Middle of the Night Thoughts

It is the middle of the night, and I cannot sleep. My anxiety has woken me up, for a second night this week, and the ability to fall back asleep has escaped me. The last time sleep evaded me in this reoccurring way, was my first year of seminary. I found myself in the depths of a deep depression. For months my entire being was impacted and riddled with experiences of hollowness, a deep cavern of fatigue, a shell of my own self. Anxiety would ramp up so high that I would lie awake tossing and turning or attempting to read in a vain effort to fall back asleep.

            The connection between those memories of sleepless nights and the ones I have been experiencing now, are not lost on me. A few weeks ago, I found myself sitting in a bathroom stall experiencing those similar feelings of hollowness, that all too familiar gaping whole within my being, twinged with fatigue, anxiety, and a loss of my sense of self.

I have found myself frustrated and disappointed, frightened, and anxious—the fear of the depths of depression are real and yet, I recognize the invitation my body and brain gifted me in that bathroom stall. The gift of responding sooner, of entering a season of darkness that is most likely inevitable but being equipped to handle it more gently and intentionally this time around. I have been granted the opportunity to intervene earlier in ways that I know can help soften this pain.

Barbara Brown Taylor in her book Learning to Walk in the Dark cites psychotherapist, Miriam Greenspan, as she explores the concept of what society calls“dark emotions.” Taylor writes, “There are no dark emotions, Greenspan says—just unskillful ways of coping with emotions we cannot bear. The emotions themselves are conduits of pure energy that want something from us: to wake us up, to tell us something we need to know, to break the ice around our hearts, to move us to act” (Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning to Walk in the Dark, p. 78). In the middle of another night awake, I grappled with whether or not to share this post. However, when I read this passage it offered me comfort and reassurance. And I remembered this is why I have always loved writing and sharing, because when I read someone else’s incredibly vulnerable words, I feel less alone. Perhaps if I am brave enough to share then someone else might read them and feel less alone too.

A few nights ago, as I prepared myself for sleep, the fear of waking to the voice of anxiety plagued me. I sat down and journaled, finding short bursts of words that created a poem. Messy, comforting, and healing words. What I wrote, you will find below, and it was a reminder that I have sailed the sea of depression and anxiety before and I have made it through once, now I have interventions and skills to help me cope more gently this time around.

I never take mental illness lightly, the words I wrote in this poem are not meant to diminish the real effects that mental illness have on one’s life. I will name that my depression never took on a voice of self-harm or suicidal ideation. For that I am grateful, while I agree with Greenspan’s quote above that there are not dark emotions, the voice in one’s head telling them to harm themselves or kill themselves is a very dark voice indeed and I urge anyone experiencing that darkness to seek help. (988 is the number for the suicide and crisis lifeline. I have attached the link to the website as well. https://988lifeline.org/ )

In my own story, I have recognized the signs of anxiety and depression early, this time around, and for that I am grateful. I have heard an invitation in these signs to intervene early, to invite my loved ones into this pain, to seek help from medical professionals, to begin taking an SSRI, to continue to explore coping mechanisms with my therapist, to allow myself to take a break, to honor my body and mind’s needs, to consistently practice mediations, to get outside and go for long walks—all of these things combined, do help.

I’ve weathered this storm before.

Depression. Anxiety. The two combined a nightmarish storm.

Wintery seas—stormy, winds gusting, waves rising tossing you to and fro.

Suddenly still, eerie in the silence. Water like glass. Lonely on the sea, no land or other boats in sight.

Numbness, fatigue, a great cavern of hollowness.

Then rawness of soul, pain that seems to never subside.

Chaotic energy, pressure, expectations that are unable to be met.

I know its lullaby all too well.

This time, I have heard the melody sounding out. Hollow, low, and heavy.

I have tuned into the sounds and instead of stopping up my ears I have heard their warning sounds.

Saying, “ah I know you well. I had hoped you would not return and yet here you are again. Let us move forward, perhaps harmonize, because I know the keys, I know the notes, and I know what helps to transform you to something different.”

This time around, I remember I have life vests on my boat, and I strap them on, one by one early into the storm, so if I am tossed into the watery seas, I will not fall under the waves.

Letting loved ones in, rest, reaching out to my doctor, an ssri, telling the truth about where I am, speaking and treating myself with kindness.

Oh and softness.

So much softness.

You see, it wasn’t until tonight as I slipped beneath the golden glow of warm bubbled water that I felt it.

Heard what this darkness, this heaviness, this fatigue had come to say. Had come to teach me. Had come to invite me to another way.

I heard it say:

“You have been running so fast, so far, and hard. You probably thought you could outrun us my dear. But love, you have some learning to do. You have ignored the many invitations that you have received before—so here we are. Please listen to us, in the healthy ways. Sparkly, happy, frantic pace, people pleasing methods cannot last forever—you are bound to lose yourself living like that. Attempts to harden yourself as a means of coping here in this world will not serve you, only harm you further. We’ve returned—I know we are not glamorous especially not in the ways of the world. But I promise we are here to help you find your way in this world. One that is filled with realness, authenticity, and rest. One that does not shy away from the woundedness of the world. Perhaps it won’t be shiny bits and bubbles—but it will be you. Whole and beautiful.”

So, I sighed—resigned to enter this darker, much slower paced space again. To journey through these feelings with intentionality, my life vests on—no isolation, no pretending I have it all together, a little extra help with medicine I am grateful for every single day, a lot of tea, perhaps some sleepless nights that grant me a chance to read while sipping sleepy time tea.

This time, I am trusting those life vests, calling upon them early, so I might not lose myself adrift at sea.

This time I won’t lose myself fully, just the parts of me that were never actually me, the parts that have been just for show.

I heard the invitation, after little sleep, a frantic mind, and a body running around till it felt nothing but a cavern of fatigue.

When I rested, took intentional deep breaths, I felt myself uncoil. Something in me shifted and I heard it clearly,

            “Soften.”

You have tried so hard to harden—when all you need to do is soften.

Later in the same chapter of Learning to Walk in the Dark, Taylor writes “Nights like that taught me the importance of letting emotions flow—even the loud and messy ones—because if they are kept from making their noise and maybe even tossing the furniture, they can harden like plaque in a coronary artery, blocking anything else that tries to come through. Eruptions are good news, the signal that darkness will not stay buried. If you can stand the upsetting energy, you may be allowed to watch while dark and light come back into balance” (Taylor, p. 84).

I have a theory on chaplaincy, our natural instinct is to try to jump in and fix things, to take away all the pain—but you can’t. My job is to enter into the darkened spaces, the pain of others, moving gently, resisting the urge to fix and instead to be with. My hope is that by entering the space with a humble spirit, gentleness, and intentionality I might be able to soften the sharp edges of pain just a little.

I have taken this same approach to my own pain, intervening in intentional ways, simply trying to soften the sharp edges of pain.

Amen.