Living in Darkness after Child Loss

It Will Be Well

You know, it is not easy to get to a point where I can say “It is well with my soul” after all I have been through. There have been times when it was not well with my soul. My soul was screaming out in pain, as if it had been stabbed repeatedly with great violence. I wondered if I would ever be able to say again that it was well with my soul.

How does one find the ability to be well, deep in her soul, after suffering a stillbirth and then two miscarriages? The loss of each baby took a part of my soul. My heart was ripped out with each loss. My wounded soul was slashed open after just healing from the last loss. The scars that each loss has left on my soul make it very tender, sensitive, and easily cracked open again.

I am no longer whole because three parts of me were torn away—buried. One in the cold, dark, damp earth. Cleaved from my womb only to be taken straight into a darkness that mirrored my soul. Two others were not even given a chance at experiencing life since they were destroyed even as my very inner being cried out for their light to be able to shine.

Darkness overcame my soul and for a very long time, I wondered if I would ever see or experience light again.

I lived in a deep, pitch-black cave where I was unable even to move because I could not even see my hand in front of my face. When I did try to stir around in my cave, I would fall, stumble, and bruise my body from head to toe. It was cold. Damp. There were noises that made the hair on the back of my neck and my arms stand up on end. I could feel the evil surrounding me as I wept deep, soul-wrenching sobs from morning ‘til night, night ‘til morning.

The tears never stopped flowing. They created a stream in my cave that ran no-where, as far as I could tell. No matter how hard or long I looked for the end or the beginning, it continued on into perpetuity.

Then came the day when the tiniest pin-prick of light suddenly appeared off in the distance. After being in the darkness for so long, at first I did not believe it was real. I knew I had finally begun hallucinating in the darkness. I had been without light for so long, I was imagining that it was calling to me.

Ever so carefully, I began stumbling my way towards it. I continued to fall, bruise myself, and weep deep in my very being, but I steadily made my way towards that tiny light.

That beautiful light began to grow larger the closer I got to it, but it still seemed so very far way. For a long time, I gave up attempting to get to it. I simply sat in the same spot, weeping and wondering why the light never got any closer no matter how long I traveled towards it.

One not so very special day, I heard something.

            “Polly. PollyAnna. Come out. I am here.”

            Now I was hearing things as well as hallucinating? My terror grew with each call of my name.

            Instead of going towards the light—towards the voice, I ran, as well as I could, deeper into the cave to hide. I was afraid.

I was afraid of the light.

I was afraid of the tender voice calling my name.

No matter how deep I went into my cave, I could still hear the voice, “Polly. PollyAnna. It’s ok. I’m here. I will wait as long as necessary. I will never leave you.”

            Slowly, with shaky, tiny, stumbling, tentative steps, I began the journey once again towards the light.

            And the voice.

            The tender-loving voice never stopped calling my name, speaking words of encouragement.

            The day came, finally, when the light began to grow and I could see not just my hand in front of my face, but the walls of my cave.

            Hope began to stir deep inside.

Every time I stopped to catch my breath, I moved on as quickly as possible.

I was no longer afraid of the light.

            Or the voice.

            I desperately wanted to reach the light and see the man who was calling my name. I knew that all would be well once I walked into the light. I became desperate and never stopped even to catch my breath.

I began to run, slipping, sliding, falling—again and again, but this time, instead of giving up or running back into the cave, I kept moving forward towards the light.

            The sound of the man’s voice grew louder with passing step. But not louder as in He was shouting; just louder in that I could hear Him more clearly. I knew He would fill the hole that ruptured open each time I had lost a baby.

I needed to get to Him.

Finally.

There He was.

He was sitting on a large rock at the entrance to the cave. As I came into view, He stood and held out His arms so I could walk into His welcoming embrace. He held me for a long time, crooning soft, gentle, loving words into my ears as He held me close to His beating heart.

            When the tears slowed, He pulled away, took me by the hand, and led me out, fully into the light, away from the cave. He stopped. We turned and watched as a giant stone was rolled in front of the cave, sealing it for all eternity.

            That was the moment when I realized that my soul was mended. Yes, there would still be tears to come, but with Him by side, holding my hand, it was finally well with my soul.

