On Eurekas

Eurekas are easy.

Well, not easy, but they're shorter. They're a moment of awesome (or aweful) clarity, and they change your world.

But the really hard part is what happens afterwards.

For instance, I can realize that my eating disorder is going to kill me, and that when I'm fifty I don't want to look back and regret spending my time obsessing over my weight instead of living life. That takes a while to get there, but once you're there, it's a eureka moment. And if you let it happen, it's not hard. In fact, it feels wonderfully freeing.

What's hard are the weeks and months ahead, the ones in which you can see your body changing, gaining weight, gaining flesh, growing out of the cute skinny clothes into ones which flatter your normal weight when you're not obsessing over everything you consume, struggling not to step on the scale first thing in the morning, weighing yourself without cringing - all that is the hard part.

The very very hard part.

Because it's hard not to revert when you notice you've put on weight. It's hard not to skip a meal when you notice your pants getting tighter because you bought size zeroes and you can't fit those anymore. It's hard not to obsessively exercise when you look at yourself in the mirror, and it's hard to train your mind to see a size 4 or 5 as healthy instead of unbelievably fat.

But it's worth it.

It's never not worth it.

For your life, your future, your hope. For everyone who loves you. For everyone you love.

It's always worth it.

...But Who Cries On Their First Day of College?

I almost don't know what to think about the fact that my first day of college made me cry.

As in, that evening I broke down in tears in the middle of a psychology lecture because the professor was describing neurotransmitters and their effect on the way our brains work, and she happened to mention that this is where chemical depression comes from.

For instance, there are certain neurotransmitters which cause our brains to react in a certain way, and a certain level of these is needed in order to maintain a healthy balance in the way our brains work, our emotions, etc. And if there is an overabundance, or lack of, certain neurotransmitters, it directly affects the way our brains work. Her example? What she called 'chemical depression'.

In her words, 'the amount of neurotransmitters (serotonin, etc) in the brain actually causes a depression', so if your brain doesn't have as much dopamine or serotonin as it needs to maintain a balance, you will be depressed.

Her next sentences went on to address the concept of treating such depression with medication, and her approach was somewhere in the middle of those who would advocate overmedicating, and those who would say that nothing is serious enough for medication.

I quote, 'There is a lot of evidence and research on neurotransmitters which directs us to understand that they can cause depression and other mental illness and therefore they need to be treated with medication'.

Perhaps I am the only one who found this astonishing, but if you look at it through the lens of the girl who's been consistently told that her depression was demonic possession, spiritual failing, genetic damage, or simply an excuse to get attention, you may understand why astounded me.

Her handling of the issue, treating medication for chemical depression as neither worse nor better than medication for any other physical ailment, such as diabetes, brought me to tears.

Because, I'll readily admit I wasn't expecting that. Not from a Christian college, at any rate. I definitely didn't expect to have this issue crop up so soon after my conversation with a friend yesterday in which I insisted that there was no way I would ever believe that taking medication for my depression didn't somehow make me damaged.

But, she treated it as though it was..normal. As normal as a broken knee or a fever, or anything else medically which required medication. Heck, it was in the middle of a lecture on how biology is essential to a correct understanding of psychology! It wasn't...psychological theory, it was...science!

And I cried.

Because I watched the lies I had been taught for so long regarding my depression crumble and fall and turn to dust.

Because every time I've broached the topic of antidepressants with my parents, I've been told that I'm fine, God and bible reading and prayer cured me and I am now depression free, even though, truth be told, I am not sure I will ever be completely free of this darkness.

Because the month in which I was on depression meds was one of the worst of my life, due to my parents being ashamed of my needing them, and their insistence that, instead of discovering, through trial and error, which medication worked best for me, what was really best for me was to be off meds altogether.

Because I was made to feel horribly guilty for needing medication, for being depressed, for being anything other than the perfect happy little Christian girl who can solve everything with Jesus and prayer.

Because I've been depressed for as long as I can possibly remember, and the thought of not constantly fighting the undertow, day in, day out, every second of every minute of every hour of every day, is oh so appealing.

And I'm not foolish enough to believe that medication is the magic cure all. I'll still feel - pain and hurt and sorrow and disappointment. The point isn't to turn you into a zombie or a happy fairy. The purpose is, well, basically Advil for your brain.

If I stub my toe, and take Advil for it, and then someone smacks me in the head, just because I took Advil doesn't mean I won't still feel the smack in the head! It doesn't cure all, but I've come to believe that perhaps it could, if not 'cure' me, at least help.

