When Jon bought me a brand new Monte Carlo in 1999 I was determined to drive it with care and to let my light shine. I immediately bought a fish symbol. I stood back from sticking it onto my shiny burgundy bumper and realized…my fish looked like it was swimming up-stream.

Not long ago, after going through a car wash, I notice my fish had a broken tail.

I could carefully remove the old symbol and get a new one. And, that one could swim with the current. I considered it. Maybe my fish tarnished my witness. It’s certainly a less than perfect fish.

Then looking at that broken and backwards fish I saw me.

While I bought the fish to declare to anyone behind me, “I believe in Jesus,” a broken fish represents me pretty good these days. The PTSD and depression still hound my days and nights. As I pray and do what I can to get better, it’s a hard swim…a lot of it up stream – against the flow of depression, fear, and anxiety.

I’m a broken believer with a broken fish.

I know there’s something wonderful in this. Somewhere. I’ll keep seeking and when the time is right…I’ll find it. In the meantime, I will trust. And keep my fish. And pray for healing. And wait. One day I’ll get my eagle’s wings. God said so.

I mean those words with all my heart but there’s another side to my heart and it’s very human. Some days I’m okay waiting. Some days I’m not. My seeking is even of the broken variety. It involves begging and at times pleading. I’m not into bargaining and neither is God but it’s crossed my mind. I want to promise “to be good” and have the hurt that feels like punishment (even though I know better!)  go away. On these days, I am no longer politely knocking on the door…I’m banging on it with both fists.

Then like a fish with a broken tail swimming in circles, I come back to Psalm 34 verse 18 (NIV).

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

It is to this truth that even in my PTSD/depression filled moments, my heart turns and then lingers gasping for breath…taking in God’s truth and embracing it – hugging it so hard I can feel it becoming part of me a little bit at a time as if infusing itself into my DNA.

I’m a bit tossed about these days but I am extremely glad I know the One who walked on the waves.

We sat around the table in Grandma’s kitchen. It was hot inside and out. I was passed a dish and in the days when I was a child, you took a little bit of everything offered. You also ate it even if you didn’t like it.

When I asked what was in the dish, my dad said, “Turtle soup.”

I took a small portion and an even smaller bite. It tasted suspiciously like tuna.

In all the years since then…40 some in all…Turtle Soup has been a favorite of mine. I tend to save it for summer lunches or suppers. Lots of people call it Macaroni Tuna Pea Salad.

My family will gather at our house this Sunday and among the salads, meats, olives, pickles, and cake will be a bowl that will make me smile. I’ll invite my dad to have a 2^nd helping of Turtle Soup and he’ll grin.

Here’s our version…

2 cans of albacore tuna in water, drained

1         small box of ring macaroni – cooked, drained, and cooled

1 cup of celery

½ package of frozen peas thawed by not cooked or 1 can of peas, drained

A pinch (or more) of salt

Mayonnaise or miracle whip – you pick the amount that makes it all the right consistency for you

Mix, chill, serve.

(I’ve been known to add diced green peppers and onions on occasion…but the original recipe the family used is the one above…I call this version Green Turtle Soup!)

I was about 5 years old when I tasted it. I didn’t expect it – in fact I was anticipating something far more wonderful like a hug.

Some big kids in our neighborhood taught me a few new words. I was told my mom would be so proud of me for using these simple to repeat and remember phrases. I could hardly wait to bask in her happiness.

Not wanting to keep the good stuff to myself I shared some of the words with my younger brother who was about 3 at the time. We stood together in the upstairs hallway. I enthusiastically told my mother where to go and my brother called her a name.

Suddenly we were in the bathroom with slivers (although they felt like boulders!) of gold Dial soap melting on our tongues. In a little while we were brushing our teeth and tongues and spitting with as much power as we could muster.

I should have known better I guess. I’d heard those same words used by other people (usually adults) and they didn’t seem to mean good things. I told the big kids that. In tender innocence I believed them when they told me I’d misunderstood what the words meant – that they were very good words instead.

I don’t know if my little brother was angry at me or not. I’ve always been very sorry I got him in trouble. I remember vividly standing in that bathroom with soap laden spit running down our quivering chins. We were partners in crime and punishment.

Memory of that day brings back a lingering sadness. The kids I wanted to trust lied to me – intentionally. I believed that lie and passed it on to my even more innocent brother. In my desire to be accepted by kids I thought were so cool, I ignored my instincts.

You know…I tried those words and others out again in the coming years. They never “fit” – even before I came to Jesus. I also continued my efforts to please people when it was in no one’s best interest. Even now, with all my warning bells clanging and my red flags flying a full-mast I sometimes choose to ignore the internal Voice of the Holy Spirit and listen to people over Him.

