Yesterday the doctor told me all my tests were clear. I have a clean bill of health.
My first thought was: thank you, Lord.
My second thought was: Oh, God. Please no.
I know it might sound strange, but I wanted IT, whatever IT is, to be something identifiable, something diagnosable. That is, something medically wrong. A vitamin deficiency, some kind of disease.
Not "just" exhaustion. Not actual depression.
That's too humiliating. And also, according to the voices of my past, not real. Exhaustion and depression aren't real problems–they're symptoms of weak faith, of failure to trust God.
In radical fundamentalism (and perhaps in many Christian groups), a Christian mother suffering under the weight of physical and mental exhaustion is an embarrassment. She has sort of betrayed the cause. She's bringing shame to the image of the Ideal Christian Family.
This is why I would rather my physical problems be anything other than "just" exhaustion.
But that's what this is. And part of this whole process is about learning to accept what is. It's also about honesty, truth and laying aside prideful pretense.
I don't need to pretend anymore. I used to live by formulas and idealism. I thought that if I just did x,y and z, I would be guaranteed a certain result. I bought the lie of Perfect Motherhood because I wanted it to be true.
A friend told me that when people are confronted with the cracks in their formulas, either they try to cover it up with more formulas or they come clean.
I'm not going to cover my brokenness up with more formulas.
This is me, coming clean.
This is me exhausted. This is me depressed.
This is me willing to do whatever it takes to get better.
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