BREAKDOWN -- THAT LABOR DAY

2 months earlier

BREAKDOWN

"You can wait in here."  The nurse showed us into a small office, smiled cheerily, and left us alone.  For a few seconds I lost control, clung to my husband, and cried.  Then I pulled away, wiped my face, sat in one of the blue vinyl chairs, and stared at the wall.

It seemed my whole life was spent studying walls.  Counting nails or tacks, bricks, concrete block, or following the flower patterns in wall paper.  And now I was studying another wall, nubby plaster painted an institutional green, willing myself to be somewhere else, to not think about what was happening, to not feel.

My husband stood behind the chair and put his arms around me.  "Please try to relax, Cary.  It'll be OK.  You'll see."

I couldn't say anything.  So I didn't.  But I sure thought a lot.  Mostly questions.  How did this happen to me?  I had always been strong, surviving hell first as a child, and then again in a disastrous first marriage.  Now, for the first time, life was good -- and I was falling apart. 

The crisis reached a peak two days earlier.  Dave and I were attending an outdoor concert on one of those hot, humid late- summer days.  Suddenly my heart started racing and I had the sensation of my body separating from my "self."  Never having died before, I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure that was what was happening.  My mind flooded with insane, inane thoughts.

"I can't die here.  It would be so embarrassing.  It would ruin the concert for everyone else."   I willed myself to pull back together, but the line between life and death seemed very fragile.

That evening I tenuously suggested I might need "a little outside counseling."  Relief flooded Dave's face and he said quickly, "We can check out some hospitals next week."  Inside, I panicked!  "Hospital?!  I don't need a hospital.  Just a little help."

Sunday morning started out OK.  I felt rested.  Half way through the church service, though, I lost control again, and ran out of the sanctuary crying.  I sat outside on the step and sobbed.  Dave followed me out and held me.  All I could do was ask over and over, "What's wrong with me?  What's wrong with me?"  He didn't answer, because, of course, he had no answers.

And now it was Monday morning, Labor Day, and I was staring at a wall.  In a hospital. Earlier that day, one of the hospital's nurses, our friend, had suggested, rather casually, that I come over, even though it was a holiday.  "One of our counselors will be there and he can talk to you."  She revealed later that she knew what was happening and I needed help desperately.  She didn't want to risk losing me.

A short rap on the door was followed by a soft "Good morning."  I turned to look in the direction of the voice and saw it belonged to a pleasant middle-aged black male face.  He shook hands with us and slouched comfortably into his chair, sifted through some papers on his desk, and brought out a file with my name printed in the corner.  All I could think was, "They're quick.  Doesn't take long to become a number in the computer."

He looked at me.  I tried to maintain eye contact.  I wanted to at least look like I had some volition in this decision.  But, seeing the compassion in his eyes, mine filled with tears and I immediately shifted my focus to a point just south of his chin.  "Cary, your intake information and evaluation indicate you are in the midst of a severe depressive reaction."

I shot a sharp glance up to his face and thought rather than said, "Bright deduction.  I knew that much."

He continued.  "We will be exploring several areas during your stay, not the least of which is the abuses of your childhood..."

I interrupted.  "What possible bearing can my childhood have on this situation?  I handled all that a long time ago."

He smiled indulgently and I could almost feel him patting my head.  "Cary, I think you're wrong.  I believe you'll discover your childhood is handling you."  He paused.  I clenched my teeth exhibiting the characteristic "tight jaws" defense I used when I felt backed into a wall.

"Anyhow," he said, "we'll find out in time."

"How much time?  My daughter is singing in a program in ten days and I need to be there."

"I'm sorry, but I think you need to stay here for four weeks.  Minimum."

Once again panic struck.  "Four weeks?  Oh no, I can't possibly be here that long.  I have a house, you know, and responsibilities."  I stood up.  "We'll go home and talk about it."