Polly Anna Watson, Wednesday, January 22, 2020; revised: Friday, January 24, 2020

“It is Well” by Horatio Spafford and the new version by Kristine DeMarco

Helping even 1.60th

When I read this quote in #MargaretFeinberg's book #tasteandsee, Chapter 5: "A Dash of Sea Salt" (p. 114), I found myself having to stop and re-read it and then underline it and then share it on Facebook and then talk about it with my Sunday School ladies and now write about it here. My brain just won't let it go.

Thinking about how I can help take someone else's pain even just 1/60th can make a difference and how that is "the call to help from God" Himself is no small thing, my friends. We are all inspired by stories of kindness, aren't we? I hope we are. I get frustrated because there are so many other stories that aren't getting recognized, but that's not why we help one another, right? We do it because we feel that tug in our spirit--that "call to help from God."

When I think about all the trials and struggles I have been through and the things that others have done for me to help ease my pain, I know they felt the "call to help from God" because they sure eased my 1/60th and then some.

Once, after one of my miscarriages, a friend and her daughter brought a whole meal for my husband and me from Bojangles because she knew how much I liked their food.

A friend went with me to a couple of my appointments to listen to my son's heartbeat--non-stress tests--during my only viable pregnancy because my husband was unable to go with me. She chose to go with me rather than sleep during her hours of sleep time; she worked 3rd shift.

When I was in the hospital at death's door, I almost constantly had

someone sitting with me: friends, family, loved ones. Some drove from four hours away. Some came from across town. I was passed out and barely knew they were in the room, but they came and sat with me and prayed over me anyway. And when I finally came home, they were there to provide meals and to help me with my recovery in a thousand different ways. Back at work, my co-workers took over my classes without question and never bothered me or made me feel guilty for having to be out for two months sick. In fact, I'm sure there are things that people did for me during that time that I'll never know about simply because I was so sick. But God knows and each and every one helped that 1/60th ease my suffering.

Over the past year, after leaving my beloved, cherished, treasured job, I have had many people hug me, hold me, sit with me, hold my hand, listen to me, let me vent, let me cry, walk with me and talk with me. People have helped financially.

All of these could add up 60/60ths to ease my pain.

I wish, but at least each has helped ease 1/60th.

And the list goes on and on.

I wish I could list every single person who has hugged me and helped that 1/60th with his/her arms of love.

Or the students I have met as I have been out and about town who have provided words of encouragement that have given me another 1/60th of easement.

You know, we read books and we read books and we move on and may never think about the books we read again. If I get nothing else from this book (and believe me, I've already enjoyed the rest of it immensely), Taste and See is well worth reading.

Every single book I have ever read by Margaret Feinberg has had a powerful impact on me and on my life in some way, shape, form, or fashion. I am not praising her, necessarily; I am praising her obedience to our Lord and Savior for writing and sharing what is on her heart. In this chapter in which she is writing about how even helping ease someone's burden 1/60th is a call from God, Margaret is talking about how we are the "salt of the earth": we are to go help preserve, flourish, and flavor the earth--those around us as Believers of Jesus Christ. How do we do that? By sharing one another's burdens even if in doing so, we are only able to do so a tiny bit: 1/60th.

My easement, call of God, of others' burdens, I believe, is to share my JOY in whatever way I possibly can: my words, hugs, laughter, etc.

What is your 1/60th?

PollyAnna's Definition of JOY

This post has been a long time coming. LOL! 

First of all, as I begin my definition of JOY, I know that most people who define JOY begin by comparing it to happiness. As that has been done repeatedly and you can find it in more sources about JOY and happiness than not, I am going to forego that comparison here. If you disagree with my decision, please feel free to add your comparison in the comments section for me. I will not complain. :) 

Secondly, I hope that you understand that the definition of JOY that follows is my own, PollyAnna's, but it is based on my own study on JOY that I have been doing for the past 10 years. For the sake of this very first post being a quick, simple definition of JOY, I am not going to post/share my references/sources and other background information from my extensive study on JOY. I am simply going to share my brainstorming of my definition here. Future posts will delve deeper into each individual aspect and will include specific sources and so on. My purpose here is just to share my definition of JOY with you so that I can begin the conversation, which I truly hope will happen.

Thirdly, JOY truly is my jam. The Lord has anointed me with His anointing oil of JOY. No matter how bad things get in my life, God continues to remind me of His anointing. He continues to give me strength through JOY. He continues to sing over me with JOY. He continues to call me His JOY Song. I can't run from it, no matter how hard I might try. ;) Even in my deepest, darkest days, God has found me and has turned my mourning into JOY as only the Creator of the Universe can.