Maybe a bit of that soap embedded itself in my DNA. Putting the pleasure of people before God is similar to cursing for me. In the moment between confession and forgiveness I’m sure I can still feel those bubbles on my tongue.

When I was little a “do” was directly related to hair or a reprimand, “Joy, what did you do?”

The only thing a person didn’t “do” was windows.

Now we “do” and don’t “do” a list of things based on our personal preferences.

I used to think only people with lives full of wealth and influence said, “Let’s do lunch.”

Imagine my surprise when I heard myself say it. The words were foreign slipping off my tongue. They also surprised me a bit – I thought I sounded so…well you know…so.  So not me.

This experience reminded me of the way it feels when I try on a pair of shoes that are the wrong size and aren’t my style. Shoes like that are uncomfortable and a bad investment. They also say something false about me. (I guess there are certain shoes I don’t “do!”)

I was immediately aware of the flippant way I sounded. I meant the words – I really did want to meet my friend for a long, leisurely lunch full of authentic talk and delicious food.  Instead of sending a cozy message the invitation sounded very surface – like a hard veneer.

I don’t remember intending to use the phrase. These popular words left my lips with my breath behind them and I heard a different version of me…the one trying way too hard to sound sophisticated.

In hind sight, I realize that when I offer words of encouragement, comfort, knowledge, or Scripture in a popular way (popular = saying the words and/or phrases I’ve heard over and over) I distance myself from people seeking hope, consolation, and truth.  I also create a barrier between my heart and their pain. It’s like saying, “I don’t do your pain.” I offer up some words I think should help and retreat. In a way (a very sad way) I become a spiritual snob.

That’s not who I am.

Flippant little phrases that sound normal coming from some people sound artificial and stilted when they escape my mouth.

Growing up in the 70s I could say the word “cool” and sounded okay while the words “groovy” and “far out” sounded weird in my voice and “dig” sounded even worse. There were kids in my school who could pull off these hippy style words and even swearing and the words sounded like their natural language. I confess: I tried them all and none of them fit. Kids who knew me would raise their eyebrows and shake their heads and wait for the real Joy to return to her right mind.

You’d think in a new millennium I’d have conquered this verbal silliness. I guess there are times I sure wish I could “do” words better than I do…but I don’t.

These birds arrived at our house tonight…but I missed the “fly-in!” They are part of a fundraiser for the Senior High Challenge 08 in Utah.

The birds arrived when I was busy in my office and Jon was walking the puppies. The delivery van was leaving as Jon crested the hill…the bird’s keepers got away.  Perhaps the van seen leaving the scene was being driven by my very good friend – the one who ordered the flock…ahhhh…a mystery to be solved.

On my desk sits this little flamingo left at my door.        I’m glad for the bright reminder to pray for this venture and more important…for the kids.

So…we’ve been flamingoed! And goofy woman that I am…I’m delighted.

I’d been feeling better…then while teaching in my mini-congregation at church something went very wrong inside me.

At first it felt like a little rumble I wrote off as nerves…then it began to roar as chaos swirled in my brain…it became an emotional earthquake. With God’s help, I did okay externally but internally I was falling apart in an avalanche sort of way.

On the way home, a deeper darkness settled over my growth once again. Fragile, weak, and afraid, I shared with Jon and then emailed some close friends asking for prayer.

There were some things I knew and held on to…God was there in every single second of my implosion. I didn’t hear or see Him…but I knew He was near. Nothing could change the Truth that He is. Jon and my friends steadfast love was like sunshine and fresh air…although I only got glimpses and small gusts amidst the fog and heaviness I seemed to be breathing.

Now a week and a half later I realize there is a holy rain falling over my soul. God’s presence is soaking into me…all the way down to my fragile roots. This invigorating immersion is replacing fear with peace – even as the darkness lingers.

And guess what? I’m growing in the dark!

Ideas, dreams, and plans fill my head.  I hurry to my office, fire up my computer, and immediately need a nap! All my excitement drains away when my mind calls out for the energy to create.

So, I pray, take a walk, and resist fatigue. I get a drink of water and fill up my coffee cup. Then, I give the computer another try. This time weary wins. My eyelids slip to slits, breathing becomes shallow, my head feels leaden, and my fingers sit on the keyboard – motionless.

All the things I’d like to write (except this blog) are held in PTSD captivity.

 I shut the computer down, head for a comfy place to rest, pray for refreshment, and  fall asleep before the “amen.” My dreams are not sweet so I wake up still worn.

I picture this captivity lined with a barbed wire fence. We have some of this dangerous fence on our property – it once held cattle back. Jon is carefully removing each strand of rusted and twisted metal so the land will be safe to roam. I like the sound of the cutter makes as it expands the wonderful possibilities to roam out here.

