Robin Chartier – Page 91

Stage Fright

After all the accolades my previous post received, I was thinking maybe I should sign off for good, end on a high note, and quit while the getting is good. How do I follow that act? Funny enough, as I was writing about my Christmas Day 10 years ago, it didn’t feel like anything special. I mean, I enjoyed the walk down memory lane (mostly because I’m not in that place anymore), but I didn’t think it was earth shattering or groundbreaking. I’ve written about my need for meds many times before — though based on the number of messages and replies I received from people, this post clearly landed in a place people could relate to. Or they know me in this different life and couldn’t imagine that I hadn’t always been this way.

Maybe I spelled it out in a way that people finally understood how cuckoo I really was. I guess you can say you need an SSRI to function normally, but until you admit that you called your husband and begged him to turn around and come home when he was on the way to take your child to an appointment with a surgical specialist people can’t imagine you were actually that sick. Yeah, I really did that. Josh told me I was being ridiculous, hung up, and kept driving. Meanwhile, I tried not to hyperventilate as I counted down the minutes it would take for him to drive to Loma Linda (90), account for how long the appointment should take, and then home again. I had decided against going to the appointment with them because I couldn’t travel that far from the house without panicking, but after he left I started second guessing my choice. I should write a post some day about all the hoops I jumped through to keep from feeling anxious. It would sound truly crazy to someone who doesn’t struggle with anxiety. (Like taking a 2 day Amtrak train trip by myself to avoid a 3.5 hour flight. Yep. For reals.)

I’m so glad that my post did get such a positive response, but it still surprises me and feels unreal. It’s almost miraculous that stringing a few letters together can have so much meaning. I guess that’s why I like writing. It’s an art form that uses letters to paint pictures. A few are the focal point of the gallery, some are frame worthy, and others are the type to be hung on my mom’s refrigerator door. Creating a pile of posts that are only good enough to hang on a refrigerator is all part of practicing my art form. As long as I keep writing, I’m bound to produce a few gems every now and then . . . hopefully.

In addition to not knowing what to post next, I’ve been busy with Christmas this week. Unlike last year, when we spent Christmas day hiking in the snow in Cappacocia, Turkey, this year wasn’t exotic at all. We shared a Christmas Eve dinner with friends and then went to church for a carol service. In between each song, people from the congregation read passages from the Bible relating to Christmas (both prophecy and the Nativity story), but they each read them in their native languages. French, Afrikaans, Hindi, Tagalog, a language from an African nation, etc. (OK, so maybe that was a bit exotic). It was a reminder that we are privileged to worship God with Christians from all over the world.

Christmas Day we slept in, the kids opened a few presents that family had sent and we went to base for Christmas dinner (no cooking required!) While there I grabbed a few things to put in the kids’ stockings (I’m a failure at all the regular Christmas traditions. Can you imagine if I had to move an Elf every night?!) that I hadn’t filled yet and then we went and had a potluck dinner with another group of friends. I’m thankful that we are part of a great community of friends from church, our Home Group, and base. We are content and at peace which is the best gift we could possibly ask for.

But they were also thrilled with fuzzy pjs

and Frozen themed books

This coming week Josh has (a much needed) vacation and I predict lots of sleeping in and lounging around the house. Or maybe that’s just my idea of a great vacation . . .

A little Christmas cheer

10 years ago I was sitting at my sister’s kitchen table, head in hands, heart pounding, dreading the drive home. It was only 2 and a half hours from Orange County back to 29 Palms, but to my mind, the distance felt impossible. We’d all been having breakfast together and the conversation was full of “Guess what? Mental illness runs in our family!” stories, which sounds like the worst Christmas ever (it was), but the knowledge that I came from a line of loonies was mildly comforting. The reassuring part was realizing that several people in my family history who I thought were normal (relatively), actually did have mental issues in their past, which meant there was hope for me. Too bad it took me losing my mind to hear about them losing theirs.

I remember the tears running down my face as my parents guided me to the front seat of the car the way executioners guide a prisoner to the electric chair. I kept repeating “I can’t do this” and Josh snapped, “All you have to do is sit there!” God bless him, I would have left my sorry behind sitting on the curb. I was so wrapped up in my own head at the time; I’m sure he’s the one that got our three little boys in the car (5, 3 and 5 months), loaded all the luggage, and then had to deal with a crazy wife who begged him to pull over so she could throw up on the side of the road when she felt the car closing in on her.

Looking back, I’m surprised no one took me to a mental hospital. I would have fought them tooth and nail, like an addict resisting rehab, but I needed an intervention. That Christmas trip revealed the rapidly growing, gaping holes in my psyche that I’d refused to face over the past 6 months. Sure, most people don’t call their husband at work and beg him to come home because they are scared of being alone with their children and most people don’t construct exit strategies in their heads as they decide whether they can make it to the grocery store without having a panic attack (I couldn’t), and most people don’t compulsively check their pulse all day long looking for flutters or skipped heartbeats that are a sure sign of impending bodily doom. But I was still OK . . . sort of. Right? Even though I knew I wasn’t, the alternative (either medication or mental hospital) was worse.

