Tag Archives: light

Mental Health month


It has been almost a year, and I feel like I am in a place that I can write about it. I mostly want to write about it for me, I strangely feel that if I put it on paper maybe I can prevent it from happening again. I also hope it might help someone traveling a similar road.

When I think back on memories of the past, I see colors as well as the memory. August is usually golden, May – green, November – shades of brown, January is usually sky blue. I don’t know why, I don’t really know how to adequately explain it, but it is, and it has been for as long as I can remember.

When I think back on last July, it is black. Pitch black, no flicker of light. I had never been in this place before, I was unsure how to navigate through. I couldn’t find a map, who am I kidding, I could not even look for a map.

Since Jason passed, July and August are typically tough months for me. In the beginning I thought that was it, just another little bit of a sad time. Before I really knew what was happening my mind had spiraled out of control. Scarier than the sadness was the anxiety, I did not know where it came from, or recognize it until it was big and scary. I could not grocery shop without my heart racing, several times I couldn’t finish. I raced to the check out, I raced home and shut the door like I was being chased. I did not want to go anywhere; I didn’t want to do anything. I struggled to articulate it to my husband. He struggled to know how to help.

I cried often, I was angry, I was scared, I was all the dark emotions. The only thing that got me to work most days was the fact that Tim and I work in the same place. I spent most of the month with my office door closed because I could not do people. I wanted my home, my room, my bed, my quilt, my pillow, my sleep, my silence. It was a black month, I couldn’t even pray.

I saw my oncologist late in the month, toward the end of the appointment I casually mentioned I was feeling anxious. She spun her chair towards me, pulled up close and asked me to tell her about it. I did, I told her all of it. I told her about the black hole I was in and that I did not know how to get out. I told her how tired I was of feeling sad, and how I hated feeling anxious. I told her I was scared. I told her the depth of it that I had been afraid to utter, as if speaking it might make it more true or more real. She listened. Then she talked about some options, about how trauma can build up. She told me how common PTSD is in cancer patients. She did not tell me to snap out of it or get over it. She told me to give myself a break, not to be hard on myself, she told me I was going to be okay.

So, something happened, instead of making it more real, it was already as real as it was going to get, speaking it lifted a dark veil. Speaking it made it less scary, speaking it began the healing.

I am almost a year away from the blackest of it. I take medicine and supplements to support my health, all of my health. I talk as openly about my anxiety as I do my cancer. I want to help move mental health out of the shadows until we just say health, and don’t feel like we must qualify it as mental or physical.

Do I still have moments? Yep. Are they black? Nope. I have tools now to recognize it before it overtakes me. I am not foolish enough to think that it can’t happen again, but I am on my guard. I’m not ashamed to ask for help, I have a support group who now knows this struggle is part of me.

If any part of this is you, talk to someone, please.  It get’s less scary every time you say it out loud. For me every time I say it out loud I feel like I am feeding the “light” and starving the “dark”. What I feed grows.

May is mental health month, let’s take this stuff out of the shadows and the dark. Let’s make a mental check up as common as a physical or a teeth cleaning. Let’s take the stigma out of asking for help. Let’s give the gift of this freedom to the next generation. What if we could say, “I’m feeling anxious, I need to stop and take a few deep breaths” as easily as we say “I’m getting a headache, I need to rest my eyes for a few minutes”? What if . . .


Unexpected Peace


I hear the news, I see the photographs, I shut my eyes tight and gulp down the sobs that threaten. Yet a few tears escape, a sob makes it up my throat, I gulp it back down. Then the slide show begins in my head, I see myself walking up the sidewalk staring into the face of the fire chief, he says “I am sorry”. I see myself bent over with the shock of it, my mouth open, the single word “no” erupts. Then I see my husbands arms around me. I can’t stand still, I am pacing, trying to grasp it. The rest is a blur. Then I see myself standing in front of the church in my black dress, hugging the many, oh so many, people that come to honor my son. I cry for this person, I cry for me. I now know the difference between sympathy and empathy. Mixed in with my personal slide show is imagined faces of parents looking into the face of emergency personnel or clergy. I feel the hope that is held so tightly crushed. I feel them bend over and utter that one word, NO.

There is a difference between sympathy and empathy. Empathy hurts, it reopens wounds. Empathy threatens to pull me back into a dark place, I wonder if I go there, will I come back? I swallow these feelings, like I swallow my sobs. I allow a few tears, but I can’t go there again. I pray for these families that went home without their babies, to Christmas trees and bright lights. I pray for peace. I pray for good night’s sleep. I pray for the comfort of the Almighty to encompass them.


And then, in the most unexpected place, I am reminded God cares. I don’t need to go to that dark place. Walking out of Walmart, he reminds me, there is light, always there is light, and I feel a peace wash over me. He loves me enough to take my breath away int the beauty of a sunrise. He reminds me, after the dark of the night there is always light. An unexpected joy washes over me, right there in the parking lot of Walmart. And, my heart cries, God is good, all the time.