Tag Archives: Depression

The Pinkish Cup

Am I crazy? You be the judge.

I recently confided to my bestie that I might actually be bonkers. Maybe not diagnosable, but at the very least, missing some mental hardware.

My Confession

I’m sure we all have quirks we don’t talk about. Maybe everyone experiences moments of doubt about their sanity. We talk to ourselves, possibly even to inanimate objects.

But does everyone try not to hurt a cup’s feelings? Because that’s what I do.

I’m sharing this, not because I really believe I’m crazy, but because I think I just figured out that I’m not. Bestie told me when I confessed this bit of weirdness to her that I’m not crazy. She’s a therapist, so she knows what she’s talking about.

But I don’t take anyone else’s word for it. I had to do this myself.

Therapy is good. So is not needing it anymore. Knowing when you’ve stopped needing it is key.

I’ve stopped doing EMDR, stopped seeing a therapist at all. I figured out that I work through the process naturally now. Most people gain that ability after a while, but I did it fast. It’s probably because I’m a writer, always seeking hidden connections and the ever-elusive why? In this case …

Why do I try not to hurt a cup’s feelings?

You may not be ready for the why yet. I’m sure the how has eluded you. Yes, I’m aware that cups don’t have feelings. In my brain, I’m aware. But my practice suggests it hasn’t quite squared up in my heart.

How to Hurt a Cup’s Feelings

I have a coffee mug warmer. Aside from my towel warmer, it’s the best gift my husband has ever given me. Now I can sip hot coffee all day with nary a visit to the microwave. It also allowed me to narrow my collection of lidded coffee mugs down to two. Anything that couldn’t sit on the warmer had to go.

My minimalist son would say one cup is enough. He’d toss out the less preferred one with no regard for its feelings. But I kept two, and they sit side-by-side in the cabinet. One is red and white striped, the other pinkish with faded print that once proclaimed Mommin’ Ain’t Easy.

The two cups are the same shape, weight, and size. They feel the same in my hand and on my lips. They maintain equal toastiness. They’re both faded to the point of ugliness. The pinkish one enjoyed its hay day when I had a daughter, the red and white one after I lost her.

Don’t get sidetracked!

My feelings about Izzy are not the point of this post. I’ve processed the love and loss of the foster child I dreamed of adopting. I don’t think I avoid the pinkish cup because of some unresolved pain associated with it. A future post may refute this claim, but it’s still not the point.

I choose the red and white cup every time it’s available. And I feel bad every time.

The worst is when the pinkish one is in the cabinet alone, but I know the red and white one is clean. I must either settle for the pinkish one or close the cabinet on it and go get the red and white one from the dishwasher. There’s no hiding the rejection when I choose the latter.

I’m feeling a sickness in my tummy as I type this. How must the pinkish cup feel when I close the door on it? It’s right there waiting for me, oh-so-convenient, but I go out of my way to choose the other.

I’m crazy, right?

I’m not stupid, after all. I know the pinkish cup feels the way all cups feel. Like cups, which don’t feel. The problem isn’t what I know.

It’s how I feel. Guilty. Cruel. Icky. Then stupid for feeling that way. What’s wrong with me? Do I actually have to overthink everything?

Yes, actually. It’s what EMDR trained me to do. That may not be an accurate assessment of EMDR. I’m not a therapist. But it’s the best way I can relate how I experience this process.

I take something I view incorrectly, like that I can hurt a non-feeling object’s feelings, and seek out why I see it that way. This requires me to be still and quiet, to allow myself to feel things I hate, to think things that come up while I feel that way, and to let connections writhe around until they click together.

What I realized today is that I don’t feel sorry for the less-loved cup. I AM the less-loved cup.

Once I made that connection, I went out onto my patio and got very still and quiet. I let all the memories that support my false-belief that I’m less-loved come to the surface. I watched them weave themselves together, creating a pathetic, but somehow convincing, story about my lessness.

And like magic, the straw appeared. You know the one. Its back-snapping weight is legendary. I isolated the single event that took my penciled-in ugly self-view and carved it in stone.

Favorite is a Four-letter Word

I knew I wasn’t either of my parents’ favorite child. I wasn’t my teachers’ favorite student. I had the Jan Syndrome, caused by a superior older sibling.

But there was one person I felt confident about. Granny Jacobs. I wasn’t her favorite. I couldn’t be, but neither could anyone else, because she didn’t have them. And that was enough for me. Loved equally was my happy place.

