A Hole in My Heart

During my Dad's talk at the service he said his heart isn't broken, it is torn in pieces. Today as I was riding my bike home from work I was thinking about that. I've been trying desperately all week to ride out this depression thing that I know is part of the whole process. I've been focusing on the memories, doing things that make me happy, giving myself space to breath, but not letting myself isolate myself, asking God for help, doing things I don't feel like doing but know I should do (like eating vegetables and going to work to name two). The list goes on. And every day I come home exhausted from the work of it all. The work of living. And when it comes right down to it, what I realized as I was riding was that yes, I got through the week, and for most people it probably looked like I got through it pretty well, but I had no passion in it. I didn't really care if I did any of it. I didn't really desire to do anything above or beyond what needed to be done. I just got it done because I needed to. I put on the smile that I needed to put on so that people would stop asking me how I was. And I avoided like the plague any discussion of how I was really doing because quite frankly I didn't care to talk about it. I just wanted to do what I needed to do and get on with it already.

It seems like just getting through a day now is a process...and that is part of a bigger process...and that is part of a bigger process. Everything is a process. And really, I appreciate processes, I mean, heck, that's what I do for a living - make processes that get work accomplished and make processes to get the people that need to be in the process involved in the process. But now just getting through the day is a process, which makes all other processes more difficult, and more tiring, and every day I have to remind myself that eventually one hour will be better. And every hour I have to remind myself that eventually one minute will be better. And every minute I have to remind myself that I just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other and get through this process. As my friend Alan said 'you aren't getting over this, you are getting through it.'

And so, as I was contemplating my dad's thoughts on his heart, and my personal take on whether I really was even getting through it, I realized that my heart also is not broken. It has a huge hole ripped out of it. My mom has been literally ripped out of it. All I have to fill back in that section of my heart are memories. And memories are a sad patch on a heart when there is still a gaping hole in it. I'm sure that as the hole grows back the memories will help, but they can't fix it.

And so what I am left with is waking up every morning with a huge hole in my heart while I attempt to get through the day. And do you know what happens when you try to fill something with a huge hole in it? Everything you use to fill it eventually drains out. So every time I work up the faith or effort or strength or determination or combination of them all that I need to get through that specific day, it's only so long before it all drains out again and I'm left with the huge gaping hole and nothing in my heart. And THAT is why I can't muster the strength to have passion about anything I do in a day. Because by the end of the day it's taken all that's in me just to do it, I can't produce anything more to care about doing it.

Taken from '90 minutes in Heaven':

That didn't stop psychiatrist from coming into my room and trying to help me. After a few times, they didn't tell me they were psychiatrists. After I refused to talk to them, they would sneak into my room and observe me. Often they'd walk in and say something like, "I'm Dr. Jones," but nothing else. The doctor might check my pulse and ask, "How's your stomach?" He'd examine my chart and ask pertinent questions. Eventually, he'd give himself away with a simple question such as "How do you feel today?" "About the same." "How do you really feel about all of this?" No matter how they varied the routine they always asked how I really felt. "You're a psychiatrist, aren't you?" I'd ask. "Well, uh, actually, yes." "Okay, what do you want to know? You want to know if I'm depressed? The answer is I'm very depressed. And I don't want to talk about it."

We have reached the 6 week mark. And really all I can say right now is please don't ask me how I am. I'm fine. I'm getting through. I'm doing the best I can. I have a huge hole in my heart and I'm trying the best I can to wait on God to patch it because six weeks is long enough to know I can't do it myself. It's all I can do to muster the strength and the faith and the determination to keep waiting. And I don't want to talk about it.