i owe you an apology

The past two years of my life have been hell. It's taken everything in me and then some, to simply still be standing  today. But in the process, I became someone I'm not. Someone I don't like. I've always wanted people to walk away from an encounter with me knowing that I genuinely care about them. I want love to be seen in my eyes, heard in my words, felt in my touch. But that stopped happening. People walked away wondering if I even liked them.

I was too tired to think of anyone but myself.

I was too absorbed in my own mess to help others in theirs.

I was too focused on my pain to let people know how much they mean to me.

I was too sad to leave joy, too anxious to leave peace.

I was too caught up in my stuff, in myself, to let others know I care. Or maybe even to care at all.

I cried myself to sleep, but I had no tears to mourn with others.

I became touchy and edgy. Paranoid, sensitive, snappish.

I put walls up around my heart and believed the lie that I could protect myself from further hurt.

I was wrong.

And now I look back on who I've become, and it makes me so sad. How anyone has loved me through this backwards metamorphosis is beyond me.

Pain is no excuse to not show love.

Those who've been in my life over the past two years, know this:

I'm sorry.

And to those who've stuck with me in spite of me, who've even leaned in and drew me closer, thank you doesn't cut it. But it's all I've got. I'm overwhelmingly humbled.

Thank you for loving me still...

mine to tell

I kind of hate what my blog has become. I write from my heart, so my blog reflects the heaviness that's been my life for the past six months. And while I haven't felt ready to share details of what's going on, I've tried to write with openness and authenticity about my journey. I just hate that the result has been a lot of heavy, weighty posts.

I know my ambiguity may be confusing at times. But I assure you I'm not trying to be dramatic. I'm not seeking to create an air of suspense or intrigue. It's not a publicity stunt. My life simply is what it is. And, even void of details, my writing is unavoidably colored by it.

Sometimes I wish I had a poker face.

But most of the time, I'm glad I don't.

My story is mine to tell. I still can't right now, but someday I will. That thought brings both freedom and trepidation. Telling my story means owning my story. And I'm not quite ready to fully accept that it's real. That it's mine. That it is permanently woven into the fabric of my life.

But it is.

Whether I like it or not.

And although I hate what my blog has become during this season, I'm gonna keep writing masklessly. Because the real me is all I've got to offer.

Take it or leave it.

Take me or leave me.

undone

I've written less emails in the past month than I used to write in a single day.

You gotta understand something about me: I'm a doer. I manage to get stacks of things done in a day. I figure out ways to tackle the to-do lists and push through the projects, even under tight deadlines. I know how to work my tail off when I need to. And even when I don't.

At least I used to anyway.

Right now, I simply don't have it in me.

My days are fairly empty, so I find myself with more time on my hands than ever before. But what I've gained in time, I lack in motivation, energy, and concentration. And one result is an overflowing inbox.

It's difficult for me to reach out right now. I feel unable to be the kind of friend I used to be and want to be---the kind of friend you deserve.

If you're one of the many who've emailed me but haven't heard back yet: I'm sorry for making you feel unimportant to me. I'm sorry I haven't explained until now.

Your emails aren't burdensome. My inbox is filled with reminders that I'm loved! So please don't hear this as a request to stop writing.

I guess it's just a request for patience. And understanding.

Because while I'm struggling to show it well right now, I still love and care deeply.

Even when I don't answer your email.

time to talk about it

Depression is a sign of weak faith. I don't know that I was ever told those exact words, but growing up, it was certainly conveyed to me that a depressed Christian is a bad Christian. A depressed Christian obviously lacks a strong relationship with God. A depressed Christian just needs to pray more, speak words of faith, and spend more time in the Bible. A depressed Christian gives Jesus---and the Church---a bad name.

That kind of thinking kept me bound in a prison. Forced me to suffer quietly. Because... Well...

I'm depressed. And I have been for a while.

My life is rich in many, many ways. I love God; I've followed Him my whole life; I've served Him passionately on the mission field for over a decade. I have people in my life who love me deeply and whom I love deeply in return.

But I'm also facing the hardest thing I've ever had to endure. And it's left me struggling with depression for almost two years.

Do I have weak faith? Sometimes. (So thankfully all I need is a mustard seed sized dollop of it.) But I know now that my depression isn't a reflection of my faith.

And I'm so sorry for ever thinking anyone else's was a reflection of theirs.