It’s easy to find things to do in place of writing and it still counts. I can write down an idea (a sentence or 2 will usually preserve the idea before it evaporates) and promise myself someday I will flesh it out. There’s always research I can collect and file away for another time. I try to convince myself  that this time of simmering is good…and maybe it is. If I get to add a sentence to an idea…I’m encouraged. These blogs take 2 and sometimes 3 hours to write before I have the courage to put them “out there” for you all to read.  Even then I find errors…my weary eyes and mind missed the other 10 times I read each entry.

Ping!

Each of these steps is me cutting down the dangerous fence that traps my creativity.

Writing these blogs has been an exercise in diligence. I usually need a nap halfway through and then again before I can even attempt an edit. The rest of the edits demand more rest. The accomplishment (in spite of the mistakes) is sweet reward for the effort. 

Ping again!

I wonder if perhaps writing these entries is a bit like lifting weights. Maybe I’m putting my creative muscles through a kind of physical therapy and when I get strong enough I’ll be able to cut through the barbed wire that seems wrapped around my creative abilities. 

Ping! Ping!

I am starting to believe a breakthrough is near and wonderful possibilities not only await me as the barriers come down…they are happening as the fence comes down.

Ping!

I believe there is HOPE! I will recover! It will not be easy.  Recovery takes time. It is a combination of my faith in action and the truth about mental illness.

In traumatic situations there are three normal survivor choices: fight, flight, or freeze.

I chose to freeze. I let my heart become numb and I avoided anything that stimulated emotion or involvement in life.

It’s normal to grieve after a traumatic experience. I resisted. After all…I’d only broken my ankle…okay badly but still – to need to grieve meant I was a wimp.

Not so!  Believing this lie, I delayed the healing process big time.

I stepped into the denial stage and intended to stay there. I wanted to be brave and prove that this difficult injury was no big deal. It sounds clichéd but I was the Queen of Denial. I wanted to rule in this tiny kingdom of “I’m fine” forever.

The next stage is anger…I didn’t want to be angry. I didn’t think I was. Anger is sneaky though – it slips into life’s circumstances uninvited…and rumbles just below the surface waiting to be released or until it spews out like molten lava. Things that didn’t used to bother me bugged me bad. I decided that before I blew the top of my mountain I’d better chose to be angry. It hasn’t been pretty and anger still takes me by surprise from time to time. I try not to blow it all over others…but that doesn’t always happen. I’ve begged God not to let me sin in my anger and have had to learn: not sinning here is a choice but not feeling the anger might be a sin.

Some call the next stage bargaining. “I’ll get better if…”  My stop here has been short. I know deep in my heart the “ifs” will continue to slow down my full recovery and I don’t want that. As a believer in Jesus I could even have used Him…I’ll get better if Jesus wants me to. This crossed my mind. My real belief is that Jesus can and will use this to His glory…no ifs, ands, or buts!  God sees right through many of our offers which are really bargains in the making…“Jesus…I’ll get better if You do…” I’m choosing to say instead, “Jesus this is all Yours.” Not as easy to live as it is to say to someone else!

Right now I’m really sad.  Depressed. It would be easy to run right back to numb except numb is really the enemy of healing. I’m not sure why being sad has become such a shameful thing…and being “strong” is such a badge of honor. It takes courage to grieve…to face the losses and cry over them. I’m sad that my ankle still hurts every day. I’m sad I’m holding on to hyper-vigilance and literally watching every step I take. Doggone it – I’m just sad. I sometimes still “swallow” it and put it in a holding cell – so I can deal with whatever it is later. Life demands that.
The key here is:  I’m learning to take time to get it out later and be sad. To cry. To pray which means letting God hear about all my ugliness and the other stuff He already knows. It’s me being real. No mask. No stiff upper lip…in fact it usually means a quivering chin and words slipping out between gasps for breath. This part of healing isn’t pretty either!

In the days to come acceptance will be my reality. I’ll accept the things I cannot change…there are 13 pieces of metal in my 50 year old ankle. It’s never going to move like it used to. It might always hurt. The scars from 33 stitches will always be there. I may never be able to do Dance Revolution again…long story but a big part of my personal loss. I may never be able to run again…not even to save my life – a lot of the “spring” is gone out of the joint. There are some good things that will also remain…I’m just not sure yet what they are. I’ll get back to you with that list on another day.

I believe that the mercy Jesus Christ has granted us demands Christians know the truth about PTSD and all mental illnesses…and that we reject condemnation and replace it with compassion. For some this will mean casting aside misunderstanding, fear, pride, ignorance, and prejudice.

