Alive to Live

I'm feeling brave enough to write again for the first time in two months. Well, blog writing. I've been writing absolutely awful short stories and abysmal poetry. Like, so bad even I don't want to read them. Even melodramatic pre-teeny boppers would find it too painful to read. 

Now that that's out of the way. On to the real stuff. The painful stuff. The living stuff. 

There is an old Creed song that begs the question of what is this life for and maybe it's the depression talking but I've related more to that song than I have in like.. months. (I know I'm not being funny but work with me here. I'm trying.) And the answer I come up with is this:

I'm alive to live.

Too simple? Maybe. But it brings me back to reality. To the living. The reason I am alive and breathing and here on this planet is to live and breathe and be. 

I live. Little and fierce and frightened and alive.

But I'm alive to live. I know that much. I'm alive to be here. To look and see and inhale and exhale and dream and wake and taste and touch. To love and be loved. To talk and listen. To enjoy life and creation. To be passionate in and for and with life.

And I am passionate about writing. And loving people: I mean really loving them. When I hate what they do and how they destroy themselves: I love them even when they don't love themselves. I want them to be and feel accepted when everything around them screams judgment and condemnation. I want to be the safe place. Because I understand and have breathed the opposite.

Honestly: I am so scared. And feel so unsafe. And broken. Oh God, the brokenness. I feel like I'm dying yet I'm still alive. Always dying and never really living. I spent Sunday morning crying on the floor of my church's bathroom. Crying in near hysterics, because of a disagreement that crippled the control I had over my emotions. Then I cried on the way to our small group meeting. Just streams of tears. Refusing to tell our pastor (y'know, the man we asked to mentor and help guide us) what the issue was, is. And I just couldn't pull it together. 

It feels like there is a glass city of emotion in my gut that goes up to my chest. And when I'm in conflict each word that the other person speaks just cracks the glass. Until I'm nothing but shards in there and so scared that if I move I will completely break and just disintegrate into nothing. 

That's inside my chest. Pretty but bound to crack.

And why am I this way? What happened to me to make me so scared and rule driven? Am I wrong? Does it even matter? I'm afraid that no one would love me, accept me, if they really knew me. If they knew the things I've done (and y'all, I'm as open of a book there as I know how to be) they couldn't bear to be around me. If they only knew how tainted and jaded and imperfect I am. 

Like when I'm mad, I think cuss words. And sometimes, I even say them. Or when I feel particularly vulnerable and don't think I can protect myself I imagine the unspeakable. Or that my dad doesn't want me and my mom only cares on her own terms. When my paternal grandparents died no one told me. Or that I don't read to my kids every day or even every week. I procrastinate and forget birthdays. I over promise and under deliver. And I am so afraid of failure. So afraid to be rejected yet again, by yet another friend or family member. And I take rejection as failure; make it my own fault even when it isn't. I berate myself for every misstep and don't see what others see in me.

I don't see the favorable comments my friends posted: I see the baggy under eyes and misshapen lips. I cried reading each comment that said how beautiful and loved I am.

So afraid of the good times because that it just means that the bad times are on their way. Afraid of the bad times because good times aren't always on the immediate horizon. Terrified that God can save me but He won't. That I've made too many mistakes. That I didn't believe enough. If I only had more faith, then my proverbial prison door would open. That His love and grace are conditional on me getting "it" right, if only I could figure out what that "it" is. For the record I hate that "it." It hinders and binds and shames and isn't real and I know it but I can't seem to shake it.

And yet I'm alive and I have a stubborn hope living inside of me. In my glass case of emotions that is slowly but surely shattering I am alive. Maybe that's where the living is? When the case surrounding my insides is shattered and gone. During one of my runs (this is when I pound away at the hard stuff I can't bear to think of when I'm not physically consumed) I thought of how the seasons are turning and soon enough winter will be here. Death. Winter is the dying away of summer and green and the purples and pinks I adore; and the sun just doesn't shine as well in the gray and bleak winter death.

I know there is life here. And yet I ache and grieve as though it's all death.

". . . old things are passed away. . ." 

2 Corinthians 5:17

I know there is more to the verse. I know that there is a "Behold! All things are new!" before and after the passing away of the old. But before we get to the new things there is a death. Death to the old. And no matter how awful that thing that passes away was death still has a bitterness to it. There's a sadness there. Ecclesiastes says there is a time to live and a time to die. And it feels like a great big chunk of me is dying now. And it hurts. Hurts to know that my early life was just as bad, if not worse, then what I had chalked it up to be. Hurts to know I've been hurting others. Hurts to move forward because I'm not sure I know how.

It should be noted that I picked my nose on purpose for this photo. It's my fave. I couldn't leave you with all sadness.

