Tag Archives: Therapy

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.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’ve always been a pencil person. I have a power sharpener by my desk, and I zip a pencil in it every time I so much as jot down an item on my grocery list. Then back into the pencil cup it goes, tip upward, one yellow beast in a bouquet of wrist stabbers.

The Point?

Mistakes get erased. No dull-tipped pencils, and certainly no pens, ever cross my desk. My eraser dies before I run out of graphite, so I keep a pack of extra erasers handy. Because what good is a pencil if you can’t erase mistakes? What good is any writing utensil if it betrays you by revealing your imperfections?

This is, of course, why I have 15 novels sitting here unpublished. When I was in therapy, I told my therapist what I felt my headstone should say.

Here lies Rachel.

She nearly did so many things.

On Valentine’s Day, my friend gave me a gift. A journal and a pack of glitter gel pens. I’ve had some of these babies before. I doodled with them, admiring the slick way they lay down ink, turning the page to watch the sparkles. But I’ve never really written anything with them. Especially not in a wonderful new journal! It’s even my favorite color!

So what was I to do? Every pretty pen I’ve ever owned has dried out, wasted, owned by the wrong girl. A pencil person, unable to shine. Girls like me don’t deserve shimmery ink. Do we?

Trying Something New

Deep breath. It’s just a pen and a journal. The pages can be torn out. I worried that I would have bad penmanship or get behind trying to record a scripture while the pastor was talking. I worried that the ink would bleed through the page. I hate that. I might misspell a word. The horror.

But, wielding a glitter pen, I committed words to the page. And I made a mistake. I knew it! No eraser. I needed to start over, maybe tear it out and rewrite all my notes later. Then it occurred to me that I could take notes in an ugly notebook, in pencil of course, and then transcribe carefully, slowly, into the journal. That’s when I realized that my perfectionism was rearing its ugly head, not only making me feel horrible, but causing me to miss the sermon.

So I stopped. And I wrote this verse, because it was from my re:generation book, and it had hit me just right.

“For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.”

I wrote it in green glitter and then added some red, which made it look like a bad attempt at making it 3D. But I didn’t care. I’m free. Flawed, but loved. I went back to my sermon notes and scribbled out my error, and it made a nice little glittery blob on the page. Man, you could really see the sparkles in a blob! Beauty from ashes.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’m officially a glitter pen girl now. I still try to turn my mistakes into perfect round spots, or even better, hearts or flowers. But I’m not so worried about erasing everything now.

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.

Humility

I’ve noticed a pattern in my recovery that isn’t exactly following the steps in the re:generation books. They say to trust the process, so I’ve been doing that. But today I feel it’s important to point out that even trusting the process can be problematic. At least if you take it literally. For my current struggle, I need to rephrase it.

Trust God to work in you through the process.

I know I’m nitpicking here, but it makes a huge difference in a mind like mine. (Still working on the perfectionism.)

Themes – My Personal Steps

When I first started Groundwork, I also did a women’s Bible study on the book of Isaiah. I’m an overachiever, often teased for my tendency to get ahead of the lessons and finish first. But I was seeking God, and I heard a message loud and clear.

Rest

So I did. I had my gallbladder removed during that study, but it wasn’t why I didn’t complete the work. I simply needed rest. I stopped filling in my book halfway through, and then I even fasted from writing from Thanksgiving to New Year.

The next theme was trust. I couldn’t have released my story had I not completed this step. This one is straight out of my re:gen work, so I do see the process there. I believe the process works. But my next theme has me reevaluating some things.

Creator vs. Created

In my previous post, I mentioned my quiet time routine. There are several components, and sometimes I’m in the Word for a couple hours before I start my writing. This is huge for me, because I had long held the belief that my best writing happened first thing in the morning. I was dogmatic about it. I’m still really glad I gave this over, because I see great changes coming from a switch in my priorities.

However …

I didn’t mean to do it, but I feel like I gave credit for my heart change to that process. This understanding came to me through a couple things other people said, which generated thoughts in my head that didn’t belong there.

