com·mence·ment
/kəˈmensmənt/
noun
noun: commencement; plural noun: commencements
1. a beginning or start. "at the commencement of training"
synonyms: beginning, start, starting point, opening, outset, onset, launch, initiation, inception, birth, dawn, origin;

Well, it's officially over: my commencement, and yes, I made it. Three weeks ago I graduated with my master's degree. That long chapter is finally over. I haven't written since then because I've been pretty burned out on writing. Something about writing three major papers in one week's time had me a bit tired of my computer and, truth be told, I'm a little out of practice for writing a blog having not written one for awhile.

But, I figured it was time to share some thoughts about this whole journey of getting my degree and lessons I've learned along the way.

The other week, when I was looking up the word commencement, I found the following definition. 1. a beginning or start. "at the commencement of training". Seems like a strange definition since it's actually the end of something, namely me getting my master's. But something about  it really struck me as fitting when it comes to describing graduation, because in many ways it is the beginning of something.

You see, there were quite a few times on this journey, when I had to convince myself that I was going to get my degree. My last class was tough and, if you recall, I was taking two at once. There were many nights when I had nightmares that I wasn't going to pass my final project. Once I turned it in, it seemed like an eternity waiting to find out if I had, indeed, passed it. It had me so stressed out that I finally decided I needed to take control. I began repeating this mantra to myself, "I can't wait to cross that stage in May and get my diploma." There were plenty of days when I simply didn't believe it was possible, but I kept repeating that phrase. Now, looking back, I don't know why I ever doubted.

But it seems like doubting is the human existence and it's a quality of mine that is really hard to shake. That's because faith is the opposite of doubt. As the Bible puts it, faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.  See, it's easy to have faith when you have what you want in your grasp. The bigger challenge is having faith before you've actually received what you're hoping for. Having that kind of faith takes guts, and grit, and courage, and it takes a certain amount of trust in the One we can't see.

So maybe the beginning of this next chapter in my life is about having faith. Faith that God is for me. Faith that he crazy loves me. Faith that I'm his child and that nothing can separate me from him.  Whatever trials or difficulties you're facing in your life right now, have courage and keep the faith. Take a lesson from my story and remember that faith is about believing even when you can't see. Most importantly, remember that our faith is in a God who doesn't disappoint. In that knowledge, press on and keep the faith.

This past week, my family had an emergency of sorts that surrounded my son. He struggles with an anxiety disorder and depression and without going into gory details, he hit rock bottom this week and we had to watch him struggle and sink. In a word, it was heartbreaking. In many ways, my mind and emotions are still reeling from it.

It’s bad enough that I struggle, but to watch my son face some of the challenges that I face? It’s almost more than I can bear. I feel guilty, despondent. It’s funny how when someone you love faces something difficult, it almost hurts worse than when you yourself face it. Especially if that someone is your child.

Struggles with mental health are nothing new for him. Early on, he struggled with anxiety to an extreme. It had to do over being able to fall asleep. Something we all may struggle with at one time or another, but for him it was intensely magnified. He would pace the floor and cry and just couldn’t be consoled. That’s how we knew he needed more help than we could give. That’s when we reached out and got help from a professional.

It was hard. Getting him help for this area of life. Even though I am open and honest about my mental illness, it’s different with my son. He’s more vulnerable and I feel like I need to protect him. But if we just left him to drown in his anxiety was that really the right thing to do?

And the funny thing is, if it was any other childhood disease I wouldn’t bat at eye at getting him whatever medical help he needed. If he was diabetic, of course we’d put him on insulin. And I know better than to question if mental illness is a biological illness. I believe firmly, it’s a disorder of the body as much as anything else, but still the shame, the fear, they haunt me.

Fast forward to present day and he’s still struggling, and we as his family have been on this roller coaster ride with him and it’s been heart wrenching. I wish there was something we could give and it would immediately do the trick, but treating a mental disease is so different from treating other diseases. It’s so trial and error. And my son is the victim of all that wreaks havoc in a person’s life when they have to just bear up under their struggles while medications and dosages are adjusted.

The worst part? I don’t feel at times that I can be honest about this struggle our family faces. I want to protect him. Want to protect us. If my child had cancer, I would reach out and ask for prayer and get all of that and more. Why am I trying to go it alone in this?  It’s in a word, stigma. There is still so much that surrounds this unknown part of a person’s health. I know stigma still exists, and so sometimes I am tempted to keep my mouth shut, rather than reach out and share.