So when I talk about JOY, I hope that you understand that it comes from a place inside of my very soul that is seeking to honor this anointing God has placed on me as well as the gifts He has given me. I can only be obedient to what He has called me to do. 

A number of years ago as I was copying down all the verses on JOY in the Bible (something I wanted to do as part of my study on JOY), it struck me how often I was writing down words of ACTION for JOY. (For those of you who might be new, I am an English major, so noticing something like that comes naturally to me. 😀) I went back to the verses I had already copied and read them again. One after another: action verb, action verb, etc. I continued with the rest and it was the same: action verb, action verb, action verb, etc.

If you don't believe me, look:

1. Dancing.  1 Samuel 18:6 
2. Shouting.  2 Samuel 6:15 
3. Playing an instrument. Psalm 27:6 
4. Bowing in worship.  2 Chronicles 29:30 
5. Singing.  Psalm 100:2 
6. Praising the Lord so that the very ground shakes.  1 Kings 1:40 
7. Celebrating.  1 Chronicles 12:40
8. Eating.  Ecclesiastes 9:7 
9. Feasting and drinking.  1 Chronicles 29:22 
10. Gift giving.  1 Chronicles 29:17 
11. Even weeping.  Yes, weeping. Ezra 3:13 
12. Sacrificing.  Nehemiah 12:43 
13. Laughing. And even skipping!  1 Chronicles 15:29 
14. Hand clapping.  Nahum 3:19 
15. Leaping.  Malachi 4:2
16. Restoring.  Job 33:26 
17. Forgiving.  Psalm 32:1 
18. Salvation.  Psalm 51:12 (I know this is written as a noun, but you have to ask for salvation and then receive it, so there is quite a bit of action involved in salvation!)
19. Crying (tears).  Jeremiah 31:9 
20. Enthusiasm!  Deuteronomy 28:47 (Ok, this one's not actually an action verb, but you have to HAVE enthusiasm and that involves an action, right?)
21. Giving birth.  John 16:21 
22. Putting our faith into practice and standing firm.  2 Corinthians 1:24 
23. Growing spiritually.  Philippians 1:25 
24. Acceptance.  Hebrews 10:34 (Again, another noun, but acceptance involves action, so in spite of it being written as a noun, you can't have the noun without the action, so. . . .)
25. Sharing.  1 John 1:4 

Isn't that beautiful??? So, if there are 25 different verses (that I've listed here based on the New Living Translation of the Bible) in the Bible with ACTION VERBS on JOY, doesn't that stand to reason that when it comes to defining JOY, especially in regard to our Jesus, that there is some sort of action involved? It's enough for me even if it's not enough for you. 😁😁

Bear with me, now. I haven't fully created a specific definition as yet. But when it comes to JOY, it has to do with excitement, enthusiasm in Jesus that creates such a high that the person is unable to physically contain it, so he/she must do something physical for release. It's better than the high of any drug or human emotion/feeling. It can only come from God/Jesus/the Holy Spirit. And when it comes, you wanna dance, jump, sing, shout, leap, clap, play, eat, feast, cry, celebrate, praise the Lord, laugh, run, and even forgive! 

There is no way to contain JOY in your physical body! It must come out in some way, shape, form or fashion!! If I'm happy, I might smile or simply just BE. But if I'm JOYFUL, I have to DO!! BEING simply isn't enough!!! 

I know that I have trouble sitting still. I love to laugh, shout, sing, smile, clap, play, eat, feast, celebrate, praise the Lord, dance, jump, play, celebrate, and especially cry and weep. I cry and weep especially well when I'm both JOYFULL (my spelling) and sorrowful. Some of my friends even move away from me sometimes, but that's ok. The Lord anointed me with His anointing oil of JOY more than anyone else (Psalm 45:7 & Hebrews 1:9), so that's to be expected sometimes. They don't all understand. It does hurt my feelings because I'm human, but I remind myself that God is working and I put it in His hands. I cry a little more, pray, and move on.

JOY is is more than happiness because it's an action. Over the next several weeks/posts (possibly 25, lol), I hope to talk more about how JOY is an action. I hope you'll stay with me. 

Anna Rose

In 2005, when Samuel was about four years old, James finally agreed that we should (could) start trying to have another baby. I was ecstatic, to say the least!! Early in the new fall semester, we learned that we were pregnant, and I was over the moon! 