One was a comparison between how I study and how someone else does. As she was speaking, I started thinking her way is better. I would get better faster if I did what she was doing. Oops! That’s putting my trust in a routine. What I’m doing works for me.

The other was something my husband said, which sent my thoughts in the opposite direction. He said I was doing better than he was. It’s not like him to say something like that, to compare at all, so I stewed over it. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He was proud of me. It felt nice, but again, my thoughts lingered on the process.

Humility

My next theme is humility. I have to stop thinking I have things figured out.

I’ve always had confidence in my ability to figure things out. I felt like I had done that. Starting my day right, in the Word, kicked me off for success, and my heart was getting all lined up. And I still think that’s true. My relationship with God is getting stronger every day.

But I’ve become ritualistic. When I have to stop in the middle of my quiet time to address something, I feel angry about it, as if part of my joy for the day has been stolen from me. My joy shouldn’t come from a routine.

I’m not sure what will change as a result of this revelation. And I don’t mind that at all.

Who Do I Think I Am?

Imposter Syndrome

Inevitably, it got me. Yesterday was so good. I felt surrounded by love and support. I was sure great things were about to happen. Then comes the drop. I know the roller coaster analogy is overused, but it’s only because it’s so accurate. I’m in free fall. Today I’m asking myself why I thought I could be a writer. Who do I think I am?

It happens to all writers, they say, and I think it’s true. Maybe there are some who are so well-adjusted, or so weathered, they can share their work without a moment of doubt. Some may just be that arrogant. It’s not really a sign that I’m a fraud. It’s a sign that I’m doing something difficult.

It’s stopping me from working today. I have plenty to do. I could schedule more episodes, work on season 4, take a gander at other projects that are ready to get their start, or do this. Dump my day-after blues on my blog. I chose this because I want to be raw and real. Also, because writing through my anxieties seems to calm them.

Footprint

Part of my re:gen work includes writing a letter to my future self. It’s perfect, because I say all the time on my good days that I need to find a way to communicate my temporary clarity to myself on my bad days. I wrote my first footprint last week, on a good day. So why not check it out? I definitely need some clarity.

I won’t share it all here, because it’s long. But the last part spoke to me, and maybe it will speak to someone else.

Remember on the bad days that the devil wants to knock you down. He’s rubbing his hands together now, because your cup is getting full. You don’t have to fight him, because the battle belongs to the LORD.

Do It Scared

Advice From a Pro

I went to my first meeting with a writers’ group last weekend. I’ve been writing off and on since I was twelve years old, so this was long overdue. The guest speaker is a friend of mine from an online writers’ group. She gave me some advice when I told her how afraid I was to take the next steps with my work.

Do it scared!

I told my husband and my re:generation group what she said, and everyone agreed. It’s time for me to go for it. I wanted to change the message and say I would do it brave. That sounds better to me. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized they’re the same thing. I put my characters through all manner of difficulty, forcing them into their storms. But I’ve got hundreds–yes HUNDREDS– of episodes ready to go, and I’m sitting on them. Not even putting a toe into the wind.

I went to Kindle Vella to set up an account, just to get ready for when I worked up the nerve to publish. And before I knew it, my story was live. Brave, scared, or just plain stupid, I’m not sure yet. But it’s there. I don’t know if I’m more afraid I’ll be seen or that I won’t be. It’s not exactly negative feedback that I fear. It’s my reaction to it. I’m a sort-of anti-Sword of Gryffidor. I only take on that which makes me weaker. I definitely need to turn that around.

Armored Up

To keep moving forward, I have to remind myself daily that I’m not alone. I wrote out a list of the people God has placed around me, and it’s overwhelming. My re:gen girls, my CG, my WBS girls, my WANA peeps, my family. It goes on and on. How did I feel so alone only a few months ago? Maybe by hiding in the closet in my closet?

No more hiding! Nicole and I are stepping out together. Into the storm.

