Lynette Bishop Snell

I woke up this morning at 1:23 a.m. I don’t have to work today so I did a bad thing…I picked up my phone and started scrolling through Facebook. I watched stupid videos that made me laugh, avoided the ones that would make me cry, and generally let an hour of my life drain away, never to be returned. Then the inevitable happened.

It was accidental but inevitable. In a list of “People you might know,” a person popped up. One I never wanted to see. But there she was. And suddenly sleep was no longer an option. I just stared. My heart rate increased. And I felt validation.

Validation that I was, indeed, fat, ugly, worthless, a fool, and quite simply not worth anyone’s time.

Social Media is a double-edged sword that I find I cannot live without. I love being able to laugh at silliness, rejoice in my friends’ lives, grieve with those who hurt, and escape reality for a while. But reality prowls in the background, constantly lurking and seeking a way to get in through the bubble of escapism I have created. And when it succeeds, the open wound that is my life is exposed to raw, visceral pain.

After my heart rate slowed, I forced myself to move on. The very next post I came across was an article written by Wil Wheaton. It was titled “My name is Wil Wheaton. I live with chronic depression and generalized anxiety. I am not ashamed.”

Wil Wheaton is an actor famous for many roles, but most notably in “Stand By Me,” “Star Trek: The Next Generation,” and most recently “The Big Bang Theory” in which he plays himself.

I was stunned to read his article. I found myself glued to every word. He spoke a language in which I, too, am fluent–a language of panic attacks, fear, sadness, existing instead of living, mental illness.

One passage in particular struck me like a lightning bolt.

“We can remember and we can remind each other, that there is no finish line when it comes to mental illness. It’s a journey, and sometimes we can see the path we’re on all the way to the horizon, while other times we can’t even see five feet in front of us because the fog is so thick. But the path is always there, and if we can’t locate it on our own, we have loved ones and doctors and medications to help us find it again, as long as we don’t give up trying to see it.”

It’s a journey. The path is always there.

I have felt for so long that the path I’m on leads nowhere, because I have been stuck or walking in circles because the fog has encapsulated me. I have stumbled, fallen down and wanted to curl up on the ground, giving up, not moving forward. Sometimes, I simply say, “it’s just too hard.”

Then something–a hand from a family member or friend, a song on my playlist, a post on that two-faced social media engine, a Bible verse–reaches out and taps me on the shoulder. And for a moment, the fog lifts. It lifts just enough so I can see that path. It hasn’t disappeared. It’s still there, beckoning, calling, and the sunlight offers hope and promise.

Wil Wheaton ended his article with the statement, “My name is Wil Wheaton. I live with chronic depression, and I am not ashamed.”

I keep waiting for the fog to lift completely, for the depression to end, for life to magically become happy and wonderful and enlightened. But as my very wise and wonderful sister once said to me, “It’s not a destination. It’s a journey.”

Miley Cyrus called it, “The Climb.” They’re both right.

There’s always gonna be another mountain
I’m always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Sometime’s I’m gonna have to lose
Ain’t about how fast I get there
Ain’t about what’s waiting on the other side
It’s the climb.

Thank you, Wil Wheaton, for tapping me on the shoulder and helping me to my feet. The fog has lifted for a moment and I can see the way…at least enough to take the next few steps.

I heard something the other day about bricks as they specifically apply to walls. The comment was made about the theoretical brick walls we all erect in our souls in order to protect us from pain, hurt, sorrow, disappointment, and just plain icky-ness in life. But the way the comment was made struck me like, well, a brick wall.

“Walls keep our hurts inside,” was the comment.

Inside? No. That’s not how it works. We keep those things outside. But the thought wouldn’t leave my brain and soon my epiphany of the day finally occurred.

I began to watch, listen and learn from conversations around me. People often times harbor deep, horrible, life-altering pain inside their souls. But to face those hurts is unimaginable and even more painful than the original cause of said pain. So instead of keeping future, unknown hurts out, people are keeping them in, nestled safely behind a strong brick wall, not easily torn down. No blowhard, big bad wolves will get to these walls.

I began to think about what my internal hurts and sorrows and disappointments look like, but when I tried to put a name to them, I found discomfort. A lot of discomfort. This was definitely not my happy place.

