crazy kids

I am extremely frustrated with my kids. Yea, I know I’m preaching to the choir, but there it is, and I’m not going to sugar coat anything. They are driving me crazy. And it’s not the crazy that comes from being  bipolar. At least there’s a drug for that kind of crazy. 

My husband and I have been parents for almost eight years now—boy and girl. I remember, especially with our son, getting ready to leave the hospital, scared to death and having no idea what we were getting into. I kept waiting for the nurse to come in and deliver the manual—you know, the one that tells you everything you need to know about raising your child. Well, they didn’t bring it and that’s when I got the first clue that being a parent was going to be anything but easy. 

So in honor of my frustration, I’m choosing to tell you a few things about why my kiddos are driving me nuts these days. Yes, I know exposing all of the Meyer children’s misbehavior sets us up for worst parents of the year award. But let’s go there anyway.

1) My daughter still wears “night-night” underwear. She’s five. And in kindergarten. I know that many older children struggle with wetting their beds, but here’s the problem with the whole scenario. A couple of times we’ve caught her going in that pull-up when she’s wide awake. What the heck? There is at least one positive spin to this problem. As my husband points out, wearing “night-night” underwear when she’s a teenager will definitely limit her dating life. 

2) Here’s another one, the kids will be playing quietly or having some screen time when ring, ring, ring someone calls. I kid you not, within seconds of being on the phone, my kids go from playing quietly to arguing and shouting at the top of their lungs. Worse yet, when I lock the door to my safe haven, the bathroom, they pull the old bang on the door thing Bam! Bam! Bam! like there’s an urgent matter that needs to be addressed. 

3) This leads me to number three. Our kids have way too much screen time. I know I have no one to blame but myself, but every time I attempt to limit or take screen time away, they start driving me crazy. It’s then that I remember why I let them have screen time in the first place. 

4) I hate being judged. In public. Like people staring at you as your toddler plays the best trick ever—magically becoming a wet noodle during one of her worst tantrums—making it impossible to carry the stinker out without making a huge commotion. 

5) The seemingly constant arguing and bickering. My kids can be calmly and quietly playing together, even having fun, when the situation suddenly turns on a dime. Chaos ensues and I have no idea where I put the spanking spoon. Just kidding. Kind of. 

6) There are no easy answers. You know I joked about the hospital giving out manuals. Well, in a lot of ways, I wish they would, because these days it feels like I need one more than ever.

I am going to be serious for just a moment here, people. Parenting isn’t easy. I’m not perfect. The kids aren’t perfect. In fact, there is no such thing as the perfect parent. And anyone who tells you otherwise is just plain delusional. When it comes to parenting, there are no easy answers. Each child is special and unique and what works for one kid, doesn’t necessarily work for the other. 

Perfect parenting, there’s no such thing. But problem-solving-parenthood—like admitting mistakes and moving on, or giving yourself grace when you feel you’ve royally screwed up. Yea, I’ll take that kind of parenting nine days out of ten. (Actually I’ll take it all ten days.) Even if problem-solving-parenthood isn’t in the instruction manual, I’ll take it. But seriously, are hospitals really not handing those things out yet because, honestly, I would pay top dollar for that.

why depression sucks

I have made mention of the fact that despite having the bipolar diagnosis, I have been doing well in life. For the last six years or so, I’ve been very stable—experiencing very few bumps in the road. 

Ironically enough, though my blog is titled craziness uncensored, I have never actually sat down and wrote about why I call it that. And that got me to thinking that I have never actually written about what the bipolar disorder is. Let me clear that up.

Bipolar is a state where one’s mood can swing from mania to deep depression. It used to be referred to as manic depressive disorder (personally, I prefer this label because it defines the disease from the get-go.) So you fluctuate through this mood from mania to depression back and forth like a pendulum swinging from high to low to high to low.

As far as my experiences go with it, I’ve gone through the highest of highs (mania) and the lowest of lows (deep depression). The depression I’m writing about isn’t like a normal depression. It doesn’t really depend on what situation I’m in. It’s not about being upset, or discouraged or frustrated with life. 

To describe it so that it makes more sense, being deeply depressed is like carrying a ball and chain with me wherever I go. Whatever I do is made ten times more difficult. In fact, just getting out of bed every morning is a chore. Quite frankly, it sucks—like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. 

So can I be quite honest here? I used to love being manic. Mania felt so good, like I was on top of the world, invincible, and in the happiest of moods. But I’ve learned there’s a dark side to the mania. I know that when I’m manic, depression is just around the corner waiting to pounce—dragging me back into that all too familiar pit of despair.  

As I’ve written above, I have been very stable for the last six years. Very few extreme highs or lows. I credit that stability to being on the right “cocktail” of meds. 

But a couple of weeks ago, an unwelcome visitor arrived bringing with it all kinds of baggage. It punched me in the gut out of nowhere—depression. And when it set in, I began to worry. It had been so long since I’d felt this poorly. This bout of depression scared me. Just the thought of heading back down that road of deep despair made me want to weep.

So I went to see my psychiatrist and she upped one of my meds to “bump me out of my depression”. And boy, did it ever bump me up. For a couple of days, I felt great. Life was amazing. But all good things must come to an end, and the expected crash happened reminding me of why I hate my diagnosis. 