Dave stood then, but did not start for the door.  He reached out his hand and touched my arm.  I turned and saw his eyes flooded with tears and anguish in his face.  "Cary.  Please.  Please stay.  If not for yourself, do it for us."

I cried then.  How could I refuse him?  Dave loved me.  He was one of few people in my whole life who treated me kindly and with respect.  

"I'm so scared...so scared,"  I sobbed out.

Our tears mingling, he kissed me gently and said again, "It'll be OK, Cary.  It'll be OK."

I stayed.
======================================

This is a story I wrote a number of years ago for a writing group.  It's almost exactly what happened at the hospital entry stretch, and it IS exactly what occurred during the previous weekend at a concert and church.  I entered the hospital/treatment center on Labor Day, 1987, 3 weeks before our 2nd anniversary.  I would never have expected my body to explode from the goodness of life, but, according to the psychiatrists and counselors, that is exactly what happened.  I was the first person who had ever been admitted to this hospital/addiction location as a codependent with a straight-line heart, indicating I was dying.  Alcoholics and drug addicts sometimes had it; no one like me ever had.  I was a "shocker to even them.

Their description:  For years I had been in, or ready for, a battle, needing to fight for myself or others.  When being with Dave, I had entered an R & R phase of life and rested and enjoyed myself.  Then, suddenly, my system "needed" to jump back into battles.  My internal system "said" the R & R was over. But there wasn't a battle, so "I" was falling apart.

Can I say even now that my month there was a blessing?  On God's side, yes.  On my side I struggled with nearly every minute, hour, day.  But, between that several-week stretch and a couple years of Christian group meetings re: Adult Children of Alcoholics and other basic counseling, I improved.  Significantly.

Now, 26 years later, I'm still a "battler", but, instead of family and cultural conflict, it's almost always connected to spiritual warfare.  So, in spite of the fact that I didn't want to deal with those mental and medical issues, I am now freer than ever to simply focus on and serve our Lord and obey Him when He directs me to His battle sites.  

HALLELUJAH!!

 

MY BROTHER-IN-LAW, FRED

 On July 28, 2010, while in Tacoma for my mother's 90th birthday, I saw  my sister, Kristan, from Fairbanks, AK, for the first time in 10 years.  We had a nice walk for about 1/2 hour.  Kristan had returned to the Lord several years earlier and I hadn't seen her since then.  It was a real blessing to be together.

As soon as we returned to the house where mom's party was taking place, Kristan received a call from one of her sons saying that her husband, Fred, had been in an accident and someone had been killed.

What finally came out a while later is that he was not paying enough attention, partly because he was so used to the highway,  he hit a cross-walk where a light had just changed to red, and he struck a 14-year-old girl, Kirsten, who was killed instantly.  [And for my sister/his wife, to be Kristan, and the young girl killed was Kirsten ... that has flooded many of our hearts.]

After a struggle re: lawyers, courts, judges, and on and on, he finally was sent to prison.  He entered in September, 2011, and will be released in early May, '13.

Fred had been a less-than-nice guy much of his life and was heavily involved in alcoholism and other addictions.  Back in early 1991, Fred and the family were vising out here.  And, NO, we weren't sorry that he left!  And we haven't seen him since then, and didn't miss him for several years.  We do now.

Fred came to the Lord about 12 years ago.  It was through his brother drawing him to the Lord and Fred seeking forgiveness from my sister, that she returned to the Lord, too.  WOW! We're so looking forward to seeing them.  The four of us together can rejoice, believe me.

NOW... while in prison, Fred has led men to the Lord, has helped them grow, already has some plans for ministering with youth at his church and others when he is released. He has dealt with some personal issues that he, while behind bars, couldn't run away from or hide from, so his emotions have healed more. He also went in with a high amount of extra weight ... and has been exercising and has lost piles and piles of it. Physically, he is feeling better.  Emotionally, being healed.  Spiritually, he is growing.  Good things.

Well, this is the group letter I received from him today... and it made me rejoice.  I usually don't share these, but I felt it was the right thing to do this time.  [I also didn't change anything ...  spelling, grammar, etc. ... just typed it same as he did.]