So why this depressing topic on what is supposed to be the Merriest of days? Because this morning, this story, was the beginning of my end. My rock bottom, my wave the white flag moment, my emperor without his clothes. When I couldn’t enjoy a family Christmas party without escaping to a back bedroom to breathe deeply, when I couldn’t sit in the front seat of a car as a passenger and all I desperately wanted was to be home, when I saw a Christmas card that someone sent my sister and I wistfully said I envied them because they were smiling, when I hid in the bathtub of our crappy hotel room because it was a small and warm space and everywhere else felt too big and scary . . . that was it. I was done. Broken. Rock bottom. The end.

I don’t remember exactly when he said it, but one of the most hurtful (but best) things Josh ever said to me was “Robin, you are an anchor dragging our family down. I don’t know how much longer I can hold us up.” That Christmas showed me the weight of my anchor. I felt its heaviness and felt it dragging me under the surface, and as I was choking and gasping for breath, the fear of living with it finally outweighed the fear of what it would take to get rid of it.

I made it home (an ugly trip made a little easier by Christmas Day (zero) traffic) and the next morning, I called the hospital and made an appointment for ASAP. The next several months weren’t pretty, but I was headed in the right direction. I found myself at the bottom of a huge hole and it took about a year to claw my way out. This March I will celebrate my 10th Zoloft birthday (it seems like I need to create an AA type of chip for that occasion!) and I will bask in the irony that the thing I was most afraid of (medication for my brain) was an integral part in saving me.

So, Merry Christmas! Today I will enjoy my time at home alone with the kids and be thankful when Josh comes home from work because I’m happy he’s here to start the grill and not because I’m afraid of myself. I will drive to pick up a few things from the store and smile that I can enjoy that freedom. I might take a bath to hide from the chaos of a busy week and not because I’m hiding from my life. But most of all, I will be the one smiling in photos because I have Joy and Peace. Incredibly thankful to have been in dark places and to be enjoying the light.

Happy Holidays

This is our third Christmas in Bahrain and every year the irony deepens. The Muslim country outside the base is much more accepting of our Christian holiday than the bureaucracy inside the gates. The base had a very large tree and Santa came, but all the signage was for a “Tree Lighting Ceremony” and “Night of extraordinary lights,” nothing about Christmas. Meanwhile, right outside the gate, large posters advertised “Christmas Tree lighting” and “Christmas Dinner” right next to the posters of the King, Prime Minister and Crown Prince.

And there’s our landlord, who wishes Josh a “Merry Christmas” when he sees him. And the florist with the large Merry Christmas sign hanging outside the store. And the Christmas trees in the mall, and carols playing over the sound system (not Rudolph, think Joy to the World and other religious songs).

The country is all decorated for National Day (December 16th) so the red and white lights everywhere feel very Christmassy.

And the kicker? While at the grocery store I saw this Christmas display next to the Christmas trees and lights for sale.

Yes, that’s Jesus on the cross (the box is labeled Christmas Jesus) with a birthday hat. Mind blown.

So we’re all getting into the spirit of Christmas. Camille has a mini tree next to her bed (bought from the store up the street) and our church went Christmas caroling in the mall. They sang songs in English and then an Arabic speaking group sang them in Arabic. Other friends arranged for a church group to go caroling in a local grocery store and when they said, “You know we’ll be singing songs about Jesus, right?” the manager responded, “Yes! We love Jesus!”

In America where we say we celebrate freedom of religion, we could learn a few lessons from these Muslims. If you’re a Christian stop being offended when someone says “Happy Holidays” and take it as the cheerful greeting that is intended. It means happy HOLY day and Christmas is a holy day, so no big deal. It also could include Thanksgiving, New Year’s, St. Lucia Day, St. Nicholas day, my birthday, Hanukah, Kwanza, Winter Solstice, Boxing Day and any other celebrations that are packed into the 6 week period between Thanksgiving and the New Year. Sometimes I don’t want to pick just one so I say Happy Holidays to cover the entire lovely season!

If you’re not a Christian, don’t be offended when someone wishes you a Merry Christmas. I don’t know a single person who uses the greeting “Merry Christmas” as a weapon. If the Muslim community in Bahrain can handle it, I’m sure you can too.

Also, Xmas? That’s not taking Christ out of Christmas. X is the Greek letter that stands for Christ so it’s just a shorthand way of writing it. It was done that way for hundreds of years until someone decided to be offended by it and now it has become a thing to be offended by. If we could live with less cynicism and more grace for those around us, we would all be better off.

It may be 90 degrees here and I’m getting sunburned during a morning of flag football, but Christmas is coming! My real live tree! Someone/some organization donated live trees to overseas service members. They arrived in the mail and we were lucky enough to get one.

My car smelled amazing!

Go big or go home! It’s got to be 10 feet tall. Josh said since our living room is big enough, why not?

So Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Joyful Kwanzaa, Peaceful Arba’een, Light-filled Hanukah and

Joy to the world!

travel bug

I’m a homebody. I know that doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone in my family, but if you read my blog you might think I love to travel. I really don’t. I mean, in theory, yes! Travel is exciting, and I get to experience new things, see world famous places in person, and it changes all my perceptions about a country or people group and allows me to speak about things from a place of experience. Travel is an amazing educator.

However, I hate the process. I hate the uncertainty that I feel beforehand, the sense that I’m out of control and don’t know what is going to happen. I hate the packing and the mental checklists that I’m constantly making and rechecking (meds? phone charger? electrical outlet adaptors? passport? correct currency?) I dread the stress of the days before, when if given the choice I would always choose to stay home. Some people get excited about going on vacation. I’m not one of them. (I’m positive Kristy and my mom are nodding in agreement right now.) But I do it because it’s good for me — mentally, intellectually, and spiritually.

It’s kind of an “eat your vegetables” exercise for my brain. I have to keep pushing it to do uncomfortable things if I don’t want to go back to living my life by the mantra, “home is the only safe place in the world.” Every time I travel I add another positive event to the evidence bank and the negative voices get a bit quieter. It is getting easier. The day before our most recent trip to Crete I felt a few flutters of excitement and had a vague sense that I might be looking forward to going instead of just the dread in the pit of my stomach.

Because once I arrive, I love traveling. I have a new “safe space” to call home (my hotel room, apartment or wherever we are staying) and our days are full of exploring, learning, experiencing, and food. It’s always a spiritual experience to realize that God loves this culture and these people just as much as me and my own and I find that usually I agree with him. It gives us a chance for great talks with our kids (in-between the times when I’m telling them to stop arguing and be quiet! ) about what they like best about a particular trip, comparisons to previous travel and just getting to know them better as people.

So when Gulf Air had a special promotion for National Day yesterday, I knew it was time to buy a few tickets. I booked a weekend trip to Oman for the family in February and Josh and I are going to Paris for 5 nights in March. I’ve wanted to take him to Paris ever since I went last year and for less than $500/ticket, it was too good to pass up. Now I’m just crossing my fingers that he can take that time off or I’ll be stretching myself even further and taking one of the kids (Carter) with me.

Now I get to plan, research and dream about Paris for the next 3 months, which in my mind, is the best part of traveling. Adventures from the comfort of my own home. . .

Isn’t it romantical

This adorable homecoming couple was kind of my fault. Calvin originally said he was going to to to the homecoming dance with a group of friends so I asked a few probing questions: A group of guys or are guys and girls going together? Do you want to take a date? Do most people take a date? I wasn’t encouraging him to get a date, I was just wondering what was going on in his head and making sure he felt free to invite someone if he wanted to.

Maybe he was waiting for permission because a few days later he said, “Mom, is it OK if I take a date to homecoming? Because I was talking to a girl at youth group and I told her about homecoming and she said her school doesn’t have one so I asked her if she would like to go with me. She already asked her parents and they said it was OK, so is it OK?”

Whoa there! My kid went from awkward teenage boy going to a dance with a group of guys to Rico Suave in the span of 30 seconds. I had a moment of internal panic and then smiled and said, “Sure! Good for you! I’m happy you’re a braver kid than I was in High School.”

Bringing a date upped the ante so the first step was finding Calvin something to wear. Josh handled that part and took Calvin to the tailor to have a sport coat, dress shirt and pants made. Then we found the tie, belt and ordered the corsage. Oh and shoes. Can’t forget shoes.

The day of the dance Camille and I picked up the corsage while Calvin was at school and she treated it like Cinderella’s glass slipper as we walked home. With shining eyes she asked, “Since Calvin is going on a date, that means he’ll be married, right?” Not quite yet, sweetie. We have a few more years until then, hopefully.

All dressed for the big night! I was dreading doing this by myself (Josh was gone on an exercise on the south side of the island) because his date lived somewhere 30 minutes south of us, Carter had a Christmas party on the west side of the island at at the same time as the dance, and Camille and Caleb were going to have to tag along for the ride. Not how I would want to set out for my first date.

Anyway, God worked out all those worrisome details because a friend coordinated transportation for Carter and Josh asked for the evening off so he could spend the evening with me. He arrived home about 30 minutes before we left to pick up Calvin’s date. Perfect timing!

As for the littles? We left them at home with all the TV they wanted to watch, a cell phone, and instructions not to eat anything. And a bit of bribery. We told Caleb we’d pay him for being a good babysitter and that Camille would get paid for being a good babysittee.

We picked up Calvin’s date and her mom pinned the corsage on Calvin

And Calvin tied the corsage on his date’s wrist

adorable!

We dropped them off at the hotel (on the far east side of the island — if Josh hadn’t been along it would have been a very long night of driving by myself!) and we went to dinner while they went to the dance.

They all had a great time

and we had a great night!

You know the legendary Friday brunches? This hotel also has one on Thursday night. We had about 3 hours to eat, drink, and be merry.

Dinner by the light of the Christmas tree. Our first “first date” went perfectly.