My soul is on sabbatical
A boxer, splash pads, Bluey goes to The Creek, and a year-long career hiatus
Hello!
I’m writing to you from my in-law’s home office, trying to ward off a 9-month boxer my father-in-law just adopted from crawling into my lap. This hyperactive boy is convinced he’s the size of a Shih Tzu (I think not).
Anyway, this year has looked nothing like I expected it to.
I’ve been pretty vulnerable on topics surrounding my psychosis episodes because as I’ve recently read in a Necessary Salt by Joy Sullivan essay, it’s best to “write what you wish you DIDN’T know.”
I wish I didn’t know the ins and outs of a mental hospital. I wish I didn’t know what it felt like to lose touch with reality. I wish I didn’t know the terrifying struggle of fighting against the spiritual forces of evil and principalities.
But I do.
So as a means of healing over the past few months, I’ve shared a handful of those stories and experiences:
If Jesus were a guest
“Come on in,” I gesture Jesus inside. I hope he’s impressed by the dovetail white walls— I painted them just for Him. It's different than an eggshell white, surely. I figured He’s the type to enjoy those kinds of subtleties. Thanks for reading Less Noise, Low Whispers! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
The shame spiral
I’m not a therapist. My family jokes I am one for being such a “good listener” but I don’t find it amusing. Listening is one of many skills I share with a therapist, but nothing further. A therapist, on the other hand, is a licensed mental health professional. An individual who can ask how your week’s been going and seamlessly transition to the fear of …
On the concrete with Trinity
When you’re in a behavioral center, psych ward, mental hospital—whatever you want to call it—the days start to blur. You can either sit inside and watch Young Sheldon or go outside to the basketball court. I chose the outdoors often. So much so that I ended up sunburnt during my “stay” because I tried to perfect my ability to make a free throw.
I have plenty of words left to bleed on the page, and in due time, I’m sure I will. But I’ve done some reflecting and I’m ready to say this out loud: it’s time to give this wound a rest.
At least for a little while.
My #1 intention for joining Substack was to heal through writing and find my way back to the craft. Part of that healing process means having the courage to move forward and to perhaps write about topics beyond my grief and loss and shame because praise God I’m finally seeing a way out of it.
Aside from psychotic episodes that uprooted my life, I’m okay.
Really, I’m okay.
Summer is in full swing around here. For starters, I’ve toddled with my 7-month-old around the same splash pads I used to play in as a little girl and it’s ignited in me a childlike wonder I forgot existed.
Consider this your friendly reminder: if you take a baby to a splash pad, don’t be naive and think you won’t change a poopie diaper. Take it from someone who cleaned poop off her lap mere minutes after drying off.
Bluey also finds itself on our television screen a lot these days.
My husband called me over the other day saying, “Honey, come watch this Bluey episode with me!” I set aside what I was doing and joined Shane as he warmly reminisced on his childhood, recalling the hours he’d spent wandering through the woods and lost in his imaginative worlds.
The episode is affectionately called The Creek if you’d like to check it out:
In other news, my little family and I stayed with my in-laws for two and a half months to help with the transition after my discharge, but we’re finally back home now—yay!
It used to irritate me before, but the daily monotony of grocery shopping and laundry and dishes and cooking dinner again is oddly comforting.
It makes me feel like things are back to normal.
Well, except for the whole how-do-I-make-an-income thing.
As a recap, I closed down my copywriting business of four years and have taken an administrative role in my husband’s business until I figure out what my next move is.
I’ve gone from feeling restless, anxious, and trapped working ten-hour days and crashing on the weekends to now only working five-hour days, four days out of the week. All that to say, I have much more free time and therefore much more emotional energy to pour into Substack.
At first, I was ashamed of the slowed pace. Who am I to deserve it? Besides, I could be doing much more responsible and productive things with my spare time than writing prose on the internet.
But the Lord whispered a reminder of peace over me:
Your soul is on sabbatical. Enjoy it.
And for the first time, I believe Him.
I have my entire life to toil under the sun, work to the bone, labor by the sweat of my brow.
Therefore, I’m stepping away from the pressure.
I’m stepping away from the expectations.
As
would say, I’m creating space for my soul to breathe, and I’m committing to it for the next year.I am still working, of course. However, the majority of my time will be spent snuggling my baby’s squishy face and wrangling words for this little newsletter and I couldn’t be happier. If I only spend the next year slowly embracing the idea that it’s okay to be present and that rest does not have to be earned, it will be a year well spent.
The Lord has done a beautiful thing by giving you the words to share this journey. Sometimes we like to share the “before and after” but there is still so much room to give Him glory in that middle space where we’re still figuring it all out. Thank you for sharing the middle Kathy!😊
Beautiful and real and a message we all very much need to hear :)
Thank you for sharing 🙏🏼