-- Oh, and the prison is about an 8-hour drive on curvy roads across mountains, etc., for Kristan to get there.  As a full-time worker in North Pole, it's a real challenge for her to be able to see him in a reasonable schedule.  Not similar to a pop-down from Omaha-to-Lincoln situation we would have here.--

==============

Holy smoke! 71 days left of my incarceration.  And I'm in a daze!  I can't think straight, or hold a thought to completion.  I am getting very emotional; anything happy or sad, I see or hear gets the water works going.  (I wonder what my cell mates think of this nut job.)  But God is so Great.  His hand was there to, protected and comforted me, give an opportunity to grow in Him.  To trust and obey as the Holy Spirit guided and taught me.  I'm shaking as I write this letter as if I drank 3 shots of espresso, because of my excitement in the fact that I will be able to hold, hug, and kiss those I love without being threatened with going to the Hole or losing my visitation privileges.  I dream now about getting into a car and going somewhere, anywhere!  To go to church, share a cup of weak coffee, be greeted with an "I'm so glad to see you smile, and warm hands shake!"  Even though you may have never met before.  The joyful and angelic faces playing and sing praises to our Lord, the special smile at the pulpit, the kind that lets you know he has something wonderful to share, and all you have to do is listen and watch.  It's exciting and wonderful to share this time together in Christ.  The demonstration of love to each other without a word, love that over flows to everyone around.  I pray that I am able to personally spend time with everyone who has carried me through this season of fear, torment, anxiety, shame, and surrender through prayers and visits, plus all the letters I have received in this soon to be 608 days of incarceration.  I know men who have not received 1 letter, card, or visit, period.  And I have had close to 50, or more visits, plus I believe more than 700 letters.  I know, even today I still average more than 1 a day.  In a way, I really don't know what it's like to be a prisoner, because so few prisoners have a family who cares as much as you do.

Love Fred.

.... Kristan said you fell down.  Me too!  And we got up. Ya!  Keep up the good fight Sis.

BREAKDOWN

"You can wait in here."  The nurse showed us into a small office, smiled cheerily, and left us alone.  For a few seconds I lost control, clung to my husband, and cried.  Then I pulled away, wiped my face, sat in one of the blue vinyl chairs, and stared at the wall.

It seemed my whole life was spent studying walls.  Counting nails or tacks, bricks, concrete block, or following the flower patterns in wall paper.  And now I was studying another wall, nubby plaster painted an institutional green, willing myself to be somewhere else, to not think about what was happening, to not feel.

My husband stood behind the chair and put his arms around me.  "Please try to relax, Cary.  It'll be OK.  You'll see."

I couldn't say anything.  So I didn't.  But I sure thought a lot.  Mostly questions.  How did this happen to me?  I had always been strong, surviving hell first as a child, and then again in a disastrous first marriage.  Now, for the first time, life was good -- and I was falling apart. 

The crisis reached a peak two days earlier.  Dave and I were attending an outdoor concert on one of those hot, humid late- summer days.  Suddenly my heart started racing and I had the sensation of my body separating from my "self."  Never having died before, I wasn't certain, but I was pretty sure that was what was happening.  My mind flooded with insane, inane thoughts.

"I can't die here.  It would be so embarrassing.  It would ruin the concert for everyone else."   I willed myself to pull back together, but the line between life and death seemed very fragile.

That evening I tenuously suggested I might need "a little outside counseling."  Relief flooded Dave's face and he said quickly, "We can check out some hospitals next week."  Inside, I panicked!  "Hospital?!  I don't need a hospital.  Just a little help."

Sunday morning started out OK.  I felt rested.  Half way through the church service, though, I lost control again, and ran out of the sanctuary crying.  I sat outside on the step and sobbed.  Dave followed me out and held me.  All I could do was ask over and over, "What's wrong with me?  What's wrong with me?"  He didn't answer, because, of course, he had no answers.

