Thursday, October 30, 2014

Then It Got Worse

Getting started isn't so easy!  So, I'll keep this intro simple. I have a dozen messages swirling in my mind.  There is so much to sort through if I want to present my story in a meaningful way.  The last time I wrote anything down I was existing in unlimited misery.  If you followed along with, then you know.  If not, it’s still there – be sure to scroll to the beginning to understand what happened.  I don’t read or edit it.  I certainly do not what to relive it.  It happened.  It was my tragedy.  It is now my testimony.  My husband, Rich died.  I fell apart.  There were 8 years of depletion and wilderness. 

My point?  The human spirit can go to the bowels of hell and come through.  We can come back to life, to health, to wellness, to joy, to love…  We can come back stronger than before we fell. I used to touch people with sorrow.  Today, I touch people with hope.  I am restored and redeemed and I make a daily decision to live in joy.

My last post on was me prattling on about how things were looking up and I was feeling better and ready to live again.  That was not my truth.  I wanted it to be, but my hell was deeper than I realized. 

I want to tell my story, but I think I’ll do it in pieces.  I made many bad decisions that aren't easy to discuss, but I will if it can help another struggling person. Some hard lessons were learned that now make up the better part of me.

My story involves deep depression, inconsolable grief and baffling addiction.  The depression and grief are pretty well documented in my earlier blog.  Rich started an online journal in 2001 when we were driving to California for him to take a job in San Francisco.  I began to add entries after his death in 2004.  Rich Rust was my absolute love.  I nearly threw my life away when his was gone.

When he died I wanted everything to end.  I didn't want to feel, to think, to dream, to laugh.  I didn't want to be a widow.  I didn't even want to be a mom, but I couldn't help but love our children.  I didn't want to leave them, but I didn't want to be.

I turned to alcohol.  It was numbing and anesthetizing. It was like drinking an antiseptic that I hoped could heal everything that ached inside of me.  It worked until it didn't. I have an addictive personality. 

Then it got worse…