I faced them, however, with not a little trepidation, and tried to list the biggies:

A. Rejection: he didn’t fight for me and I was left alone and empty.
B. Loneliness: I miss him, dammit!
C. Regret: What if….? Why did I….? Why didn’t I…..?
D. Anger: how dare he?
E. Self loathing: I’m a mess…who would want me? I’m fat, ugly, my life is a disaster, I’m in debt, and my house is one mess away from being an episode of “Hoarders.”

I mean seriously….those are just the biggies! I didn’t even touch on the little ones.

I came to the conclusion that no one is exempt from the brick wall of avoidance. We all do it. #thestruggleisreal makes a ton more sense to me when filtered through this scope.

I have heard many things about divorce recovery: “It takes 5 years to recover from a divorce” and “it takes half the time you were together to recover from a divorce.” I am 2.5 years post divorce. So in the instance of the first statement, I am halfway there. In the second timetable, I’ve got hell of a long way to go. Half of 18 years is 9. Not to mention the 2 we were together before marriage.

My point is this: I think that until I begin tearing my brick wall down from the inside, brick by brick, I will be, in essence, trapped by my own pain.

I can’t do that. No more. I want to move forward and to heal. I have healed a lot, but this epiphany seems to suggest the next phase in my healing process will take some heavy lifting on my part.

She’s a brick house, indeed. She’s got lots of bricks to repurpose into a new house.

If you have ever sat in silence on a beach and did nothing but contemplate the ocean waves rolling ashore across the sand, you will notice many things.

First, every wave is unique.  Each one is like a fingerprint and the ocean has millions upon millions of unique fingerprints.  No two are alike.  Some are gentle and have very little break, while others break quickly and come ashore full of noise, froth and movement.  In specific spots on the planet, there are waves that are giant sea monsters, taking on a life of its own, growing taller than some multi-story buildings, and curling back in on itself to form a pipeline.  Personally, I prefer the gentle, quiet ones that cause little disruption and are beautiful in their simplicity.

The next thing you might notice about the ocean is that it is a moving force.  If you look further than the breaking waves on shore, out in the distance, you will notice swells, peaks and valleys that never quite fully form into the waves their counterparts eventually become.  It’s like a pan of liquid coming to a “rolling boil.”  While not much happens on the surface, it is obvious that much is happening below.  It is awe-some and not a little terrifying.

Lastly, the most obvious part of the ocean waves are the aftermath.  The receding water comes sweeping in with majestic and powerful force, after building up for perhaps several miles, then just as suddenly as it breaks into a wave, it is gone, taking most of what it covered back out to sea:  shells, trash, toys, jewelry, clothing, and the occasional sea life.  Sometimes, too, the waves leave gifts upon the shore, gifts from other parts of the sea that have been swept out, taken from one place and deposited in a different location altogether.

Mostly, waves sweep landward, destroying sand castles and erasing words written in the sand by playful beach-goers.  There is nothing left.  Nothing, that is, but the sand.

The sand has a magical quality about it of just swallowing up the water, reforming into a flat surface and never giving up any of the secrets formerly imprinted there.

So many times I wish my life were like the sand:  constantly wiped clean and rid of all the detritus that clutters my days (and my house!).  I could start with a fresh slate with every single wave.  But what would I lose?

I would lose the memory of happier times, the joy of current moments and the lessons learned along the way:  essentially, I’d be trapped in a “Groundhog Day” web, never able to escape and move on. The more I would struggle to free myself from the strands of repetition, the tighter their grasp would become. I would wither from lack of sustenance–experiences that would help me grow–and eventually cease to exist. How altogether unpleasant.

The other day I walked along the beach at sunset. The sand was almost not visible for all the shells covering its surface. The waves washed over those shells leaving them sparkling in the waning sunlight and making them appear new and fresh.

I stopped, mesmerized by the picture at my feet. The sand was literally buried beneath a layer of shells. Imagine each one of those shells as a different life experience. Some of them are perfect and whole, without blemish, chip or discoloration. But look closely at the picture. Most are damaged with holes, cracks, divots, stains, and missing pieces. Many are simply fragments of what once was beautiful. I found many pieces of what I knew were once stunning displays of sea life. And diving head first into cliche-land, I identified absolutely with those shattered pieces more than with the beautiful, whole and perfect shells.

I am such a broken creature, with chips, cracks, missing pieces, and edges worn down by repeated bashing of the waves. And yet, like those shells, I am beautiful. I don’t always believe it and often times I see the exact opposite of beauty when I look at myself. But the truth is undeniable.

There is beauty in brokenness. The web that entangles my life also creates something so ethereal and so precious.

It creates me.