Which, at very least, is a far cry from....even yesterday.

And while this definitely doesn't mean I'm planning on walking up to my parents tomorrow morning and blurting out, 'So...I think I might need meds', it does mean that at least I don't view myself as damaged anymore even if I do need them.

And it's improvement.

'Am I There Yet?'

I've never been the most patient person.

Ever since I was little, I'm the one who'll rush to get the job done the fastest - granted, I've also learned how to do it quickly and efficiently, but I've never been one for waiting around.

(Except when it comes to procrastinating on my homework..but that's a totally different matter ;) )

And sometimes, in life, I can complete whatever task I have before me quickly and efficiently. But other times? Not so much.

Especially when it comes to this whole recovery business. You know. I  feel like the pesky kid in the back seat on long car trips who, every two minutes, asks, 'are we there yet?'.

And lately I've found myself echoing those same sentiments.

'Am I better yet? Am I there yet? Have I recovered yet? How long is it gonna take? How much longer till I arrive? Will I ever get there? Why's it taking forever!?'

It's as though, in my mind, recovery is a destination to be arrived at. It's a place I'll finally come to, where I no longer struggle, and that battle is completely won. Which, honestly, is far more appealing than the reality that I'll probably struggle with these things, to some degree at least, for the rest of my life.

The problem is...thinking of recovery as a destination to be arrived at simply isn't the truth. And it tends to make me despair when I start thinking, 'am I there yet?' instead of looking back at how far I've come.

Because ultimately, I won't be 'there yet' until heaven. He who began a good work in me will complete it...but once it's completed, there will be no more use for me here on this earth, and He'll take me home.

So, instead of my usual impatient self asking 'am I there yet?'... I need to remember that recovery is a journey, not a destination. Heck, even life in general is not a destination. Our destination is heaven. Life is a journey.

I won't be 'there yet' till I reach heaven.

And in the meantime, I need to remember how far He's brought me already, and praise Him for it.

Because, it's amazing. He's amazing.

And He will complete His work in me in His perfect timing.

I need only trust Him.

Trust Him and do what I know is right, despite the cost.

Trust and Obey.

Which is far easier said than done, but if He gives me a task, He will also give me the strength to accomplish the task He has set before me.

<3 Tirzah

When It's Not Worth It

I love those days when you're at the end of your rope, exhausted, stressed, and frazzled, and then God suddenly shows up in an amazing way and completely turns the day around.

And since something like that happened recently, I'm totally sharing it with you guys, because the lessons I learned, and the lessons to be learned from what happened are absolutely worth remembering. 

So, in case you were wondering why I've been rather missing for the past month or so, I've been intermittently working at a tiny, extremely rustic, Christian camp, about 45 minutes from my house. And if you doubt the 'rustic', we sleep in lean-tos or wooden cabins on metal cots with mattresses which are maybe four inches thin.....the kids go on an overnight where there are no bathrooms, and they sleep out on the ground under the stars....and the bathrooms at camp are legitimately one of the most disgusting things I have ever seen. 

Cleaning them? *shudder* Technically it's the handyman's job, but he also has volunteer staff, who are too old to be campers and too young to be counselors and therefore come up for a week or so to help out, called Junior Staff, or J-staff, to help him at certain times throughout the day. But..since they can only hire 8 counselors, sometimes J-staff end up being counselor age, they just weren't hired, or didn't apply soon enough, or any number of factors. 

Anyhows, on this particular week, I happened to be J-staffing. It was a Wednesday afternoon, the handyman this year was notorious for not doing his work and shoving it all off onto J-staff, I was running on complete empty, had had absolutely no time with God alone that entire week, and, since I spent all my free time helping out, had been running nonstop since I arrived, with no breaks. In addition, I was completely and utterly exhausted, and struggling with being back at camp due to all the painful memories from last year. 

It got to the point, where, just prior to my shift with handyman, I handed the cook, who I trusted implicitly and called 'Mama', my knife and lighter because I knew, with the frame of mind I was in, that it was no longer safe for me to be in possession of them. 

Well, I loaded the wheelbarrow/wagon thing with cleaning supplies, and the handyman and I headed off to clean the girls bathroom. I don't remember where the other girl was, who shared my shift, but at that point, her presence was irrelevant since I usually ended up doing all the work anyways. He noticed something was wrong, and asked me if I was okay. Of course I said I was. And of course it was obvious I wasn't. His reply was, 'Well, that's a  lie', which I ignored. 

