Una Caja de Sorpresas (Y Recuerdos)

I found my Spain box yesterday. When I got home from Sevilla I made a scrapbook (no, it was three scrapbooks, but still....) and put a lot of things in a photo storage box. I didn't want to cut them up and I wanted to be able to hold them in my hands, so I put them in the box to keep them safe. When I moved out of my parents' house, though, I left it behind somehow and hadn't been able to find it since. I was devastated. We're talking about some really precious and valuable things, and I had no idea where they could be. I asked my mom if she had seen them anywhere in my room, which has since become her craft room and home to her parakeets. I looked in the attic, more than once. I looked all over their house and couldn't find it anywhere. It was one of those things that I desperately wanted to find but didn't want to think about, because it literally broke my heart to think that I had lost it.

I found it in their attic yesterday, though, and was ecstatic. It was in this trunk full of stuff that I had left in my room - old teddy bears, stuffed animals, and the like - sitting right on top, waiting for me to find it. I don't know how it got there or if it had been there the whole time, and I don't care. The important thing is that I found it.

As soon as I found it I rushed back down from the attic and sat in my parents' living room like a little kid opening her stocking on Christmas morning - I had the contents of the box strewn all over the floor, reading over every note, every napkin, every brochure. I held every Spanish coin as if it were solid gold, and noted the details of each as though I had never seen them before. Notes from my senora, napkins from literally all over the world (well, pretty close), sugar packets, receipts, bus tickets, train tickets, plane tickets, travel itineraries..... I was right back in that period of my life for a little while. Best of all, the whole box smelled just like Spain. Don't ask me how, but it all smelled just like my room and my apartment when I lived there. My room and my apartment on el Calle de Radio Sevilla, right by el Rio Guadalquivir, right around the corner from La Plaza de Armas..... I was there again, just from the smells and the sights I found in that box. It was una caja de sorpresas, as Alejandro says, and it was wonderful. I'm so glad to have it back. When it was missing, I felt like someone who had lost a section of her memory but who was told there was something important she was supposed to remember and cherish. One of those sad scenes from the movies where people say to the woman who just awoke from a coma, "You don't remember?" and then they turn sadly to those around them and say, "She doesn't remember. I'm sorry." But I knew there was something important and special I was supposed to remember, but I couldn't remember it in its entirety and its fullness because it was, literally, missing. Now that it's back, though, I have it all back, and I can cherish and hold onto it all and discover it all anew. I knew it's really materialistic and probably kinda shallow to feel that way, but Spain was, for me, such a time of self-discovery and enlightenment, and I wouldn't trade the experience, the memories, or the trinkets for anything in the world.

Pity Parties --> Depression --> Insanity

Here's what I'm thinking: Pity parties are overrated and pointless.

This morning I got up, still completely and totally exhausted from the hectic-ness of last week, and decided I was just too tired to do another day of it. Everyone talked last week about how exhausted they were and how they wanted time off after White Christmas and how it would ease up on Monday, so I thought it might be okay for me to do it.

I stayed home again.

And while it might have been okay for others to do it last week, and while it might have been okay - as far as AUM is concerned - for me to do it today, it was NOT okay for me to do it today, as far as I am concerned. It's not okay for me to stay home, feeling tired or whatever, because then I feel sorry for myself, I get scared about going back to work tomorrow because I know people will ask me what was up today, and I get worried about facing the things I should have faced today a day later than they should have been dealt with.

Basically, my pity parties lead me into worse anxiety and then depression than I had before, and I need to realize that no matter how badly I'm feeling when I get up in the morning, it's nothing compared to how bad I'll feel if I indulge that feeling all day long. The results are never good. Now, on top of feeling tired, I feel guilty and ashamed and weak and like I lost another battle. The war is far from over, and another battle was just credited to the enemy.

How is it so easy for rational thought to just cease? My mom always told me it didn't do any good for me to sit around feeling sorry for myself, but somehow I convince myself every so often that it'll help. It never does, and I have reason to believe that it never will, so I need to give it up. You know, I've heard the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. The last thing I need to add to my list of symptoms is insanity. I've got to get over this and learn my lesson.

It just hit me.

It's Monday again, and this one looks brighter. I'm at work - and have to be here all week this week since it's the week of our huge Christmas distribution - and not only is it getting me out of the darkness and isolation of my own bedroom, but it's also getting me into the Christmas spirit. I needed that, since with only two weeks until Christmas I hadn't really given it a whole lot of thought. We have our tree up and I've bought some gifts, but it has still seemed like it was so far off that I didn't need to consume my thoughts with it. It's funny - with Christmas everywhere and the music playing incessantly, you'd think I'd have nothing but Christmas on the brain, but I've somehow blocked it all out so that I don't get sick of it long before I should. It's sort of a defense mechanism, I guess you could say.

We have a Christmas party tonight with the "old gang" that used to have Bible study together for several years. I'm looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time.....I can't wait for social interaction and I'm scared of it. I'm such a contradiction.