You see, these days I’m not looking for mania so much. No, now, I prefer stable. No high highs and no low lows—just middle of the road is all right by me. Simply put, I do not want to go back to pre-diagnosed days. It was hell. Honestly, I know no other way to describe it. 

In the end, I know I must trust the God who holds all of my days in his hand and wisely gives them one by one. I have to remember the promise that God’s power is made perfect in my weakness. And, quite frankly, I need to carry on the best I can waiting for the day when I will get back to the middle of the road.

crazy travels

Lately, I’ve been wondering if people resent the fact that when I blog it is mostly about faith things. Do they feel mislead, deceived when they come to read my blog which is supposed to, more or less, be about what it’s like to live with a mental illness ?

But when I share my story, it is impossible to separate faith from my struggles with bipolar. For me, they go hand in hand. I can’t share the truth—the whole uncensored truth—without including the very thing that, above all else, got me through some very difficult times—my faith in a loving God. 

It was during this period of my life that I clung to the truth of God’s Word like never before. Whenever I sat down to read my Bible, if I found a promise that God seemed to be whispering to my heart, I would underline that particular verse and write the date beside it. It was like I was reminding God to make good on all his promises and, I have to say, he has not disappointed. 

You see, mine is a story of redemption.  How God took the worst years of my life and created something beautiful out of them. 

Psalm 84:5-6

Happy are those who are strong in the Lord, who set their minds on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. When they walk through the Valley of Weeping it will become a place of refreshing springs, where pools of blessing collect after the rains.

Pre-diagnosis I had more than my share of days when it took all I had just to trudge through the Valley of Weeping, hoping and praying for better days to come. And the good news is, they did. 

I live in a place now where many pools of blessing have collected at my feet. I’m on the other side of the Valley of Weeping and I can testify to the fact that my whole world has changed—for the better.

I’ll leave you with a quote from my memoir, Pools of Blessing. In sharing it, I hope that it will lift your spirits no matter what you’re experiencing as you travel through your own Valley of Weeping:

“Yes, inevitably the rains come into our lives.  After all rain does bring about growth doesn’t it?  But when the rains have come and gone, the pools that quench our thirst, wash our feet, give us hope, are the very ones formed from the thing we hated most, the storms.” (taken from Pools of Blessing)

the sweetest victory

A few weeks back, the pastor of our congregation preached a sermon that got me to rethinking the whole death thing. You see, both my parents are gone now. Mom passed away two years ago on December 15^th. Dad died eight years ago this coming July. 

My parents died in very different ways. Dad’s was a sudden heart attack—an unexpected-out-of the-blue kind of death. Mom who had been sick virtually her whole life was told that her transplanted kidney was failing, put on hospice and died six months later. 

Neither was easy, as I’m sure you’re all aware of. It doesn’t matter how you lose a loved one, none of it is fun. Absolutely none.

I grieve over the loss of my parents for sure, but the sermon my pastor preached got me to rethinking who really has it the worst, my parents, or myself. As a person of faith, the answer is pretty obvious. I have it the worst. I do. My parents are done, they’ve lived their lives, they‘ve fought the good fight and finished their race. 

I’m not there. So I hurt, and cry and miss them. But in my faith I have to remember something; my parents are on the good side of heaven. You see, when my pastor mentioned that death is a victory for those who die in the faith, my ears and heart perked up a bit. I guess you could call it “a light bulb moment”—oh yea, they’re in a good place now. Somehow, thinking of my parent’s death as a victory lap makes missing them a little less painful.

A long, long time ago (I can say a long, long time ago now that I’m forty) I was a volunteer teacher in a Vacation Bible School class. One day, I was put in charge of teaching the lesson—a story from Acts Chapters 6-8. It’s the story of Stephen—the one who was stoned to death for telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but it. 

As I read the story aloud, three very simple words caught my attention; [Stephen] fell asleep. Take a look for yourself:

  ⁵⁹ While they were stoning him, Stephen prayed, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” ⁶⁰ Then he fell on his knees and cried out, “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” When he had said this, he fell asleep.

I think I’ve shared this verse and my thoughts about it before. In fact, I know I have, but luckily for me my failing memory doesn’t recall what I wrote. So if this is a rerun, bear with me.

The story doesn’t say that Stephen died. It says that he fell asleep.  And that’s what I like best about it; Stephen fell asleep. Because, of course, if he’s fallen asleep, he will wake up again.

But I think the story gets even better. Stephen is done. He has fought the good fight. He has finished the race. So too, have my parents. It’s a much lighter burden realizing that my parents are living the good life now, not in Nebraska, but in eternity.

It makes the sorrow a little bit easier to bear and gives me hope for the day I will get to see them again. Sometimes it even brings a smile to my face knowing that my victory lap is drawing nearer, too. 

Coming home to heaven is like crossing the finish line after a long, often painful and grueling run. For those who enter the pearly gates, death is a victory not a defeat. That makes the loss a little bit easier to bear knowing that someday I’ll reach the finish line as well. And I have to tell you—that’s one victory lap I’m really looking forward to taking.