I got an appointment with Dr. Merta as soon as possible since I knew that I was already considered high risk. Even though we'd had one successful live birth four years earlier, there had been the two previous losses prior to Samuel. I was still very nervous, needless to say.

Things were looking good. I was throwing up every single day, which many women may see as a bother, but I saw it as a blessing. As long as I was throwing up, I knew my baby was fine. As long as I was getting sick, I was still pregnant. I was happy to throw up every single day.

The morning I didn't throw up, I knew. I just didn't want to believe it. I still hoped. But deep down, where my knower knows, I knew.

I didn't say anything to anyone. I went to school. I acted as normal as possible. It was two days before Thanksgiving. It was an easy week at school; I had made sure that my classes were workdays, so my students didn't have to worry if they chose to take the time to be with family rather than come to class. There were only two students in the classroom with me that morning. We chatted throughout the hour, mostly. I tried to get some work done, as did they, but it is difficult to focus when there are so few people in the room and it's a holiday week.

At one point during the hour, I felt an odd POP in my vaginal region. Yes, like a balloon had popped inside my vagina. I knew that was very strange, but I just thought I had peed a little and that I would go straight to the bathroom as soon as the hour was up--which was in just a few minutes. I could hold on for just a few more minutes.

As the three of us were saying goodbye and walking out of the classroom, the gentleman had stepped off to the side to allow me to go ahead of him. I walked by him and he said, "Where's all this blood coming from?"

With barely a glance behind me, I knew exactly where it was coming from.

I screamed and raced from the room. 

I spent the next hour in the bathroom sitting on the toilet, screaming and crying. Crying and screaming. There were several ladies with me. A few on-campus EMTs came to check on me. An ambulance was called because I refused to allow anyone to drive me to the hospital; I would not ride in anyone's car because of how badly I was bleeding. I was scared to get off the toilet, too, because it was one of those auto-flush ones and I did not know if, well, if I had already passed the baby. We made sure one of the EMTs looked quickly as I moved off onto the stretcher.

I was taken out of the bathroom on a stretcher, in front of everyone. That was when I remembered that the bathroom didn't have a ceiling, so everyone in the building had been listening to me scream and cry for the past hour or so and everyone knew what was going on. I pulled the sheet up over my head and wept.

The next several hours can only be described as more horror. James met me at the emergency room at the hospital. We spent many hours just waiting in a room. A doctor came in and examined me, pulling out one blood clot after another. He was very callous and cold. At one point, he even held one up and said, "This could be it." 

What an idiot. I think James and I both disliked that doctor with a passion.

In spite of the fact that someone had called Dr. Merta, because I had ridden in the ambulance, he could not see me until the ER doctor released me. It was a huge relief to be finally in his very capable and comforting and understanding hands. He prepped me for a D&C.

I don't know if having a D&C is the right thing to do when having a miscarriage, my friends. Please don't judge me. The horror of these experiences cannot truly be described in words on a page like this. I had to do what my doctor recommended and felt was best for me. I was scared and I trusted Dr. Merta. 

As with my first miscarriage after surgery, I woke up in recovery, sobbing. 

I honestly do not remember much after that. 

I do not remember Thanksgiving or Christmas. I think my family came here that year because I was not up for traveling. 

My depression worsened. 

I withdrew from everyone and everything, especially my husband. In fact, he withdrew from me. We withdrew from each other. We both put all our focus on Samuel and only talked to each other when it came to Samuel or anything absolutely necessary.

It was during this time that if I could have taken my life, I would have. But I was not going anywhere without Samuel, so if I did it, it was going to be with him. I wrote stories about it. I imagined it in full detail. I knew exactly how I would do it. 

But then I would look at Samuel playing and his zest and love for life and how absolutely cute and adorable he was and there was no way I was going to ever take that away from this world. The world needed that gorgeous boy and his laughter, whether it needed me or not.

Samuel saved my life.

It took a long time, but I finally named this baby, too. Again, we have no idea whether this baby was a boy or girl. I was only 11 weeks along, again. I decided to use a girl's name: Anna Rose. It is a twist on my mother's name, Rosanne, as well as my middle name, Anna. And it comes from my family member's real name, Rosella. Appropriate, don't you think?

