from the depths

Yes, it has been a long time since I’ve made an entry. I have deliberately avoided posting any words (though I have made some adjustments to the photos and layout) because I was afraid you would not want to read them.

I created this blog to document my life in the country. I wanted to track my progress, my growth and adjustment to this different lifestyle, and I think I have really done that. I have looked back to reference dates, or to re-read my reaction to mice or other disgusting things, when I am particularly proud of how far I have come. It is very effective.

Unexpectedly, the past ten months of blogging has opened my eyes to how cathartic writing can be. I don’t claim to be good at it, but putting my thoughts into writing is very therapeutic for me. Reading the words is final. If they are spoken (or written) then they are out there and they have been said. Sometimes I think of the blog as an entity of its own—I will be doing something, and I will make a mental note that I have to “tell you” about this experience. And ultimately it has been good for me. I have a record, I have benchmarks, and I have proof of my growth.

I have avoided making many personal postings, unless they have related to the farm. I posted some comments about a friend’s sad situation, and I tried not to be specific, but I ultimately noted how I was consoled by my home and surroundings. I have mentioned B’s and M’s disabilities, but always in that context.

A month or so ago I posted a little survey asking whether I should let my kids read my blog. Overwhelmingly the comments were that I should, that they should be allowed to read what I write, and I was leaning toward letting them. But then a friend suggested that if I know that my kids are reading, then I will censure my writing. It will be written “fit” for them to read. Not that what I write is NOT fit for them, but I will always write it so that it is. Already, I am cognizant of friends and family visiting, and while I have nothing to write that would offend them, I do bear them in mind when writing.

There are several blogs I read faithfully. One of them is dooce . I admire her so much because she does not censure. She knows that her parents read her blog, as do her friends and other family members, and someday even her baby will read it. And it is not always nice. But it is TRUE. And it is WHOLE. There is nothing left out, nothing left unsaid because it’s not fit to hear. It is out there. Said. Final.

I have aspired to be like that, but I know that I am not. I have hid behind the notion that I am writing about the farm. I have chosen not to say things that don’t relate. Maybe I wanted to say them, or needed to say them, but I decided that they were not about my life here, so I didn’t say them. Truthfully, I was afraid to say them.

But, again, I think of dooce. And House In Progress.H.I.P. is a diary of home renovation. Just like mine is about living in the country. Both of those women have spoken on their blogs about life, the reality, the good and the bad—and sometimes the context is outside the premise of their blog. I have admired that from my corner of the world, and aspired to do the same. It’s time I was honest.

Like dooce, and like JM at H.I.P, I suffer from depression. There, I said it.

It has been a somewhat recent thing for me, though I think I have been teetering on the edge for a long time now.

M has Asperger’s Syndrome. It’s a form of autism, she is very high-functioning, which means that she will likely grow up to be a productive person like everybody else. But it means that it will take a lot of effort and support from her familiy to get her there.

I have always been a control freak. Control has been my friend. Even when I was out of control, (remember the post about the military?) I would think up scenarios to cope with things. I would say, “Okay, if B gets discharged right away, this will be our plan. If it is in a year, then we’ll do this.” I was always focusing my energy on being ready, being in control.

And I have lost control. I feel have lost control of my daughter. I know in my head that she looks up to me, and she respects me. But on a day-to-day basis, as she just begins adolescence, and she is making both of our lives a living hell. She has made shocking choices this summer, and screams when she receives her consequences. She constantly badgers us about her punishments, and about what is fair. I don’t have the control of her behavior, I can’t help her understand and control her thoughts. They are out there, untethered, straying and erratic. My logical head may be able to make sense of this, but it has no control over my distraught heart.

The words in that paragraph are so superficial, you could never get a sense for the despair that hangs over our home. I am sad from the hair on my head to the soles of my feet. My bones are sad. Everything is out of my control, and it is terrifying.

My house is in disrepair (yes, by choice, but disrepair nonetheless). I recently uploaded the photos of my old house to flickr, and I was looking through them. Everything is coordinated, everything matches! The furniture is perfect for the rooms, all the windows are clean. Even the corners of the rooms are dust free. I look around now, and because of the gravel roads, the surfaces I dusted on Saturday are thik and white. You could write your name in them. Walls are stripped of wallpaper, but not patched. There are no pictures on the walls, and there are still boxes in the living room that contain knick-knacks and pictures that can’t yet be unpacked and placed.

The barn and pasture need repair. We have made the most progress on that area, and it feels good. But there is always more work to be done. And when that is done, the animals always need attention. The work is cathartic, though, it’s within my control, and it is back-to-basics.

Work is good, I love my job. But with my increasing work load after my promotion, it is becoming more difficult to finish all of my projects. However, it is a good outlet for my control issues. I am good at what I do. My client just signed a contract increasing payment to my company by 22% for next year. Not only did they willingly sign the contract, they gave my company a bonus for the work that I did for them. And on a day-to-day basis, the more organized I am at work, the more effective I am. As you may imagine, my office is practially sanitary. I have client files color coded, everything computerized, ultra-organized.

I set a goal last year to complete a certification in my job by the end of the year. As I look at my calendar, and anticipate the back-to-school season next month, followed by three back-to-back meetings between September 22 and October 15 (in London, Des Moines and Cedar Rapids), I cringe at the lack of control I will have during that time. All of those tasks and responsibilities that will fall on someone else’s shoulders. I have no idea when I will obtain the CEUs necessary to apply to sit for the test. And I have no idea when I will study.

In light of all of this, I am tired. I am spent. No more energy, no more creativity, no more reserves that harbor extra patience.

So, today, I met Eileen. She is my therapist. M sees a therapist, and does well, and gains strategies for coping. I thought I should do the same. I met her today, and she is amazing. I know she will help me straighten this out inside of myself.

I told her about the joy I found at the farm. I told her how I saw God in the hugging trees and the faces of the animals. I told her how this house, despite its chaos, is happy. I shared how I can feel the footprints of all of the families before us on the soft hardwood floors. I told her that I have great kids, despite our issues. I told her about B, and the amazing relationship we have. I told her that he is my best friend, hand-picked by God, just for me. And that I am thankful for him. I told her that we can see the satellites from the hammock when we go out in the evening.

And she wept.

And she told me that I struck her as a happy person. She said that she could see in my face that I was a thankful person.

And then I wept.

And I left Eileen’s office feeling that it couldn’t be all that bad. I am sad, I am depressed. I have been assigned a label of “adjustment disorder” and “depression.” But my happiness and thankfulness are still evident, even to someone who is virtually a stranger.

And I am thankful for that.

I see Eileen again on Monday. And I saw God a few more times today.