Transcript: Episode 87
87. Facing Fear
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[Short piano piece is played, lasting about 20 seconds]
Sometimes I'm afraid. Sometimes I'm afraid I can't keep being strong. Sometimes I'm afraid that I never was. Maybe if I had been stronger I could have gotten away. Or maybe if I had been stronger I could have stopped it. Or maybe if I had been stronger I could have found help. Or maybe if I had been stronger I could have dealt with it in some way that wasn't so terrifying now. I'm more scared right now than I have been in a long time, maybe ever. But it's different than before because it's not just about being anxious. I feel like I've come a long way in two years about not being so anxious.
But now when I'm afraid, they're real things. They're things I hear, and things I see, and things I cannot make go away. I'm struggling this week even to connect, or to reach out, or to do the things I know how to do. It's been hard enough I considered going to the hospital. But with the storms and the tornadoes I knew my children needed me at home. So I've been able to hold on for them when I can't hold on for me anymore. Except I'm afraid that one day I will just collapse and everything will fall apart.
I don't know what triggered all of this, or what pushed me down into this hole, or why it's so hard to climb out of. But I'm struggling. And I've been working for two months to try to stop avoiding and to face things, but that's part of what's hard. Because the more that I see, the more that I hear, and the more that I know, the more I understand how terrible it all is, and the less that I can get away from it and the more real it becomes.
I watch my children play in the park, running through the sand, swinging, going down slides chasing each other in delight, laughing and singing and playing. And I sit behind a tree where I can cry. And I wonder, how are they so pure and good? How are they so happy? How do they get to be okay? Because what I know about my children is that they didn't start out with me. And they have been through hard things the same way I have, except that they were rescued and they got out. And I'm so relieve for them, and I'm so glad for them, and I'm so happy for them. And I'm grateful that they were rescued when they needed to be, and that their foster care experiences were good, and that they got to stay with us where they are safe and happy.
But part of me wants to know why not me? Why wasn't there anyone that helped us? Why did we keep getting sent back? And I don't know what worked so well for them that they have healed and continue to heal and now run free. And I don't know how to make that same playground for the ones I see inside. I don't know how to help them to smile or laugh or sing or dance. I don't know how to help them feel safe or happy when they're still going through what was so awful so long ago.
I try to tell myself the things I've learned in therapy. I've even listened to my own podcast when I talked about it. And I don't know what I've done wrong to make it so hard, when on that day I felt so strong. I don't know what made me strong then, or how to be strong again, or how to get help when it's so hard.
We missed therapy again this week because of the storms and the tornadoes. It was a long night. We had six tornadoes at the same time. One of them was an EF5 and a mile wide and on the ground for two hours. There's so much destruction around us in Kansas City. Of places just leveled, and homes destroyed, and businesses gone. And even the farmers market where we go to pick our vegetables and fruits completely wiped out. We endure that. The walls of our house rattled. The floor groaned and we felt a wind inside the house. Our children were huddled together covered with a blanket, and then a mattress, and then us. And it just raged on and on and on. And it was so terrifying. The children were so scared. We tried to hold them. We tried to sing to them. We tried to help them hear voice. But how can you make little children feel safe in the middle of such a storm? And when it was finally over and we thought we were okay again, there were four more tornadoes on the ground all at once. So in all the part that passed us, we had 10 tornadoes in 45 minutes. And that's after everything we've already been through the last two weeks with the storms and all the flooding that's going on. And it was so exhausting and it's so terrifying.
But we're okay. Our house is okay. It's flooded and it's wet, but it's okay. We can deal with water. Things don't matter. The children are safe. We are safe. The medical equipment for the baby is safe. We lost trees and there's debris from 100 miles away. And just 10 minutes from our house, the rest of the town is gone. But we're okay. The husband and other families and teenagers have gone to help and to work rescuing people and helping with the cleanup. I have my other children, the little ones who couldn't go help. But I didn't have it in me to try and connect with the other families or women from church or the neighborhood. And so we've come by ourself.
And I thought if Now Time is safe, and if the storm is over, and the sun has finally come out, then I can't just hide anymore. And I can't let go. Because we are already okay. So what if we just take one step at a time and breathe one breath at a time and do something, anything, to remember that we're alive, to know that we're okay. And so we've come to the only park that we can get through the debris. The only park that's not underwater. And we brought trash bags and wore our boots so that we were safe. And I got them little tiny garden gloves to protect their hands, just in case. And we've come to pick up trash and to make the park a safe place to play. Because that's something. Because that's being alive. Because we have already survived. I don't know why right now it's hard to hold onto, or why right now it's hard to remember, but we're together and we're safe. And doing something to help someone else in some tiny way so that all the children have a safe place to play will maybe help me remember to.
I was thinking about this while we cleaned the park. Piling broken branches, pulling trees aside, uprooted from the earth itself, picking up trash, moving boards and shingles, making sure there's no glass in the sand and standing up trash cans. And I was making sure there was no glass left in the sand when I realized that glass is made of sand, except it's safe because it's worn down and it's tiny. And so there's a lot of it but all together. The sand is a safe place to play. And I was thinking about this and the properties of sand, and watching it sparkle in the sun after two weeks of rain and storms after a winter of snow and ice. And I thought maybe, maybe that's what it's like inside too. That we can't undo the hard things, and we can't take away the hard things, but we can stay together, and we can stick together. And we can make sure no one is alone so that all of us are safe, so that all of them can play.