But I know ours isn’t the only family that struggles with a child who has a mental disorder, so for all of our sakes, I decided to post on this this week. I asked my son for permission. I checked it with my husband. When they gave me the go ahead, I took a deep breath and dove in to write this. It’s because I  want us to band together as families and not hide our struggles in the dark. Let’s break the stigma and get our little ones the help they need. Let’s be there for them and for one another. We are stronger when we stand together. Amen.

I’m just going to put this out there. I have gained some weight. Admittedly, not a huge amount but enough that I notice the extra lumps and bumps, the less give in my pants, the tighter fit around my derriere. It’s the kind of weight that leaves me wearing sweat pants more frequently than I ought.

So yea, it hasn’t been a lot of fun. Actually, it’s been kind of depressing. And when I’m depressed, I go into my not so favorite mode: self-loathing.

Wikipedia describes self-loathing this way: Self-hatred (also called self-loathing) refers to an extreme dislike or hatred of oneself, or being angry at or even prejudiced against oneself.

Though Wikipedia isn’t the most reliable of sites it’s accurate as far as how I’m feeling about myself these days—extremely disliking myself, being angry, even prejudiced against myself.

Self-loathing is nothing new for me. In the past, it’s been something I’ve excelled in. Back in the day, pre-diagnosis, it manifested itself in many ways. One of my least favorite phrases repeatedly banging out in my head? “You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.”

The thing is, self-loathing has never done me any good. It’s certainly not helping me now. It’s not making me eat healthier. It’s not improving my outlook on life, and it’s definitely not making my pants fit better. It’s just weighing me down—more than the extra pounds, really.

2 Corinthians 7:10 says, “Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death.”

The thing is when I’m practicing self-loathing I’m not practicing godly sorrow, because, you see, godly sorrow leaves no regret. No regret over that extra piece of chocolate cake, or that extra helping of chips, or forgetting to work out today. It’s not that I don’t need to learn self-control, it’s that I need to learn to stop hating every bad decision I make and, in the end, hate myself.

Godly sorrow leads to repentance with no regret.

God doesn’t loathe me. He doesn’t loathe every bad decision I make. He loves me. So me loathing myself isn’t healthy, it isn’t true, and it isn’t right.

My grandpa used to play a “game” with me called, Stop Hitting Yourself. In the game, he would take my hands in his, make fists out of them, and pretend to hit me, all the while saying, “Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Why are you hitting yourself?” Though I hated the game, nevertheless there’s a good lesson hidden in it. I need to stop hitting myself.

Are you practicing some downright mean self-loathing? Stop it. Stop it. It’s not doing you any good. In fact, if you’re anything like me it’s only making everything worse.

If you’ve got some things to fix, things to get right, then get before God and start fixing them. But get with God first, because part of turning things around is getting power from the only Source who can truly fix things, truly redeem things, Jesus Christ.

And while you’re at it, stop loathing yourself, stop playing the hitting yourself game. Remember that God certainly doesn’t loathe you. He loves you. Find the truth and beauty in that statement and live in faith, not in fear.

Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday, dear . . . me. Happy Birthday to me. Well, it’s that time of year again. Another few days and I’ll be one year older. I guess it’s inevitable that another birthday has rolled around, but it sure feels like they come a lot more often than I’d prefer.

I used to get so excited about my birthday. Weeks, even months before, I’d remind everyone of the special day that was coming up. Just in case they’d forgotten, I’d remind them that December 3rd was a very important day in the history of the world. Narcissistic, yes, but I couldn’t help it. I loved celebrating me.

Thanksgiving was a holiday I looked forward to almost as much as Christmas because celebrating Thanksgiving meant that my birthday was only a week or so away.

A much-anticipated ritual of turning another year older was partaking of the red velvet cake my mom made each year. Mind you, this was before red velvet cake was all the rage which makes us way cooler than anyone else. (Boy, I really am into myself today.)

This year, rather than giving out my usual present requests, I’m going to make a new request, a strange one you might think. I’m asking God to help me live a guilt-free life. Not too much to ask, right?

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m saying, “God help me to not feel guilty when I eat the entire cake by myself or steal my husband’s hidden chocolate stash.” No, I’m not asking for a get-out-of-jail free card. It’s not that. I don’t want God’s permission to do things that are clearly wrong and against his laws.

Here’s what I am looking for though: relief, peace, a sense that I am loved beyond imagination.

