Living and Breathing

The world seems upside down and inside out! My mind, usually reliable for a bit of writing, feels dull witted. Wisdom is in short supply. I tilt and whirl through each day expecting one of the days to look familiar. I want to return to the days I remember years ago. What a ridiculous desire given my penchant for creating chaos and railing against society at every turn. But somehow those days now seem friendly and manageable. 

Spending time with friends of mine who are struggling to grasp the accelerated progression of dementia in their loved one is tough. Really tough! Listening as they make decisions that must be made creates an ache in my heart. No one wants these kinds of decisions to make. It is made more difficult by the cruel dementia symptom that causes their loved one to be cruel and paranoid and to transition to their "normal" self for a few hours. The decision making must be based on the darker side of the symptoms rather than the periods of clarity and that is what I call "mountain mean". No one is the winner. Moments of acceptance, moments of grief, moments of anger and frustration and moments of wanting desperately to escape the truth and pretend things will get better weave throughout the day. The stress creates mental and physical symptoms that threaten to overwhelm the family. I know. I have walked this path in my own life. Yet, here with my friends facing the horror of progressive dementia, my experience can only be shared as love and support. It is maddening to be so close and yet so far from helping. I want to rush in and slay this dragon of dementia and restore their former happy and fruitful lives. I will not get that opportunity. My contribution can be to walk beside them as they negotiate and make their decisions. Life is not fair. What is, is! I experience a flash of rage. I want to kill this awful dementia. I want to flame my anger and hurt into a vengeful sword that will destroy this hideous enemy. The flash passes and I surrender to the truth, the "what is" of this journey. I ask God to use me here in these moments. I ask Him to help me push pass this need I have to fix what I know I cannot fix. I ask Him to move through me and create in me the ability to simply love and comfort my friends. I ask to allow me to share some of their pain, to bear the heavy burden of this dreadful time. I ask Him to grant the peace that passes all understanding and then I feel the dark rage rise up in my throat. I take several sharp breaths. I surrender again and again and again. Loving God is often like showing up to get assignments that I know will break me down. If He is to use me at all I have to be broken. I have to surrender. My rage bows before Him and surrenders. Again and again and again! Please God pour out Your love through me and into the lives of my friends. And, Father, it hurts. It really, really hurts. I surrender! Again. So much surrender as I write tonight. My will does not want to bend the knee. His will, not mine, I pray!

Wow!

I just deleted an entire post that I wrote a few months ago. It was embarrassing. Wordy. Convoluted! Whatever thoughts I meant to convey were lost in the drivel I managed to write. 

I do not do well when I make an attempt to be wise and express myself with that in mind. My mind makes a mockery of the wisdom I attempt to convey. I sound more like a wino on speed. Granted that may be a comparison many people will fail to understand. I, through a stroke of incredible "luck" have personal experiences to draw on for that comparison. 

Tonight, I am free of the burden of believing I have wisdom to share. What a relief!

Childlike

 I am 70 years old. Yet, when I think of myself I envision a young person. Not a teen-ager. A young person who is timid and tries to hide behind things so as not to be seen. I am protective of that child. I avoid encouraging her to come forward and participate with life. She is timid from the ground up. I am, as an adult, tethered to her. I am unable to go on without her. 

(This is how my ptsd works) I left my bedroom door open and a breeze blew across my back and shoulders. It felt like heavy breath)  I immediately visualized a man coming up behind me with a knife and whipped around to see him. There is always relief as I realize there is no one lurking in the house waiting to hurt me. It is PTSD and, as such, can provoke short, intense moments that illicit real-time reactions. . Knowing these moments will come does, in no way, minimize the surprise.      

"Grandma, I need to know what kinds of mental health problems are inherited and are part of our family."  A brief conversation ensued between me and my 16 year old grandson about the various mental health challenges in his bloodline. "Is sleep paralysis inheritable?" Finally, the door opened into my world of mental health challenges but not in the way of inherited traits, though many exist in our family. My grandson's questions called me out! In many ways his challenges should mirror mine. Early childhood trauma, extreme and sustained lack of stability in daily life and ptsd cleverly disguised as bi-polar in some cases and, most certainly, as anxiety, chronic depression, alcoholism and drug addiction. I promised to make an account of family traits, specifically mental health traits.

His request and comments woke up the part of me that wants very much to use what I have learned about myself over many years of intense therapy sessions. I immediately drew up an inner woman.\Because of the pain and extreme emotions I experienced during many years of intense therapy, I called up an inner woman to alleviate the risk of recalling and attempting to manage the story I want my grandson to know. I pray what I have to share will encourage him to seek out professional help for his own depression and anxiety.