For others like me, compassion manifests itself in weeping prayer for those I don’t even know who are being held in PTSD’s cold clutches.

Did you know that according to one study, 17% of the kids in Detroit, MI are suffering from PTSD? To read more about this condition and this statistic, check out this site:

http://www.askmehelpdesk.com/advice/t-19826.html

  I knew very little about PTSD until it became my diagnosis.  There is a lot of misunderstanding about mental illness and Christians. Oh Joy…where is your victory? I’ve said this to myself and seen it in the raised eyebrows of a few who don’t believe mental illness is part of a “real” Christian’s life.

Okay…so gambling shouldn’t be either but I have to ask…wannna  bet?

According to the medical sites I researched the word trauma means: a wound or injury that happens suddenly or violently.

Psychological trauma happens when a person is overwhelmed by a stress or injury.

These traumatic events include the biggies:  natural disasters (earth quakes/tornadoes/flood/fire/etc), acts of terrorism (911), and war. Not to be ignored are the smaller events like accidents and injuries that can happen to anyone…including falls on slippery floors, two weeks in the hospital, surgeries, physical therapy, etc.

Here are list of the symptoms I am experiencing:

Unable to sleep/fitful sleep

Nightmares

Flashbacks

Lack of concentration

Deep physical fatigue

Distress about needing help and not being able to give it

Unable to “feel” – emotionally numb (at times I felt my emotions were flat lining)

Sadness/depression

Felt hopeless, powerless, and completely out of control

Distressed I was unable to do “normal” things…go up and down stairs, use the bathroom (I used a commode for a few months and Jon had to take care of my waste!), take a shower, wash my own hair, or even get dressed by myself. (This loss of personal dignity and “neediness” still weighs heavily on my heart)

Although I know I’m broken inside, I feel guilty…I wasn’t on the front lines in Iraq or in New York on 911…my suffering is nothing compared to others and yet I’m wounded – I think of myself as a wimp

I constantly criticize myself for my new short-comings

I’m hyper-vigilant when walking – looking down – having to know exactly where I’m stepping

Anxiety attacks

Social retreat – I’ve withdrawn from people as often as I can…

There’s another guilt that is a biggie – when I sense someone is minimizing my diagnosis …aka…mental illness, doubting my faith…or disapproving

I avoid memories of the fall…the pain…etc. As if avoidance were a safe place…it’s not but I snuggle in any way!

One day on the way home from a time with friends, I realized I needed help. I’d been with them but not fully present. I saw their hurts and joys but couldn’t feel them. I ate, talked, and listened but was unable to fully join them – I kept up my guard and distance.

I didn’t want to die but I sure didn’t want to keep living the way I was inside either. Ready to take the risk people that matter to me wouldn’t understand and might even judge me…I went to the people who love me most and asked them to pray. (my husband Jon, my parents, his parents, and a few close and trust worthy friends) I called and saw two doctors.

I am determined that one thing was not acceptable – the shame. I refuse it. If someone is uncomfortable with my illness or chooses to discredit my diagnosis, that is their problem. I have enough of my own without taking on that too! Raised eyebrows, stilted voices, sarcasm, and out -right condemnation have no place in my recovery. I own the illness and am experiencing healing a little bit each day…but I do not own this other stuff. That belongs to the ones attempting to put their fears and discomfort with my truth off on me.

Because true healing takes effort and energy…and both are in short supply for most PTSD suffers, getting better takes time. I feel a little better most days although set backs are not uncommon. I’m still plagued by most of the symptoms listed above but not as severely as a couple of months ago. It’s a process and I have to give it time.

Please don’t dismiss mental illness as part of the Christian experience. It’s very real and painful. You can be part of the healing or not. Do remember this: there is no condemnation for those in Christ Jesus. I’m His and He is mine. PTSD is part of my earthly experience and it’s some of the junk in my life He will use for His glory. This is not beyond or beneath Him.

So…as I walk this part of the journey, I know a little bit about PTSD…and I am certain of this:

Jesus loves me…this I know…for the Bible tells me so!

A great website for further understanding is:

http://www.guidetopsychology.com/ptsd.htm

Some PTSD statistics:

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)·         Approximately 7.7 million American adults age 18 and older, or about 3.5 percent of people in this age group in a given year, have PTSD.¹ ·         PTSD can develop at any age, including childhood, but research shows that the median age of onset is 23 years.⁵ ·         About 19 percent of Vietnam veterans experienced PTSD at some point after the war.¹³ The disorder also frequently occurs after violent personal assaults such as rape, mugging, or domestic violence; terrorism; natural or human-caused disasters; and accidents.

http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/publications/the-numbers-count-mental-disorders-in-america.shtml#PTSD