I wasn’t upset. Sometimes, I cut just because it had been awhile, and I felt like I craved it.

With counseling, help from family, teachers, and friends, and hearing God’s Word in church every week, I eventually realized that cutting was bad; punishing myself was bad. When the movie The Passion of the Christ came out, I was finally struck with the realization that Christ went through so much to carry my sin. He bled so that I didn’t have to. All my mistakes are already forgiven. I didn’t need to be punished; I needed to trust that Jesus paid my ransom because He loves me.

Now that I consciously knew I wanted to stop cutting, I still had to fight the physical addiction. At first, just going two days was a big deal. Sometimes I went weeks, but I kept falling back. At one point, I had gone months, and I was just not happy. I wanted to cut, still. I was just fighting it because I knew it was the right thing to do. I spoke to a counselor about this at a Christian camp, and he told me that until I really truly wanted to stop, relapse would be more than likely.

Not long after that conversation, I cut. And I hated myself for it. For the first time, I was so upset that I gave in. And that’s when I realized, I was ready to fight – not because it was the right thing to do, but because I wanted to be free.

Several months in, I started dating a guy at my college. We had gone to high school together, but he didn’t know about my cutting. When we started dating, I was very open with him about what I had been through. I wanted him to know what he was getting into, but I also wasn’t interested in dating someone who couldn’t respect me. As it turned out, he was the best thing for me. Whenever I had a craving or was struggling to cope with anxiety, depression, or a PTSD episode, he was there. Sometimes, my hands would shake because I wanted to cut so badly, but he would sit with me and hold my hands.

Today, 10 years later, he is still with me. He married me.

I still struggle sometimes. I will always be in recovery until this life is over, until I join my Savior in heaven and am finally cured from clinical depression, anxiety, and PTSD. But God has put some amazing people in my life who have helped me come this far. My parents, sister, teachers, and my husband have been such a huge help to me. Organizations such as To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA) and Celebrate Recovery are such an encouragement. One of my favorite bands, Switchfoot, supports TWLOHA. The songs, Scream, by ZoeGirl and Scars by Jonny Diaz are two Christian songs that have addressed self harm in such a meaningful way for me. God has put so many people in my life to remind me that He loves me, and I am worthy.

And in my weakest moments, I remember this:

But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed. – Isaiah 53:5

Hellish Headaches vs. Knowing Neurologist

Most of my friends and family know I have been dealing with several health problems, especially tension, headaches, dizziness, and TMJ issues.

I am a firm believer in chiropractic care. When we moved to the Quad Cities for my husband’s vicarage assignment, I made the mistake of not finding a chiropractor right away. My issues with dizziness increased until it got to the point I would get so dizzy from making the bed, I would have to lie down. I would do a chore, lie down. Do another chore, lie down. I saw a family doctor who said I had severe vertigo and needed a CT Scan. She said she would refer me. I never received a referral, but I decided I wanted a second opinion before spending that kind of money.

Then the headaches kicked in. Each day starts with terrible tension in my neck, which creeps up the back of my head and into my jaw, and then after several hours, the pain goes from dull to severe. I normally feel yucky by 3 or 4pm and completely miserable and useless by 7pm. For the headache to go away, I have to take 4 Advil Liquigels and 5mg of Flexeril (a prescription muscle relaxer).

Every few weeks, I get one of these unbearable headaches where I feel like my eyes will explode, like my teeth have been shoved through my head, and my face is fracturing into tiny pieces. I gag from the pain and dizziness. Last September, nothing helped, and I ended up in the hospital on Toradol, Morphine, Benadryl, Zofran, and Phenergan. This almost happened again last weekend, but the drugs finally started to dull the pain two hours after I took them.

Desperate, I started an intense Google search for chiropractors. Luckily, I am in the Quad Cities, which is where Palmer College is located; there is no shortage of chiropractors here. One search had interesting results, and I decided to check him out for these reasons:
– He is both a chiropractor and a neurologist
– He is a professor of neurology
– He has received several awards
– There were several patient testimonies
– His clinic offers a free consultation
– He has an insurance specialist figure out all your payment needs for you
– He treats conditions such as migraines, vertigo, and is able to manipulate extremities in addition to spinal adjustments
– He gives referrals to specialists for patients who have conditions he is unable to treat

My husband came with me to the free consultation. The insurance specialist called our insurance company with us present, and asked all these questions I would have never thought to ask. Once we knew what my insurance would cover, we talked to the doctor. He listened to my symptoms and confirmed that I have a condition he is equipped to treat. He even started the process of the first examination that day. I was there for over two hours, and I was being worked with the entire time; there was no waiting around.

