Author: Broken Handmaid of the Lord

Yesterday I went to choir. I drove with a friend and it went well. She’s smart and fairly open and we are building a pretty authentic friendship which is something I am learning to value more and more. Still, about half way through rehearsal I started feeling the panic rise in my throat. I tried to focus on singing and music and not on the nagging thoughts I kept trying to push aside like persistent mosquitoes. I decided to take a break, get a drink, and try to calm myself. The stairwell provided a somewhat secluded place for me to process my thoughts and feelings.

Things still aren’t good between me and my parents. My depression and recovery has been confusing and difficult for them. They don’t understand why I am hurting so much. The ways that I am changing and the way I speak out on my blog is upsetting and scary to them. It’s hard for me not to take their pain onto myself. pFor so long I’ve believed that I could fix their feelings; that I could reassure them and prove to them that everything is going to be okay, that I am going to get better and that they will not have to experience any pain in the process. I can’t do that. I can’t fix the pain that isn’t mine. I can’t find the healing path for them. Part of my recovery is relearning the same difficult lessons my brain is so resistant to learning.

I can’t save everyone else. I can’t fix my ward, my church, or my family. I can’t fix the problems I didn’t create and I’m not responsible for. I love people, but I can’t save them from the feelings they experience because of my growth. I can see them and empathize with them, but I can’t take the pain away.

I was able to return to the choir and finish the rehearsal. Then I drove home with my friend and tried to go to sleep. My bedtime routine mostly consists of trying to warm my feet. Either I will do relaxation breathing and guided imagery, or take a warm bath before bed. Last night I didn’t want to take a bath, but even after taking sedatives and a sleeping pill, I was still so anxious I couldn’t warm my feet and fall asleep for over an hour.

This morning I saw on social media that my old friend and neighbor had passed away at 43 years old. I read the obituary wondering what could have happened. I haven’t seen him in probably thirty years. We were never close friends as we didn’t really have the same group of friends. Still, I always liked him and felt like a piece of my heart had been ripped out. Something in my heart said, “This guy killed himself.”

I don’t know why I feel that way. My rational mind says he could have died of many other causes. The fact that it doesn’t give a reason for his passing in the obituary is not proof of suicide, but for some reason I got it in my head that this guy had killed himself, that he suffered from the same thing I have and that it had got him. It made me so angry that the obituary didn’t say anything about it and that people still don’t want to talk about it. I prayed for my friend and the two kids he leaves behind and his sister who is a beautiful person and I have so many happy memories of. And yet, I can’t let it go.

And then I was listening to a podcast while I was cleaning up my kitchen and the podcast took a strange turn and started talking about incarceration and the trauma of being locked up. There is actually a separate jail for people who have been accused of a crime but haven’t had a trial yet. I didn’t know that. People who can’t afford bail have to stay there and it doesn’t have a lot of the facilities that the other parts of the jail have. Even if a person is innocent of the charges, they still have to be locked up. They started describing the psychological trauma that incarceration causes and I started having flashbacks of when I was hospitalized. The trauma came back to my mind like a wrecking ball. I stopped listening to the podcast, but I had already been triggered. People who are incarcerated in this pre-trial jail are seven times more likely to commit suicide than other inmates. And they are presumed innocent until their trial.

It made me so angry. I know our criminal justice system is important and that enforcing the law is essential to our civilization. Still, the imperfections and injustices of it are so glaring; especially for those who have disabilities and/or are living in poverty. The disproportionate suffering of these people is in stark contrast to our President who is constantly whining on social media about not getting due process because he is unable to commit crimes without consequences. He has lived his life surrounded by lawyers who protect and advocate for him while so many in jails and prisons across the nation suffer the trauma of incarceration simply because they became entrapped in a culture of addiction and crime fueled by untreated mental illness. They languish in jails waiting for their day in court hoping that the counsel the state provides for them might be able to help them. I can see them. I can feel their pain. I know how it feels to be locked up. I know what it feels like to be dehumanized, stigmatized, and neglected. I know how it feels to ask for help and compassion and have your cries go unanswered. The memory of my pain and the reality of the pain of others in this fallen world crushed me.

I’ve spent all afternoon crying. Austin will walk into the room after battling imaginary ghosts and monsters and see me with my head in my hands. “Momma, you NOT sad,” then he brings me tissues and towels. He gives my heart kisses. “You feel better now. The bad feelings go away.” I tell him he is a hero man and that he has helped me feel so much better. Then he leaves to play and I continue crying.

I’m supposed to be making his birthday cake and preparing for his party. I can’t focus on anything but the blinding pain in my soul. I put him down for his nap and decided to write. I’m trying my best right now to keep my head above water. I’m trying to find some peace of mind and it feels like no one understands how hard this is.

It is a battle. Every. Day. I don’t have depression to get attention, or to make excuses for myself. I don’t have depression to blame others for my problems. I don’t know why I have it. I wish I didn’t have it. I wish I could take a pill or go to a few sessions of counseling and have it go away. I wish I could be “fixed,” but it just isn’t that simple.

It isn’t that my treatments aren’t working. Its that life is hard when you love like I do. It doesn’t make me a nice person. It doesn’t make me charming and fun to be with. This love costs everything and gives no worldly reward in return. Love like this wants to take the pain of everyone I’ve ever seen and take it on my back. The suffering of the whole world overwhelms me and I can’t bare the pain of it. Love like this hurts so bad.

And yet my Savior tells me to take up my cross. He tells me to feel the hurt and know that this empathy is part of being his disciple. It doesn’t make sense and it isn’t pretty, but that’s okay because HE understands. All I have to do is follow Him and He will turn my sorrow to rejoicing. He will lead me. He will show me the ways I can use my love to bless the lives of others. He can fill me up when I can’t lift my arms another inch. He can make up the difference for me when I faint and fall.