And now it was Monday morning, Labor Day, and I was staring at a wall.  In a hospital. Earlier that day, one of the hospital's nurses, our friend, had suggested, rather casually, that I come over, even though it was a holiday.  "One of our counselors will be there and he can talk to you."  She revealed later that she knew what was happening and I needed help desperately.  She didn't want to risk losing me.

A short rap on the door was followed by a soft "Good morning."  I turned to look in the direction of the voice and saw it belonged to a pleasant middle-aged black male face.  He shook hands with us and slouched comfortably into his chair, sifted through some papers on his desk, and brought out a file with my name printed in the corner.  All I could think was, "They're quick.  Doesn't take long to become a number in the computer."

He looked at me.  I tried to maintain eye contact.  I wanted to at least look like I had some volition in this decision.  But, seeing the compassion in his eyes, mine filled with tears and I immediately shifted my focus to a point just south of his chin.  "Cary, your intake information and evaluation indicate you are in the midst of a severe depressive reaction."

I shot a sharp glance up to his face and thought rather than said, "Bright deduction.  I knew that much."

He continued.  "We will be exploring several areas during your stay, not the least of which is the abuses of your childhood..."

I interrupted.  "What possible bearing can my childhood have on this situation?  I handled all that a long time ago."

He smiled indulgently and I could almost feel him patting my head.  "Cary, I think you're wrong.  I believe you'll discover your childhood is handling you."  He paused.  I clenched my teeth exhibiting the characteristic "tight jaws" defense I used when I felt backed into a wall.

"Anyhow," he said, "we'll find out in time."

"How much time?  My daughter is singing in a program in ten days and I need to be there."

"I'm sorry, but I think you need to stay here for four weeks.  Minimum."

Once again panic struck.  "Four weeks?  Oh no, I can't possibly be here that long.  I have a house, you know, and responsibilities."  I stood up.  "We'll go home and talk about it."

Dave stood then, but did not start for the door.  He reached out his hand and touched my arm.  I turned and saw his eyes flooded with tears and anguish in his face.  "Cary.  Please.  Please stay.  If not for yourself, do it for us."

I cried then.  How could I refuse him?  Dave loved me.  He was one of few people in my whole life who treated me kindly and with respect.  "I'm so scared...so scared,"  I sobbed out.

Our tears mingling, he kissed me gently and said again, "It'll be OK, Cary.  It'll be OK."

I stayed.
======================================

This is a story I wrote a number of years ago for a writing group.  It's almost exactly what happened at the hospital entry stretch, and it IS exactly what occurred during the previous days at a concert and church.  I entered the hospital/treatment center on Labor Day, 1987, 3 weeks before our 2nd anniversary.  I would never have expected my body to explode from the goodness of life, but, according to the psychiatrists and counselors, that is exactly what happened.  I was the first person who had ever been admitted to this hospital/addiction location  as a codependent with a straight-line heart, indicating I was dying.  Alcoholics and drug addicts sometimes had it; no one like me ever had.  I was a "shocker to even them.

Their description:  For years I had been in, or ready for, a battle, needing to fight for myself or others.  When being with Dave, I had entered an R & R phase and rested and enjoyed myself.  Then, suddenly, my system "needed" to jump back into battles.  My internal system "said" the R & R was over. But there wasn't a battle, so "I" was falling apart.

Can I say even now that my month there was a blessing?  On God's side, yes.  On my side I struggled with nearly every minute, hour, day.  But, between that several-week stretch and a couple years of Christian group meetings re: Adult Children of Alcoholics and other basic counseling, I improved.  Significantly.

Now, 25 years later, I'm still a "battler", but, instead of family and cultural conflict, it's almost always connected to spiritual warfare.  So, in spite of the fact that I didn't want to deal with those mental and medical issues, I am now freer than ever to simply focus on and serve our Lord and obey Him when He directs me to His battle sites.  HALLELUJAH!!