Y'all. I'm Heidi. And I'm a mess. A mess who takes pictures with her finger up her nose. And I'm still here. Living, breathing, being. It feels like dying but really it's living. It's painful and I'm alive to feel it. Yes, I want a pill to take to numb the pain. Yes, I want a band aid to hide the wound. Yes, I want to quit and act like this period of life has never really happened. And I don't take the pill, refuse the useless band aid, and keep persisting despite the pain.**

So this is the least heart warming post I've ever written and I hope it's the last miserable one I ever write. But it's real. It's where I'm at. And it is NOT where I am staying. There is a light. There is the dawning of a new day. There is life after death. I am alive and I will thrive. Join me, won't you? I invite your feedback either at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or right here in the comment section.

**I am not an expert on mental illness or mood disorders. I am only speaking for me and not any other person on this planet-if you and your medical professional have decided on a pharmaceutical treatment plan I applaud you! And am so proud of you for choosing life and the path to wholeness. You are great and I love you. For reals.

Halted but Hopeful

And I will make her that halted a remnant, and her that was cast far off a strong nation: and the LORD shall reign over them in mount Zion from henceforth, even for ever.

Micah 4:7 KJV

I know, I know. What the hey, diva? What does this verse have to do with anything at all? Well.. allow me to not clarify. Kidding! But I will warn you: this is not a funny or terribly heart warming post. 

Two weeks ago I had a very difficult conversation with my husband. I admitted that I'm depressed and have been getting worse over the past two months. And not your run of the mill mind over matter feeling sad. 

That's the feeling that was evoked. Failed. Fatal. Halted.

Not enjoying life. Poor eating habits. Decline in sleep. And you know.. the other negative symptoms that one doesn't want to say. 

The day after our conversation he scheduled an appointment with a counselor and our pastor. 

It wasn't real until I saw the counselor and he confirmed that yes, you have depression. You are not weak or faithless. Full blown depression. You will have to work to fight this. You are not broken. You have a chemical imbalance. You are not depression. You are not the pit in your chest. You are not the fog in your brain. And yes, the depression is ruling the roost right now. 

This is what the fog in my head feels like: I do my best to focus and it is exhausting to think.

So. That was fun. If by fun you mean gut wrenching. Because I've been here before. I've been in a hospital room for three days fighting for my life after a massive overdose when I was just nineteen years old. I've been in mental institutions on numerous occasions. I've been on anti-depressants, and anti-anxiety pills, and sleeping pills. I've seen counselors for most of my childhood. 

And I've been free from the stigma of it for over thirteen years. Almost my entire adult life. And here I go again. 

I thought my depression was environmental. I thought it was my unwell mother. I thought it was abuse I witnessed and endured. I thought it was a label tacked on me. I thought it was because I wasn't a Christian. I thought it was...

And here I am. Admitting to all ten of my readers that it was more than just a bad childhood. It was more than me not knowing Jesus. It was more than just a stigma. And there has been so. much. shame. that has accompanied it.

It is here. Like a big angry ball of yarn splitting at the seams of my chest. And I feel "halted" as the KJV describes it in Micah 4:7. I feel broken. I feel picked on. I feel stunted. Confused and blind sided by what I could have seen coming had I only paid attention.

Somehow this is what I imagine it looks like. Heavy and scratching and confusing and there's something beneath it that you can't see.

But it won't be forever. It won't be forever that I feel this way and am affected so greatly. It won't be forever. And whether it is quelled by lifestyle or free will or prescriptions or Jesus: it will be quelled. And I will come forth better suited for my purpose.

I confess it's already brought some good with it.  

Yes. That's me in the palm of God's hands.

With all of that said: I've been halted. But I'm hopeful. Because I'm alive and just like the Lord promised to the remnant of Israel that she would be a strong nation: I believe him when he says that my latter will be greater. I believe that this will be my finest hour. I believe that somehow this works to perfect that which concerns me. I believe that this works at purifying my heart. I believe that this pruning and these deeper waters will result in me flourishing. I'll know a greater freedom than I ever have before.

And somehow, at the time of this writing, I am free. I'm alive. 

I will not die; instead, I will live

to tell what the LORD has done.

Psalm 118:17 NLT

I will be Heidi, without walls.

This is not Jeopardy

"I'll take Famous Last Words for $200, Alex." 

"This self proclaimed lady and scholar declared 'I'm starting to feel myself again' before becoming violently ill."

"Who is Heidiva?"

"Correct. The infamous diva went on to repeat the cycle of saying she felt herself again then being knocked down by illness at least a half a dozen times before she finally learned to stop using the phrase."


