An Emotional Realisation

(Written on Tuesday 17 November 2020).

This morning I burst into tears – I surprised myself. I hadn’t done this for a while. As I cried, a realisation dawned on me. My son is celebrating his first birthday today (not that he realises this particularly) and, since last November, I don’t think I’ve shed a single tear. Don’t get me wrong; I’ve raged, I’ve laughed, I’ve stropped, I’ve loved, but I’ve not managed to express my emotions quite as deeply as a person does when they cry. And then I reflect on this crazy year. A crazy year for pretty much every single person in the human race. Yet life has carried on. Babies have been born, (lots of) people have died, got married, moved house, got divorced, changed (lost) jobs, been elected/unelected President. And that’s been the major theme. Carrying on. A massive part of our British culture too. The stiff upper lip of coldness and calmness ingrained into us. And this, too, has been a massive theme in my recent existence. Since James came (literally) tumbling into this world on 17th November, 2019, I’ve carried on. I’ve carried on in spite of post-natal depression and sleep deprivation, I’ve carried on in spite of my maternity leave being stolen away by a cruel and merciless disease. I’ve carried on despite caring for a newborn, supporting an overworked minister and homeschooling a six year old. I’ve carried on in spite of my mum’s cancer returning. I’ve carried on despite returning to a profession which I am constantly questioning whether I should be a part of any longer. I’ve carried on. And that’s not really living. That’s surviving. That’s making it to the next day and the next day and the next day. Today, my body and my soul were done with simply “surviving.” Lots of little things which occurred this morning, and as a result of lost sleep last night, meant that the floodgates opened and I cried. Big, fat ugly, unapologetic tears. I cried so hard that I thought I was going to have a panic attack. You know that feeling when you’re driving and you have to hit the breaks quickly but, for a second, you panic in case it’s too late? That’s how my crying felt. It felt like I was skidding and that I might not be able to stop. My heart rate sped up. I got frightened because I was losing control. This is what suppressing emotion does. This is what merely surviving does. So what have I reflected on this morning? Well I’m still pretty sad. I’m still pretty tired from lack of sleep. I’m still looking after my son on his birthday and watching his smiles and his giggles; his constant searching for something to eat! My realisation, however, is this. I cannot simply “carry on.” I cannot “try to stay positive” like this culture tells us to when we genuinely are not feeling that way. I need to talk. Communicate. I’ve had to get better at this over the years. Even now, I’m having to write this down because speaking about what truly goes on inside me terrifies me to my core. I can’t always do it. This isn’t going to have any super amazing, awe-inspiring spiritual lesson like a lot of blogs I read (which are great by the way), but I am so thankful for the example of King David in the Bible. I reckon he had the same problem as me, which is why he wrote a massive book of songs; probably because he was useless at vocally expressing his feelings. Those songs (or Psalms) are from the heart of a sad, depressed, fallible man. But they are also from a man who knew he was made to do more than just survive, be more than just a walking, wounded soul. This is my hope. I am made for more. My identity is not in my mental illness, my looks, what people think of me, my profession, my marital status or how many kids I’ve got. I’ve been designed. I’ve been planned. I’ve been put on this earth to fulfil a bigger and better purpose than any I wish for myself. I am eternally loved. I echo David’s words “Where does my hope come from? My hope is found in the maker of heaven and earth, the one who watches over Israel, the one who will neither slumber or sleep.” David and these words came into my head this morning whilst I ugly cried. His (God’s) words stopped the car skidding. And so I stagger on (not merely carry on) with eternal hope walking alongside me and reminding me of who I am. Don’t skid over the edge. Don’t simply survive. Talk. Hope. Peace out.