My breath comes in short bursts of white smoke. My heaving chest is an engine blowing exhaust into the frost. I lean over the porch hyperventilating, watching my tears hit the snow beneath my feet making tiny indentations, pinhole hollows searing the purity of a fresh snowfall.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and my son pushes a cloth towards me to wipe my nose and eyes and the vomit from my lips. I squeeze my eyes shut tight causing tears to spill harder down my cheeks and puncture the pristine white before me.
“I’m going to die,” I gasp. “My heart… it hurts, I can’t, I can’t breathe.” I am choking again. Gagging and cold and ridiculous.
I ran from my living room into the front yard when I felt my stomach retch forward like my guts were detaching, a creature within me that had somehow come unleashed. I made it to the porch, the frozen air catching me before I was bent over throwing up.
Josh found my medicine lined up like a tiny arsenal on my bedside table. He’s reading labels to me asking which I need. I unravel clenched fists, my palm spread open like I’m receiving communion. He shakes out two small white pills and hands me a drink. I try to gulp them down and breathe and think good thoughts and pray but in that moment I hate myself. I hate that I can’t take slow deep breaths and make it all go away.
I hate that my body is betraying me again and my mind is wild with thoughts. I hate that I am cold and pitiful and so scared.
This same feeling had sent me to the emergency room months earlier certain I was having a heart attack or fatal arrhythmia. Two EKG’s, a CT scan, an X-ray, and a host of blood work later, a doctor with kind eyes took my hand and told me she wasn’t sure what was causing the abnormal EKG’s but I wasn’t going to drop dead on the spot and to follow up with my doctor.
Take it easy, she said and I wondered when life has ever been easy for anyone.
A month passed with daily episodes, my pulse racing and skipping, sometimes for hours. I had more tests, I saw more doctors. And then a cardiologist sat across from me thumbing through my medical records.
“Wow, you’ve had a tough year, “ he said looking up at me. “So, here’s the thing. Your echocardiogram looks good. No blockages or thickened areas, no strain we can see. You have a healthy heart. Your blood work isn’t showing any signs you’ve had any episodes like a heart attack so all we have are these abnormal EKG’s with premature ventricular contractions. Those in themselves aren’t a concern except that they’re uncomfortable and can wear you out because of their frequency. Have you been under stress lately? I’m looking at your history here and I see you’ve been in and out of the hospital a lot this year. Have you had any additional life stresses?Because I’ll be honest with you. I think this is a result of a lot of stress and anxiety related. How have you been managing your depression? Your EKG looks like the kind of thing we see when someone has been in a war zone and is having PTSD. Your body just kicks into fight or flight and it goes from there.”
My eyes were blinking fast, my lashes swooping down soggy while I tried to keep my makeup from trailing down my face in a deluge of tears. I had gotten up early and put on makeup, fixed my hair, put on clothes with no stains or stretch waist. No yoga pants today. I needed to feel together on the outside, especially because my insides felt like wreckage to be salvaged.
I had prayed there was nothing seriously wrong with my heart. But I should’ve prayed that there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with my head.
Have I had any additional life stress? Ummm, yes. So I told him about it. I skimmed quickly over things I don’t always talk about. Things that haven’t made it to this blog, things I don’t lead with when someone asks me how I’m doing. Because sometimes it just gets old to say, yes, I can’t fix it and it hurts. Yes, it’s too much. Yes, I am still right where I started and there’s so much more that can’t be explained when my mind can’t find the words anymore.
And sometimes great days are sprinkled in the midst. Maybe even great weeks and I feel unshakable for a spell and smiles make it all the way to my eyes. Like maybe all of this is behind me and I’m really free. Maybe I won’t cycle again, maybe I won’t take another tumble into despair and anxiety, my heart unconfined and beating like thunder. Maybe I’ll curl up on the couch by the fire, tucking my legs under a blanket and watching the storms come and I’ll feel safe and held. Maybe I’ll wear red lipstick on a Tuesday and go on dates with my husband to Costco and I’ll take pictures of the sky because it’s so breathtaking. I’ll pull myself up in the morning with anticipation instead of dread. When those days come I feel normal.