Some of the tests seemed silly. He pointed his finger at me and brought it closer to my nose to make me cross-eyed. I got so dizzy I had to step back, and I nearly threw up. He had me walk across the room while reciting every other letter of the alphabet. I could not do it. I had to stop walking because I couldn’t remember what letter I had just spoken. He did several other tests where I had to look at one object a certain distance away, then look at another object that was closer or farther away, or I had to watch a moving object. He checked my eyes. He used a tuning fork to test which hand is more sensitive. He noted that my hands and feet have a huge temperature difference than my body.

One test, I had to wear a mask that completely blacked out my vision. I sat in an office chair, and he spun me to the right, then stopped, then spun me to the left. He did this a few times, then took off the mask. My husband said, “Wow! That was so cool!”
“What?” I asked.
“That mask was an infrared camera, and we could see your eyes the whole time! When you spun to the right, your eyes reacted and moved back and forth. When you spun to the left, you just stared straight ahead.”

The doctor took the weekend to review the results and go over the notes I had written up for him. When I went back in on Monday, he explained to me what was going on.

To put it very, very simply: My brain is forcing me to be in a perpetual “Fight or Flight” mode.

To explain with a little more detail: My neurons are misfiring. Part of my brain stem is overstimulated, while other parts of my brain are shutting down to compensate for the work the brain stem is doing. During all the vision-movement tests, my eyes could not follow movement correctly. They are also over-dilated and don’t dilate and contract together at the same time.

Because I am in fight or flight mode, my body acts like there is a threat, and it gets ready to flee or to defend. My blood vessels constrict, which is what causes my hands and feet to feel icy because I’m not getting the correct circulation. The constriction of blood vessels is also what is creating the intense headaches. This is also why my eyes are dilated. I become hyper-aware of sensations, especially light and sound.

The doctor then named some digestive issues, and I had to admit that I struggle with them but have never sought help due to finances and always focusing my medical care on the headaches. During fight or flight, the body slows down digestion because it isn’t going to waste energy digesting. Since I am always in this mode, I digest very slowly. I’m not getting the nutrients I need even though I’m eating all the right things. This is why I feel exhausted all the time.

He asked if my heart ever feels erratic. I told him that my heart often flutters or feels like it skips beats. Again, this is my body prepping to fight or run. Since I don’t need to fight or run and remain still, my heart starts freaking out.

Then came the big question. He asked if I struggle with anxiety and depression. He was interested to know that I have struggled with depression ever since I can remember (the earliest being age 4). I’ve been on medication, which helps, and have even been through a placebo test to prove that it is the medication that helps rather than the thought of taking medication. There is definitely an imbalance of chemicals in my brain, without a doubt. He said that he expects to greatly decrease my depression and anxiety – to the point that I might be able to lower my dose of my medication.

But what astounds me the most are the little things he was able to guess correctly about me:
– I can’t handle the sound volume in theaters. (I have to wear ear plugs.)
– I can’t handle an alarm in the morning because it startles me to the point I feel like throwing up.
– I often need to dim the lights.
– I am picky about how soft and comfortable my clothing is.
– New situations are terrifying because I take in all sensations at once (like the sound of the air moving through the vents).
– Talking on the phone is terrible because I feel the voice vibrating in my ear more than I can hear the words.

He started naming all these things that often bother “normal” people but drive me insane until I feel so overwhelmed. I suddenly felt like a doctor understood me for the first time. Finally, someone understands that just going through a normal day makes me want to run and hide for a week, and there is a reason for this, and it’s because part of my brain is working too hard while other parts of the brain can no longer function. And I didn’t have to tell him any of this about myself. He guessed, and he guessed correctly every time.

While in counseling once, my counselor had me read “The Highly Sensitive Person” by Elaine N. Aron Ph.D. This book explained that people who are emotionally sensitive are often more sensitive to physical stimuli as well. I have always been told that I am too emotional, too sensitive – that I need to grow a thicker skin and stop wearing my heart on my sleeve. This book in combination with the findings of my neurologist help me understand that I am literally wired to be sensitive in every way.