You see, I am a person guilty of always feeling, well, guilty. Guilt is not just an emotion for me.  It’s a state of being—one that’s impossible for me to shrug off. And it’s only taken me forty-four years to figure out that I need to let go of the guilt that hunts me down, haunts me daily, and preoccupies my every waking moment.

As I’ve been contemplating all of this, I’ve mentally noted what types of situations or circumstances leave me feeling shamefully guilty. Some might seem funny but most of these events are things I truly obsess over every single day:

Top Ten Things I Feel Guilty About.

10. I haven’t spent enough time communing with God lately.

9. I’ve eaten way too many pieces of chocolate in one day.

8. I’ve eaten more ice cream than I should have. (9 and 8 are kind of hooked together since I usually top my ice cream with chocolate chips.)

7. I’ve messed up as a parent.

6. I’ve messed up as a friend.

5. In general I’ve just messed up. (5-7 go hand in hand. Basically, when I feel I’ve let someone down, I feel guilty.)

4. I spent too much money on purse number 115 of my all-time-purse collection. (My husband would agree with this one.)

3. I spent too much money at Target. Unfortunately, this makes me feel guilty but also good. Shopping at Target is a blast.

2. I didn’t walk my dog enough this week. (This one is pretty over the top. I mean it’s not like the dog is keeping track of the number of times I walk him in a week.)

And the Number One reason I feel guilty:
1. I feel guilty about always feeling so guilty.

Crazy stuff, right? At one point when I shared my struggles with someone, I made the passing comment that, more often than not, I’m motivated by guilt rather than grace.

This problem of guilt has consumed me for far too long. Really, since I was a child. Back then the only place I felt safe from guilt was in church, but the moment we were headed home from the service, guilt took me captive in its tyrannical grip. I couldn’t shake it off no matter how hard I tried.

Oftentimes, I felt like God was up in heaven shaking his fist at me for screwing up for the 1000th time in a day. Guilt left me cowering in the corner, hiding from the God I was sure was disappointed in me.

But deep down inside there was this place that knew God didn’t want me to carry that great burden of guilt around with me every waking moment of every single day. I mean that was the whole point of sending Jesus, right? Why would God have given his beloved Son for us if all he really meant was for us to wallow in our guilt and sin—sin that Jesus already paid for. Jesus came to set us free. Remember when he said that?

Luke 8:31-32 To the Jews who had believed him, Jesus said, “If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Jesus came to set us free.

So what’s the cure for guilt? I think the answer is clear. It’s love. Pure and simple, love. A love that is higher than the heavens are above the earth. A love that is deep and wide—deeper than any guilt I feel, wider than my uncomprehending mind can wrap itself around. That’s what I want to be motivated by. Love, not guilt. Grace, not guilt.

I know I’m not quite there, but in this my 44th year on this planet, I’m asking God to set me free from guilt so that I can run in the path of his commands. Here’s to another year of learning to live in God’s grace. Happy Birthday to me!

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11:1)

The following is a post that I wrote a few years back about how hard it is to have faith in a God we can’t see, in a God who speaks to us primarily through his word. I do feel the fool at times for believing in things I can’t see, but after all crazy faith is what life is all about.

My family is going through some major changes right now. I’ll be sharing a little bit more about that next week. For now, let me just say that I wish God would have given us a road map for this thing we call life.

In the past few months, there have been many times when I’ve wished that a little map of my life would miraculously fall from the sky. That way when I came to a fork in the road, I would know the right way to go—the thing God wanted me to do.
But whether I believe it or not, God is there to guide me in all types of situations and circumstances.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding.
Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take. (Proverbs 3:5-6)
 
Still, I do wait for the day when that map of my life falls from the sky and shows me the right path to choose each and every time I come to a fork in life’s road. It would make things so much easier if I had that map. But then again where’s the fun in knowing where to go next?

October 3rd, 2012

Once traveling it's remarkable how quickly faith erodes.  It starts to look like something else-ignorance, for example. Same thing happened to the Israelites.  Sure it's weak, but sometimes you'd rather just have a map.

From Peace Like a River by Leif Enger.

Reading an awesome book right now and came across this quote. The book is actually fictional although it sounds like a religious book. Intriguing story. Mostly, I wanted to quote this author because what he wrote struck a particular chord with me today. I feel the pain the character in this story is experiencing. How often I feel the fool for believing in things I can't see, things that make no sense.   

Even though I can "talk the talk" when it comes to faith it's much more difficult to "walk the walk." I had to smile when I read that "sometimes you'd rather just have a map" comment. I feel that way often. God why can't just spell it out in plain language, what exactly do you want me to do? 

