Last Sunday night, I plummeted hard and fast into a deep, dark hole after weeks of trying to outrun the overwhelming anxiety and grief that's been building.
The shear force of the anxiety about my physical health coupled with the grieving of the three precious babies we lost during pregnancy during the last 18 months has had me running as fast as my mind could spin, feet could move.
Last weekend, I stumbled a few times and then Sunday night I fell hard.
A mess of tears, shaking on the couch, I surrendered the race because I had to.
I couldn't muscle my way out of that hole with sheer determination because fatigue has taken over and reality had been blurring from black and white to about a dozen shades of gray.
I made the move that seemed all along harder than trying to pull myself up and out: I raised my hand in surrender from the bottom of the hole; I asked people to help pull me out.
I welcomed my mom to come up and help without feeling guilt. I submitted to John's request to call my doctors. I explained repeatedly that I couldn't do this alone anymore. I told them I needed more help.
I met with a therapist we've been seeing and really love. I laid my fears and anxiety and grief out before me, and I gave to God what He's been asking for for a really long time: the control of my health I've been white-knuckle clenching since my dad died three years ago.
One week, lots of prayer, tangible help, art therapy and a few anti-anxiety pills later and I'm hearing clearly the truth in a good friend's words:
"We all fall in holes. But you have to put your hand up so we can pull you up."
So this week I've been practicing raising my hand
to grab others' hands
to give thanks
all of that which I can't bear
and was never actually meant to.