Until it wasn’t.

The Straw

We’d planned to give Granny a special gift. I don’t recall what it was or for what occasion, but it was a big deal. We didn’t buy it. We made it. One of those paint-it-yourself crafts. Since I was the most gifted artist in the family (meaning I colored in the lines, drew decently, and had mastered the art of putting dots at the corners of my letters) I did the work.

And since I’m the dramatic princess that I am, I planned out the giving of the gift as well, casting myself in the lead role. Princess Rach would place the gift into Granny’s hands.

My work garnered praise. My plan, not so much. I probably needed to be brought down a notch, but what actually happened was far worse. It turned me into a pinkish cup.

“Tim should give it to her,” I was told.

I’m sure I asked why. My heart has a fist on it right now as I recall trying to understand why my masterpiece would be better delivered by Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.

“Because it will mean more coming from him. He’s her F***rite.”

Little Rach tumbled down the rabbit hole, tiara askew, when she discovered she was less-loved, even in the most sacred place. In Granny’s perfect, non-favoring heart.

No one knew what happened to me that day. Not even me. But some forty years later, I’m still tumbling, grasping, disoriented, convinced that someone else could occupy my space better than I can.

I’m pinkish, but I’m no cup.

Am I less-loved? Or do parents sometimes say things without thinking and miss the holes they punch into their children’s hearts? I know I’ve done it. It’s possible the dreaded f-word wasn’t even used and that’s just how I understood it and now translate it. It’s also possible that no one favored my Marcia.

Oh, the journey I’m on! It seems, despite powerful prepubescent evidence to the contrary, I may not be a cup at all. I may be more loved than I’ve ever known.

A Time for Everything

No Time Like the Present?

Or no time BUT the present? I live in a constant state of frantic hurry, chasing moving targets, burning myself out. I take pictures so I can look back, forgetting to look around in the moment. I nearly did that today, even after my son counseled me last night to slow down.

Take deep breaths. Clean out the clutter in my mind.

Time to Celebrate!

I published the final episode of Summer, According to Sam today. The book was finished years ago, accepted for publication, and run through the entire editing process. So I could just shrug and not make a thing of this.

But it is a thing. A thing that made me weep with joy today … and I nearly didn’t tell anyone. I nearly didn’t write about it. If you’ve read the story, especially the final episode, the reason for this post will be obvious to you.

I’ve been doing some thinking, the same way Sam did.

Time to Make Amends

It’s easy to forget that people love me and that it hurts them to watch me struggling. I’ve made no secret of my fight to find joy again, to even want to be here at all. I’m not sorry for that, because I believe people need to know they’re not alone. I believe in being truthful. The part I regret is how rarely I share my good days. Days like this one.

Writing is therapy to me, so naturally, I do it more when I’m low. Even now, I’d rather get up and do something else. The house is half-decorated for Christmas, there are dishes in the sink, and I still have two stories to update on Vella.

But here I pause. And I say thank you. Thank you to my readers, to my family, to my herd, to my Father. Thank you for good days and second and third and fourth chances.

Flat on My Back

Last week was rough. I feel less like I’m on a roller coaster now and more like I’m on a seesaw. Still up and down, but not nearly as exciting.

Re:generation is hard. Inventory is hard. I thought I had knocked it out. On the first week of inventory, I got a hotel room and plowed through it. I even wrote insightful little summaries about each category. Then I found out I had skipped an important step. I had to face some hard stuff–stuff I didn’t even want to think about, let alone share with my group.

I hadn’t knocked it out. It had knocked me out.

Back to Start

Inventory again. Not where I wanted to be. Instead of getting another hotel room, I visited my childhood church, intending to approach my new problem using an old, trusted method.

There used to be these huge cement tables behind the building. Once when I was young, I spent hours lying on my back on one of those tables, asking God for help. I had nowhere to live and no idea what I was going to do. I think back to that day when I’m at my lowest, and I remember feeling like God met me there. So it seemed a great place to visit.

After packing up all my re:gen stuff, I drove to Providence, Texas. I needed a date with God, lying flat on my back. I brought a plastic table cloth, because the last time I had seen the tables, they were covered in weird fungi and droppings from the trees. Nothing was going to stop me climbing up there.

And this is where the tables used to be.

Rerouting …

Now I’d driven more than an hour to lie on a table that didn’t exist anymore. I stood there and cried about it for a minute, feeling rejected. The same way I felt the last time I was there. I showed up for my date, but where was God?