I imagine my Anna Rose would have been my shy one. Quiet. Reserved. The mothering-type from the womb. Girlie, loving all things pink, and everything the stereo-typical girl loves. Panya Ruth, I think, would have been my mini-me--joyous, rambunctious, full of life, difficult to reign in, always going full tilt! My two girls would have been best friends, despite their age difference. 

You would think that after all these years (I miscarried Anna Rose on November 10, 2005) it gets easier. 

It doesn't. 

It just gets different.

A Beautiful Conversation with God

About a year ago, a friend of mine shared on the Facebook that she was going through a new journal called "Whispers of Mercy" and God was changing her life. As an avid journaler and someone who is always looking for new ways God is moving in the lives of others, I clicked on the link to the journal and saved it so I could hopefully purchase the journal as soon as I had the finances. It looked like something that I definitely wanted to give a try. 

The concept Holly Love King uses in "Whispers of Mercy" is fairly simple: each new entry begins with a Bible passage and a brief devotional/explanation/discussion of the verse. Then there are lines for you, the journaler, to write your conversation with God. 

You have to get quiet with God and allow the Holy Spirit to speak to you. You cannot be distracted. This is a beautiful thing. It is real. It is powerful. And, as my friend shared on Facebook, it is life-changing. Following is my conversation with God this morning. It might not make sense if you don't know my story so you might need to go back and read some previous posts. Yes, this is super private and personal, but it was also very exciting and I just feel that you might be blessed, too. Rather than typing it out, I've chosen to upload images of my original handwritten conversation. I truly hope you can read it. 

I am Defined by...Part 2

I am Defined by...Part 1

I am Polly Anna. My parents named me perfectly. According to Eleanor H. Porter's Pollyanna, a Pollyanna is someone who looks for the good in life--someone who finds something to be Glad about even when it is difficult, if not impossible, to find something to be Glad about. Pollyanna is known for playing "The Glad Game." Yes, it is very high on my list of favorite book of all time.

According to the "Word Origin and History for Pollyanna": "n.

one who finds cause for gladness in the most difficult situations," 1921, a reference to Pollyanna Whittier, child heroine of U.S. novelist Eleanor Hodgman Porter's "Pollyanna" (1913) and "Pollyanna Grows Up" (1915), who was noted for keeping her chin up during disasters.
http://www.dictionary.com/browse/pollyanna?s=t

A few synonyms for a Pollyanna are: dreamer, hoper, positive thinker.

The American definition of Pollyanna is actually very offensive: "an excessively or blindly optimistic person." I do not identify with the American definition of Pollyanna in the slightest, but I will say that this is why I believe that so many people are so easily put off by me. Having the anointing oil of joy more than anyone else is a heavy responsibility. One of the most difficult reasons why it is a heavy responsibility is because it means that many are easily offended by my "excessive or blind optimism." But I can't answer for anyone but myself. I am who I am. I am who God made me, not just the name my parents gave me.

I am not only Polly Anna in name--on my birth certificate and in my signature, but I am a Polly Anna in every fiber of my being. I am one who finds cause for gladness in difficult situations. I am a dreamer, hoper, positive thinker. I do play the Glad Game. I do look for the good in people and situations. I live life enthusiastically and with JOY. I love to laugh. I love to make others laugh. I love to smile. I smile for no reason whatsoever. I love to sing just to sing because I'm happy!

"I sing because I'm happy! I sing because I'm free!"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QbNh6C7ijU

I tend to be the one who gets a tad overly-excited about the little things--who squeals like a stuffed pig when I'm excited. A sweet friend took me with her to Washington, DC several years ago and, of course, we went to the National Zoo where we got to see my very favorite animal in the whole wide world: pandas! Yes, I screamed, squealed, cried, and screamed some more! My friend finally walked away and went to find a seat where she waited--patiently, I think--for me. She still teases me about it. When my husband took me to Zoo Atlanta a few years later, my reaction was similar. I think my screaming and crying for joy actually scared a few people. I honestly started screaming and hyperventilating before we even got to the Panda-paddock. My husband wasn't sure I'd even make it to see the pandas!

I try to go see movies in the theater during slower movie times because when I watch a movie, I WATCH a movie. I laugh loud. I cry--loud. If it's a musical, I sing--loud. (I even whisper loud.) Some people laugh along with me and get a kick out of my enjoyment of the film--and we all have a very good time. Others get really upset and tell me that I am ruining the movie for them and ask me to be quiet. I honestly don't mean to be rude or ruin their experience. I simply enjoy can't help it. Honest!