Its hard for me to think that the Savior looked into the eyes of his disciples before he was killed and he knew what would happen to them and their families because of their faith.

If ye were of the world, the world would love his own: but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.

John 15:19

The world hunted down and murdered those people. The world hated the disciples of Christ because they were marked as different and judged as wrong. It would be so sad except their love and their faith and their testimony could not be destroyed. Their martyrdom earned them a crown the world can never take away.

Although I don’t understand the process I am going through, I know the Savior will not leave me alone. He counts every tear and feels every pang of sorrow. There is purpose and divine design in it even though I can’t see it right now. This love, this deep and empathetic love that I have, is sacred. It’s a gift that I can feel this way for others. This love makes it possible for me to keep my covenant I made at baptism to mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need of comfort. I have seen this love mend hearts and soothe wounds. There is great power in great love. It just comes at a price. The price of pain.

I’ve always taken my gospel study very seriously. Doctrine was to be checked and double checked. The current apostles and prophets are the first authority, then the scriptures as interpreted by them, then the past prophets, then finally the past apostles and leading church leaders. Anything departing from that channel of authority was suspect. Honestly, I have never studied a woman’s writings for church doctrine. Never.

So naturally, it was with some hesitation that I tapped the podcast on my iphone titled “Leading Saints” which is not officially endorsed by the church. More, the woman being interviewed in the podcast was talking about women, the priesthood, and church leadership. As I glanced through her biography, I was impressed. Barbara Morgan Gardner had been institute director in Boston over many schools including MIT and Harvard. She still works in the CES. She is no apostate, and yet the things she had to say were very uncomfortable to me. Thing is, uncomfortable is kind of my new normal these days.

I’ve been studying about femininity in Carl Jung’s book, “The Aspects of the Feminine.” My brain has been really attacking all of my assumptions about women and our place in the world and in the church. For so long I have looked to my priesthood church leadership to fix me. I’m the broken woman that needs a blessing! I need to become like the saccharine sisters that used to speak in general conference in an annoying baby voice! Now that I’ve gone outside the church for help, I’ve taken that responsibility onto myself and I’m realizing that maybe I had it backwards all along. Maybe they were never supposed to fix me. Maybe I was supposed to fix them.

Of course, I have all kinds of fears crop up at this thought. “You are trying to steady the ark! This is clear and present apostasy!” I’m telling my fear to stand down. It’s not apostasy to speak and think and pray and learn and teach. That’s actually what God expects his disciples to do. It’s not wrong to expect that God might effect change in a different and less top down, hierarchical way; that he expects me to use the spiritual and intellectual tools at my disposal to help my church community.

So I listened to the podcast. It was empowering to me. It made me feel like maybe I can have a voice and an impact in God’s church. It made me feel like maybe the person I’m becoming could actually fit and contribute meaningfully.

I went to church yesterday. I didn’t go to sacrament meeting. I sat in the car and did mind maps about gossip and authenticity. My inner critic has been raking my mind about my blog. It has been saying, “Your blog is just gossip! You talk bad about your church and your leaders and you hurt people!” So I decided to put my mind to work and shut those arguments down. Then I snuck into the building and I taught my primary class. I love my kids and I love teaching. It was a good lesson.

It went so well, I decided to sneak down the hall to the chapel and go to choir. My old relief society president is the new choir director. In supporting her in choir, I’ve been trying to mend some bridges. I think she appreciates it. When you’re directing, its nice to have someone who can read music and sing well in ward choir whether you like her or not!

As it turned out, she wasn’t directing yesterday. The woman who was sings with me in DMCO and she gave me a ride to stake choir last night. So I actually spent quite a bit of time at church yesterday. It felt good to do things I am good at like teaching and singing.

As my mind chews over the podcast and Carl Jung’s book and what I want to do with myself and my church, I have a lot of decisions to make. I’m not going to rush them. I hope the spirit will guide me as I try to make a place for myself in the world; a place I can live authentically and contribute meaningfully.

“You’re a bookworm!  Bookworm!” Tiffany used to make fun of me for sitting for hours reading all the time.  That was ironic, because until I took up reading, Tiffany was the one always with her nose in a book.  I was slow to learn to read. Looking back, I wonder if I had some kind of learning disability in addition to my ADHD.  I remember having a D in my fourth grade reading class. I was devastated because I had never had a D before. Tiffany was an excellent student in grade school, and I just wasn’t.  I always felt all wrong and Tiffany encouraged that opinion. Once I finished my first chapter book, A Little Princess by Francis Hodgson Burnett, I started reading everything, all the time. I embraced the book worm persona. My grades went up too.

By the end of eighth grade, my social life had proven disappointing.  I was cynical about boys, none of whom seemed interested in me. I was cynical about girlfriends too.  Sensitive and idealistic, I isolated myself socially and immersed myself in a world of academics and historical fiction where book characters and historical figures became my friends.  Looking back, I can see that my lack of genuine social connection in my early adolescence has had a long term impact on my ability to socialize. That has been a blessing and a curse.

My first apartment in college, I had the misfortune to share a bedroom with a cruel girl.  Looking back, I think she probably had a personality disorder. The conflicts I had with her created huge amounts of stress for me. I started having symptoms of severe anxiety.  I couldn’t sleep. I would wake up in the middle of the night, begin getting ready for class, and then go back to bed only to wake a couple of hours later. I went to the doctor because I was certain there was something wrong with my lungs.  After a full exam, the doctor told me and my mom that there was nothing physiologically wrong with me, but that I probably had anxiety. I was in denial. I was still certain there was something wrong with my lungs. I couldn’t catch my breath.  I started going to counseling at the student counselling center.

