One evening as I settled in after putting the kids to bed, I sat thinking that it had been a good day. We had had a nice afternoon as a family, the kids had been cheerful, and bedtime had come early. I felt peaceful. Peaceful? Yep, I had had a break day. In Ignatian terms, a day of consolation. God had been merciful to me, and my sufferings were relieved for a time. I noticed it, and I drank it in. I'd been through this enough times to know that times of consolation never last. Neither, however, do times of desolation.
It hit. A painter was due to arrive at 8 am and I knew he'd be doing a walk-through of our entire house. I rarely have all levels of my house visitor-ready at the same time. After drinking my morning coffee and looking at 7 children in pj's, knowing my husband had to get off to work and I had a pile of dishes in the sink, I prepared myself for the brewing storm. Sure enough, those clouds gathered and at about 7:45 the boom hit. I took a breath and realized I hadn't been breathing. Anxiety. My kids were trying to help and looking cluelessly about, asking what they should do next. Apparently the dirty laundry, piles of trash, strewn books and toys didn't draw their attention. I said something to my oldest son along the lines of "can't you help me more than this?" and my voice was shaking. I realized that I wasn't doing well. I walked out of the room and put the baby in his highchair and loaded the dishes in the dishwasher. Someone announced the arrival of the painter. I thanked my children for their efforts and answered the door. The painter was extremely nice, encouraging, and said his wife would be jealous because she wanted 6 kids but they had just gotten married a year ago and "hadn't gotten started yet". He said our house was very clean when I said we'll "see what kind of a job the kids did on their rooms" as I led him upstairs. And after he left, I thanked my husband for his efforts in helping me. He said all he'd done is take a shower and get ready for work, but that's not true.
In case you missed it in my understated and restrained retelling of this morning's events, that part where I had to leave the room? I had experienced something like a volcano erupting in my head and I actually choked back tears at another moment. No, I hadn't physically injured anyone and I hadn't lashed out verbally too egregiously, although I think it was pretty clear to my children that I was stressed and I probably made them carry some emotional baggage as I tried to go drill sergeant on them. I have my regrets, but I'll take those to confession. I also see that I've learned to walk away, to bite my tongue, and to get space and breathe deeply when things escalate. That's a victory.
Later that morning I realized that I felt miserable. I was suffering. The chaos had passed, but the depression had returned. I gazed at the golden light reflecting through the autumn leaves outside my family room windows. The felt healing. I soaked in the silence, and I knew I needed to step outside and breathe in some fresh cool fall air. I was entering "recovery" mode. In recovery time, you get space and regain peace. You drink in beauty and refill your depleted emotional tank. You snuggle your baby, get a big strong loving hug from your husband, and the more siblings that join in the hug the better. Rub their smiling fuzzy heads, their golden curls and smooth cheeks. They love you. You love them. You're healing. God is good.
Practical advice: get take-out during recovery time. You need to take the pressure off where you can. Really work on giving yourself a break. Ask for help. Explain to your husband what will help you: time for exercise, time for prayer, time at a salon, coffee with a friend. Don't stay gone long, don't do it all in one day. A little at a time. But don't forget to keep a look out when the sea goes calm, because the waves keep rolling. It's ok, we just have to navigate one storm at a time.
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