Yes, I am loud. That, too, is very much a part of Polly Anna. I do try. I really do. I respect those around me so very much who are able to speak quietly yet metaphorically carry a big stick. I think that is awesome. What an incredible power to wield! I speak very loudly and carry a toothpick. Seriously. And it's a blunt toothpick, not one of those sharp ones. Even my whispering is loud. When I was little, my Grandpa Keefer was always telling me, "Not so loud, Polly." Every so often, as an adult teacher, I've had teachers from the classroom next door come over and say, "Not so loud, Mrs. Watson." 

It does hurt my feelings, a lot, to be told over and over that I am too loud, especially when I do try not to be so loud. But even when I try to speak in a softer, quieter voice, it comes out loud and strong and clear. It simply bursts forth out of me--almost of its own volition.

And I talk a lot. A lot a lot. Throughout my school days, I always did very well and had very good reports to bring home to my parents. The only comment that was ever on my reports was, "Polly talks too much." The only reason I ever got in trouble in school was for talking. Teachers would try to move me across the room away from my friends, never realizing that I would just make friends with the new people--if I wasn't already friends with them. I talked to everyone: boys, girls, teachers, myself, my hairbrush. And I still do.

I am also a touchie-feelie kind of person. I like to stand close enough to be touching the person I am talking to, or sitting close. I will typically touch the person--on the hand, arm, shoulder, face, or head. If I am close to the person (a family member or very close friend, I may rub the underside of her upper arm or her back). And I hug--any and everyone who will let me hug him/her. I love hugs. My Grandpa Keefer was a hugger; everyone loved his hugs. When we were all sitting around after his death, everyone talked about how wonderful his hugs were. I want to be remembered for my hugs, too.

As I have gotten older, all of the previous characteristics have continued to define me. No matter how hard I have tried to dampen the ones that have gotten me into trouble, they continue to get me into trouble. Yet, I am Polly Anna and I love that part of who I am. It is my favorite part of myself. I truly wish that part of myself could and would always manifest itself--be manifested on a day-to-day basis.

But like Pollyanna in the story, my life has not been perfect. I almost wish that the worst thing that has ever happened to me would be to fall out of a tree and not be able to walk. (I don't mean that. I'm speaking metaphorically here.) Like Pollyanna Harrington, I have had many times in my life when it has been beyond difficult to play "The Glad Game"--to be Polly Anna. 

    In my twenties while my husband and I were living in Springfield, MO, I fell into a deep depression that I found it very difficult to come out of even after we had moved back to NC. I think I stayed in at least a state of mild depression until I got pregnant with our first son.
    During my pregnancy when we had the first ultrasound, it revealed a large mass on my left ovary. After a few weeks, they did another ultrasound and discovered that the mass had grown a centimeter for every week that had passed since the first ultrasound. The doctor decided that he needed to do a surgery right away--I was at 20 weeks--to remove the mass as well as my ovary and part of the fallopian tube. All was well with our baby boy.
    On March 16, 1999, I went to the OB for my regular weekly appointment, excited about the final weeks of my pregnancy. I was at 38 weeks. They couldn't find a heartbeat. James Isaac Watson was stillborn on March 17, 1999.
    Then on November 10, 1999, I miscarried: Panya Ruth Watson.
    Anna Rose Watson was miscarried while I was on campus at the college where I teach on November 22, 2005.
    I think depression is a given.
    My marriage went down the tubes.
    In November 2009, at death's door, I had to have an ostomy bag

for three months. In April 2010, it was reversed and the doctor removed eight inches of my colon.
    Then, in November of 2010, I had a uterine ablasion because of vaginal bleeding due to a polyp.
    I don't remember the year, but somewhere in there, I had a meltdown where I might have killed James if he hadn't left the house. 
    During that same time period, I had a boss who had it in for me and was determined to have me fired. 
    I began seeing a chiropractor and a massage therapist.
    I had my first official anxiety attack and began taking medicine specifically for anxiety.
    I also began taking medicine for depression--eventually going up to 100 mg.
    Migraines have been a consistent problem throughout all this time. I have been able to keep them managed--mostly--with Excedrine Migraine.
    In December of 2016, I had my gall bladder removed.
    Summer of 2017, I was officially diagnosed with fibromyalgia.
    I was written up at work in October 2017 and the very next day, I yelled at my boss.
    In December 2017, I was diagnosed with:
            Bipolar 2
            PTSD
            Adjustment Disorder

All of these things make Polly Anna who Polly Anna is. Do you have any idea what it's like to be a super social person but yet full of anxiety when you even think about social situations, so you more often than not cancel social functions? Most of the time, if I somehow or another get to the social event, I have a wonderful time; I enjoy myself very much and I think that the people who socialize are glad that I was there. 

