Dark Places

I don't want to write about this, but I'd feel like a liar if I wasn't honest about the reality of today (and so many days like it). I try to live honestly. I try to teach this to my Young Life girls as well. We talk a lot about "facebook lives". On a number of occasions they've confessed their jealousy towards and longing for another person's life they've seen contained inside a facebook album. I've been right there with them at times. Those of us unwise to see past a set of pictures can easily be deceived by the illusion of a pretty and carefree life. My girls are talking about body image almost constantly, "If only I had her abs, her boobs, her...everything, then I'd be happy." I'm old enough now to understand that happiness does not come so easily. I tell them stories about my friends and the prettiest girl I know and how despite appearing to have it all, struggles with the same stuff we all do: insecurity, loneliness, lack of contentment. I try to tell them that a lot of the lives they see on facebook are the happiest of moments, the most glamorous of events, and the days we look prettiest. For the most part people don't fill photo albums with memories of the worst days of their lives. Facebook operates the same way. And it should. That's okay. I'm not proposing some crazy revolution to post about all the terrible or just boring things that occur day to day. But I want my girls to recognize that the stories being told in those pictures are only part of the bigger story. I want them to stop longing for someone else's life or what they perceive is that person's life.

My facebook is a happy place with pictures marking time with family during holidays, Friday nights at high school football games, and Saturday nights with friends. My wall is full of encouraging hello's and comments from friends. But that's only part of my story. This blog is different. Some people would say I should treat it the same as facebook. It's a similar medium, just a different web address. But as I teach my girls about "facebook lives" and then take on a project of online therapy where I vowed to be honest as I confront my demons, I can't dodge this bullet tonight by writing an easy post.

I love to write about funny things and laugh at myself and the things that make up my day. Humor makes up a lot of who I am. Coping mechanism used inappropriately sometimes to change the subject? Maybe. But having a sense of humor has made life livable at unlivable times. Cancer isn't funny, but that doesn't mean laughter should cease permanently because it's entered unwelcomed into your family.

And now that I've spent an entire post justifying why I feel compelled to write honestly, the time has come to actually articulate what it is I'm justifying. I don't really have anything poignant or gripping to share. I guess I just needed to acknowledge that today was a bad day. I think maybe a waste of a day is a better description as I didn't feel "in pain". In fact I didn't feel much of anything. My bad days are marked more by an absence of emotion rather than by an onslaught of grief. The pain is in the lacking, the void, the numbness. The hours of the day ticked away slowly as I watched the position of the sun change the light coming through my bedroom blinds. No real contact with anything outside of my house except through a computer screen. Emails, a phonecall, and nothingness. A wasting away. The day is over and I have nothing to show for it.

I feel insecure sharing this. As I type I hear judgments in my head about oversharing, lacking discretion, inappropriateness. If you've never struggled with or encountered depression in your family this can be a disturbing description. But it is real. It comes and it goes and I know I shouldn't let it in, but sometimes I do. Some days I write about Star Wars and some days I write about anxiety and depression. Some days are easy and fun, some days are not. As long as these are both realities, I feel like I need to write about both. And if tomorrow is a light hearted post, I won't try to justify it and defend myself from feeling judged as manic. And maybe it is inappropriate to share the ugly, the sad, and the dark reality, but I'm starting to identify as a writer (maybe a crummy one). And this is what writers do; they write. So I'm writing, inappropriate or not, but honestly.