The treatment? Right now, I have to rest and not do too much in a day. I need to limit stimuli – lights, sounds, etc. I have to come into his office for three sessions of treatments. (So far, I have had two.) The treatments consist of doing light exercises to stimulate my left brain, especially the frontal lobe. Basically, I lie on the table, and he moves my right arm, my right leg, massages my right shoulder, and moves my fingers while I stay limp. Then he has me sit and do some vision exercises. I have to do things like watch his finger, which starts right in front of my face, and then keep my eyes on it until he gets to the wall. Then I keep my eyes on the wall, and as soon as he gets back to me and the tip of his finger is back in my view, I have to change from looking at the wall (far away) to his finger (close up). These make me dizzy sometimes, but they’re getting easier.

After two treatments, I was able to go 60 hours without both prescription and over-the-counter pain medication because I only had a dull, barely-there headache. That hasn’t happened in over two months.

After my third treatment, Frank and I will meet with him and discuss what the long-term treatment will be and go over finances and insurance again.

For the first time in a long time, I have hope.

Oh, and my neurologist said I don’t need a CT scan.

My Best and Worst Hospital Experiences

I’m a clumsy person, so hospitals are not unfamiliar to me. Between breaking seven bones and going through two lateral release knee surgeries, hospitals are a part of my life. I’ve had some interesting experiences at hospitals, like the time I had a messy IV insertion when visiting an Ann Arbor hospital for a broken wrist.

An IV is a flexible catheter inserted into a vein to allow fluids and medication to drip into the bloodstream. This flexible catheter surrounds a needle. Once the needle is inserted into the patient, the catheter is pushed into the vein, and the needle is pulled out. (This means that you do not have a needle in your arm the entire time you have an IV.) You then have the ports, piggybacks, lines, and all that attached to the catheter. However, in my case, the catheter was not clamped off, which caused my blood to shoot through the catheter and all over my lap. Basically, I looked like I had been slaughtered. The poor guy who was giving me the IV apologized all over the place. Lucky for him, I thought this was hilarious. (PS – if you need to get out blood stains, pour peroxide over the fabric. Not only does it remove the stain, but it fizzes wherever there is blood, which makes it a fun science experiment.)

Not all of my hospital experiences have been good. February 2011 was by far my worst experience. DH and I had been married for about 7 months, and I was in my first month of student teaching at a high school. Like most new teachers, I got sick. I thought, No big deal. Throw it all up; get it out of my system. Then rest and go back to work in a day or two. I was so wrong.

After over 24 hours of absolutely no fluids staying down and dry heaving every few minutes, I told DH I needed help. He drove me to the hospital that evening. He needed to help me through the parking lot because I was unable to walk through the snow. The ER was packed with people, and there was quite a line. I don’t really remember registration, but I sure do remember triage. They had DH wait in the waiting room, and I sat in the triage chair so they could get my vitals and start an IV while I waited for a room. The nurse couldn’t get the IV in my vein. (This is rare for me; every nurse tells me how amazing my veins are.) She told me my veins were collapsing from severe dehydration. I started dry heaving uncontrollably again, and she started screaming – literally screaming – for help. Of course, that made me think I was dying. Two male nurses came. One held me still while I gagged, and the other got the IV in. Then they gave me an injection of Zofran for nausea, a heated blanket, and wheeled me into the waiting room until a bed opened up.

Despite the heated blanket, I was freezing and shivering uncontrollably. Despite the IV, I was not feeling any better. In fact, I started hallucinating and talking about how English grammar is a lot like algebra. (Clearly, student teaching had consumed my thoughts even in illness.) After about an hour of waiting, I was finally given a room. I don’t remember much except sobbing about how thirsty I was. My mouth was so dry. I felt like I had sand in my mouth. But when you’re that nauseated, the rule is to not have anything put into your stomach – and that includes sucking on ice chips. After a second IV bag and as many doses of Zofran they could give me, my vitals finally stabilized, and they sent me home. It took two weeks to get my appetite back. One thing I unfortunately gained from this experience was an intense fear of throwing up.

What made this visit so bad? First, the nurse freaking out completely freaked me out. Second, I was very sick, weak, and had unstable vitals but no access to a room. Third, I was very nauseated, and Zofran wasn’t helping, but they kept pumping more into me rather than trying something else.

My best hospital experience happened this past weekend. Friday night, DH had to work at a church in the next city for a youth lock-in. This meant I was home alone all night for the first time since moving here. I spent most of my evening doing some research, and then I headed for bed around 10pm. I felt nauseated, but passed it off as anxiety and tried to sleep. After an hour of reading, tossing, and turning, I gave up. I took a dose of Emetrol, moved to the couch, and started watching an episode of “Psych.” I then spent the next several hours dry heaving. I texted DH to let him know I was really struggling with anxiety. He came home for a couple hours, and I finally threw up. Feeling better but exhausted, I went to bed, and DH went back to the lock-in.

