Whit's End

This story is my attempt to provide evidence that God is trustworthy and more than able to help. Like many people, I had to spend forty years wandering around in the wilderness before I actually let Him guide me in the best ways for me to live. These pages contain first-hand, eyewitness evidence that God’s way is a much better way to go than my own heart may dictate -- but who knew? Who knew that:  Life is hard (nobody is exempted and nobody’s to blame)  God will intervene if we’ll let Him, and therefore  Miracles happen It is my goal to show that God’s mercy and grace overtook this one, downwardly spiraling life and pointed my face upward, away from my own belly-button, and toward Him. May these pages encourage others who may be wandering in circles as I was, who might not yet be physically dead but hungry and angry and lonely and tired -- and pretty much dead lost. God came to me personally and taught me to unlearn everything I had been taught about self-sufficiency (and self-driven anything). He brought hope to someone who had no hope left, someone who now confidently hopes in things unseen. Sample Excerpt By accepting the responsibility in the first place, I had made a major error. Even my sponsor said she thought I should resign, but I did not dare to throw away the only full-time job we had in our home. It was the only “paddle” we had left in our canoe at that point. So again I just kept paddling, believing I had no choice. Eventually, it all proved to be too much for me, and began to, quite literally, take my breath away. I was having trouble getting enough air. I was so tired I could not sleep at night. I would often come home late at night, exhausted, yet be wide awake as soon as I set my head onto the pillow. My eyes would pop open as though I were afraid of getting ambushed or something if I, for one minute, were to let myself get off guard. I think that persisted for two years. Weekends came to be synonymous with errands: food shopping, cleaning, laundry, and yard work. Barry was working his Twelve-Step program and now had a part-time job. That made it hard for me to justify feeling as angry as I did about the rat race in which I had found myself, especially when Barry was doing everything he could. But I was angry. Here I was, stuck with being the “driver” of this family, at least financially. It was a role I did not want but kept inheriting, over and over again. Being the breadwinner was like a hot potato. Ned, still a tiny child, was simply coming along for the ride and, so far, seemed pretty much unscathed. But I was not. I was scathing. Seething. I had started to perceive both Ned and Barry as items to be checked off my To Do List. In time, Barry was not only doing the shopping; he was also making dinner, cleaning up, washing the laundry, walking the dog, and doing just about everything else --plus attending Twelve-Step meetings faithfully, as he struggled against the pull of a persistently alluring “dis – ease.” How could a wife -- a good wife, that is -- be angry with that? But I was. Sometimes Barry was looking like Miracle Man to me, not only winning his daily battle over alcohol, but also doing more than his fair share without resentment. But I was tired -- tired to the bone. Ned was busy attending Maria’s Day Care from 8 am until 6 pm, learning to interact with other children, eating Maria’s marvelous pasta soups, and taking afternoon naps every day. Naps! I was jealous, because sleep, for me, was a lost art. Then, with virtually no warning, I collapsed. In the middle of the night, I had a terrifying experience: my heart racing so fast, I thought I was having a heart attack; my brain unable to think, the pitch dark too bright for my eyes. I could not swallow; all I could do was cry. It was as though the bathtub spigot had been turned onto full blast. It was a big spigot, and the anguish poured noisily out, tumbling in waterfalls of anger, sadness, frustration, and fear. I went downstairs to the den in order to avoid frightening Ned or Barry and shivered there, under blankets, after I’d pulled down all the shades. Even then, it was too bright. I got more blankets and hid under them. Even the slightest sliver of brightness was too much for my eyes to take in. This was an attack on my body. I scrunched my eyes shut and shivered and cried. I was like that when Barry came downstairs in the morning, innocently wondering where I’d gone during the night, expecting to find me reading or doing some project. Instead he found a weeping, quivering heap. I could tell from his voice that he was concerned. "You do not look good, honey," he said softly. "You do not look good." His gentleness surprised me. It was as though he’d been expecting something like this. I couldn’t swallow or open my eyes, so I must have been a scary sight to Barry, who had considered me his helpmate and partner for twenty-five years. Here I was now -- useless, limply nodding to the words he spoke. I must have looked scary, my long hair all disheveled, my body shivering underneath a blanket. Barry immediately contacted our therapist who saw me right away, pronouncing words neither one of us had expected to hear: "Depression," she said, adding the dreaded diagnosis: "Nervous breakdown." Sleep and total rest were recommended, as if I had a choice. After a few days and nights under blankets in the darkened den, I progressed to the living room, where there were no shades in the room. I was still unable to eat — I literally could not swallow! It felt like my esophageal muscles were moving the wrong direction! Also, my brain felt so tired that I could not connect thoughts into anything resembling a solid think. Resuming Twelve-Step meetings was also recommended, though it was going to require a full day for me to muster enough energy to attend one. I telephoned someone for a ride, as I could not retain what day it was, or even where I was, much less where I was going. As I waited for that first ride back to a Twelve-Step meeting, I picked up the Word of God and read randomly. Coincidentally, it was the part where Jeremiah gets in trouble and is thrown into the miry depths of a deep, dark well. I understood exactly about that place — that’s where I was — way, way down at the bottom of a long, dark, deep and very narrow shaft. All I could see from there was a tiny speck of light -- way, way far away — up there in the distance. I knew the light was God, and I called out to Him. "Here I am, Lord," I squeaked, knowing He was my only hope. If He could not retrieve me, no one could.