I stayed there a long time sitting in the sand in the sun. I even took my shoes off, and my socks, and laid my feet down on the sand hot from the sun, and then dug my toes in deeper underneath the sand, and deeper until it felt cold. And I thought what a strange thing it is for this sound to be so cold and so warm at the same time. And maybe that's all that's wrong with me is that when you go too far under, or get too close to those deeper things, it's darker there and colder there. And maybe what's important to remember is that that's not the same as drowning, or being lost, or being forgotten. Because the sun still shines. And on the surface it's still warm. Everything is still okay. It's like when you fly on a rainy day and the storm clouds are thick and big and dark and loud, and flying up is so terrifying in bad weather when there's turbulence and you bounce so that your stomach goes in your throat and you hope you're still flying and not falling. That's how I felt this week. But then when you break through the clouds and you go over them, it's like coming out of the cold sand and the sun is still there on the other side. And the clouds look friendly then, white and puffy and soft. And they don't seem any more like such a storm, or so scary. And you remember that everything's really okay.
I feel silly that it's so hard to hold on to sometimes. I feel guilty even because so many people are trying to help. And the husband is so kind and patient, and the therapist is so good and real, and my children so sweet. But maybe that's part of it too. Because I love them and I'm really glad I get to be their mom. I'm really glad foster care is over to because that was hard. But now they're out of school and home all day, and it's been hard to keep them safe. And I wondered if that's part of what's been so triggering this week is not knowing if I could keep them safe, or worrying that I wouldn't be able to because of the storms.
Sometimes when there's a trigger it's easier for me to feel better once I can identify it and figure out what's going on and know what went wrong. Sometimes it's easier to know the trigger so I can avoid it. But these weeks, it's been like there was something triggering that I couldn't figure out what it was or identify it or so solve it. Which made it hard to feel better. But I'm trying.
I wonder about something that I'm afraid to say out loud. Because I don't mean to be disrespectful or unkind or cruel. But I wonder if sometimes my children trigger me in different ways and in different experiences. And sometimes even just their ages or what they're going through developmentally. It's like I get flashes of things that are hard to deal with, or to process, or to remember. But I don't want to avoid my children. I don't want to be afraid of my children. I don't want them to be afraid of the world. But it's a lot for all of us to learn together.
Next week we fly to Africa. Taking our oldest daughter there, where we have a school, five schools, actually. Children there go through terrible things. It's not uncommon for the little girls to be pregnant at 9 or 10, or 11. And so I think that even though it's a good thing, and even though we're trying hard to make a difference in that part of the world, and even though we're reaching out to them, and trying to help, and want to go be with the children there, I think it's triggering in some ways too. And maybe that's part of what we're bracing for. So it's just been a lot.
And I'm glad we had friends come to spend time with and rest before all this happened. With school getting out, and the storms, and going to Africa, and missing so much therapy. And I'm grateful for the emails that we get and the support that has come. And even those who have sent money to help us after the storm. It's really so kind, and so much encouragement, and has really helped a lot, helped me to remember that Now Time is safe and that maybe we've already survived.
I guess I just needed to think through these things. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense. And maybe it's not helpful to anyone. But we finally got sleep last night. No storms all day yesterday, or last night, or this morning. But they start again tonight. All of us though, the outside children and me and the husband, I think we feel better after sleep.
And I know that that's the next chapter in my workbook, which I haven't done in three or four weeks. And when I think about that, maybe that's part of what's been harder too. Maybe the notebooks and journaling really do make that much of a difference. And going to therapy really does make that much of a difference. And so maybe I should start doing those things again, the workbook and the notebooks. And hopefully, I can go back to therapy after we get home from Africa.
I can do those things, and I know that those things help, but they put me under the sand where it's cold. And sometimes you just need to come back out in the sun. So maybe part of remembering that Now Time Is Safe, is knowing that you can come back out into the sunshine on top of the rocks or on top of the cloud and sit in rest a minute before you dig back in again.
I don't know if I'm doing this right, or have messed everything up, or if I'm doing it all right, or if this is just what it's like. But I promise I'm trying. And I promise I'm not giving up. Just some days are really, really hard.
But this day, this day, my children are happy and playing and singing and dancing. And I'm resting in the sunshine. And the birds have come back to sing again. So even though we know more storms come tonight, we're also doing okay. And we're resting, and maybe that's okay. And maybe part of what we're learning to do and to say is to reach out and say out loud that it's just a hard day and we're struggling. And we miss the therapist, and are anxious about going to Africa, and anxious about storms, and anxious about providing for our family. But even with all of that, maybe Now Time is still safe. And maybe if I keep saying it again and again, and write it on my hand like we had to in the beginning. Except this time it's me writing it because I want to know, because I want them to know. Maybe that's part of how it helps, working together just to find the sunshine even just for a minute. Just long enough to not let go.
I told my children we will do what we always do. We will go for a walk in the sunshine, and feel the fresh air, and listen to the birds, and smell the honeysuckle. And we will know that everything will be okay. And maybe we will remember that we are already okay.
[Break]
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