A Diagnosis is not an Excuse

I have often seen memes on social media celebrating the small victories in the lives of those who struggle with depression, anxiety or other mental health issues. These memes remind those individuals who suffer with such illnesses to take it easy on themselves, to be pleased if they make it out of bed in the morning even if they do not do all the world demands of them, or all they expect of themselves. I agree. We should celebrate our little accomplishments, even if for others, our accomplishments are their daily routines. We mustn’t beat ourselves up for accomplishing less than others, or less than we wish we could.

But I wonder, and I wonder this only for myself, how do I know if I am doing my best? How can I tell if I am making excuses to stay in bed, when really I could be out enjoying the sun, and how do I know when I am doing my best. An expansion of that question is, am I really mentally ill, or am I just lazy. If I get a diagnosis, do I by extension get an excuse to stay home, hide out and do little?

Unfortunately for my lazy self, the answer is no. A diagnosis of depression is not an excuse, it is an understanding, and it allows for new approaches for battling the mountains of everyday life. And when I put it that way, I remember that I like mountains, and life is to be enjoyed as well. Life is hard, a constant challenge, but within the journey there is joy to be found and wonders to behold.

Perhaps with a diagnosis there comes tools, tools to see the views more clearly, to hear the birds, and to understand the pathway better. Perhaps with a diagnosis comes the support to make it over the mountain placed before me each day. Whether the mountain be mighty or mini, it will be a mountain which I am equipped to face and which I can conquer as I accept all the help I need. I want to have the desire to climb mountains. I don’t want to look for excuses to moan at the bottom, stuck in self-loathing or apathy. I don’t want an excuse to stay where I am. I want the help I'll need to climb the mountains I’ll face, no matter how big or little they’ll be. So I will celebrate getting out of bed, but I won’t be content until I’ve stopped to sample the nectar of the castillejas and can look down in awe from my summit of the day.

A footprint, a moment with my father that shaped me.

Sometimes I avoid telling stories about my dad because I'm avoiding what could be awkward.  Some people don't know that he passed away three years ago to this day, and other people, like me, don't know how to respond when the loved dead are spoken about.  But, I want to talk about my dad.  I want to share our stories.  Here's a bit of one:

Every year my dad took me on a camping/backpacking trip.  Before leaving we’d prepare the weekend’s menu and head to the grocery store.  While my dad tried to decrease our food weight, by avoiding anything canned, we had a few luxuries of our own.  We bought tomatoes for our sandwiches.  These we packaged each in their own Tupperware with paper towel for cushioning and wiping our fingers on.  We always had steak the first night.  My dad would freeze the meat, the boil-n-bag corn and any other freezable food.  Then, early in the morning we would add the frozen food to top up our backpacks and drive to Jasper.  As a young child my favourite part of the shopping trip was going to the bulk section and creating my own trail mix.  It consisted more of Swedish berries and gummy bears than of nuts or dried fruit.  We took fresh fruit as well.

Late in the evening before we’d leave, I’d help my father sort and pack all we’d purchased into our packs.  He’d crack eggs into containers and leave the shells at home.  He washed the apples and pulled off their stems and stickers.  He stuck each sticker to its stem before tossing it into the garbage.  I put my bulk candy into a single bag to create my trail mix, and he mixed up his own gorp. 

My dad fully believed in no trace camping.  Whatever we carried up the mountain we would eat or carry out.  We took granola bars with us, but left the boxes at home.  Every item we brought had a purpose, or, if possible, like the paper towel wrapping the tomatoes and our plates with high side, more than one. 

On a warm afternoon we journeyed through the woods on a broad path up a gentle hill.  We pulled out apples to munch upon while we walked.  I kept in step with my dad and we made our way speaking only through steps and crunches.  He ate around his apple’s middle and then bit off the top of the core.  He chewed the crunchy matter and went in for another bite, right at the core.

“That’s gross.” I said

He shrugged and continued crunching and walking.

I had eaten my apple down to the core.

“Might as well eat it all,” my dad said. “Otherwise you’ll have to carry it out.”

“Do I have to?”

He repeated what I assumed to be the national park’s motto “Take only pictures, leave only footprints.”

I considered my options as he tossed the last of his apple into his mouth.  Stopping I swung my backpack off of my shoulders, found a bag of garbage and added my core to the other items I was carrying out.

