Deployment Journal - Day #152

... Why do we go to church again?

I groped for an answer to this question, while driving endlessly in a four-mile square.  My family was in church.  My sobbing 11 month old was in the backseat, flinging toys and wrestling her seatbelt.  I was fighting tears, and feeling like a failure.

I'd done it all right.  Gotten up early, drank tea, hopped in clothes, did my hair and make up, woke Baby right on schedule.  Packed up bags, and snacks, and toys and got on the road only 5 minutes late.

(Aside: I HATE being 5 minutes late.  It's psychologically easier for me to be 20 minutes late.  And I've been exactly 5 minutes late everywhere for the last six weeks.  HATE.)

But, I took deep breaths, squeaked through a few yellow lights, and -faking gracious calm- slipped into the back row as the initial singing ended and the sermon began.

We lasted slightly over than four minutes, before Little One's darling social antics escalated from shy waving at the ushers to shrill shrieks about that really amazingly giant man talking on the huge screen!  I grabbed our epic bag of toys/snacks, and ducked back into the lobby, where there are couches and TV screens.  It seemed like a logical retreat point for parents of young ones.

But no.  It was a library environment.  Every couch dweller was silent, attentively listening to the TV sermon, with Bibles open in laps and pens poised for note-taking.

Then there was me, my huge bag, and my SUPER-friendly daughter, insistently greeting everyone: "Hi?  Hi!  Hiiii!  Hi!  Hiiii?!"

I grabbed one of the church's Bibles; I'd forgotten mine.  I sat down in the far corner, balancing Bible, bag, and baby on my lap - and tried to look pious.  I whispered urgently to Little One, and she was confused but obedient.  She sat quietly for several minutes, playing with toys and helping me turn pages in the Bible, while I murmured about "Jesus" and "truth" in her ear.

Then, the pastor made a joke and the TV audience laughed.  Excited, she tried to clap gleefully.  Such an amiable little girl; she's an eager mimic and was only trying to follow social cues.  But, two things went wrong:  First, she was a tad delayed in her enthusiasm, and started clapping after the audience's laughter had faded.  Second, she was still gripping a tiny portion of the Bible page when she clapped and so, in the brief silence after the punchline, that crunchy sound of tearing paper was startlingly unignorable.

The entire lobby of couch-people whirled to stare at us.  Even Little One froze, then shrunk back again me, under their disapproval.  I quietly, calmly, tucked the torn pieces of Scripture into the Bible, inserting it into my massively overstuffed bag, stood, and walked out the back door.

Utter hopelessness descended on my heart.  This was our fourth week in a row, attempting to attend church like normal people.  I had good reasons for not putting her in the nursery for any of those weeks, but the judgers in the lobby didn't know that.

I suddenly remembered that I had a food donation in my car.  Well, we could deliver that during our little exile/break.  Hoorah.

But, by the time we walked around all three sides of the large building, and crossed the parking lot back to our car, Baby was rubbing her eyes and fussing.  She was tired.  Dangit, WHY DO ALL CHURCH SERVICES OVERLAP WITH NAPTIME?  I loaded her into the car, and drove back to the food-donation-drop-point, and unloaded our bag of groceries while she screamed.  She needed a nap; I resignedly accepted that fact.  I would just... listen to a sermon... on the radio... or something.

She often naps in the car.  But, not today.

Maybe if we drive for a while...

Nope.

Maybe if I play her lullaby music...

Nope.

And there were no radio sermons.  Evidently Sunday morning programming isn't what it used to be.

Also, annoyingly impressive runners and bikers were everywhere.  They hadn't bothered to attempt church.  Why did I?  We would have been better off not even trying!  Now, Baby was way off schedule and my whole day was wrecked.  The sweaty, panting, out-of-shape, crash-dieting joggers were scads happier than we were.

I would have driven home at this point, but family members had ridden with me; they needed rides back home.  So we circled, and she cried, and I wrestled with God, life, and my own control issues.

I'm very "If A, Then B" in my head.  I get unbelievably frustrated when my very-best actions don't solicit the response I thought they would.  And I keep running into this lately.  (I do something especially kind, but no one seems to notice or benefit.  I plan carefully, but still can't get anywhere on time.  I lie down several times per day, but can't sleep.  I make lists, but am amazingly thwarted in my productivity.  I try harder than ever to relax and stay calm, and end up screaming like a lunatic.  When I predict Baby will wake at 6:00, she sleeps until 8:00.  And vice versa.  Every single time.)

After a faint, half-cry (mostly involving steering-wheel pounding and whiny mumbling) and several million more angry thoughts, I decided to go park the car and nurse Little One in the backseat.  At least then, she won't get hungry on the drive home and can take a proper nap.  I'll head back to the church.