I managed to eat a slice of toast and drink a glass of water Saturday afternoon. I gagged, but kept it down. DH brought me some Pedialyte (my favorite way to rehydrate when sick). By 9pm, I was throwing up again. I was beginning to get the symptoms I had in February 2011 – intense dry mouth, fierce thirst, and the beginnings of mild confusion. We decided it was time for the hospital.

We only waited a few minutes for registration. From there, we only waited a few minutes for a room. I was actually feeling better, since I had recently thrown up. We told the nurse about the February 2011 incident, said we just didn’t want a repeat, so we were here to get my stomach calm and to get rehydrated. My nurse got my vitals (all normal this time), got my IV started, took 4 vials of blood, and gave me an injection of Zofran. My stomach calmed down, so I tried to just relax. My anxiety slowly began to fade.

It wasn’t meant to last. About 30 minutes later, I was dry heaving again. I was given a second dose of Zofran, but I only got worse. My dehydration headache went from a dull pain in my forehead to an acute, stabbing pain in my jaw, teeth, and eye – all on the left side. The lights were suddenly blinding. I knew what that meant – migraine.

We were waiting on the blood test results before deciding what to do to treat the headache since there was a good chance I was pregnant. In the time it took for the blood test to be run and the results to come in, the migraine got what I suspect is the worst a migraine can get. I felt like my face was breaking. I was on my hands and knees, holding the bucket for dear life, rocking, writhing, gagging, sobbing. I remember wailing, “My head, my head!” I was punching the mattress. I felt like the pain was coursing through my whole body, and it needed an outlet in some way. Punching the mattress felt appropriate.

The door flew open, my nurse rushed to my bed, and said, “The pregnancy test is negative” (I have never been so happy for a negative pregnancy test). Then the nurse said, “I have some morphine for you. Have you ever had morphine before?”
“No,” I said, but  I was thinking, Morphine? That’s intense. That’s for war wounds and such. I don’t have a war wound! 

Too late. The drug was injected into my IV. My nurse said, “You’re going to feel confused and tired. Morphine is a narcotic. But it works quickly, and the pain should go away.”

Ten minutes later, the pain had decreased enough so that I could lay still rather than thrash around. By that point, I was upside down in bed (which DH thought was amusing and snapped a picture of me). I was able to function well enough to hold an ice pack to my jaw, where the pain was the worst. My nurse asked what my pain level was. I told her, “Five.” I felt like this was a huge success, and I was pretty thankful to be at a five. My nurse wasn’t so satisfied; she wanted to hear “Zero.” She said she was going to inject me with a migraine cocktail. She explained, “a cocktail is a mixture of drugs, and the mixing of them makes for a better drink.” She injected me with Phenergan (for nausea), Benedryl (for nausea), and Toradol (an anti-inflammatory for pain). I felt that mixture start burning in my arm right away, like I had been injected with acid. Thankfully, this lasted for only a minute because then the drugs kicked in. My body went limp in complete relaxation, and I realized my nurse was so right; a zero is significantly better than a five. I don’t think I’ve ever been so pain-free in my life.

Nurses and doctors kept checking on me, but all I wanted was to sleep. Once my IV bag was empty, they unhooked me and sent me home with a prescription for Phenergan. I was so happy I could have cried, but I was too tired.

Between the Zofran, Phenergan, Benedryl, Toradol, and Morphine, I have spent the past couple days in a haze. But I am eating and hydrated and happy.

Why was this my best hospital experience? My nurse. She was an angel. She was persistent in getting the blood test results back – so persistent, that she stopped checking other patients and sat at the doctor’s desk so she wouldn’t miss the doctor. The moment she got the results, the medicine was in hand. While I was writhing in pain, she sat next to me with her hand on my shoulder, coaching me through it. Once I was better, she gave me some advice on migraines and wrote it down. She has no idea how much this means to me.

Vicarage Placement Night

4/29/14

It finally came! All I knew about our vicarage assignment was that it would be somewhere in the United States, since we did not grant permission to leave the country. (Note: vicarage is when a seminary graduate student is assigned to a church for one year to basically work as an assistant pastor. Then we return to the seminary for one more year of classes before being given a Call, or a placement with a church as a career.)