In trying to deal with my anxiety, I would talk to myself when I thought no one could see or hear.  Talking to myself served a similar soothing function for my anxiety that writing does now. It also helped with my ADHD.  With the help of my counselor, I finished out my first semester with great success. I had an A- in my college algebra class and all As in the others.  I performed in the Messiah concert with the Concert Chorale. My confidence was soaring when I went to my counselor for a routine session the first day of finals week.  My counselor told me that my roommates had called her. They wanted me to move out. My world felt like it had caved in on me.

Their primary concern with me was the conflicts I had with my roommate which they blamed “both sides”, although I had done everything possible to deal appropriately with the conflicts this roommate purposefully created with the coaching of my counselor whose advice I followed religiously.  They were also very disturbed by my habit of talking to myself which they took as a sign of my mental deterioration. They were concerned about me and thought it would be better for everyone if I moved out.  They were doing the right thing. They were concerned about me.

My counselor agreed that staying another semester with this group of girls, and my abusive roommate specifically would not be good for my mental health.  I was trying to absorb the emotions of rejection and the reality of what had happened when she looked at me and said, “Do you talk to yourself?” I felt a wash of shame.  “Yes, I do,” I confessed. “That is strange behavior……” she said. I can’t remember anything else. I cried hysterically for a while and then left the office. I never went back to counseling again.  I saw what happened to people who admitted that they had psychological problems and tried to get help. I convinced myself that there was nothing wrong with me and there never was.

I moved out of my apartment and back in with my parents.  One of my roommates, who was also my relief society president, had initiated the contact with my counselor.  She seemed a little distressed as I tearfully packed my things. I overheard her say, “People just need to get along.”  I rushed to forgive my roommates for what they did to me. I tried to stay in my student ward for the second semester, but it was too weird and awkward.  People who used to my friends wouldn’t speak to me. The boy I liked and thought I would marry despised me.

It’s taken a long time for me to accept the reality of my habit of talking to myself.  For a long time I would deny it altogether. When I was at Utah State, one of my roommates caught me talking to myself.  She confronted me about it and I vehemently denied it and accused her of making it all up. Before that incident we had been friends.  Afterward we weren’t close. At least she knew that I was not crazy and SHE was the one making stuff up.

When I finally told my counselor in Carrolton years later about talking to myself, he didn’t seem to think I was crazy.  He told me that talking to yourself isn’t a sign of mental illness in most cases. He helped me process through my feelings about my experience in college and get to where it doesn’t hurt so bad.

Now when I am giving myself a firey speech in the bathroom, and one of my kids walks in, I just glance at them with a sheepish grin and ask what they need.  I’ve accepted the reality that it is one of my little quirks. It’s part of who I am and its a little weird. Just like having a mental health blog is a little weird.  Just like going to counseling every week is a little weird. Maybe all of those things together makes me more than a little weird. That’s okay. Being normal is overrated anyway.

Still, whenever I have an issue come up with my relief society president, all of the old feelings I have come back to the surface.  That first semester of college, just eighteen years old, I feel like I can never trust anyone in my church leadership again; that I will always be unwelcome among the “normal” women of the church.  Women who don’t go to counselors and don’t talk to themselves and don’t have the misfortune of being abused by cruel people fate happens to put in their lives. People who have the luxury of being just like everybody else, or appearing to, have safety in numbers.  Those of us who have been bent around by life don’t fit as well. We stand out even when we try to fit in.

In accepting myself and my flaws, I think of Mater in the sequel to Cars.  He refuses to allow anyone to fix his dents because he sees them as souvenirs of a sort.  The person that I am is unique and created by God. What mortals see with their limited vision as flaws are part of His divine design.  Who am I to criticize His creation? Why do I feel the need to hide myself from the world behind a mask of conformity? What would happen if I just allowed myself to exist without judgement and shame?

My counselor used to ask me over and over, “What would happen if you gave yourself a break?”  I would worry and explain and make excuses and circle around to do it again and he would ask over and over, “What would happen if you just gave yourself a break?”  I don’t know that I know the answer to that yet. What would happen? Would I become a drunk? A candy crush addict? Would I max out my credit cards? Would I go to jail?………Or would I find out who I really am beneath the expectations and demands of others?  Would I be able to make meaningful connections with others who feel like they don’t fit? Would I be able to help inspire others to be a little quirky in their own space? Give themselves a break?

I dare to be me.  I dare to speak out.  I dare to have faith that I am wonderfully and fearfully made.  I dare to allow myself to exist in my broken; to make others uncomfortable with my non-conformity.  I dare to be that house in the suburban neighborhood that defies the HOA with a coat of green paint.  I dare to trust in the Savior to shape me, not the society of people around me. Living under an umbrella of shame hasn’t protected me.  It has only stifled me and served my enemies. It’s time to put fear aside and live in the sunshine.  

Warning

By Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Singing yesterday with my choir went well. I didn’t have to escape to the bathroom to sob, so that is an improvement. The music is gorgeous. There were a few moments where the music really seemed angelic. The alto II section is fantastic. The ladies I stand next to were so kind and supportive. The judgment I feared did not materialize. As I start to widen my circle again to include more people, I know that there will be some that will judge and criticize. I used to have a way of opening my heart up to everyone, and I’m seeing that as part of my problem.

All is NOT well in Zion. We are not one. We are not righteous. The spirit of Satan and conflict is alive and well and I have to protect myself from those who choose to inflict pain on me. I want to see people as good and loving and supportive, but not all of them are.

