It was right around that time I found out I was pregnant again. My son was only 8 months old. As we Mothers do, I faced the challenges of parenting by putting all my energy and focus into caring for my babies, meanwhile neglecting my own mental health. I became dreadfully afraid of public places . Everywhere we went I envisioned bacteria and viruses growing all over everything. I kept my babies home for the majority of the time. My logic was skewed, unbeknownst to me. I kept my kids away from the public and germs, which would keep them from getting sick, and would protect my son from seizures. I tried to control their health, and took full responsibility for their well-being.
My husband and I began attending separate church services so one of us could stay home with the kids and not expose them to germs. When rarely leaving the house, I was armed with all manner of antibacterial wipes, gels, and plans in place to keep them from touching anything. One time we arrived at Walmart and I had forgotten the hand wipes. I began to panic. Tears sprang to my eyes. I made Chuck hold one kid and I took the other lest their little hands touch a germ. I bolted to the middle of the store to grab a box of wipes off the shelf before we shopped. It was embarrassing to be holding back tears over hand wipes, but I knew no other alternative.
Things got progressively worse after we bought a house and moved out to a neighborhood in the country. I was terrified of our neighbors, and wouldn't even take the kids for walks for fear someone would break into our house while we were gone. One time a couple of big, nasty spiders showed up downstairs where I did laundry and I could no longer wash our clothes unless Chuck was home to walk down there with me. The harder I worked to control what was happening around me, the more out-of-control it all became.
Don't think for a minute I had turned my back on God at this point. Quite the contrary. I was in the Scriptures regularly. I was leading Bible studies. I was memorizing Scripture verses. I led a small group of teenagers and weekly shared with them about our great and wonderful God. Yet I was so broken inside I was barely functioning. Finally one day I walked into the kitchen, sat down on a chair and told my husband, “Something is wrong with my brain.” He, being the eternal optimist, said he thought I was fine. I pressed further, “No, something is wrong with my brain. I need help.”
Together, my husband and I sought out professional therapy for me. I began the process of intense counseling in the Fall of 2016, and continued until this past summer. My counselor was nothing short of a God-send. During my first session, I sat on her couch with hot tears pouring out of my eyes the entire hour. Everything had gotten so out-of-control, so dark. I felt such a strong sense of shame.
Yet, despite all of those feelings, after showing up for my first appointment I felt something I had not felt in a very long time.
H.O.P.E.
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