Seeing my friends post their homemade masks on Facebook inspired me to try my hand at it. I located a stash of material from one of my sewing phases. My house is full of UFO’s (UnFinished Objects). Anyway, after watching a couple of YouTube videos, I was off. Now, using a sewing machine would make things go 1,000 times faster, but sewing machines and I have never danced well together. We can’t decide who should lead and who should follow. So, these puppies would be made by hand. Needing a flat surface, I pulled out an old lap board stashed away in my garage. This lap board is a glimpse into my past. When My best friend made it, she didn’t do the usual collage, because she knew that wasn’t me. Everything is spaced out nice and neat. There’s a sense of control. I have since learned to embrace chaos and disarray, so looking at this lap board is a reminder of how far I’ve come. Like many of my OKC friends, I’ve been home since March 26, trying to do my part in flattening the curve of COVID-19. It hasn’t been a complete isolation. I take my son to work, pick up groceries, and even get drive-thru for dinner from time to time. I sleep until I can’t sleep anymore, crochet until my elbows beg for a reprieve, and Netflix and Facebook until there is nothing left but a zombie version of myself. Experiencing the whole wheel of emotions is an understatement. I’ve stayed on this side of the brink for the better part of two weeks. Then Sunday morning I woke up wanting permission to give into my depression. The moment the thought crossed my mind, I felt God smiling at me like a concerned parent. The kind of smile that says I understand how you feel, but I’m not going to do that, because you wouldn’t do it for anyone else. And it’s true. If someone asked me for permission to give up, I wouldn’t let them. I couldn’t. I used to think depression was one sort of feeling or symptom. Over the years, I have found it comes in all shapes and sizes. Sadness. Tears. Overthinking. Guilt where there is none. Sleeping until noon. Eating to stuff feelings… and on and on and on. Sunday morning was my moment of acknowledgement. Wanting permission to give into my depression was the fork in the road. It would be so easy to lay in bed and dwell on all the things I can’t control, or I could get up and keep moving. Well, I overslept and missed the live feed of our online church service. It’s the third week to be online, and it has helped a lot, because I miss my Sunday morning peeps. I grudgingly rolled out of bed and grabbed my lap board so I could work on my next mask while listening to the sermon. It occurred to me that I haven’t read the quotes on this board in a very long time, knowing full well I was just stalling. Another example of how depression creeps up. Determined to stall, I read all the little clips. Then one hit me right in the chest. A poem by Annie Johnson Flint. Most of my friends know I’m a big believer in signs. Who knew my latest sign waited on a lap board I haven’t really paid attention to in almost 30 years? So, I pulled up YouTube and watched my church online service while working on a new face mask. As always, the sermon was great. Since I wasn’t finished with my face mask, I watched our other two services again. Of course, the sermon about confession was exactly what I needed. Confession can also mean acknowledgement. I needed to acknowledge—confess—my building depression. Confessing to God is the easy part for me, because he’s seen me through all sorts of ups and downs. Good and ugly. Then Pastor Ben said sometimes it helps to take it a step further and confess to a friend. Believe it or not, that was harder. When something weighs heavy on my heart, saying it out loud feels like weakness. I’m cool with being weak in front of God, because I’ve been there before. He already knows my weaknesses. Being weak in front of a friend is different. It’s a vulnerability not easy to share, but in doing so, I took my first step toward healing. Like having an abscess or blood caught under a smashed fingernail, the best way to release the pressure is also the most painful. The anticipation of making that cut is far more unbearable than the cut itself. Sure, it hurts like a mother trucker, but the relief that follows is worth it. So, I’m not as productive or organized as I could be right now, but I’m no longer looking for permission to give into my depression either. Does this change my situation? Yes, because it changes the way I look at my situation. Here’s to flattening that curve.
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AuthorMy dad has a copy of a story I wrote when I was 9 or 10 years old called My Life as a Clothes Hanger. I thought if I ever wrote a memoir, that would be my title.Then it hit me, I have a blog I never use... Archives
October 2021
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