Polepole

Reaching 5895 meters above sea level, Mount Kilimanjaro is the world's tallest free-standing mountain and the highest peak in Africa.*  At the tender age of thirteen, I along with my sister and my father, set out to conquer Kili.  Eager, and with spring in our steps we began the journey, three and a half days up, one and a half down.  We carried only our day packs and were ready to run with the gazelles up the constant incline.  Our guide, however, warned us against such sprints.  His advice was simple, "polepole" - slowly.  The idea was that going slowly at a sustainable speed would be quicker than a binge and purge approach.  It's the story of the tortoise and the hare.  It worked.  Our trek was slow, but it was consistent.
Polepole.  I am often overwhelmed at how much I have to learn, how much I have to grow.  I have goals of being totally humble, completely faith-filled and perfect.  While those goals are great things to aim for, they are not achieved over night neither are they achieved sprinting.  Polepole.  I hope that every day I can become a little more humble, gain a little more faith and move closer towards perfection, but the journey is long, the destination is still far away.  What matters though is that I am on the journey, I am taking steps, no matter how polepole, in the right direction.
You might think this is a poor analogy if I tell you that I never made it to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro.  However, even in that there is a lesson to be learned.  The goal set out for us was to summit for sunrise.  My sleep, uncomfortable in a dorm of strange men and women, was cut short when I was awoken a little after one and beckoned to begin the journey heavenward.  It was dark, the steep trail lit only by our head lamps.  I was tired, grouchy.  Our goal, which had previously been hidden from us by the clouds, was now cloaked in darkness.  There was greater urgency than in the previous days.  If we were to make our goal, we had to keep going.
I couldn't keep up.  I didn't feel well.  Whether it was because of the altitude, the physical exertion or the lack of sleep, i do not know, but I felt miserable.  I begged for a break, and in the darkness I sat down.
I couldn't do it, I told them, and then I was told that I didn't have to.  I could go back to the scary dorm room filled with strange men and go back to sleep.
The choice was mine - conquer Africa's highest peak or go back to bed.  That was a big choice for little 13 year-old me.  I knew hours of hiking were still ahead.  The summit seemed to be nothing more than a fictitious promise, and surely the sunrise couldn't be that amazing.
I'm convinced I could have made it.  While altitude sickness seems to be the most honourable excuse, I think I was just tired.  Had I gotten up, taken just one step and then another, polepole I would have made it to the top.  However, my sister, rather than encouraging me along, gave me a ultimatum.  Now or never.  "Let's go, and if you can't, then you go back and let us go on."**  I went back.  I spent the night coward in a corner of the dorm room hoping and praying that the men wouldn't touch me.  So much for sleep.
My sister and my dad when on to summit the world's tallest free standing mountain while I stayed behind.
I'm thankful for the people who haven't left me behind as I journey to become more like Jesus.  I too often I'm pouty, I sit down and complain that I can't do it.  Every time I do, someone comes along and tells me to get up, to take another step, to look back at how far I've come, remember the strength I've been given thus far and to carry on.  Little by little, inch by inch, do whatever I can do, and if all I can do is sit there for a minute or two, that is better than retreating.  I love that the Gospel asks us just to do however little it is that we can.  What matters is that I am on the right path, not the speed at which I am progressing and while I want to sprint towards the goal, I can't.  It is too far away, but everyday I can learn something new, I can put into practice everything I've learned and step by step, polepole, I'll get closer to my goal.  Will I succeed?  Ultimately the choice is mine.  A choice made up of a thousand choices.  On Kili the choice was mine and this is no difference.  I'm just thankful for those who have made the choices easier, who have encouraged and supported me and reminded me that I am where I need to be.  I'm on the journey, I'm on the right path, I'm going in the right direction and that's what matters.



*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Kilimanjaro
**I feel like I should defend my sister.  She's great and we had a lot of fun together hiking up Kili.  She was also a teenager, grumpy from not getting enough sleep, and well you can't expect much patience from a 16 year-old.  She likewise has made little steps towards greater change, so when she decided that we should run 15 miles a couple years ago, and with less than a mile left I just wanted to give up, she wouldn't let me.  She encouraged me every step and told me I could do it.  It turns out that she was right, but I couldn't have done it alone.  Thanks.