Not knowing what else to do, I went around the building, searching for a place to sit that might mean something to me. But I’m allergic to wasps, and they seemed to be in all the cozy places. Alone, no EpiPen, hardly a signal on my phone, I wasn’t risking getting stung.

I took a few pictures as I wandered.

I love taking pictures, but it wasn’t what I came for. So I kept walking, eventually into the cemetery. Providence is a small community, so I knew a lot of the names on the headstones. It was nice, and a little sad, to think of them. I loved this broken headstone that used to say GONE HOME.

Reading Into Things

I wondered if God was telling me to go home. I couldn’t do what I came for. I wasn’t really trying to accomplish anything specific anymore. Just reminiscing, trying to make some use of what felt like a pointless trip.

And then I came across this, and it brought me to my knees. I knew Carolyn and Buddy were there, because I had been to their funerals. But this was the first time I saw their headstone.

They were the answer to that prayer I prayed the day I was on the table. Carolyn came and got me and took me home with her.

A New Perspective

Maybe not completely new. I’ve come to the conclusion many times that my story isn’t one of abandonment, but one of rescue. It’s easy to lose perspective when you’re listing every horrible thing that ever happened to you.

This was the reminder I needed. I’m not doing this alone. I can’t see the full plan yet, but there is one. God showed up for our date, just not where I thought He would. His plan was better than mine, as usual.

I wasn’t supposed to lie on a crusty table, focusing on feeling lost and alone. He wanted me to remember that when I’m flat on my back, I should be on my knees. Still looking up, but also forward, because there’s something good on the way.

I made a little wildflower bouquet for Carolyn and Buddy, and then I spent some time right there, thanking them both for what they did for me. And I’m still processing why I also felt like I needed to apologize to them. I’ll be working on feeling like a burden for a while yet, I’m afraid. But at least I know I need to work on it.

Leaving it Behind

The last picture I took is a reminder to myself to put the past where it belongs. I have to dig some stuff up in my recovery process, but I don’t have to dwell on it. I certainly don’t have to relive it. It’s time to let it go.

Inventory

The re:gen book asked for my first impression of the inventory process. Usually, I find narrowing down my response difficult. I can write thousands of words in minutes, but summaries slay me. Today, not so much. In a word:

NO

In a few more words:

NO NO NO NO NO

I don’t want to leave it there. Someday, some unsuspecting person might fall onto my blog. Maybe they’ll find it because they’re starting re:gen and want to get an idea what it’s like. Maybe they’ll find me when the group starts whispering about inventory. And I don’t want to scare anyone away. Heck, I’ll probably be the one who sent them here. Having survived, I’ll look back at this post and chuckle wisely. So let me clarify.

Just kidding. But seriously, I’m not looking forward to this. And to make matters worse, a storm came through last night and caused us to shut down the church on the very evening we were supposed to be trained to do inventory. Trained and encouraged, which I NEEDED.

If you’re an enneagram person, let me explain by giving you my number.

1

If you’re not an enneagram person, let me explain what it means to be a one. I need order. I need to know how to do a thing correctly before I can do the thing. I’m driven by a need to make things better. Straighter. Cleaner. PERFECT. Hence, the re:gen journey. I’m doing re:gen to work on perfectionism. And now I’m supposed to start the one part of the experience that kept me from signing up long ago … without training?

I’ve never felt so connected to Bill Murray in my life.

If you haven’t seen Groundhog Day, I judge you. Don’t worry, I’ll beat myself up for it in my inventory.

Change – The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Some things never change. Depending on circumstance, I may see that as a good thing or a bad one. Today I feel torn.

The Good

This week, I’ve been filled with joy. People have commented on it. I radiate joy, they say. And it’s true. I’m in a much better place now, relying on God. I’ve released so many things into more capable hands.

I earned my first bonus on Kindle Vella. A tiny paycheck, but a victory for me. It isn’t the journey I once dreamed of, but it’s sufficient for me. More than sufficient if my behavior is any indication. I ran through the house celebrating.

The Bad

My lesson today forced me to look at my patterns. It was good timing, because I was in a funk last night. After gushing with excitement in group Thursday night, proclaiming that I had unlocked the secret to being joyful in all circumstances, I found myself slumped on the couch, my arms crossed, refusing to laugh at my favorite sitcom the very next night. Actually resisting feeling good.