Sunday approaches again and the feelings of dread and indecision are back. I am supposed to teach primary this week. Should I go just for primary? After church I can leave out the back door and hopefully avoid seeing anyone. I’ll try that. I don’t want to loose my calling teaching those kids. I love my class.

My relationship to my church is complicated. When I approach the throne of God through sincere prayer and meditation, it feels real and there is light and peace. Sometimes I feel that way at church too. The biggest struggle I’m having is dealing with other members. The old cliche of “the church is true but the members aren’t” is ringing pretty hollow. I don’t expect the members to be perfect. All I want is to be safe from them. All I want is for them not to magnify the messages Satan is telling me, “that I’m not good enough,” “that I’m sick and I hurt people,” “that I’m all wrong and my choices prove it.” I know obedience is important, but my question is, obedience to whom? If obedience is to my Savior, I’m not sure what he wants me to do. The message I keep getting from him is that I need to keep myself safe.

He asks us to study things out in our minds. In life we keep ourselves safe by putting harmful things in safe places and we stay away from dangerous places. You either change yourself, or you change your environment. You protect your hand from a cookie sheet by putting on an oven mitt. That’s a change to yourself. You realize that the oven and the cookie sheet have to be hot to accomplish the goal of making the cookies, so you protect yourself by putting on a glove. Other times you have to change the environment. If there is black mold growing in the walls, or a fire in the attic, you could get by for a while wearing a face mask or using a spray bottle to keep the fire contained and the smoke at bay. Eventually the problem becomes so bad that you have to leave the house entirely because it is too dangerous for you to stay. The environment has to change dramatically for you to return.

The question I am trying to figure out is, am I dealing with a cookie sheet or an attic fire? Do I have to leave the building and call the fire department, or do I just get an oven mitt? Its not as simple as it might seem. My ward leadership believes this is an oven mitt situation. This is about me putting some emotional protection up between myself and some members who are a little hot. They might be right. I really hope they are.

The reason I’m skeptical is because I’ve seen signs that all is not well. This ward shows signs of a sick system with a lot of pent up hostility. We want to rush others to forgiveness and reconciliation because we’re in a hurry to make everything pretty again. Issues aren’t resolved and victims are too often blamed. Secrets are kept and spread within tribal groups. There are flames of anger that lick within hearts and minds of our members that threaten to explode and cause great harm. We don’t have the skills to handle social media and the mental health epidemic it is inflaming. The ward leadership has done a lot as far as talks and lessons to address the problem, but I don’t think they understand what’s really going on and the fundamental changes that need to take place in order for us to become one again. I can put on an oven mitt, or a face mask, or a blindfold, but I suspect that things are going to get worse before they get better.

I’m not going to put myself up there as the person who knows what’s wrong. Honestly, I don’t. I just live in the house and I see the cockroaches and suspect there are probably more in the walls. I see the black mold behind the fridge and stale puddles of water on the floor. I see smoke coming out the cracks under the doors of a closed room. I see those things and it makes me think the house isn’t safe for me. I’m not qualified to diagnose the problem much less cast blame. All I know is, the Savior has told me to keep myself safe.

Will I go to church this Sunday? Will I take the sacrament? Will I dare to enter the house? I guess I will know when its time. I’ll be where my Savior wants me to be. Always.

“Would you ever consider going back to teaching,” she asked. Ms. Pam is a gifted preschool teacher. Her students and their parents rave about how wonderful she is, and they have good reason to think so. Her animated personality, love for the children, and open heart make her a standout, even at a school with a remarkable staff.

“I would love to teach here,” I confided. How perfect would that be? I could make a little money working two days a week while my kids are at school. I could use the money to pay for my master’s degree.

“You should get on the sub list!” she said enthusiastically. I think I will. It’s time for me to start progressing in some of my goals and aspirations. I’ve spent the past fifteen years nurturing my children in their progress and my husband in his career. It is time to invest in myself.

I took a personality test on truity.com. After a brief questionnaire, they mapped out my scores in five different personality traits, compared the scores to the average scores in the general population, and gave me a lot of insights into myself. Much of it I already know, but the test was validating and non-judgemental. That is key.

I’ve noticed that a big part of my recovery is being able to see the world and myself less moralistically. Moralistic judgements are easy to make, but in a temporal world where everything is complicated and messy, simple moralistic judgments can be problematic. Too often reality is more complex and difficult to judge than a simplistic glance will reveal. I was raised to see things simplistically, but my personality craves novelty and complexity. In order to be more mentally healthy and less conflicted, I’ve had to accept that the simplistic viewpoints I was trained as a child to hold sacrosanct were keeping me from being honest and authentic with myself. It’s scary to leave those viewpoints behind because I know that many of things my parents taught me have served me well.

The personality test helps reveal some of the reasons my parents trained me the way they did. They noticed that I am negatively emotionally reactive, or to use the test’s term, I am high in neuroticism. Neuroticism has a terrible connotation, but the test explains that the trait is not so bad. It just means that a negative situation will impact me more emotionally than most people. It is about my temperament. I’ve known this for a long time. So have my parents. They tried, using the limited tools they had available, to help me manage this problematic trait.

They encouraged me to develop my spiritual connection with God. There have been many times when a heartfelt prayer has resulted in the swift assistance of the comforter. My parents’ relentless efforts to instill spiritual values into my life helped me immensely to deal with my overwhelming negative emotional responses. The church I was raised in has provided me with many supportive relationships that have helped me function in spite of my depression and anxiety. My first therapists were arranged and paid for by my church.

Another thing my parents did to manage my high neuroticism was to punish and scold my angry outbursts. They did this to help me avoid the devastating social consequences this behavior might create. With their help, I constructed a convincing mask of normalcy in spite of my sensitive temperament that helped me cope with everyday life for a long time.