Dad Day

Two years ago today my dad died.  They've been a long two years.  Sometimes I feel like it's been much longer.  Other times I awake from dreams of him, that seem so real that I am no longer sure if he is alive or dead.
I don't spend lots of time speaking, or even thinking, about my dad.  I'm always hesitant to share stories about him, especially with those whom I'm not sure if they know that my dad has passed away.  But today is dad day.  I get to think about my dad, tell stories about him, enjoy the memories and be a little sad.  Still, I have to function, I have things to do, I don't get the whole day just to mourn.
There are many stories I could tell about my dad.  This is a story about when he made me feel like the most important person in the world.  When I was 7ish, my dad read Heidi to me.  That summer the two of us went hiking.  Half way up the mountain we entered a sloped green field, beautifully alive with wild flowers.  We sat down to have our lunch, and my dad told me that I was Heidi, and he was Peter and we entered into the world of pretend.  It was lovely.
It's dad day, one more story:


My dad also ready the Little House on the Prairies books to me.  I was rereading one of them and I think those books may have been what inspired me to ask my dad to tell me stories about his childhood.  He would make excuses, saying that he wasn't good at telling stories, or that he couldn't remember any.  This always make me a little sad, but he'd read to me, and for that I am so thankful.  I told my dad that he had to take me to Bolivia, the country where he spent a large portion of his childhood.  When I was 18, we went to Bolivia, and there I finally heard stories about his childhood.  We went hiking and came across these large rock formations.  I wish I could remember what they were called, but I believe the name reflected the idea that they were guards.  My dad shared with me that as a kid he was never allowed to climb the rocks.  I tried to get him to climb them, but he claimed to was too old.  Rather he lived his childhood dream vicariously through me as he encouraged me to climb the rocks.  It was great.  He encouraged me all the way up, helped me to find handholds and took pictures of my accomplishments.  I'm so thankful for all the times my dad let me be a kid and climb trees and mountains and rocks, and dig holes in our back yard and get dirty and just play.

Driving with God

I went for another long drive with God.  I felt like our conversation from yesterday had been cut short, and it needed to be finished.  I am not one for driving aimlessly, but with the mountains an hour away, there is always an aim.  It was pretty spontaneous, and I was pretty set on it.  I didn't even double check my agenda book to see if there is anything I was forgetting to do today.  
I tried to figure out why I was unsatisfied.  What was it that I wanted?  The answer I believe is pleasure.  I was trying to figure out what this "life to the full" that Christ offers really is, and I was getting quite tired of waiting for him to give it to me.  I was thinking that it was about time to go look for it on my own.  I've always felt like living a Christian life is not about feelings, nor is it about being happy, but I wanted to feel God near me.  I wanted to be happy.  Is there anything wrong with that?  
I hiked up a mountain quickly, until I was sweaty and gross.  I had to get to the top before the sun started going down.  I didn't want to hike back in the dark.  All I concluded is that God is my hope, my only hope.  There is pleasure in enjoying God's creation; I love hiking.  Singing kids' songs with actions while running down a mountain may not scare to cougars away, but it's a challenge and lots of fun.  I don't have the answers, but I'm not about to give up anymore.  I feel a lot more content than I have for a while.
Now I have to do the homework that I put off to go hiking in the daylight...

The Cavity

I thought I might say something at my dad's funeral, but I didn't know what to say. I read some of the memories my sister had written, and they made me cry, but I was still clueless as to what I should say. Then I realised that I was afraid to remember. I was afraid to remember because then I would realise my loss. Eventually I wrote (and then read) the following: When I was 6 my dad took me up Mount Cavity. He knew his children well enough to know that it would be a mountain I would love, and Karen would hate, so, I reckon, that is why he took me up there by myself. It was steep, cliffy and there were a lot of rocks. He had previously been up there, probably when he was around 16, with his brother Stan. Every year dad would take me on a camping trip. We would stop for breakfast at Smitty's, and on these trips my dad would tell me stories about his youth, and about his brother Stan. He had many fond memories of the time he and Stan had spent together in Jasper, but I was always too shy to ask about Stan, who had died before I was born, except on those trips where the conversations naturally flowed. The hike up the cavity is steep and involves a fair amount of short climbs, but I was fearless. Coming down I grabbed on to a loose rock and slipped. My dad was below me, as he always was, ready to cushion a fall, and he did, but I still ended up with a nasty scrape on my knee. It was about to rain and my dad wanted to get down before the rocks got wet and slippery, So he told me not to look at my knee, gave me an Advil and we carried on down the mountain. I still have a scar, and remembered that event clearly. This September, my dad, regressing in health, wrote a bucket list, and on it there was a family trip to the mountains. Thankfully we were all able to make it out to the mountains. We went on three hikes, the last one was up to the Cavity. As we hiked up, we came to the place where I had fallen, some 16 years ago, in a mountain full of rocks, there was something distinct about that place. It was a place where memories had been formed, a place where dad had protected me from greater injury, and got me to get up and press on through the pain. It was also there that I learned the lesson to always check if a rock is secure before using it to bear weight. It was something that my dad had told me before we started on the hike, but a lesson I had to learn on my own and would remember through our future scrambles. Falling did not take away from my confidence in scrambling. I always knew my dad was below me, ready to catch me, and would do everything he could to keep me safe.