We got to the bathrooms, and I started cleaning. I honestly don't remember what he did. I think he went to go get something, the other girl showed up at some point, and I gave her a small job which took her the entire time. By the time we had finished cleaning the sinks, toilets, mirrors, doors and walls, and I had grabbed the broom and begun to sweep, he showed up again, and said, "If you do a thorough job sweeping, we don't have to mop today." That was the last straw for me. 

I started genuinely fuming. 'If I do a thorough job!? When have you ever known me to NOT do a good job? I do more in one hour than you do in an entire day. I'm not bragging, but it's a fact that I am a hard worker...unlike YOU...and I'm sick of doing all your work for you...blah...blah....blah....' I was so furious, I gave that bathroom the best sweeping it had seen all summer. I swept every nook and cranny. I swept the walls, I swept down cobwebs, and pretty soon had collected a rather large dust pile. 

That's when I noticed it. 

I pulled it out from a corner, way behind a sink, with the broom, and heard the scrape of metal on concrete. It was a penny, but not just any old penny. 

This penny was black with years' worth of dust, dirt, and grime. It had been behind that sink for goodness knows how long, and was now filthy. The girls bathroom at camp is notorious for overflowing toilets, and other equally gross things, and it had been sitting in all that filth, gradually growing blacker and blacker by the day. 

The handyman walked in, just then, and noticed the penny in my dustpile. He looked at it, realized what it was, then remarked, "If it was a dime or something, I would pick it up. But a penny? On the girls bathroom floor at Camp? It's not worth it." 

Those words, 'it's not worth it', struck me. Who was he to determine the worth of something else and to deem it unworthy of rescue?

So, I reached down, as soon as he had turned his back. and combed through that pile of filth until I came to the penny. I picked it up, brushed off what I could, and then tried to make out the year on the coin. He turned back around, realized what I had done, and asked me what year it was. I couldn't figure out, and after rubbing off some more filth I was surprised to find that it was a dime, not a penny, after all. 

He took it from me, and was able to make out the year. 

The wonder and astonishment and sheer disbelief in his voice when he finally saw what it was, brought a smile of pure joy to my face. 

It wasn't a penny after all. It was a dime. But, what's more, not only was it a dime, the year on it was 1897.

Over a hundred years old, and worth something by anyone's standards.

I may have gloated a wee bit as I took the dime back from him, with an admonishment to "let this be a lesson to you...nothing is 'not worth it'".

That discovery changed my entire day - it completely turned my attitude around and brought a genuine smile to my face.

It also started me thinking about how God does just that for us - he looks at the penny in the filth, the one that everyone despises, scorns, and discards as 'not worth it' - not worth salvation, love, acceptance, or healing - and He reaches down, in His infinite love, picks us up, cleans us off, and restores us.

And sometimes, after spending so long in the pain, we ourselves begin to believe the lie that we're not worth it. I know I did. The pain burrowed so deep into my soul that I became convinced that my life was beyond repair. I've also had those words spoken over me more times than I can count..'It's not worth it to try to save her', 'She'll never be better', 'She's too far gone', 'She can't recover'....

But ultimately, in His eyes, there is no one beyond His reach. There is no place so dark, so shameful, so far that He cannot and will not rescue you, and, in His hands of love, our true worth is revealed. We aren't filthy pennies. We're antique silver coins, over a hundred years old, worth far more than face value by anyone's standards.

Because He takes the pain and makes something wonderful out of it. He welcomes home all who are lost. His love restores, recovers, repairs, and heals.

It's what He did for me.

It's what He wants to do for you....if you'll only let him.

Please let Him. 

"To Save A Life" - Or, On HSLDA and the Rights of the Child.

I've read a lot of blog posts lately slamming HSLDA for being pro parents' rights at the expense of children's rights, protecting abusers, lobbying against mandatory education, and the like.

And quite frankly, I'm sure that probably happens sometimes. Anytime you lobby for the rights of the parent, you risk disregarding the rights of the child, and vice versa. Things slip through the cracks. Granted, there will always be people who abuse both their children and their rights as their children's parents. And mandatory basic education today could become mandatory state education tomorrow. I realize that.

But. I'd like to tell my story, if I may, and perhaps weigh in on my experiences with HSLDA.

So will you give me a few moments of your time?

I thank you.

My birthday is towards the end of winter. February, to be exact. But I'm not a huge fan of the snow.

