Three thoughts, none of which were long enough for their own post.
I’m absolutely not a morning person, but I sure am a Sunday person.
On work days I get up at 6:20. When I double check my alarm the night before, I look at that time and feel like it’s impossibly early.
On Sunday mornings I get up at 5:50. And when I see that alarm before I close my eyes, I smile like it’s Christmas Eve. Sometimes I go to bed earlier on Saturdays so it’ll come faster.
It’s pure joy to wake up when it’s still dark and go make Sunday happen. I spring out of bed faster than I do when I’m at the beach and can’t wait to go watch the sunrise, because getting to worship with this big, beautiful family of mine is the best gift.
I’m in one of those seasons where I see Jesus all over my life and I’m happy even when it isn’t Sunday.
When these times last for long enough, usually I would start to get anxious, wondering how long things can possibly stay this good. Brene Brown calls it foreboding joy and it keeps you from actually living the wonderful life that you’re so afraid of losing.
In January I thought I was dying. Not the suicidal kind; simply that my brain was being crushed under the weight of depression to a point where it would soon forget to tell my heart to beat and my lungs to breathe and my body to move, and I’d just die.
Then yesterday I was outside in the perfect weather with my favorite loaner dog and thinking how peaceful this good chapter has been. The kind where I’m so calm and happy that I forget to analyze it at all. And instead of thinking “This is too good to be true and I need to brace myself to wake up in a hole tomorrow,” I started making a list of my favorite moments from the past three depression-free weeks so that if I do get sick again, I can think about how bad things were in January, and how good they got, and remember that it always gets better and God is just as present in the best and the worst.
Also remembering the fact that even at the worst point of January, I never wanted to die. I’ve truly never had an episode go that long and that deep without having to call someone to warn them that I can’t be trusted with my life.
Things are getting much better.
I gave up TV for Lent and then a week later I decided to try Whole 30.
So no Parks and Rec or carbs or cheese. Not a great overlap.
But I’m making space for good things. Maybe I’m eating myself into depression and maybe I’m drowning out Jesus with The Office. I can’t find out if I don’t take away all the things.
So instead of mindlessly putting the TV on while I eat breakfast(which isn’t even long enough to watch a full episode), I read a little more of my Bible or talk to Jesus a little longer. Instead of inhaling half a box of Cheez-its before bed, I either eat a banana or realize I don’t even need to eat anything.
I’m quickly learning that because I never want to remember what I was like in college, I’m terrified to put even a little effort into controlling what I eat. So I’ve hung my emotional security on food because as long as I’m eating like a normal person, I must be okay, right?
It’s possible that I’ll be weird about food for my entire life; this sure is preferable to starving myself but also I’d really rather find that magical land between totally out of control and psychotically controlled.