But then there are the very few times when being amongst others is so overwhelming that I have literally run from the party, jumped in my car, and screamed the whole way home. 

There have been times when the negative comments about my exuberance or my loudness or my enthusiasm have hurt my feelings so badly that I have gone home, sat in my spot on the couch, and not moved for days, weeks, and even months except to go to work or church. And I did those with little to no enthusiasm or desire to be there. 

I have become so angry because of the hurtful comments that I took to saying things like "I'd like to punch [...] in the throat." I wrote several stories about serial killing. (Granted, I honestly they're actually pretty good stories about serial killing, but I used myself as the model for the serial killer in each story.) I was holding a baby once and when he grabbed my glasses off my face after slapping me, I was so close to hurting him, I put him down and ran away. 

I have terrible "temper tantrums." I have recently learned that these are part of the Bipolar diagnosis and are called "manic rages." They can come as quickly as they go and there is rarely a rhyme or a reason for them. I have mostly been able to keep them under control in public, especially at my work, but that has not been easy. If I am successful there, then the rage has to be released somewhere and that, sadly, tends to be at home on my husband and/or son.

Yet, through it all, I continue to seek JOY. I know that I still have the anointing oil of JOY on me more than anyone else. I still live life with enthusiasm. I still smile a lot, laugh a lot, sing a lot, hug a lot. Some of it is because it's still me--Polly Anna--underneath all the "stuff" that has happened over the past 30 years, but some of it is the mask I have created for when it is simply too difficult to BE me, but yet I need to be Polly Anna. Several years ago, around 2009, in fact, God gave me Psalm 45:7: 

I knew as soon as I read that verse that He meant it for me, as a special Word from Him to me, that His Holy Spirit was speaking directly to my very soul. In that moment, God anointed me, pouring out the oil of Joy on me more than on anyone else. It is a heavy responsibility that I do NOT take lightly or for granted.

Every single detail I have mentioned throughout here makes me who I am today--makes me the Polly Anna I am today, December 21, 2017, at 47 years old. A part of me wishes that none of the bad stuff had ever happened. But then I am reminded that God more often than not uses those who have struggled greatly. 1 Peter 1 says: "⁶ So be truly glad. There is wonderful joy ahead, even though you must endure many trials for a little while. ⁷ These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold—though your faith is far more precious than mere gold. So when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world." Almost every single Hero of the Faith whether in the Bible or someone we know historically experienced great trials, tribulations, and suffering. Paul talks about how he asked God three separate times to take the thorn of suffering from his side, but God refuses. Paul accepts the inevitable saying that he is glad, thankful for his weakness because it is in his weakness that he is made strong in Christ (2 Corinthians 12). 

Maybe, just maybe, like Paul, I have these thorns so that in my

weakness, I am only made strong through Jesus Christ my Savior.


And then we go back to 2 Corinthians which reminds us that: "God

is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. ⁴ He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.⁵ For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ. ⁶ Even when we are weighed down with troubles, it is for your comfort and salvation! For when we ourselves are comforted, we will certainly comfort you. Then you can patiently endure the same things we suffer. ⁷ We are confident that as you share in our sufferings, you will also share in the comfort God gives us." In other words, not only do all my trials help define me, but they are also meant to be used to help comfort others. God HAS comforted me through all my trials; He continues to comfort me through them. My "job" (if you will allow me to use that term) is to comfort others who have experienced similar trials. 

Maybe, just maybe, others will see me--hear my story or ready my story and find comfort in it because, in spite of it all, because of it all, in it all, through it all, IT IS WELL.

It is well with my soul. I may have mental illnesses and physical disabilities and character traits that drive others crazy. I may be different from the vast majority of the people I know and come into contact with. You may not understand why I smile. You may not understand why I smile at you. 

That's ok.

Because I am Polly Anna. When I die, I hope it can and will be said of me: 

Polly Anna: She sure was!

Polly Anna