I too lived with the "you're not good enough" comments. About me were bad enough... but being held up to my brothers and sisters as an example they should attain was even worse. I cringed every time I heard my father tell one of my sisters, "why can't you get good grades like Vicki." That hurt even more. Even in my young mind, I knew the damage that my father was inflicting on my siblings and I hurt deeply for them.

Just wanted to say that I am following this thread although I have nothing to add at this time.
Eagle Thank you for all of the great info.

And Meredith- as always- your poetry is awesome!

The Faith Connection

Excerpt from Chapter 1:

”My earliest memory takes me back to a rocking chair in Georgetown, Ontario sometime during 1958. I would have been about three years old, sitting in the rocking chair with Mrs. Brownridge, my babysitter, who was reading stories to me out of an old, tattered black Bible. It was there, nestled in her warm embrace, listening to the gentle cooing of her storytelling that I first met God. It was hard for a young child to distinguish God from the story’s main characters, but that was where I got my first glimpse of Him: Daniel in the lion’s den; the good Samaritan; the Prodigal Son; the widow with just one mite; impetuous Peter; and my all-time favourite, doubting Thomas.

That was both my earliest childhood memory and my first encounter with the One who was to become my constant companion along a very long and shadowed path. He has been a steadfast Presence in my life for as long as I can remember. While I was able to get some glimpses of Him in Church and Sunday School, my favourite and most inspiring Sacred Places have consistently turned up in the most unexpected chapters of my story; indeed, at every confusing twist and precarious bend in my road. It amazes me that even the muckiest puddle can be Sacred Ground, but that’s often where I saw Him best.”


When I first began to write “Eagle”, I had no intention of writing about my faith. As profound a part as my spirituality had played in my life, I wanted this book about depression to be universally appealing. I was afraid that sharing too much about my Christian faith would deter people from other faiths (or no faith) from reading it. So I tried writing about my struggle with depression without mentioning my faith. It was impossible. It became clear that I could not talk about my depression without including the impact that my spirituality had had on my life. So I decided to “go with the flow”, to just write and see where it took me.

Every morning for two weeks, I got up before dawn with that day’s words already formulating in my head. No sooner would I start typing those words than my husband would come down and bring me my lunch. Days blurred past in a glorious rush of exhilaration. Right before my eyes, the chronological story-threads pulled in the depression story-threads, and the spiritual story-threads kept jumping into the chaos to weave such a rich tapestry of my life’s journey that it startled even me. I knew that God had been an intimate part of my life since those first earliest memories. But I had never taken the time to sit and put all the pieces of my journey together in such a way that I could see so vividly how God had gently and intricately woven Himself through each and every other thread of my life. In fact, I could see now how, in my darkest hours, in my most profound despair, He had crept into my dark and lonely cave and sat there in the muck with me, cradling me, weeping with me, waiting with me until I was ready to climb out of there, and then He sent me all the candles and maps I could possibly need to help me find my way out. He had indeed transformed my hellhole into ‘Sacred Ground”.

That’s when I realized the powerful healing that could ripple out from within those depths of despair if I let Him be a part of my story.


I’m going to talk more about this faith connection over the next few days. But please hear this: I share this only because it’s a profoundly relevant part of my story, NOT EVER because I seek to proselytize, convert or sway anyone else over to “my beliefs”. I celebrate all faith, even the choice to not believe at all. I celebrate that freedom in each and every human soul. If your “God” has a different name or no name, or a different face or no face, or a different way of expressing Him/Herself to you, then know that I celebrate your faith with you as much as I celebrate my own.

For me, there’s a distinct difference between “organized religion” and “personal spirituality”. Too often, they're simply not the same thing. “Organized religion” played a significant part in PUSHING me deeper INTO depression, and in fact could easily have destroyed me had it not been for my life-long, life-saving personal relationship with God.

I invite you to share what role, if any, your faith has played in your own struggle with depression, remembering that we’re not here to preach, convert or persuade anyone into any particular faith system here, but to share the particular role that one’s faith has had in terms of dealing with depression.

We're also not here to "pull the rug out from underneath anyone's feet". By that I mean that as we share what (if any) negative impact "organized religion" may have had on us in terms of our struggle with depression, I don't want anyone's church, denomination or religious affiliation to be attacked in such a way that we inadvertently pull that crucial rug out from underneath someone else's feet.

[ September 09, 2005, 04:05 PM: Message edited by: Eagle Heart ]

I just realized my parents didn't call me on my birthday yesterday. They are usually good for about six months of peace and then begin to build up dramas in their minds to make themselves angry. Oh well.

I always use Sammie in my speaking. If we can ruin a parrot by yelling or saying negative things that they learn to repeat, just think what we can do to our children.

Today is World Suicide Day. Not everyone's favourite topic. But a very dark reality that all too many people, even many of our Boomer sisters here, live with throughout their lives.

I was fortunate enough to survive my suicide attempt...this is definitely the one time when I can say "by the grace of God"...

MERCY

Excerpt from Chapter 6

“Even while swallowing the pills, I continued to cry out to God to understand and forgive me, begging Him to see my despair and exhaustion, and how raw my fingers of faith had become from trying so long and hard to fight my way out. I just couldn’t live like this anymore. And so I lay down to die.

Time had no meaning that morning. It could have been minutes or hours, I had no awareness in the "when" anymore. But I was definitely aware when death began to crawl over me. I could barely make it to the bathroom to be violently sick and once there, slipped in and out of consciousness while still hugging the toilet bowl.

My phone started ringing. My phone rarely rang. It didn’t make any sense to my drug-fogged brain that it would be ringing now. Early Sunday morning. Everyone I knew would be in church. I hadn’t been to church in four months. Nobody would miss me.

With greater clarity than I had ever experienced before, I realized that this was my last possible chance. The ultimate moment of choice. Answer the phone and live, or let it ring and die. I knew to the core of my being that if I didn’t answer that phone in time, I was going to die.

It was somewhere around the 20th ring when I finally reached the phone. I had just enough breath left to utter "Help" before collapsing.

Then came the dream:

In the dream, I was me, lying limp and dead in the arms of Jesus. I was white, very cold, lifeless, and unable to move or speak or do anything other than just lie there. He held me in His arms, close enough that I could feel His heartbeat pulsing against my own heart. He rocked me back and forth saying, "I love you, and I understand. I love you, and I understand.” Over and over and over again. That’s all He did. He continuously rocked me back and forth, repeating over and over, "I love you, and I understand.”

He rocked me for what felt like an eternity’s worth of time.

And then He said, “Now it’s time to give you back to the people who will love you back to life.”

And then I woke up.”


This was my defining experience of Mercy…there had been no disapproval, no scolding, no hell, no demand for penance, no reprimand, or even the slightest glimmer of reproach. There had been no such thing in those loving eyes or that life-giving embrace as me being “beyond redemption”. There had only been Love. Pure Unconditional Love.

That experience of pure, unconditional love being poured into my dying body and mind was what dared me to learn how to embrace myself with the same mercy and compassion.

He gave me back my life. I gave me back my permission to live that life.


***********
I may not be able to be back here for discussion on this until later this afternoon or evening. But I invite you to share your questions, thoughts, feelings and experiences here and I'll join in as soon as I can.

[ September 10, 2005, 11:06 AM: Message edited by: Eagle Heart ]

Jesus, still has his precious arms around you.
Thank-you for sharing, you have truly touched my heart.

Eagle, I have purposely left this topic to read while I'm off tomorrow and Monday. Congratulations on being Featured Author.
Luv
chick