My husband’s parents and his younger brother came down from Michigan, and my parents did too. Frank’s parents met us at our apartment, then we drove to the seminary to find seats and meet my parents. I sat in the pew, and it felt like forever before my parents finally arrived, but they were actually early. I was too jittery, so I got out my journal and started writing. It was so strange to be faced with such a big change, have no control over it, and not be allowed to sit with my husband – the one person going through this change with me. (He had to sit with his classmates in alphabetical order.)

Finally, the church service started. The cross was carried down the aisle. All the pastors/professors wore white robes. (I grew up in a contemporary LCMS church, so white robes were rare.) I’m not a stranger to traditional worship style, but I am a bit less comfortable with it. This service, however, was done beautifully. The Kantorei (can-tor-eye), which is the men’s choir, sang beautiful chorals with breathtaking harmony. It really helped to calm me down and assure me that although I would be put in a new situation, it would be a part of God’s plan for me, and His plan is beautiful.

Then came the sermon. I got out my journal again, because I’ve heard countless seminary wives say they wished they could remember what happened during their placement service. Things that stuck out to me:

We’re going on a journey, and it’s scary. We kind of like the Ninja Turtles, jumping and yelling, “Cowabunga!” This is because God chose us, and Jesus said those who serve Him are called His “friends.” What we’re about to do isn’t easy, and Satan isn’t happy about us taking on this challenge. Satan would love to see us cave in under the pressure, destroy our marriages. We are in the midst of spiritual warfare, but Jesus already won the war. He is victorious, so we can live victoriously.

We were also instructed to not live to work. Vicarage will be hard work, but we also need to have fun. Use the opportunity to go places you’ve never gone before.

Lastly, we were reminded that God comes first, but our families come second, even before church. Don’t sacrifice your family for your congregation.

Finally, it was time to announce placements. Suddenly, I realized that I had been wrong when I said that I wouldn’t mind being placed anywhere in the country. Suddenly, I was so, very, very stressed that we would be told we were moving to the west coast (which seems so far away since I’ve never been farther than mid-Kansas!). I started praying, God, You know what I can and can’t handle, and I simply can’t handle moving more than a few states away! I just can’t! You’ve got to know this about me! Please don’t give me what I can’t handle. I was suddenly like a little kid begging not to go to the dentist.

Halfway through, it was my husband’s turn. They called his name, he walked up. They said the church name (went in one ear and out the other), said the district (one ear and out the other), the city (one ear and out the other), and finally, they said “Illinois.”

My immediate thoughts: Illinois? Only one state over?! I can do moving to the next state over! Wait. What was the city? Shoot! I didn’t hear the city! Where in Illinois! That’s a loooong state. Are we north or south? East or west? But oh my gosh! Only Illinois! Not Nebraska! Not California! I can do this! GOD HEARD MY PRAYER! HE KNOWS ME! I collapsed into tears on my mom’s shoulder, laughing and crying at the same time because of the immense relief. I had been shaking like someone with palsy for 3 days, and the shakes finally left me.

The service concluded with a hymn, and the seminarians (soon-to-be-vicars) were ushered out of the chapel. Frank passed right by me, and it felt so unnatural not to hold his hand or give him a hug. At the end of the hymn, there was a flood of people. Some exited the church, others stood around talking. I felt like screaming, “Get out of my way! I need to talk to my husband! You know, the guy I am moving to a new state with!? LET ME OUT.”

I finally raced out of the church, but so many people got out ahead of me, there was only a sea of suits and sun dresses. I stood on top of one of the fountains before I finally spotted Frank talking to his younger brother. I ran up to Frank, tackled him in a hug, and shouted, “ILLINOIS!” He gave out a whoop, and then I asked, “Where?! Where in Illinois!?” We looked on a map on Frank’s phone. It’s right on the Illinois/Iowa border. I got excited. I’ve never been to Iowa. My cousin and Frank’s brother and sister-in-law all live in Chicago, so we’d still be close to family.

I stepped aside to call my closest friends. Just as I got a hold of my best friend (friends since 7th grade, she lives in Texas), my mother-in-law (MIL) came up to me and said, “The pastor is here! You might want to get off the phone!”

What pastor? The pastor from our vicarage church? That church is an 8 hour drive away. What pastor?

I told Heather I needed to hang up, and I went back over to Frank. It was true… the pastor from our vicarage church had driven all the way to Fort Wayne to meet us. I felt so honored that he felt it was that important. I felt so relieved that we would know him right away instead of waiting a few months, wondering what he would be like. I also felt so unprepared!