Another potentially problematic part of my personality is my distract-ability and difficulty persevering with difficult tasks with few intermittent rewards. Also, I am not motivated by awards or competition, so motivation is always a challenge. Making, setting, and reaching goals is harder for me than for most people because of my personality. My parents knew this about me. They set very high expectations for me and insisted on maximum effort. My deep desire to please them motivated me to achieve much more than I would have without their expectations.

I graduated high school with high honors. I graduated from a demanding program in Elementary Education with my bachelor’s degree. I’ve worked many jobs and never been fired. I’ve never been divorced. I’ve never been addicted to drugs or alcohol. I have four beautiful sons who are assets to the community. Most people with my combination of personality traits haven’t had the kind of life I’ve had. By most measures of success and with an understanding of the unique challenges I faced, my story is a story of success. I hope my parents see that someday. The choices they made have caused problems for me, but I understand why they did what they did. I don’t blame them for the person I am today, I thank them. Our joined efforts to nurture and make a good life for Bridgette have been fruitful. They just aren’t finished yet. As an adult, with more tools at my disposal, I have to discard some of the old ideas and coping strategies that I used to rely on.

My efforts to reach my potential in adulthood have been centered around developing my strengths. Because of my high neuroticism, I’ve found that focusing on my weaknesses and using shame based motivation is toxic to me. Instead I try to nurture and encourage my positive traits. I am empathetic, agreeable, and curious. I crave novelty and love ideas. Moving away from Idaho and my comfort zone within a socially, politically, and religiously homogeneous society in Idaho and Utah into a suburban, diverse, fast paced, crowded one was important. The physical and psychological space from my family of origin and deep religious roots has allowed me to expand my perspective. It has also given me access to more mental health resources which have been vital to my growth and also my parenting.

My compassion and desire to help others motivated me to start speaking about my mental health journey. My blog has helped me with my writing and I’ve collected a small network of supportive friends who have been a huge part of my recovery.

My personality test highlighted to me that my lack of selfish, goal oriented, task driven traits have caused me to neglect my own personal development. As I get more mentally healthy, I am deciding what path I want to take. It’s time to think of myself and what I want to do with the rest of my life.

I want to get a masters degree in social work. That will take me about three and a half years. I just requested information from the University of Texas at Austin. They have a nationally recognized program. If I start next fall, I will graduate when I’m about 44. Then I want to do a PhD. I don’t know what exactly I want to study yet, but it will probably be something related to religious and spiritual influences on mental health. I want to complete my PhD by the time I am 50. I plan to teach while I pursue my degrees to pay for my tuition. After I graduate, I want to work in public service. Maybe I will run for office in the state legislature or become a speech writer or an adviser on a political campaign. I also want to publish a book.

To accomplish these goals, I will have to make a plan, manage distractions, and give myself periodic rewards to keep me from getting discouraged. I’ll also have to be flexible because as a mom of four boys, anything can happen. The good news is, I have a lot of good information about myself and some tools at my disposal that will make these goals a lot more possible.

My counselor and my husband are encouraged with my increasingly positive outlook and my determination to keep myself safe from those who would do harm to my recovery. Sometimes the trials we experience can do more to push us forward on the path the Lord has laid out for us than blessings do. I hope that I can remember that when the next bout of storm clouds comes my way. They are sure to come, but I have everything I need to rise above them. I’m on my way!

The chicken breasts were still a little crunchy with ice when I put them on the cutting board.  I felt the rage coursing through me as I picked up the tenderizing mallet. It felt good to release my anger onto the poultry.  “Whack! Whack! Whack!” Over and over as I thought about how angry I was at them. I had been listening to an NPR news broadcast.  The women spoke intelligently about their deep concerns about the chaotic Trump foreign policy in Ukraine. They had nuanced and measured views about the President and the successful mission against Baghdadi.  They talked about the difficulty of crafting positive relationships with Middle East partners when the President talks about “protecting the oil,” like that is all we care about. Then they took calls. A Trump supporter called in.  She said something about how the Democrats couldn’t be trusted and that they are persecuting this President and that America should be able to take oil from the Middle East. I listened to the NPR reporters try to make sense of the woman’s position, ask clarifying questions, and then respond appropriately.  

It is like at NPR and all across America and the world so many people have been carefully crafting foreign policy, a complex legal and ethical governing structure, and coherent strategy for our future, and then some other people decided to come out of the shadows and burn it all down.  Then we have to listen patiently to them ramble incoherently about how they have been wronged, the conspiracy theories they believe to be true, and the President they have come to worship.

And I’m so angry.  This is my country!  This is the nation I hope my children and grandchildren will call home.  How can we be so irresponsible? How can we be so ungrateful? How can we turn from the form of government that has blessed us so much and trade it in for cheap authoritarian populism?  How can someone as obtuse and blatantly villainous as Donald Trump do so much damage to something that has taken so long to build? And cost the blood, sweat, and tears of so many?

“Whack!  Whack! Whack!”  The chicken was flat, but I gave it a few more pounds before taking the knife to it and cutting it meticulously into small cubes.  I actually made a great meal last night. With rice on the side. And Koolaid. My teenagers had seconds, so I’m glad I doubled the recipe.  Keeping food in their stomachs has become more and more time consuming and expensive. Still, it warms my heart to see them grow! My oldest is taller than me now.  I had to pull him aside and give him a stern lecture about how he was treating his brother. It was strange to look up at him.  