Not only do I wish he'd give me explicit instructions about how to live, but sometimes I have a hard time believing everything he says. I do feel naive. I do feel the fool. What craziness to believe in a Maker, a God who created everything out of nothing. Sounds more like a bedtime story than a place to lay a foundation of faith.  

It’s then that I realize more than anything that what I'm suffering from is not a lack of faith, but a vain desire to appear more sophisticated, wise, intelligent to the world. I don't want to be the one that everyone thinks is a "little over the top" when it comes to things of God.  

Oh, how fickle the human heart. Not hard to see when I look at my own. Of course, to say that my faith is always shifting with the winds of change isn't exactly accurate either. God has brought me quite aways in this journey of faith. But I find that with a more deeply rooted faith come bigger challenges, greater obstacles, and more painful trials to endure. 

Sometimes I wish it weren't so hard. For my friends who are runners, I often think of it as a "race" of life. I'm a terrible runner, but maybe, hopefully, in the case of faith I run a good race—a race worth cheering about.

Well, it's that time again, time for another post. Admittedly I drug my feet as I walked into my little office this evening. I don't want to write. I'm grumpy (mostly because we don't have anything chocolate in the house.) I'm tired, which seems to always be the case with me. Worst of all, I feel completely uninspired. But, let's forge ahead anyway, shall we.

Actually all that I just wrote above fits in perfectly with what I wanted to write about tonight. I watched a movie this past weekend, About Time. While it's not your typical action-packed, big production movie, the story line is quite beautiful, and, since I love a good story, I decided to give it a go.

Here's the gist of the movie. A young man, Tim, turns eighteen and one day after he celebrates the New Year, his dad gives him remarkable news. Turns out the men in the family have the ability to travel back in time to any day or moment of their choosing. It's a remarkable gift that's been passed down from father to son through the ages.

When Tim first finds out, he is skeptical. But then, on the advice of his father, he goes into a closet and clenching his fists travels back to the night before, the New Year's Eve Party. He wants to "fix" something that he hadn't gotten quite right--the traditional New Year's Eve kiss. You see, rather than kissing the girl next to him when the clock struck midnight, he shook her hand and wished her a Happy New Year.

But, when he travels back in time to that same moment, Tim gives the girl a big, bold, beautiful kiss--one she won't soon forget.

And so it goes throughout the movie. Tim travels back in time to right any wrongs or fix things that went awry, including finding and connecting with the woman who becomes the love of his life.

In the movie, Tim is very altruistic. He doesn't just go back in time to fix his own mistakes; he travels back for others' sakes as well. The biggest one is the night he intervenes for his little sister preventing her from meeting a future boyfriend who is nothing but trouble--a complete deadbeat.

Once you're into the movie, it's not really the time-travel you think about. His character isn’t portrayed as going back all that often. No, the whole point of the movie really has nothing to do with time travel. Rather, it's about life--what we do with each day, how we respond to the beauty of even the hard things in life.
In the end, Tim learns to follow his father's advice, his secret formula for happiness:

I hope you took time to watch that little clip. If you didn't, stop reading this and click on the little play button above. No cheating. Though it won't make sense at first, you'll get why I shared it.

Good for you for watching. Now, to the point of this blog. Time is precious. Even the hard parts. Even the parts we wish never happened. The inconveniences, the difficulties, the struggles. Even in those moments life can be beautiful--if we choose to see it as such.

Though none of us can really travel back in time, I think there's an important lesson to take away from this movie. As you settle back on your pillow tonight, make a promise to yourself.  When morning comes, open your eyes and determine to keep the tensions and worries of life at bay. Instead, take time to notice just how sweet the world can be. And next weekend? Rent the movie. It's such a beautiful story--it's worth your time to watch.

Another oldie, about dealing with the diagnosis that is bipolar. For more information on the symptoms of bipolar visit: http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/bipolar-disorder/basics/symptoms/con-20027544,  http://www.webmd.com/bipolar-disorder/guide/understanding-bipolar-disorder-symptoms or, http://www.health.com/health/gallery/0,,20436786,00.html

Last week, I was wishing I could find words to describe what it’s like to deal with the symptoms of bipolar—mania, depression, and, my happy little friend, anxiety. But nothing seemed adequate enough to explain it. Then, I remembered a children’s book I read to my kids when they were younger. My Many Colored Days by Dr. Seuss uses colors to describe the different types of days that are part of the human experience, including sad, happy, and mixed-up days. It gave me the idea to try and describe the symptoms of bipolar using color. So, here’s my attempt to depict what it’s like to struggle with mania, depression, and anxiety.