As we pulled into the parking lot, I glanced back at her.  She was asleep.  Not sure how I felt about that.  I decided to let her be.

Unfortunately, she woke up a mere twenty minutes later, precisely as people were streaming out the front doors, and past my car, and it was time for my family to head home.  Our chance was gone.  So much for breastfeeding.

She cried the whole drive home, partly tired, partly hungry, partly just furious at life for being so incredibly un-fun.

I hear you, Little One.

The Fifth Month

Ok, so... I fell off the blogging wagon.  I was afraid it'd happen eventually.  Actually, if we're honest, it had already happened.  (That backdating feature is a wonderful tool; I've totally covered my tracks, previously, when I missed a day.  Or week.)

But, I'm admitting it this time.  On purpose.  Because I finally crashed, and my blog silence is indicative of this.

* * *

All the DOD graphs and bell curves say that I should be feeling "capable" and "comfortable" at this point in the deployment.  I should have "found my groove" and no longer be feeling "significant emotional turmoil."

Uhhh.  Who are they kidding?  I did feel fine.  I was coping fine.  Until I wasn't.

Now, I just want to punch... everyone.  All the time.

* * *

No one wants to feel like the exception.  What, am I defective?  I began hysterically psychoanalyzing myself, trying to figure out why I was emotionally undulating in an OPPOSITE pattern as the graph said I should be.

At first, I thought it was the stress of getting out of town, with two months' worth of gifts and clothes and papers and forms and checkbooks and passports and toys and cards and appliances.  While closing the house down for winter.  (Which seemed unaccountably mammoth.  I haven't had to winterize many homes before.)  And even when I did everything very calmly and efficiently and nothing went wrong at all - I felt incredible, indescribably stress.

Then, I thought it was the (not-as-smooth-as-hoped) readjustment to living with my family.  It's been a while since I LIVED AT HOME.  They've changed; I've changed.  I think I've probably changed most.  I didn't know how to fit into their dynamic anymore; I kept saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, feeling disapproved, disliked, in their way, unappreciated, criticized, threatened, insecure, resentful, needy.  Very needy.

Then, I thought it was the hectic schedule we were on, trying to see everyone and do everything, while maintaining napping and nursing schedules, in a big city where it takes ages to get anywhere.  I'd alternate between tearful and hateful thoughts (and reactions) every time a new event or activity was suggested/required.  

I mean, of course I want to help my family - I want to make meals, and do laundry, and tutor my sister in Math and Spanish, and pull my weight, and be a good guest.  And visit my in-laws several times per week, get together with other young moms, former co-workers, mentors, distant relatives, neighbors, and people-who-I've-never-even-met-but-they've-heard-all-about-me.  And go to church.  And plant flowers, buy Christmas presents, host baby showers, go to movies and plays and dances and my nieces' school concerts, keep up on my writing and blogging and corresponding with friends.  Oh, and I was going to make photo books, too, while I was on "vacation."  And journal.  AND TAKE NAPS.  I twitched between despising everyone who expected anything of me - and despising myself for not somehow managing it all better.

Then, I began to wonder if it WAS me.  Like, totally me.  Maybe I was going crazy.  I felt such pressure, so much stress, so much anger, so little tolerance for ANYTHING.  When Little One lost her purple hairclip in the mall, my blood pressure rose so high I could hardly walk.  When my mom remarked about how many drive-thru meals I'd eaten lately, I impetuously consumed a sickeningly-large eggnog milkshake, just like a rebellious teenager.  When anyone wanted to take a picture (or seventeen) of us when we actually needed to leave their house right now, I wanted to physically kick them.  

I'm normally a pretty positive, resilient person.  I did not feel like my normal self.  So I began to fear: Maybe EVERYONE and EVERYTHING was normal - except me.  Maybe I'm seriously losing it.

Then, I began having insane dreams.  Disturbed dreams.  Not the normal, upsetting nightmares that you have when you're stressed; TRULY disturbing stuff.  

The thought suddenly flitted across my mind:  I think I need to talk to someone.  Like... a counselor.  I don't think I'm coping ok.  Something deep is bothering me.  And I'm not sure what.  But, I do feel on the edge of... something bad.

* * *

On Thanksgiving, while driving down chunky dirt roads, to get my Wee Daughter ONE SANE NAP amid the dueling family celebrations, I left Husband five (or six?) teary Google voice messages.  Not sure why it's easier for me to be honest in someone's voicemail box, but it just is.  We talk almost every day, but I hadn't told him half of what was really going on.