Ok this the last one of about 50 shots I took on the way home. Don’t worry, I wasn’t driving which is a good thing because every corner contained a masterpiece. This sky is just too ridiculously good looking. #picturesfromthesideoftheroad #livewithwonder #GodsgloryinthePNW A photo posted by Alia Joy (@aliajoy) on
But then I have nights like last night.
And today I’ve been gathering the pieces of me. I am rolled up fetal-like in bed, my eyes red and sore. My mind is numb today, a dullness quelled by anti-anxiety medicine and so many hours of sleep.
Nehemiah creeps in to my room quietly, but the rattle of the pieces in the Trouble game he’s carrying shimmy and crash against each other.
“Mama, will you play with me?”
He puts the game beside me on the bed and hoists himself up tucking under the covers. I pop the bubble that juggles the dice and move pieces around the board and silently hope he wins soon and that his victory will take placate him enough that I can crawl back under the blankets.
I am unraveled and raw. Tender and weak in spots like fruit gone soft and spotty, my skin slipping too easily when pushed. And the world never stops pushing.
I want to say I am so much better. I want to say I am returning to writing and that the other medical issues I first took a sabbatical for are wrapped up and tidy. I want to say I loved the time off and I got things sorted and I’m not afraid of what’s to come.
I want to say I can do this. I am ready.
But the reality today is that I don’t know what I can do. I look at this space and I feel incapable of writing anything worthwhile. It feels like gibberish, and the keys feel foreign under my fingers. I have been contemplating shutting the blog down for the past few months. I can’t know if it would be a relief to walk away or a loss. Sometimes it feels like a lifeline and sometimes it feels like a strangling thing. Is this just one more thing I can’t manage to do?
I think about how thankful I am that I can reach out for prayer and I have real life friends around the world who will lift my name to Jesus when I can’t seem to do it myself.
I love that when my mind and flesh are so broken, I belong to a body that holds space for me.
But today, when I wanted to say thank you so much for your prayers last night and don’t worry, everything is fine now, I can’t. Because while I am so thankful for your prayers, I am not fine today. I wasn’t fine last night. I may not be fine tomorrow.
And sometimes you have to be able to come and say, I am unfine. Still.
Maybe there’s grace enough for that but I don’t always have it for myself.
Maybe I forgot that this space wasn’t just a place to come to talk about beauty and grace and wild hope. It was a place to make space. Maybe it’s a space I still need? But mostly these days when things get hard, I just want to run for cover. I want to step away and never come back. I want to say I don’t have to do this anymore. I don’t have to talk about it or even admit that mental illness still rips some days to shreds. That sometimes just making it through the hours is torture.
I want to wait it out until I have something hopeful for you, something light and beautiful. I have flooded my Instagram with good and holy things. I wrangle beauty from my days and place them like altars along the way to remind me of God’s goodness to me. His provision and glory. But I think I’ve been afraid to fully return to this space because the next day might be harsh and cold and empty. And how can I share that again and again?
How can one day be filled with twinkling lights on a Christmas tree and snow falling in billows like a magical dusting of God’s breath and the next I’m retching and sobbing my soul out onto it, scarring it with tears and vomit?
I am a topsy-turvy circus of possibilities and dreams, despair and hopelessness. This is what being bipolar feels like. Like an acrobat stretching your insides out until your toes arch like marble and your fingers strain towards heaven and then suddenly you’re pressed in from all sides and everyone is watching you fall. You’re rounded up, whipped back into your place and caged.
I am contrary. I may squeal with joy and wrestle down so much hope I can’t imagine the world not seeing God pressed in close and whispering His lovesong like a homecoming but I’m juggling worlds and they keep crashing around me. Because the next day my peace is gobbled up and swollen inside of me like a decay in my bones.
I am tremendous gaping need, with hollows so deep the darkness fills my sockets and blocks out all the good things.
Some days good things are so hard to see. I want to say whatever comes, it is well with my soul. But what do we make of souls unwell?
Some days I am still unfine.