Life with depression can be so confusing.  Sometimes I can handle it. Sometimes I can channel the anger productively, avoid the shame, and press forward.  Yesterday I started tickling my little Austin. He said, “Not all fingers! One finger.” I knew what he wanted. I stuck up my right index finger.  “Hello finger!” he said as his eyes lit up. “You wanna go watch Ponies?” My finger is his imaginary friend. I have to get creative since he is home alone with me so much.  I translate for the finger. “Finger says, that sounds fun. Finger wants some breakfast first.” He just found the T. V. show “My Little Ponies” and he loves it. Now he wants the pony toys for his birthday and Dad is not excited.  That’s okay. He doesn’t do the birthday shopping. 😉

I can be a good mom to my family sometimes and sometimes the despair is just overwhelming.  Ben and I have been doing our best to tag team and keep the trains running, if not on time, at least close. I know I fall short and I know that I’m not the mom I wish I was. All I can do is go to counseling another week, write on my blog another day, and trust that the Lord will lead me out of this pain.  Someday, it won’t be this hard.

I’m staying home “sick” from church today. I can really claim sickness as I have been dry heaving and nauseous all day. My decision to take a break from church has come at a cost. I feel like I have walked away from everything my church has taught me. An astronaut blasts out of the atmosphere and lands on the moon and he sees the Earth from a distance. Its like he sees it for the first time. Like that astronaut, I don’t think I will be able to stay on the moon forever, but I can explore this new place I find myself and look at the world I have left with new eyes.

Last night I sat at a restaurant with Ben. I saw a man with a beer bottle in his hand. His young son sat beside him. I thought of how I would feel if I were holding a beer while sitting next to my son. The shame of doing such a thing would be unbearable, and yet I saw this man and his son sitting there with no shame. What a strange thing. I glanced at the drink menu propped up on our table. I saw the alcoholic drinks listed and I thought, “I could order one.” I’ve spent a whole lifetime never even considering an alcoholic drink as something I could have. “I could order one and I probably wouldn’t even be carded and I could drink it and be one of them,” I thought as I looked around at the other people drinking at other tables.

At the repair shop the other day, I had a similar thought as I looked at the Keurig dispenser. I could make myself a coffee. I’ve never had a cup before. I glanced at the two receptionists. They would have no idea what I was doing would be considered terribly wrong by my family and friends at church.

These thoughts were not temptations. I’ve been tempted before and I know the difference. I have no desire to drink alcohol or coffee. What was weird about the experience is that I never really felt like I was choosing before. Spending some time on the moon makes everything look so different.

It isn’t coffee or alcohol or taking the sacrament every week that makes me a disciple of Jesus Christ. Those things are a small part of my relationship with my creator. My link to God is more than tradition or law or ordinance. He sees me and he loves me. If I were born somewhere in a refugee camp, he would love me the same. If I were born as a Muslim or a Jew, he would love me the same. I happen to be born as a Mormon, but I left that label some time ago. I am a disciple of Jesus Christ.

I missed taking the sacrament this week. My feelings toward my ward family are not right. I feel angry at them and afraid of them. My Savior doesn’t want me to pretend those feelings aren’t there and partake of his sacrament with those feelings in my heart hidden behind a mask of normalcy. I don’t know when or how those feelings will be purged away. I don’t know when or even if I can leave the moon and go back home to my ward family, but for now, the empty silence surrounds me and I look at myself, my testimony, my life as I’ve lived it so far, and consider. Without shame. Without judgment. Consider.

I read this article today called “No More Strangers” by Alexander B. Morrison of the Seventy. It spoke to my soul. Although it was written nearly twenty years ago, it seems more applicable today than ever to me. I feel so conflicted. I want to stand up for and defend against the racism and political persecution I see right now, but how can I do that while also not persecuting others? Is it even possible? Is there a place for me in a red state in a church that seems to become more Trumpian every day? I increasingly feel like a stranger among those I used to call my friends and family.

Sometime in the future, I hope to sit with my ward family. We can pass the emblems of the sacrament and feel the spirit and rejoice in our love, but not today. Today I’m on the moon.

Was Jesus really nice?  I remember having that thought as I learned about the times he took a whip into the temple courtyard and drove out the money changers.  There were times in the Savior’s life when he was incredibly kind and merciful and gentle; with children, with women trapped in sin, with lepers, with those society deemed less worthy of kindness.  There were other times he spoke with boldness and even with righteous anger.

In Mormon society I’ve often heard people dismiss these angry outbursts with something like, “Well, he was the Savior.  He could do that. We can’t because we aren’t him.” They also like to quote that scripture about “can ye be angry and not sin?” as justification for the shaming of the emotion of anger.

With due respect for those who hold to these beliefs and have taught them to others, I want to point out a couple of problems I see that have arisen from the shaming of anger.  First, we don’t have to be perfect to try to follow the Savior. Second, shaming our anger leads to unhealthy mental habits.  

As to the first, we will never be exactly like the Savior.  He was perfect and we are less. My son doesn’t know his letters yet.  I am a voracious reader. I encourage him to work with fridge magnets letters, to learn one letter each week, to play silly phonemic games, and I celebrate each small success he makes.  The Savior is like that with us. He is so much more than we are, but he loves us wherever we are at. He delights in each small effort we make to be more like him. If we say, regarding the cleansing of the temple story, “well that’s the Savior. I can’t do that,” will we say the same about his other works?  I’m not suggesting that we march into church with a weapon, but I do think that as his disciples he expects us to do our part to stand against injustice with firmness and righteous anger. Anger is a difficult emotion to manage, but he expects us to try.  When we mess up, we can repent and try again. When we use righteous anger appropriately, it can fuel us to greater courage, faith, and good works—but managing it takes practice.