Over the weekend I went to Jasper with my parents, both of my sister's and their husbands. It was a last minute family trip. We went on 3 hikes, all of which I had done as a kid with my dad. I am thankful for those father daughter camping trips I went on with my dad where we would hike, camp, and when I got older, backpack. Those are some of the times when I really bonded with my dad. We hike up the mountain Cavity, which was far more of a scramble than a walk in the park. I thought my dad was a little crazy for taking me up there when I was 6, but I still have a scar on my knee from that first trip. The hike up Cavity yesterday was dangerous. It was windy, and rainy, so the rocks were slippery. Looking from above, I watched my dad try to navigate an alternate route which only left him stranded on a rock wall. I hoped he would not fall.
My dad and I did a lot of scrambling, For a couple years we hiked into a campground called waterfall where two waterfalls met. One year we scrambled up beside the one waterfall, and the next year up climbed up the other waterfall. I think it was the first year when my dad and I had climbed different routes up a cliff. From the top I got out the camera and took a picture of him. "Good thing you took that picture" he had told me later "The rock I was holding was loose. That might have been the last picture you ever got of me." I shuddered, not liking my dad to talk like that.
The next year we climbed up the other waterfall. we came across some large rock piles let by glaciers. (I think they have a fancy name, but I don't know what it is now). We walked a couple of Kms to the far side of one, and on that end it was gently sloped. we walked up it with no problem and started heading back along the top. The problem came when we had to get off of the pile. The sides around us were a steep collection of large and small rocks. Everything was loose. My brave dad started down on his feet, but it wasn't long before he lost his balance and tumbled down the mountain. I thought he might die, but he was okay. I sat atop of the rock for a long time, terrified of going down. I thought about the song that said "your love is a mountain, firm beneath my feet", and wished that this mountain was at all firm. Eventually I made my way down.
We took a lot of pictures this weekend. And I thought about the time my dad had said that it was good I had taken the picture because it might have been the last. We found out a week before our trip to Jasper that my dad's cancer has come back, and with a vengeance. He seems healthy, but the tumors are beyond operable, and treatment can only delay the inevitable. He's made a bucket list, and on there was a trip to Jasper. Jasper is an important place for him. Take a Picture of dad on the mountain, this might be the last mountain he climbs. Take a picture of all of us together, who knows if we will all be together again. Take a picture of dad skipping rocks. Who knows if he will be out at a lake again. Take a picture of dad and his daughters because soon they won't have a father. Take a picture, it might be the last chance.

So, now I am feeling pretty hopeless and kinda depressed. I don't feel like doing anything, but I think the more I do, the better it is for me. I am feeling rather busy with school and work amongst many other things, and I can't do everything. Hopefully someday I will learn how to balance it all, but first I feel like I might crash.

I found Narnia

The night was long, and I was ready for it to be over, so at the first hint of light, I got up, unzipped the door, and stepped out into a different world. What I saw was marvelous. Thick snow enveloped the ground, and disguised the trees as white pylons. I was taken aback; trying to grasp the beauty of it all before I dare embark onward into the continuously falling impenetrable snow. I listened in awe of the silence that was broken only as I stepped out into Narnia, to venture further up, and further in.
Shortly, off in the distance, I heard something more than just my footsteps. I froze where I was and let my ears scout out the sound. In the distance there was water, joyfully flowing down its path. I followed the sound and it brought me to a small, ice cold stream. I followed it merrily as it tumbled gently down towards its destination. The lake wasn’t much larger than a pond, only to say that it was deep. (I did not test out how deep it was.) The sky was as white as the snow on the ground, leaving the lake a beautifully dusty grey, calm yet continuously rippling with every entering snowflakes. I wandered a little further and found refuge under a majestic tree. There, I sat in the silence and watched, taking in the beauty, constantly seeing it deeper and grander than I had before. There was always more, and it took my breath away. It was always magnificent.
Serenity.