The Ugly

So have I changed? I need to, because the person whose attitude toward me keeps bringing me down isn’t going to. I’m so close to getting past the thing that’s holding me back. How one person sees me. This person’s view of me is neither good, nor bad, nor ugly.

It is indifferent.

One person, who doesn’t hear me or see me, no matter what I say or do, has the power to steal my joy.

That has to change.

I Don’t Want To Be Here

I went through therapy a while back, thinking I was there to overcome depression brought on by the loss of my daughter. Of course, there were other issues, but I felt like it all came down to losing Izzy. Even now, my heart clenches when I type her name. It’s racing a bit. Full stop. I’ll have to take a break before I can finish this.

Rachel McMahon, Rach McMahon, therapy, anxiety, depression, baby toes

Hello Anxiety

The reason I needed therapy came down to the loss of one specific individual, but it wasn’t my daughter. It was me. I had no idea who I was or what I wanted. My days were filled with regret and fear. What I thought was depression was really anxiety, and it had complete control of my thoughts. I didn’t believe good things could happen. I was convinced that the best thing I could do was get out of the way so I didn’t infect others with my hopelessness. So I hid. I’ve always been good at hiding.

hiding, rach mcmahon, rachel mcmahon, anxiety
When hiding almost kills you

Hide and Don’t Seek

March of 2020. I was killing it, coordinating Journey Groups (support groups) at my church, sharing my pain, loving my ministry. And along came the virus, and everyone scattered. I had just made it through the first two months without my daughter, and suddenly all my support was gone. Hate has never been in short supply online, but it really ramped up then. I made an effort to be heard, but my opinion wasn’t popular. So off I went, into my cave. And when the rest of the world started venturing out, I stayed in the shadows.

Rachel McMahon, Rach McMahon, depression, hiding, axiety, therapy

Ten straight months of begging God to kill me. I needed help. That help came in the form of a neighbor who saw me and not only suggested therapy, but made it happen for me. I nearly canceled my first appointment. A therapist couldn’t get my daughter back. She couldn’t take Autism from my sons. She couldn’t un-waste my life.

But I couldn’t throw away what had been given to me. So I went, ears perked for anything that triggered my alarms, anything that told me therapy was just another way for someone to take my money and not help me. Somehow, she navigated her way safely through my minefield of distrust. She found little Rachel and helped her out of the fetal position.

recovery, therapy, Rachel McMahon, Rach McMahon, anxiety, depression

Deep Breaths

Sometimes when I need a good cry, I imagine myself in that room, sitting across from the woman who helped me unpack forty-five years of self-doubts and cumulative trauma. I learned in that space how to find and conquer the lies that were deeply embedded in my brain. Lies that spawned my fiction, yes, but that also trapped me there. Because I couldn’t even create magical problems I didn’t prefer over my real life.

I've had worse, arm cut off, Rachel McMahon, Rach McMahon

I’ve been out of therapy for several months now, and I’m realizing that mental health is like any other discipline. It takes practice. My joy-seeking muscles have atrophied. Anxiety has crept back into my routine, and my tools are largely forgotten. I write my pain into my fiction, but all too often, I find that my attitude is starting to align with that of my flawed characters. I’m starting to not want to be here. Wallowing in ugly thoughts instead of taking them captive. I’ve said the actual words, my face aimed skyward, heart closed off to the god I’m not always convinced is listening.

I don’t want to be here.

I’ve been asking myself for weeks what I should blog about. Photography, special needs, writing. My word cloud suggests I should write about hidden spaces and mysteries. I considered that, but on closer inspection, I noticed something else in my cloud. Between the mentions of secret passages and enchanted forests—things that excite me—the darkest part of me calls out that she still needs help. She’s drowning. So I’m going to dive in. Get raw and real.

Rachel McMahon, Rach McMahon, drowing, anxiety, depression, therapy

I know I’m under here somewhere

First confession: I still don’t like myself. I’m not even going to try to fix that today. It’s a big mess with too many components to fit into one blog entry, and I seriously want to open my manuscript and write about my character’s struggles right now. She’s much more interesting than I am. So I’m leaving it here, at the start of a journey that will hopefully help me to find joy again. I have a long way to go. In this blog, I’ll travel down the dark corridors of my broken mind. I’ll tell the ugly truth. And maybe someone will be touched by it.

What are your thoughts? Have you tried therapy? Did it work for you, and if so, are you still thriving?

I Don’t Want To Be Here