I am here. Heart with you. Interceding for you. Never leaving. What do we make of souls unwell?? We love. We pursue. We hold. We sit near–in silence with the offering of our presence. And we wait–not for an end, but to accompany along the journey, no matter where it leads, offering the assurance that we aren’t going anywhere, that we have no expectations for outcomes, no needs to be met. The unwellness and unfineness is real. and it is not a surprise to God, and He is so good He and has a purpose for even this. And He’s not leaving either. For all your unfine days and the state of your unwell soul I am here and choosing to send love and never stop. Please know tonight how very much you are loved, my dear Alia. So very very much. Sending so many hugs from CA tonight….xoxo
Thanks love. I think the hard part is sometimes to journey through this and have days like the one I wrote about where you feel you’ve gone nowhere at all.That you’re just circling the drain over and over again. But that’s why I need so many reminders of His goodness. Because that’s all just a lie isn’t it. We’re all journeying closer to the heart of God if He’s calling us. And yes, He has purpose in it even when I can’t see it. I appreciate your prayers and friendship so much. Love to you on one of my better days. 🙂
It seems I just read my life’s unwritten story. My blog has been very quiet this year. My son said”Mom too many people know too much and most know not enough can we change churchs?” Yes and we did. Life has given me so many suckered punches and I gag over the railing, brush my teeth and go on. Unfortunately, I have a daughter with my physical composition, but her father’s anger issues. She had it worse. I too had the PTSD diagnoses. It does get better with years of Jesus by your side and finding the simplest life possible. Praying for you, my central Oregon little sister
Thank you Deena. It can be so hard to see some of those same struggles in your children. It’s not a struggle I’d wish on anyone and yet Jesus seems intent to work in and through it in my life. I used to think the scripture about how God uses all things for good meant things should be good. But the goodness of God can look like mercy and grace and sometimes that comes in the form of refining fire. Thanks for sharing a bit of your story with me.
I’m sorry you are struggling. Lifting you up in prayer. Have you been checked for Lyme disease? A functional medicine doctor could be helpful for you as well. I found out all of my emotional episodes were because I had an underlining bacterial infection and also had become allergic to natural hormones our bodies produce.
Suffering is hard and having no control over the crazy things our bodies do is heart wrenching. Don’t give up. I’ll be praying for better days for you…. and for me too.
I was referred to a functional medicine doctor by a friend who is familiar with the kinds of things I’m dealing with and hope to get in there sometime in the new year. I’ve never been tested for Lyme but I have a friend who has it and it is such a huge struggle. I’ve found some things that help and this year has been one of my most stable mentally and yet, physically it’s been one of the worse. But yesterday was better than the day before and today feels altogether beautiful. Thanks for your encouragement, I hope for better days ahead for you as well.
It’s ok . You are still there. We are still here. Emmanuel. God with us. xo
Love, Tina
That sounds very trite. And I don’t mean it to.
Alia Joy, I do a lot of sitting now. More than I ever used to. More than I thought was ok.
I have no quick answers or solutions. I just want you to know that it is ok to not be ok.
You are still profoundly loved. You are still.
xo Love, Tina
Thanks Tina. It really doesn’t sound trite to me. God with us makes it all bearable. And yes, sometimes finding grace for ourselves in this space is the hardest part of it all because God never fails in His love for us.
Just know that you’re not crazy, and you’re most definitely not alone. Been there…. and still are there depending on the day.
Thank you.
Thank you for the courage and brave step you took to write. I have been offline mostly, dealing with my own struggles, and did not see your call for prayer last night. Please know you are in my thoughts and will constantly be in my prayers. It is okay to admit that you are not okay. I do pray that peace will come to your soul and that you will write again. Love you girl. You are not alone.
Thank you friend. I appreciate the prayers. I’ve been offline a ton too except for Instagram here or there and I’ve lost touch with a lot of people but I was glad to see your name here in the comments. I’ll pray you find your way through whatever you’re dealing with as well. Love you.
You describe what is very familiar to me – not the doctoring, but the darkness and feelings of it. So well, I feel it with you. I am so sorry for you having to endure it, but I know Jesus is with you and He will heal your heart. His power is perfected in your weakness.
It was several years of climbing out for me, and mostly, by the grace of Jesus, I am free. But times of pressing, emotional challenges and hormonal shifts can bring me to near to that place again.
I’m praying for you Alia. You are loved by a mighty God and so many who have read your vulnerable words.
Stand firm. He has you.
Thank you Kathy. Today was a good day and I’m thankful.
Oh, girl… If this is unfine, I’m fine with it. This is the Alia I’ve been missing.
Thanks Cynthia. I’m making my way back little by little and we’ll see where it goes. One day at a time.
