Into the Mysterious Dark

Speaking on the phone the other day with a friend of mine, one of the few who knows all the ins and outs of my current novel-writing adventures, she asked me, "Is this going to become a series of books, once you're done with this one?" The question took me aback, for more than one reason, and spawned enough introspection to justify a blog post. I mean, for years I was convinced I would never finish this story, and now that I'm SO close to its end, I felt the need to self-indulge in some writer-introspection. We've all heard it, whether you're a writer or not: "You're going to starve. Writers don't make anything." "That's nice. I'm sure you'll do well." (Insert a stifled gag at the obvious patronizing.) "You know, it's nearly impossible to get into writing now." "I could never do something like that. That's...great." The older I've gotten, and the more I've written, the more I...

As most of you have seen, a couple of days ago, I posted a blog about the issues of treating mental illness, suicidal tendencies/ideation, and depression by purely spiritual means. The response to this post was surprising, to say the least. When I posted it, it was more nervewracking because of how exposed I was willingly making myself, but I posted it anyway because I hoped in my heart of hearts that it would touch somebody else who had experienced the profound guilt and misery at not being healed of their torment by faith alone. There were responses of that nature, and they filled my heart with profound sadness and simultaneous love to know that my dark past can help someone, and I was glad I'd shared it. Other responses, however, were not so favorable. This post isn't to call those responders out, or to be petty or cruel and trash them. That is not, nor will ever be, my intention in posting ANYTHING on my blog. There are, however, several ideologies and lines of thinkin...

Let me start out by saying two things: one, I have been suicidal off and on from the time I was 6 years old; two, no, this post is not a cry for help or attention. I have dealt with my demons and wrestle them daily, and you don't need to worry about me. (Really; I use homeopathic anti-depressants and have been to therapy, and I have several emotional accountability partners who check on me constantly). But in the light of Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade's passing, and the horrible things people are saying about them (from a supposedly "Christian" standpoint), I cannot in good conscience sit back and not share my own heart in the midst of these things. As you small group of my readers know well, so many of my posts are fueled by anger or outrage, or both. This post is not an exception. You may be wondering, what pissed me off this time? Why, the homily a deacon at my church gave this past weekend. Let me give you a brief glimpse into what he said, verbatim: "I ...

Here you have it. A handy-dandy list of what NOT to do when someone confesses body image issues. 1.) Don't gasp, shout, wail, or sob. Alright, I know these sound dramatic, but let me tell you, coming from someone with severe body image issues myself, this rings true across the board. Be EXTREMELY sensitive of how you react to someone who is vulnerable enough with you to tell you about their insecurities with anything, but most especially with body image issues. The smallest overt reaction of any kind, be it horror, shock, or dismay, will come across to the person as a reaction to themselves, not what they're saying. It takes a special kind of strength to be able to confess these issues out loud, especially for someone who has lived with these incessant lies in their ears day in and day out. Your reaction of shock may be a legitimate one, being that you could never imagine this person thinking of themselves as ugly. I completely understand that. But YOU need to understand...

I spent most of yesterday afternoon seething in anger, pounding my steering wheel in rage and biting my lip until my whole mouth ached. Why I was angry doesn't matter. Once I calmed down enough to think clearly, I reminded myself that it didn't matter why. I was angry, and that that was okay, and that as long as I didn't decide to plow into the wrong direction of traffic because of my anger, there was nothing wrong with letting that fire pound through me in my emotion.  It's sad how often I have to remind myself that anger, in and of itself, isn't a sin.  It's also sad how often I have to remind myself that this isn't my fault, my aversion to the natural inclination of anger.  I can hear your inner questions now, dying with curiosity to know why I was angry. Is that just because I'm female? I know that sounds trite, but really think about it. If I were a man writing this, and I wrote about the subject of anger, how would you react to his ...

I vividly remember the Good Friday when I first experienced the haunting reality of that day. I was 12, and per my mom's annual tradition, she stayed home from work and we kids stayed home from school. Being old enough to understand what the Passion was, but not yet old enough to have seen the film that bore its name, I remember wandering through that day in a foggy, grey area of subconscious sorrow and intellectual consternation, having no idea why that day felt so heavy. I was always told it was of grave importance, but I'd never felt it like this before. I knew that Christ had died (it wasn't until years later that I knew He'd died for me , as though He'd come only for me), but the earth's soil lapping up His blood, the ground splitting open in rage, and the skies weeping down their protest hadn't yet touched the dark, ignorant caverns of my soul's eye. My heart was still encased in deep, impenetrable ice, and I didn't know it yet. There w...

You would think there would be a strange comfort In finding so many women who suffer as you do Women who are woken in the middle of the night Hyperventilating Screaming Cursing At facing the same tainted face in the mirror As you do. You want to throw your arms around them Provide them comfort you can't give yourself Because no one should live the way you do. No one should torture themselves the way you do. No one should hate themselves the way you do. No one should wish to disappear as you do. There's no longer such a thing as Hiding from triggers. They are Everywhere. Time passes, and it does start to help. You can broach the subject And not feel suffocating fear at who will hear you Because they understand. They know that fear, too. #MeToo, they all say And you weep not because you were alone But because we were all alone together. And you have never wanted to take revenge more In your entire life. Vengeance is mine, says the Lord, And you turn y...