Mania- Bright, happy pink carries me weightless above the world. I’m flying and it seems so easy—like it should always be this way. But when the balloon pops, I fall helplessly to the ground with nothing to brace me for the impact.

A few entries ago, I wrote about how, in the past, I loved being manic. It felt so good—like I truly was flying weightless above the ground. Manic episodes were euphoric. They tricked me into thinking that things would always stay that way—that I wouldn’t ever come crashing back down again. Now, I know better. No matter how much I wish it weren't so, manic episodes always end, and I hurtle back down to earth knowing in my heart that, for as long as I live on this planet, mania will always be followed by the bitter pill of depression.

Depression- I wake up pink, but the shroud of gray quickly wraps me up in its suffocating folds. As this boa constricts, struggling to break free seems pointless. I turn back to my bed, my place of safety, burying myself beneath the blankets that offer precarious protection at best.

Depression can be deceitful. Even when I’m dealing with a bout of it, I wake up feeling happy and focused. But, when I’m in this part of the bipolar cycle, the familiar cloud of despair quickly colors my day, and the hope I had when my feet hit the ground is nowhere to be found. Morning always tricks me into thinking that I’m not going to struggle with depression that day. But it’s a lie because, as long as I am bipolar, I will always struggle with depression. It’s just part of the deal.

Anxiety- yellow birds pop in and out of my brain creating chaos. I try to focus but, just as one coherent thought begins to take shape, another distraction flies in, clamoring for my attention. The uproar in my brain is paralyzing, and I find it difficult to make even the simplest of decisions.

In my world, anxiety is always along for the ride. When I’m struggling with it, I literally can’t make a decision, fearing it will be the wrong one. For example, in the past, I could stand for an eternity in the frozen foods aisle trying to choose which brand of bagged vegetables to buy. I know it sounds silly, but making even the simplest of decisions was a real struggle. These days I’m not as afraid to make decisions, even if they might be the wrong ones. But anxiety still has its way with me at times. It’s very strange feeling my stomach churn with anxiety when there’s absolutely no reason for it. It reminds me that being bipolar isn’t my fault; it’s just a disease that affects my neuro-transmitters.

Though I’m no poet, using color to express this disorder was the best way I could think of to describe the battle I fight every day. Over the years, I’ve learned coping skills to deal with mania, depression, and anxiety while also accepting the fact that medication is a strong ally in my fight to be as productive and healthy as I can be. Being bipolar isn’t my fault. Nor is it the fault of anyone who suffers from a mental disorder. If you struggle with any of these symptoms, and they never seem to completely go away, I encourage you to get help. You don’t just have to cope with your condition. You can find relief and help if you just seek it out.
 

This post was written before my mom passed away in December, 2011. It’s all about change and whether to embrace it or stubbornly hold on to what is part of your past. As my family faces uncertain times, this post reminds me that good, even great things come with change. Standing on the precipice of what our future holds is scary. But I don’t want to hold on to the past so tightly that I forget to enjoy the ride that comes with the changes of life. Don’t be stubborn like I am so prone to be, embrace the changes that come with life and trust that God has a plan for your future. A good plan.

 So Mom's settled in her new home. Although it's not what she's used to, she did admit to me one day that she understands now why she had to make the move. But why did she wait so long to move to this place; a place she would have enjoyed so much better when she was healthier?  Well, you can chalk it up to one thing—stubbornness.  And the only reason I can say that is because the stubborn gene lies dormant in my heart as well.  It comes out and rears its ugly head now and again, and, when it does, my husband gleefully points out that I'm being just as hard headed as the rest of my family.  Boy, I hate it when he's right.

Stubbornness does have its bad points I will admit.  Holding on tightly, clinging to the way life is now.  Resisting the change that might make all the difference in the world - that might, if you let it, actually be a good thing - even a great thing in your life. 


I hate change.  My resistance to it is demonstrated in many ways.   I always order the same drink when I go to Starbucks—tall caramel macchiato, decaf with whip cream on top.  When I see a seasonal drink like a pumpkin spice latte, I don't even bat an eye.  Why mess with a good thing? I shop at the same grocery store every week—weaving the same path in and out of the aisles;  vegetables at the front, bread and cereal in the middle, ice cream at the very back.  In fact, when the store makes changes, I get a bit miffed.  Don't mess with my routine. You might regret it.

