Photo post.

Source: | thetearstealerdotcom on WordPress.com

I remember the days of my stay in hospital well. The psych ward had 8 beds, with room for more. When I was admitted only some were occupied, but in the 2 weeks that I was there beds would fill and vacate. The patients would be woken at 6 am and there was a large recreational room to the back of the ward with many caged windows. Depending on the nurse that was on duty we would be put to sit in a circle and she would lead devotional songs of worship. Most of the patients did not participate but looked vacantly ahead. I tried to sing but my throat and lips were so dry I could only mouth the words. It seemed like hours before the breakfast trays were delivered. Tea, diluted juice and tasteless hard bread and cheese, and if we were lucky there was an egg thrown in. Later I asked my husband to bring me some milk and cereal, but it quickly disappeared from the nurses fridge. My taste buds also reacted to the meds, and I would have to force down every meal.
There was a girl in her late teens I will call Jane. She was so very thin, and very tall with a very pretty face. Jane did not like to eat, in fact, at meal times a nurse was assigned to watch her and coax her into putting something in her stomach. Often, noone succeeded. I befriended her and helped her during meal times, even feeding her a spoonful or two. I never found out her story, but she left the hospital after me. When I returned to visit the ward she had left.
The Psychiatrist assigned to my ward visited daily. Each patient would get a chance to see him individually. When it was my turn I remember entering a small room and I was shocked to see at least 5 people with the doctor. Some may have been wearing white coats. I remember feeling very afraid and not being able to answer any questions. I was there for less than 2 minutes before I was allowed to leave. They quickly realised that a group of interns would not get me to open up. I was left alone for a few days and then I got some one on one time with the doctor, seldom more than about 5 minutes at a time. Visiting hours were in the afternoon. My husband brought the kids a few times and then he came alone after that. My mom and dad visited and my sisters and my best friend. I never wanted them to leave and felt a sinking, desperate feeling afterwards. The first time my husband brought my kids I was so happy. My baby looked chubbier and was dressed in a beautiful yellow dress. I hugged her close to me for the whole visit and gave her a bottle. My son, who was 4 at the time, was a little unsettled, and I could see he felt uncomfortable, but I chatted with him and his dad and played with him. I felt robbed when they left – the precious time with them was never enough.
How I longed to be back home again! The uncertainty, the fear … Thank God that Jesus showed up when he did!

I started journaling while in the psych ward of a two week stay in hospital being treated for post-natal depression. One of the ex-patients who was there on the evening I was admitted, returned to visit me on my birthday and gave me the journal. That was 18 years ago. I now have a box of journals gathering dust. One day I will get around to transcribing them and doing my memoir.

I have always been a quiet and over-sensitive person, and as a middle child I preferred not to be noticed, but at the same time I felt jealous of my younger sister’s exuberance and attention she received. Having a childhood stammer did not help and I preferred not to speak up at school for fear of being ridiculed. I had a lonely school life, but it dawned on me by college that I had to make an effort to go up and speak to people, make the initial effort, or I would end up very lonely. My college years would become some of my best memories.

Still, my nervousness, sensitivity and low self-esteem lingered into my marriage and motherhood. By the birth of my second child and the stress of a job I hated, I got to the point of no return. Depression. What is it? For me, it started with lack of sleep, being constantly tired, worrying about everything and imagining the worst. Yet it was an invisible illness, and to me it sounded so insignificant and I found it hard to accept that it was just depression. I had a cancer scare some years before, and this was far worse.

I was still breast-feeding my daughter and the thought of taking medication was unacceptable to me. I eventually reached breaking point and left home, walking without looking back. I reached an empty church and went in to plead with God to make me feel better. Exhausted, I lay on one of the pews. A man approached me and tried to talk to me. Much later I realised that he was an angel sent to protect me during my darkest hour.

Within the first few days of my stay in the hospital I met God. He showed up and told me that everything would be alright, to trust him and get to know him. It was so simple yet impossible to explain unless it has happened to you. I asked my husband to find my Bible and bring it to the hospital. It had well worn pages, not by my fingers, but by my grandmother and great grandmother, passed on to me. My eyes could not make out the words on the pages as the medication had caused my vision to blur. I kept that Bible close to me during the time I was in that public hospital ward. One thing was certain, God had given me a desire to know him that would not go away.

This is a journey I am hoping you will share with me. A current and ongoing journey, once stifled but now determined to be released, of stopping old patterns and starting healthy new ones, of discovering and experiencing life in a way I have never seen or done before. Fear and depression coupled with low self-esteem have been the main stumbling blocks, and I will let you in on a bit of my story, show you how I overcame, and how I can stay on the right path. I am praying as you get snippets of me that it will help you in your own journey, but selfishly, I am also expectant that after this month I will be fully rejoicing in my freedom, knowing for certain that my passionate inner voice can finally be heard.
THANK YOU for keeping me company these next 31 days!

Source: Why tear stealer?

Most people wish they would cry less.  I wish I would cry more.  In fact I once stole a tear because I couldn’t produce my own.

I was at the airport seeing off my 22 year old son and his girlfriend was crying her eyes out.  I quickly scooped up one of her falling tears with my forefinger and placed it on my face.  I felt sad and I wanted to really let it out too!  I get tired of my dry eyes when people around me are expressing their emotions so openly with their tears.  My numbness is excessive and tiring.  What has caused me to react with so little emotion, and not be surprised or shocked by anything?

At 50 I am ready to release my inner voice, but don’t quite know where to start.  Apparently there are people that can help with this.  I have been to physiotherapists for ongoing neck pain stretching to my shoulder and arms, psychiatrists for depression, and I was finally told that I am holding in too much and my voice needs to be heard, and the pain which I am holding inside will subside.  Could it be that physical pain can be manifested from the fact that I never let my true voice be heard?

So, I am embarking on a discovery to find and release my inner voice, and it will all be recorded here.

Happy reading, and thanks in advance for your patience!  It’s taken me 40 years for me to get to this point!