A month after I turned 16, the depression I had been struggling with for a little over 5 years worsened, due to a painful breakup. I had been self harming for a while, developed an eating disorder, and that, plus the depression, put me in a fairly vulnerable state.

April of that year was the annual MassHOPE Homeschooling Convention, and I donned an armful of bracelets, along with the good girl mask, for a weekend, not really expecting anything positive to come of the convention.

Was I ever wrong.

The Teen Program that year was run by a team from Generation Joshua, the youth branch of HSLDA, and they had set it up in such a way that each teenager was assigned a post, based on his/her capabilities, in either the legislative or executive branch of the American Government, and had to navigate assorted diplomatic and other scenarios both at home and abroad.

It was a blast. My brother and I stayed up late, discussing the day's events and planning for the next day, and mom remarked that she couldn't remember the last time we were both this excited about something school - related. But what I learned from the program, about how the government works, wasn't actually the most memorable thing of the weekend.

He was.

I don't remember when I first noticed him.

Perhaps it was when he was introduced at the beginning, along with the rest of the staff. Perhaps during one of his "passing-out-paper-clips" rounds. Or perhaps the fifth time he stopped by my table to ask how things were coming, and didn't seem to mind how hysterical we all became over the smallest hilarious thing. Or perhaps it was when I heard that my used-to-be-best-friend-who-I-just-met-again-that-weekend slapped him in the face and stole his phone simply because she came back to find him sitting in her chair for a brief moment, and he didn't seem angered by it. Or perhaps it was when, after an hour of asking around, he was still the only other person who knew the difference between the Sunni and the Shia Muslims.

I don't know.

What I do know is that he piqued my curiosity, since he seemed unfazed by the myriad of questions I asked, and after the weekend ended, I found him on Facebook and sent him a friend request.

He responded, and we started talking. I quickly discovered that my first impression of him was accurate. He allowed me to ask questions, encouraged me to keep seeking the truth, and somewhere over the following months we became friends.

I was struck by how non - judgmental he was, and the way he reacted with understanding and compassion, upon learning that I self harmed. He didn't pull away from me, or shun me when I started questioning much of my fundamentalist upbringing, and discarding large portions of it at a time. In fact, he encouraged me to keep questioning and discover the truth for myself. He never unthinkingly touted the party line, and his answers always reflected deep thoughtful contemplation.

He allowed me to ask "why" incessantly, and didn't get irritated or accuse me of trying to pick a fight because of it.

I found myself turning to him more and more with the difficult questions - the ones no one else was willing to tackle along with me. Such as, "Is God male or female, and how do we know?" "Does modesty matter, and why?" "Is 'Christian patriarchy' even Biblical?" "Why is Western Civilization considered the epitome of Christendom?" "Was the Civil War really just over states' rights?" "What about the role of women in the church/home/state?" "Is courtship actually Biblical?" "What about purity?"

To date, he is still the only male to ever take the time to explain and discuss modesty with me.

He never made me feel inferior, never berated me for asking stupid questions, or called me anti-establishmentarian or a rebel, and never made me feel ashamed for being smart and that I had to 'dumb myself down' in order to be understood by him. He never lorded it over me that he was three years older, or treated me like a child.

Rather, he engaged on the difficult questions, and the fun ones, such as westerns, music, hobbies, etc.

When he found out about my eating disorder, he didn't laugh and exclaim that I was skinny enough as it was. Nor did he attempt to solve my self esteem issues with a trite compliment. He reminded me that it was alright to allow scars to heal, and the pain I had experienced was no less real, simply because I no longer had the visible reminders of it.

He broke all the stereotypes.

Slowly, I grew to trust him.

I knew I could safely go to him for sound, yet understanding, advice on basically anything.

Such as the night I messaged him asking what he would tell someone who was planning on ending their life, and he insisted that I tell the person's parents, because suicide is serious, and gave me his phone number in case all else failed.

His insightfulness struck me a few days later when I confessed that I was the suicidal person I had referred to in our earlier conversation, and his first response was that he had had his suspicions, therefore that revelation didn't come as a surprise to him.

That conversation ended with me promising, at his request, not to kill myself. His argument? He wasn't asking me to stop cutting, or start eating. Those things take time, he said. All he asked was that I choose life. So I agreed.

Two days later my father received a phone call from the director of GenJ himself, informing him of the way I was feeling, and that night ended with me in the Emergency Room due to an on-purpose overdose - they called it a failed suicide, and told me I was lucky to be alive.