Turns out his wife was also with him. They have a daughter about our age. There is a handbell choir at their church, so maybe I could play a little with them. The church has had many vicars (over 20, I think) so the precedence has already been set (HUGE relief). The church is small, only 200 or so members, but very stable. After our 3 year field work experience at a very unstable church, we really look forward to having a stable church. The church also uses the LSB (Lutheran Service Book) in a traditional service. Not what I am used to, but after the doctrinal issues I’ve had in a contemporary church, the LSB will be a breath of fresh air. The pastor really seemed like a great advisor, and his wife seemed so wise and motherly. I think we will learn so much but not be taken advantage of.

After spending quite some time talking and taking pictures, we took pictures with some signs I had previously made. I made one sign that said, “Our One-Year Vicarage Is In…” and then on the next sign after the service, my mom wrote the month we move (August) and the city and state since I was busy meeting the pastor.

We finally returned home to my apartment for snacks and beers to celebrate. We made our official Facebook announcements and posted the photos. I already had tons of comments from friends and family who had watched the ceremony live on the seminary’s website. (I was pleased that no one announced the city and state until after I did, though.) I even had a message and friend request on FB from the current vicar’s wife who is at our future church now. She sent me photos of the house we will live in for the next year and said she’d love to answer the many questions I must have.

I just had this overwhelming sense of love from so many people, and I had this incredible feeling that God had all this planned. Pretty sure He was up there, laughing and saying, “See? What did you have to worry about? I’ve got your back.”

The house is like a little old farmhouse. It’s got wood floors and three bedrooms, plus a basement. We’ll have a yard and a garage. I haven’t lived in anything other than a dorm and an apartment in 8 years. I can’t imagine how lovely it will be to live in a house. The BEST thing about this house is that Kitty can come with us! The second best thing is that there is a screened-in porch, where I plan to do a lot of reading and writing.

So yup… I’m excited. Can August 1st please come now!?

Who Am I?

Explaining who I am to people who have never met me is always a challenge for me; I’m not really sure who I am.

The demographic part is easy. I’m a woman. I’m in my mid twenties (it’s still so weird to say that). I’ve lived in the United States of America all my life, and the only other country I’ve visited is Canada. I’m married, but I have no children yet. I’ve graduated college with a BA in English, history, religion, and education. I grew up in a home with a loving mom and dad who have an amazing relationship. I have one sister who is two years younger. I got married when I was 22 to an amazing man. We don’t have any kids yet, but hopefully one day.

I’ve had to move away from my family when my husband decided to go to seminary. The seminary is in a different state than where our parents live, but it’s only a 2.5 hour drive. Late this April, my husband will be assigned a church somewhere in the U.S. for his vicarage (basically practicing being a pastor for a year). I’m a little nervous about that, but more on that later.

I work as a nanny for a family that owns a cleaning company that cleans medical offices in nearly half of the United States. I do some secretary work for their business, and I am in charge of purchasing and organizing all the cleaning supplies that get delivered from state to state. It’s not a job I saw myself ever getting into, but it’s a job, and I’ve gotten very close with the girl I nanny and her mother.

In my off-time, I love to read and write. I play flute and handbells. My hobbies lately involve Netlfix more than not, which is a trend I am not proud of. Now that this long winter is over, I hope to get back into swimming, bike riding, rollerblading, etc. I’m an adrenaline junky, so I enjoy roller coasters (Cedar Point is the best!), ziplines, white water rafting, etc. I’ve been spending a lot of my free time helping two young women who are struggling with depression, self harm, addiction, post-abortion trauma, etc. I may have experience with some of what they are going through, but I’m no professional. I sometimes wish I was because I enjoy talking with them and watching them heal.These girls are amazing people.

One reason I like talking with people who struggle is that I struggle with clinical depression, an anxiety disorder, and post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). I was addicted to self harm for three years. Next month, I will have been clean for 8 years. I wish these things didn’t make up such a big part of who I am, but I am learning to embrace it and be more transparent about it because it allows me to reach out to others who are hurting. If I can help one person, then my trials are worthwhile.

The best and biggest part of me is my love for Jesus Christ. I believe the Bible to be true, even when I don’t always understand it. I believe church to be important, even the times when I find it boring. I’ve always grown up in a Christian family, but I had strong doubts as a child and even turned away from God at one point in my life. I went through a really rough time and saw some amazing things that proved to me God is real, that He loves me even when I have trouble loving myself. I know I’m going to lose a lot of readers by announcing my faith since Christianity is so unpopular today, but it is truly the biggest part of my life. God is who keeps me going.

That’s a small introductory to what makes me who I am.