Y'all. I can't. The love for this sketch just overwhelms my heart. 

Story of my life this past month and a half. As soon as I feel normal and say that I feel like myself again BAM! stomach virus or an awful phone call strikes. And I get knocked down; forced to just rest my body and mind.

I keep saying that "I'm finally feeling like myself" after I work out whatever illness or family crisis passes and then something happens again. I finally start feeling like the lady who has it all together again and then.. I'm proven wrong. I don't have it all together. I can't keep myself from getting sick. Or getting a phone call saying someone has died. Or being told that I'm not the person I say I am, by someone who barely knows me. I can't even keep myself from sending an email with grammatical errors. 

I. Am. So. Human.


The Whiiiiiiinnnerrrrss...

And it bugs me. I want to have control over something. I want to have it all. I want to be disciplined and beautiful and crafty and thin and funny and smart and the best mother ever. I want to be a great cook and housekeeper. I want to be able to function on four hours sleep without coffee. I want to be mild mannered but a bold conversationalist. I. Demand. Perfection.


Perfection=More Cowbell

And I suck at perfection. I just do. I am not perfect. I offend people when I think I'm being hilarious or helpful. I get defriended on Facebook. And I get mad and hurt that I'm defriended by people. I eat so much candy that my teeth hurt. I'm grumpy past ten. Okay, eight. A.M.

I miss my brother. I miss when life was easy (when was that again?). I'm nostalgic for when life was so filled with wonder and void of disappointments. I'm nostalgic for eighties music, blue eye shadow, and my BFF's that used to pass me notes in the hall. I so miss mix tapes. And SNL. 

It's so obvious I don't have it all together.


You wish you could be this cool. I wish I were that cool.

The all together girls don't get nostalgic for time periods that never existed. They don't miss people or things they can't have. They don't get bothered by being defriended on social media. They vacuum and wash their dishes daily. Their hair is washed and styled. They wear make up though they don't really need it. They wake up early to exercise and do their Bible studies before the butt crack of dawn. And they don't say things like "the butt crack of dawn." They're funny and charming; but classier and more likable in their humor. They don't promise their kids the most popular toys since the stinkin' Furby that is NEVER in stock. They also don't give their kids candy after they've brushed their teeth, four minutes before bed. They probably don't let their kids drink soda, either. They definitely don't make fun of ugly babies or their ugly parents. (Everybody ain't pretty y'all.)

All together girls... well, they aren't my kind of girls. Mainly because they're not real. Those girls you see on Facebook or Instagram with their perfect kids, jobs, husbands, history, make up, bodies? Don't exist. Oh, they're lovely, and I'm sure that's for real. But don't compare your grass to theirs; you don't know the compost heap they've had to develop to keep every hair in place. You don't see their Monday mornings. You don't see them forgetting dry cleaning and milk spoiling in their carpet (someone tell me I'm not alone on that one). You don't see them desperately dry shampooing their hair. You don't see the fights, the tears, and their perfectly imperfect lives. You don't know their whole story. And they don't know yours. They might wish they could be as natural or confident or funny or whatever-makes-you-you as you are. Or maybe they don't.

Maybe they're just trying to make it in this life as hard as you are. Maybe they are trying to attain perfection in an imperfect world.. to get a piece of heaven here and now. Maybe we all just need to, want to, yearn to, stop the madness of competition and comparison. None of us have it all together.

And that's more than okay: we weren't made to have it or be it "all."


Except Greg and Ariana. They're the total package.

***********I started this post a few months ago. And its message is relevant to me today still. I want it all and can't have it all. I think the lesson here is to learn contentment while still preparing for that proverbial harvest. It's loving what you have more than you lament what you don't. It's being transparent when your heart seems to be broken in a million pieces around you and carrion birds are circling over head waiting to devour. It's knowing that even though you don't feel okay it will be okay. Even though you feel like a mess: *you* aren't a mess. Maybe you're beautiful just the way you are. Maybe you are perfect just the way you were made. Maybe it's okay to be you. Maybe I say maybe when I mean to say this: you are perfect just the way you are. Beloved, there is no flaw in you.(Song of Solomon 4:7) Were there cracks and mars and dents inflicted on you by yourself or others? Absolutely. But in you, who you are, how you were designed, who you were created to be; there is no flaw. That's how I believe God sees us through Jesus. There is no flaw in you. Rest in that. God sees you through eyes of love. There is no flaw in you. I keep typing it because I have to repeat it to myself. There is nothing fundamentally wrong with you: there is no flaw in you. This is not all to say that we don't have a sin nature that needs to be surrendered and sins of which we need to repent.. But you.. You as a person? No flaw. You as God sees you through Jesus? No flaw.***************