I explained to him that I'd been obsessively couponing for my mom.  And, like, she's not even into coupons.  She doesn't care.  But, I felt this urgent need to coupon on her behalf.  And go to the grocery store two or three times per day, even during naptimes and after bedtime, sometimes at midnight.  When I could have been doing all these other things that might have eased my stress level.  And I clearly saw the lack of logic, but I so wanted my family to like me.  Maybe if I save them TONS of money, they'd like me?  I also alphabetized (and eliminated 20+ duplicates in) my family's spice cabinet.  No idea why.  I'm not normally this OCD.  And I literally burst into tears when, after three days of intensively researching vacation options for my family's beach trip, they went and picked their own cottage without any regard for all my work.  I seriously couldn't handle it.  

I never want to do family vacations or holidays if it feels like this.  Just take the kids camping, ok Honey?  Can we just order Chinese for Christmas?!  I hate turkey!  I hate Thanksgiving!  I don't want to be like this!!!

And I told him everything.  And I listened to my own voice saying all this.  And I realized I was struggling.  A ton.

* * *

Suicide is a big issue in the military right now.  Several months ago, just down the street from our house, the wife of a deployed soldier committed suicide, in front of her kids.  It was the second suicide that month.  So, there are countless programs and posters telling us to "GET HELP" if you feel you're struggling.  There are free military counselors readily available, on every base.  But, I'm in civilian-land, several hours from the nearest military base.  Where can I go?  Who can I call?  I knew I should "reach out" - but how?  It suddenly seemed logistically difficult.  And by the time I realized I was plummeting, I felt so weak.  Like I didn't have the energy to do anything.  I just wanted to sleep forever.

Our old church.  That'll work.  A huge religious establishment with a large staff; surely someone there could help me find perspective.  I called them, feeling awkward and annoyed and yet very sure of myself - all simultaneously.  There was no answer.  I picked my way through the various "Press 1, Press 2, Press 3" options, until I was prompted to leave a voicemail for the counseling staff.  I did, but fumblingly since I hadn't prepared a concise monologue; I'd expected to explain myself to a sympathetic human.  But ok.  Surely they'd heard worse than that on a counseling inbox, right?  And I waited for a callback.  I began to regret and rethink my decision.

Then, the secretary called me back.  She was nice, but not warm.  Businesslike.  (Too bad.  I'd kinda hoped for sympathy from everyone, immediately, heh.)  I had to confirm my church attendance, my belief system, and my willingness fill out (A TON OF) pre-counseling paperwork.  One day, half a ream of paper, two stamps, and a 40 mile drive trip to the church office later, I was "in their system"; someone would "probably call or email in several days."  

Also, I would need to find my own childcare; kids aren't welcome at counseling appointments.  My heart sank.  The last 3% of my strength rolled away.  I couldn't do this.

It's just too hard to "reach out."  I quit.

* * *

Lois is a perceptive, soft-spoken, grey-haired grandmother.  She's a former military spouse, an introvert, a mother whose kids didn't turn out like she planned, a widow, and a strong Christian.  Providentially, Lois responded to my application.

     "Would it be best for you to meet in a park or coffeshop, so you can bring your daughter along?"

     "Let's schedule a time; but if naps don't go well that day or your schedule changes, just call; I can be as flexible as you need."

I started crying with overdue relief.  This woman understood what it was to be a young military wife, living in a place where you have no babysitters, but do have an excess of family dynamics.  She knew.  Thank you, Lord, for someone who understands.

* * *

We met a few days later, in a park.  True to prediction, my daughter's naps that day were unaccountably eschew.  She had fallen asleep shortly before I arrived at the park.  

Undeterred, Lois hopped into the passenger seat of my car - amidst spare diapers, and fast-food-wrappers - so Little One could keep sleeping.  I poured out all my contradictory emotions.  I bet I sounded crazy.  Or at least desperate.  But, for the first time in ages, I felt heard.  She didn't contest or argue or question; she nodded and winced and got teary along with my stories.  She told me my heart was in the right place, and that this is a horribly tough road, no matter how well you try to do it.  And that I was probably also exhausted and hormonal.

So true.

Eventually, she offered a few ideas, to help me sift through my day-to-day decisions and priorities.  She told me a couple embarrassing tales about she came unglued, during her husband's deployments.  She nonchalantly picked up my trash while chatting, and it didn't feel like an invasion of my autonomy, or a silent critique of how messy my car was.  It was so healing. 

 * * *

A week later, I'm functioning better.  Not quite so touchy - more able to cope with immutable stressors and annoyances.  

I'm going to meet Lois again soon - and pick her brain about coping with transitions; we just found out we're PCSing this summer, and I've gotten a little obsessed with house-hunting.  But, just that one conversation helped me so much; I see now, looking backwards, how hazy and bleary and gray my world had gotten.  

I feel a little silly, saying both, 'I was getting pretty deeply depressed' and also, 'One conversation cured me!'  But, I'm realizing that, just like one little thing can push you over your breaking point - one little thing can pull you away from the edge, too.