That leads me to my second point.  If managing our anger takes practice, but the age where learning to manage angry feelings in childhood the emotion of anger is shamed, we are set up for mental and emotional disorders.  The thing about anger is, it doesn’t go away. It is meant to be felt and expressed. If we stuff those angry emotions down, they build up and show up in other ways. I’ll use a few examples.

A man is treated unfairly at work and feels anger.  He knows he is unable to express that anger toward those who are responsible without losing his job.  He goes home and yells and berates his wife and children for small inconveniences that evening, damaging those precious relationships.  This is called misplaced or misdirected anger. We can’t safely express anger in one setting, so we direct it to someone else in another setting.  This can result in abusive behavior creating generational trauma.

A woman feels angry at her toddler for tracking mud into the house and pooping his pants.  She knows she can’t express that anger at him, so she turns the anger in on herself. She thinks, “Why can’t I be a better mom?  I should be able to handle all this without feeling this way.” This is misdirected anger toward the self. Self-blame leads to discouragement and depression.

There is also anger denied.  When someone hurts us or treats us unfairly and we think, “That’s okay.  It’s no big deal. I can handle this.” Maybe we laugh along. Bully took my lunch money?  No big deal. I’ll have a snack when I get home. I’m not angry…..but you are. The resentment and frustration you don’t allow yourself to experience begin to express in physical symptoms.  You’re moody, anxious, and have an upset stomach all the time. Your neck hurts. You don’t have the confidence to apply for that promotion at work. The anger is poisoning you, and you have no idea what it is or why you feel what you are feeling.

So I’ve had a lot of angry feelings in the last month.  Sometimes I’ve made mistakes with that anger. I posted an image on Facebook about the Turkish invasion in Northern Syria only to realize later that it was likely a fake.  I lashed out at my mom for a dismissive reply to a post when I should have deleted it and confronted her offline instead. I tried to confide a secret to the internet. Not a good idea. Those are mistakes I’ve made. I’ve also had success.

In channeling my anger toward spreading awareness, many of my friends are much more informed about the Kurds.  They understand better the desperate position these people are in and why what the president did was such a horrible betrayal.  Many people even signed my petition. I emailed and called my representatives to advocate for the Kurds. The Savior acted on his righteous anger against the moneychangers.  I acted on my righteous anger too. I also learned a lot about myself in the process. I learned there are some people who pretend to be my friends, but they are really not okay with my growth.  They aren’t okay that Bridgette isn’t always going to be kind. She’s going to make mistakes. These people are a threat to me. They are dangerous to my recovery no matter how well meaning they are. It is important that I take the steps necessary to protect myself from anyone who tries to derail my progress.

As I have in the past, I’m asking again for everyone to own their own feelings about me and my recovery.  If people don’t like the person I’m becoming, that’s okay. Not everyone can be in my life right now. I want people to be real with me and vulnerable with me. Some people can do that and some can’t and that’s okay. I’m trying to experience the anger and sadness of this moment in my life and move forward with faith and confidence in myself and the beautiful person I am becoming. 

Unfortunately, the political and social upheaval of our times has taken a huge toll on my relationships and my mental health. I’ve spent hours crying, praying, and trying to know what is happening and why I’ve encountered so much opposition. My answers have been comforting and validating and sometimes gently correcting.

The conflict and chaos we are experiencing right now is the culmination of centuries and even millennia of ancient forces. The political unrest that has gripped not only the United States, but all the nations of the world that have been blessed and prospered in the last seventy years is not as new and unexpected as I thought. Only a few short years ago, I saw a bright and prosperous future with a stable global economy and political structure. Now that future is clouded with storm clouds. We see a small slice of history and we don’t understand that the battle that is raging in our families, in our churches, and in our houses of government is ancient and undying; freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press are memorialized in our Bill of Rights, but those rights of expression are not limited to citizens of our nation. They are given by God to all his children in every land and nation. They can only can be preserved when we acknowledge dependence upon His matchless power.

His power is not exercised by armies or dictators. It is likewise not to be used to force the human mind through the ballot box or legislative acts. It is to be exercised by persuasion, meekness, and love unfeigned; compassion, empathy, understanding, sacrifice, and service. Those virtues take courage and a personal connection with God and his children who surround us.

When we seek to force our will upon others, to compel others to believe as we do whether through woke political correctness mob attacks, or through presidential decree, or through violence or threats of violence we violate the principles upon which our freedoms are based. We offend the spirit and the power of God is withdrawn from us.

Today I read about M. Russell Ballard’s talk in Boston this week. When I read these words, it brought me a measure of comfort.

“We must stand boldly for righteousness and truth and must defend the cause of honor, decency and personal freedom espoused by Washington, Madison, Adams, Lincoln and other leaders who acknowledged and loved God.”

M. Russell Ballard

Even though I have made mistakes and sometimes those mistakes have had consequences for the people I care about, none of this horror is really my fault. I have tried hard to stand boldly and defend the constitution from the threats I have seen. The forces at work in this world right now are far beyond my small power to change. The bitterness and conflict I am witnessing and suffering from is not of my making, nor is it solely the fault of those who are caught up in it. It simply is the reality of the broken world we find ourselves in.

Good news is, the Savior has the power to save. He will provide for all those who embrace His word and follow His will. Whatever sacrifices I need to make in his name, I will do. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

I listened to an NPR podcast about anger the other day called, Screaming into the Void. I’ve been thinking about the outrage/shame culture on social media as well as the distorted thinking that results when the brain is flooded with anger and that anger is shared and spread on social media.