I'm at work, so I need to get out to the warehouse and help unload the truck. There are more toys than I've ever seen in my life. Yea, Christmas!

In spite of it all...."I Will Rest In You"

Lord, I'm in the dark

Seems to me the line is dead when I come calling
No one there, the sky is falling
Lord I need to know
My mind is playing games again
You're right where You have always been

Take me back to You
The place that I once knew
As a little child
Constantly the eyes of God watched over me
Oh I want to be
In the place that I once knew
As a little child
Fallinto the bed of faith prepared for me
I will rest in You
I will rest in You
I will rest in You

Tell me I'm a fool
Tell me that You love me for the fool I am
And comfort me like only You can
And tell me there's a place
Where I can feel Your breath
Like sweet caresses on my face again

Take me back to You
The place that I once knew
As a little child
Constantly the eyes of God watched over me
Oh I want to be in the place that I once knew
As a little child
Fall into the bed of faith prepared for me
I will Rest in You
I will rest in You
I will rest in You

The Thoughts of Anxiety

I'm scared of always dealing with this. I'm scared that I'll become one of those people on the antidepression medication commercials who look so pitiful and lost. I'm afraid of living with this feeling for the rest of my life, and I'm afraid of being so weakened by this that I don't fulfill my purpose in life. I'm scared of staying hidden because of this but I'm scared of coming into the light. The depression leads me to anxiety leads me to disappointment leads me to depression....and on and on it goes. I'm afraid of the cycle. I'm afraid of never coming out of this, and I'm scared of being swallowed alive. I'm afraid of losing my grip on reality and on God. I'm afraid that eventually, even He will get frustrated with me. I'm afraid that no one - not even Him - understands, and that no one - not even Him - will be able to help me. I'm afraid that I'll lose this grip on hope that I have right now. It doesn't sound like I have hope, but I do. I have the hope that He'll deliver me from this, and I have the hope of a life without this feeling. With hope, though, comes the fear that my hopes will not be realized. Does that show a lack of faith? Does that mean it's not really hope?

Tight Shoes

This was the conclusion from my session with Karla last night: I'm wearing shoes that don't fit.

That actually makes a lot more sense than it looks like at first. The thing is, I'm still wearing old perceptions, expectations, attitudes, etc. that used to work but don't anymore. They used to fit perfectly - they were genuinely who I was and they worked to help me function in the world - but I've changed and the things I'm letting dictate how my life goes aren't consistent with who I am. Does that make sense? I'm still living in this old skin. It's like shoes that fit at one time and looked great - everyone saw them and thought, "Ooh...those look nice," but now they're all scuffed and ragged and not looking so great. They hurt me. Even though they make me uncomfortable and aren't right for me any more, I still wear them every day. I let them give me blisters and cramp my feet and keep me from moving like I want to simply because they used to work.

My shoes are too tight.

It's so easy to do that, isn't it? It's so easy to fall into this little routine of who we are, and then it's like we wake up one day and realize, "Wait a minute. This feels weird." I'm in that place right now, I think. I'm married and trying to create a life with my husband, but I'm still living under the same rules as before. I'm still trying desperately to make my parents proud, to keep everyone happy, to hold things together, to pursue dreams that I'm told I should have. I don't think those things are bad, but they aren't who I am, maybe, and they're keeping me from being able to be me. I have to find me before I can be happy in this skin. I have to figure out what it means to be Jess, not Jessica who is the middle child and the honor student and the chorus member and the crew captain. I have to find Jess, the follower of Christ and wife and social worker. I have to stop allowing myself to fall into old patterns and find out what it means to create and live my own life. I think this is a normal part of development and growth, but I - who hate change so much that I refused to be born until 3 weeks after my original due date - haven't handled the necessary transitions very well. I just need to alow myself to flex and see what it feels like to let myself not do what I've always done. It might feel good. I might like it, and who knows? It might make my parents proud, keep everyone happy, hold things together, and point me toward my dreams. That would be nice. In the meantime, though, I have to tear myself away from these old shoes.

Monday, Monday

Monday morning again, and back at work. It's so weird how when you go out of town, even for the weekend, when you get back you feel so discombobulated. The trip to Columbus was decent, though there was - as expected - a fair amount of familial drama. It was good to see my grandparents, though. Neither of them are doing fabulously due to their health, and they're both looking at surgery in the very near future. Say a little prayer for them if you think of it.

My spirits are high today, even though I'm discombobulated. I listened to some uplifting music this morning, thanks to someone who understands, and that is running through my head and keeping my focus on the right things. I have another appointment with the counselor tonight, and I'm a little nervous about that, just because last time we talked about some things that hurt and that I hadn't expected to talk about again and it left me kinda shell-shocked for a little while afterwards. Lots of tears are shed during these sessions, but they're cathartic and cleansing tears. Hard to explain, but it's a good thing. Nonetheless, I'm nervous. I have to wonder what direction our conversation will go in tonight.