Love, prayers, and support from another chronically unwell person.
Sometimes the ones who pray hardest and know best are the ones who live with and through it as well. thank you.
I’ve written you before. I’m sure I’m nameless to you among the multitude of friends you seem to have, but I want to tell you I have a friend who suffers like you. He wants to die everyday. Thank you, alia, for sharing and bearing your soul and your struggle, it has helped me to gain insight and sincere empathy for others. I am ashamed to say, as an R.N., albeit labor and delivery as my speciality, that I have been guilty of not “getting it”. Not getting that mental illness is a disease and not a decision. As if anyone would willingly choose to be sad or anxious.
Lately, I have felt the LORD strongly tug me towards a change in practice speciality. I want to help all the misunderstood, the labeled, the judged, the hiding, the ashamed, the broken and bruised and bullied. I want to help people like you, and my friend.
I hope you never stop writing. I love your words. I admire your honesty and transparency.
I pray for you ALL the time. And those are not just words, it is truth.
You are a hero to me. I wish I had half the gumption and twice the grit you have. I am inspired by you.
God bless you. 🙂
My husband read these comments to me the day after I wrote this. This comment brought me to tears, which admittedly isn’t that hard to do right now but it meant a lot. Thank you for being such a good friend and trying to understand and empathize with where he’s at and what he’s going through. I don’t know that I had grace for weakness in anyone until God broke me and I’ve never been the same. Thank you for your prayers and encouragement. I am sure your patients will be blessed to have a nurse who wants to serve them so strongly and thank you for sharing your heart here. Really, it reminded me that there can be purpose in this too. Even when it feels like nothing good could ever come of all this.
Thank you for your soul bearing, gut wrenching truthful account of what it feels like to be you… and THANK GOD for you. My husband of 25 years has bipolar and try as I might, I cannot help him or really understand what he is going through. I really appreciate all your words and my heart goes out to you in your pain.
I, myself, have chronic migraines but it is still not the same…
God bless you on this journey and may He hold you close on the hard days.
With love, Lina
As someone who has struggled with chronic migraines, I get it. I have had to significantly change my diet so I don’t trigger them but there’s no pain quite like a migraine. It’s not the same but pain is relative to whoever is experiencing it and one type isn’t more significant than another. It can be hard to understand bipolar when I don’t even get why I feel certain ways. I know some seasons have been so trying for my husband but it helps to know that we don’t struggle in vain or alone.
Lifting you up in prayer to the Father who sees you. It’s been an “unfine” year for me and your words remind me that I’m not the only one. Thank you for sharing when you’re in the midst of it…we r usually tempted to wait until we r on the other side.
It’s so much easier to find the good things on the other side of it. But sometimes we just need to be where we’re at and trust that God can use this too. Thank you, it is good to know we’re not alone in it all.
No one knows your journey like you do but I do as well. I have lost count of the tests and hospital trips and bouts of lying on the floor and the tears of frustration and fear. My cardiologist is puzzled and has termed my condition as Cardiac Syndrome X. I feel as if it’s the only way they can say, “I don’t know” and make it sound good. But, I have caught a glimpse of the finish line in all of this and it’s worth hanging in there for. Trust me, it is. Praying for you.
I’ve had a lot of I don’t knows too. It’s never easy to live with the unknowable and I have to remind myself there is one who knows everything and He loves me through it. Thank you.
You are lovely, and you are loved. Praying.
thank you, Mary
Now I know why God brought you to my heart and mind this week, Alia.
May He have mercy on you, give you peace, give you space, give you hope.
Rest, rest …
God is good like that. Thank you, friend.
Just sent your words to a friend who I know is desperately tired of being unfine. Thank you for giving voice to the ugly hard places you don’t want to live let alone write about. Because as much as I love your snowy Instagram posts, the world needs the raw and bitter just as much as the beauty and magic.
Praying for you.
You’re a good friend to do that. Just that they would know you are a safe place to be unfine is a gift. As far as Instagram, it can be both, right? It has to be. I want to capture the beauty to remind me but sometimes you just need to tell another kind of truth, no less than but equal to the beauty is the need for it when the world seems wretched and poor. Thanks Becky. I hope it brings some measure of comfort to your friend. She’s definitely not alone.