It seems my friend cared more about whether or not I was alive, than whether or not I hated him forever for telling his boss in order to get me help before it was too late.

He later told me that this wasn't the first time GenJ/HSLDA has had to intervene to save a life, yet, because of client confidentiality, were prohibited from publicizing those stories, and that while I was in the hospital, they had all been praying for me.

Exactly a week after my discharge from the hospital, I turned 17. By this time, I was fairly convinced that I had had my breakthrough - the week I spent in the hospital - and was now healed, and would no longer continue to struggle. And, once again, I was wrong.

My time in the hospital was only a partial fix. It temporarily allowed my issues to be brought to light and addressed, but the underlying unhealthy mindsets, which I remained a slave to, persisted. Within a month of discharge, I found myself once again in the same place where I had been prior to hospitalization - hopeless, despairing, starving, cutting, and isolating myself within the walls of my pain.

But instead of walking out on me, pointing out my failures, or calling me a disappointment due to my seeming inability to recover, my friend insisted that under no conditions would he allow me to push him away and shut him out. He consistently spoke truth to me, even when I had no desire to hear it, and kept telling me, over and over again, to 'never ever ever give up'.

..and that I ought to come to camp.

See, Generation Joshua runs three, week-long, camps,  at various locations around the country, and he apparently felt quite strongly that camp would be a positive experience for me. So, somehow, after much persuasion, I wound up at GenJ camp, in Virgina, for the last week of June.

By the time I made it to camp, I was a mess. I had starved myself for three weeks straight, prior to my arrival at camp, and although I hadn't cut recently, to my shame I lied to him, and packed blades 'just in case'.

But that week blew me away...no, God blew me away. The people I met there were unlike any I had ever experienced before, in the best way possible, and every night, the chapel message left me in tears. It was as though God had decided, at the beginning of the week, that 'Since I have your undivided attention for the entire week, and there is literally no way you can escape me, I am going to pull out all the stops on you...simply because you have been wandering long enough....and it's time to come home.'

And through a series of events far too lengthy and complicated to go into in detail here, He did just that, and by Friday evening, the truth finally broke through to me, and I realized just how much I am loved, not only by others, but by God.

The lessons I learned that week changed everything. I regained my hope, my purpose, my faith, my life! I learned how to recover, and I truly chose recovery. To never ever ever give up. For him. For my family, my friends, and for myself. And by God's grace, I never ever have to go back.

See, I feel like it's so easy to forget that HSLDA is an organization, just like any other, composed of a group of diverse men and women with an overreaching aim to help and protect homeschoolers. There will be differences between their worldviews, and they sure aren't perfect! Abuses will occur, regardless, but abuse happens to public school kids, private school kids, and boarding school kids, also. Some homeschooled children have died. But then again, so have countless kids in the inner city, and heck, even in the suburbs, and where was the government to intervene there? Besides, I know for a fact that neither he, nor anyone he works with, would ever endorse or condone allowing a parent to harm a child.

So, for me at least, HSLDA basically saved my life. Well, my friend really did. But, if he hadn't worked for HSLDA, I doubt he would have told his boss, because his boss would not have known what to do. His boss would never have called my father, and I would probably be dead right now.

I am alive because a young man from HSLDA made the hard decision to save his friends life, even if it meant she might permanently hate him for breaking confidence, and then patiently, unfailingly, walked beside her for the next six or so months until, not only her life, but her soul, was finally saved.

Because his self-styled older sister convinced him to do what he knew was right, despite the cost, and, while at camp, held me when I cried, and allowed me to break down to her as she reminded me of truth, long forgotten, which I now believe again. 

Because his best friend and best friends wife were willing to interrupt their pleasant evening of friends and fellowship in order to join hearts in supplication for the survival of someone they had never even met, and welcomed her later, when we met in real life, with open arms.

Because one of his closest friends, who was also my camp counselor, instead of rejecting me when I came to her with everything I had been struggling with, hugged me, and allowed me to open up safely without fear of misunderstanding.

But, finally, I am alive because the head of GenJ thought that the life of a teenage girl he had only met once was worth a phone call to her father asking him to get help for her before time ran out, which started a chain of events, ending in my salvation.

So, for everyone who says that HSLDA doesn't care about the lives of children, only about the rights of parents, please hear me when I say that I would not be alive right now if it were not for HSLDA.

And for that, I will be eternally grateful.