My husband is so the opposite of me.  Sometimes it frustrates me when he decides to take a shortcut through a neighborhood –a deviation from the same walking trail I follow every day. Sometimes when he takes a different route home from church I question him “What are you doing? This isn't the way home?”  On more than one occasion, I've had the humbling experience of realizing that life doesn't always have to follow my normal. Changing things up a bit can be kind of fun. Sometimes,  it’s even necessary.

A few years back after my husband began a new job, we started looking at houses that would be closer to his workplace.  In fact, we began thinking about building a new home.  So, one weekend we met with a realtor to begin the process. He had an estimate all laid out for us, we talked about features we wanted, and discussed the costs involved. We were on the verge of signing a deal, but for some reason we decided not to do it that day.  After we'd met with the guy, my husband mentioned that he wanted to look at some existing houses. 

On the drive over, I made the comment that I wished he would stop taking us on all these little bunny trails.  We'd made our decision, right?  Why change things up now?  Well, I choked on every word when we stepped into the house that was to become ours.  We fell in love with it on the spot—both of us.  And let me tell you, my husband did not hesitate to point out that following this bunny trail hadn't been such a bad idea.

So sometimes, I guess, change is a good thing.  And maybe following those bunny trails every once in awhile is good for me.  I do have to admit that it gets boring ordering the same drink, walking the same trail, shopping at the same store week after week.  Sometimes, it’s fun to mix things up a bit.  So, I'll try a different latte next week.  And maybe I'll deviate from my walking trail every few days.  I might even dare to go to a new grocery store this week.  Who knows, I might find myself enjoying the change of scenery.   Darn, bunny trails . . .

Ecc 3:11 [God] has made everything (even change) beautiful in its time. 

You don’t try to kill yourself because death’s appealing — but because life’s agonizing. We don’t want to die. But we can’t stand to be devoured. ~ Ann Voskamp 

Should I, or should I not? That was the question I pondered this past week as I looked ahead to Monday's new post. It's been everywhere, the news of Robin Williams—how he took his own life. So many thoughts, questions, opinions have been expressed—was there any room for me to share my own experiences?

But I decided not to pass this up—this opportunity to share my own suffering and grief. And I hope I won't share these words in vain. I hope they will help someone, somewhere.

Suicide? Yes, I considered it. I pondered what it would be like. How I would end my own life. I was a Christian who contemplated suicide. But, I wasn't thinking selfish thoughts like, "Gee, I can't wait 'til they find my body and feel sorry for all the mean things they did to me." It was never about that. It was never about being selfish. It was about finding a way out of the pain that seemed never-ending. I was dying inside and nobody knew it. Not even those closest to me.

I don't like to suffer, so I thought a car running in an enclosed garage would be the way I would do it. I knew I couldn't slit my wrists, too painful. I wanted to go quietly and simply end my life by falling asleep.

Meanwhile I cried out to God to save me. There were so many times when I would lie on the floor, curled up in a fetal position, crying out to God, begging him, 'Please, please take away my pain.' Much like Job, I sat in agony wondering why God had left me and what I was doing wrong.

Only I wasn't doing anything wrong, I was just suffering.

In an old post called the, Colors of My World, I tried to describe depression using the color gray. Though I did my best, even those words didn't tell the whole story, the whole truth of how it feels to be deeply depressed. It's silent. It's hidden. It's hell.

The one thing that truly kept me going—hope. The hope that things would get better, that change would come. But sometimes that golden thread of hope stretched very thin. So I got out my Bible and started to underline passages—like, Jeremiah 29:11:

I put dates beside each verse and shoved them into God's face and reminded him that when he makes a promise, he always keeps it. And I waited for the day when all those promises of God would come through for me. Promises like Psalm 9:18:

And verses like Psalm 90:15:

Give us gladness in proportion to our former misery! Replace the evil years with good. 

I waited patiently, persistently for the day when God would turn my 'valley of weeping,' into 'pools of blessing'. And he did. Since my diagnosis in 2004, my life is a 180 degree turnaround from where it was—a fact that I am grateful for every day.

I can't promise you that the pain of depression will go away all together, because it won't. I can't promise you that you'll never deal with another bout of anxiety, because you will. It's inevitable. But I can promise you this; Hope is a good thing, and it will not disappoint you. That's not my promise. It's God's.

Psalm 12:6 The Lord's promises are pure. Like silver refined in a furnace purified seven times over.