Cover art, girl walking into dark woods holding a lantern

Shady Creek, Season 1 of the Carousel Series

Step One

Admit

I’m nailing this whole blogging thing, right? I’ve finished groundwork and am already in a re:generation closed group, starting week two of step one, and I haven’t shared anything since … well, whenever. I considered giving up on this whole thing and admitting that I’m not a blogger. I’m not, after all. I prefer to write what I want, when I want. So basically, I’m spoiled. But that’s not even what I’m working on in re:gen.

My Struggles

I spent a lot of time figuring out why I was there, aside from being pestered into it. Kidding, but not kidding. Now, I’ve narrowed down my list to the bare bones of what’s putting the hitch in my get-along. I’m told it will change as I continue the steps, but right now, I feel like I know what I need to work on.

My intro goes like this:

“I’m Rachel, and I have a new life in Christ. I struggle with perfectionism, low self-esteem and fear of success.”

Yeah, you read that right. Fear of success. But I’m not going to dive into that one yet. I don’t even understand it. What I do understand is that I spent entirely too much time deliberating whether or not to use the Oxford Comma in my list of struggles.

Ah, perfectionism.

Some of you love that comma, and some of you hate it. You may think one way is correct, and the other is incorrect. Some of you are googling Oxford Comma. And now I’m stressed out, because I can’t please everyone.

I can lose hours on a single comma. And I’m a fiction writer! We use commas like rests in a sheet of music, and that’s totally okay. Fragments are super cool. Like this! But my persuasive paper writing brain wants to get involved and tell me that I’ll alienate readers if I don’t follow the rules.

I think I just accidentally figured out why I fear success. At least part of it. It’s so much easier not to worry about what people think when no one knows I exist.

Loneliness Beckons

Sink or Float

All week long, I’ve circled the pool, eyeing the water and coming close to dipping a toe in. But not quite. A dip will break the surface. There are things under there that can grab me. The water is still, so I can see what’s below. Some of the things I tied down with bricks are working their way up. Doubts. I consider confronting them, but I’m not sure if they’ll sink or if I will.

There are things left unsaid. They’ll find their way onto the pages of someone else’s story. Nicole’s, most likely. But what about my story? I’m trying so hard not to hear the doubts. They’re clever and convincing. They play chess with emotions. Say it or don’t say it. Chew on it. Hide. Don’t lie, but don’t ever come completely out of the cave. There’s that little secret thing that makes it where you can exit quietly and then be angry when no one notices. Hold that like an ace up your sleeve so you can use it again when things get iffy. Hold onto it like your therapist can’t see it. But maybe she does. Maybe she has all along. If you hide it today, it has to stay hidden.

Loneliness waves from the shadows and crooks his finger. He’s so predictable that it’s almost comforting to think about curling up with him. He doesn’t ask questions or criticize. He wants company badly enough to accept anyone. It’s so easy.

I don’t want to go to him, so I dip my toes in the water. “Let’s do this.”

Missing the Murky

I wrote the piece above months ago when I was about to stop going to therapy. It was the only thing I wrote during that time that I never shared with my therapist. The lure of loneliness is strong. If it becomes your crutch, you can actually miss it when you start doing better.

I’ve been studying the gift of desperation this week, both in re:generation and in my women’s Bible study. And I see a pattern in my past. When I think I’ve beaten my demons, I stop seeking help. And then I wander back into my cave, at first out of habit, and then out of fear. I don’t have to tell anyone how I’m feeling when I’m there. I don’t have to deal with how I’m feeling.

Trust the Process

They say it all the time and even comment on how often they say it. Trust the process. After six weeks, I feel so strong, not tempted by my cave. I feel connected to my group leaders and fellow group members. My habits are better, my quiet time is solid. I’m even praying again. It would be so easy now to throw out my chest and declare myself well. We have a few bottles of antibiotics in our medicine cabinet with one or two pills left in them for this exact reason. When the symptoms settle, we think we’re healed.

But I’m staying the course, trusting the process. There really are things still tied down that I’m not excited to see coming to the surface. But I’m going to face them, and I’m not alone.

Your Thoughts

Do you find isolation comforting?

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