First, I’m going to get vulnerable. The attacks against Rojava and the Kurdish people in Northern Syria has made me more angry than anything has in a while. Anger happens when something happens that is wrong and also should not have happened. If we had a competent president, this would NOT have happened. I’ve also felt ashamed of my country for betraying an ally. I’ve felt afraid of the possible consequences of this geopolitical debacle. I’ve also felt confused and alone and powerless. I’ve also been grieving for the pain of people I care about. That’s a lot of emotion!

I am going to get more vulnerable. I’ve been caught up in the anger and shame culture of social media more than once. Twitter is especially hard for me to manage as the entire platform is fueled by outrage. I’ve fallen into several traps. Most recently, I posted a picture on Facebook that I came across on Twitter only to realize later that the picture was not what I had been led to believe. All the self-righteousness fury was taken out of my sails as the humiliating reality set in that I had been fooled.

I try to be really careful what I consume as news. I pride myself on checking and double checking to make sure something is authentic, but something about the picture I came across seemed to connect with the emotions I was feeling and I didn’t even think to verify it. I just saved it and then shared what I had read. I’ve never had to issue a retraction before and since I’m not a real journalist, I don’t know how to do it anyway.

So there you go. I’ve been vulnerable about my own foibles when it comes to disinformation! What is disinformation? It is something of a modern concept that has arisen in the information/social media age that involves the cherry picking of actual facts, exaggerations, and falsehoods to create a believable string of lies.

We are living in a culture where disinformation is rampant. Wading through massive amounts of online information and disinformation can result in confusion, conflict, and eventually cynicism. I remember a conversation I had with my parents. It went something like this.

“Mom, I’ve known about the Steele Dossier since it first came out. It was started as opposition research by the political right to take down Donald Trump in the primary. After that the Democrats took over.”

She replied something like, “No, it was Fusion GPS that paid for the dossier and it was proven to be a complete pack of lies. Fusion GPS was a shell company that Hilary Clinton used to hide behind.”

I became frustrated, “I’ve never heard of Fusion GPS. What the heck is that!?! The dossier was compiled by Christopher Steele, a reputable Russia expert and British spy. He’s basically James Bond and everybody wants to make him out to be some crook!”

And on we went. Each confused by the other person and their set of fake news “facts.” After doing some research, I realized I didn’t know as much about the dossier as I thought I did. It turns out my mom knew something I didn’t! Fusion GPS did fund the dossier. It was a shell company. My mom was right about that particular thing although we still disagree about whether the dossier was produced in good faith and had anything worth investigating. In this case, I didn’t know as much as I thought I did. My own store of knowledge on the subject had deceived me into believing that I had all the knowledge when I actually didn’t. I’ve thought a lot about that conversation and tried to stay more humble and open minded. When I start thinking I am in possession of all the facts, sometimes I miss important things or dismiss another person’s valid perspective. Those are things I’m working on.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to learn as I’ve been using my voice more is to give myself permission to make mistakes. If I get angry and cause a kerfuffle on Facebook, I go back to the old patterns of thinking that I am all wrong and should never have said anything or given myself permission to feel anything. Then I get depressed and angry at myself. That anger directed at myself is so toxic.

When I express my emotions and my views and my words effect others, they are responsible for the way they deal with that. If they choose to blame and shame me, they can’t be my friends. If they don’t respect my right to express my views in my own way, they can’t be my friends. That includes insisting that I am always “nice.” I’m not a nice person. I am me. If you don’t like me, that’s okay. No one has to be my friend. My circle of friends is getting smaller, but that’s okay. Life isn’t a popularity contest. All I need are a few good friends who will stand by me in the rough times. I have that cluster of friends and I am blessed.

Eventually I will probably be able to widen my circle again to include people I can’t be with right now. Once I’m stronger and I’m more confident in my boundaries and myself, I can allow my compassion to run freely again. My biggest problem is, I care too much. I love too much. I project my own characteristics onto others and often, the reflection I see isn’t real. Some people don’t have very much empathy or self-awareness. Some people can’t be trusted in the sensitive places of my heart. That’s a hard lesson for me to learn.

As one of the few within my social group who has been willing or had the desire to speak out against the authoritarian cancer that has infected the political right, I play an important role in what Elder M. Russel Ballard has asked us to do: to pray for our nation, learn about our nation’s founding, and follow the spirit to know what to do to help our country in her hour of need. Who knows but that God has given me a voice for such a time as this!

Satan is also working hard. The forces of darkness rage against the norms and laws that have kept us free and prosperous. I’ve never seen so much conflict and division! Just yesterday on Twitter Donald Trump called the Never Trump people “human scum” and demanded that his administration discriminate against them when hiring. This is illegal, but lately that isn’t much of a surprise. The President has no respect for laws which he believes himself to be above. His supporters either choose not to see it or they just don’t care.

The truth seems to be more and more obscure and unattainable. Facts are shifting under our feet on a superhighway of sand. I am battle weary from speaking uncomfortable truths into the void of social media. My anger is spent. Its time for others to step into the gap. Ignorance is a comfortable choice, but truth can be found. Our Lord and Savior knows all things. I know that He has not abandoned his people. I know that he can reveal to each of us what we need to know in these troubled times. We are enough to save our nation. With His help, I know we can preserve and defend our constitution against this unprecedented onslaught.

It is a time of choosing. Do we believe in Democracy and the rule of the people? Do we believe in our message to the world of liberty and equality under the law? Do we have the confidence that we can win fairly in elections using our own ideas and power of persuasion without interference from hostile foreign nations? Do we have the courage to look within our own factions and parties to align ourselves with the truth before we point the finger of blame at our adversaries? If we do, it is time to speak up for what is right. It’s time to start treating our political opponents fairly. Its time to insist that our elected representatives behave civilly and follow the law. It is time. A time of choosing.