When Hindsight Becomes Foresight

Spoiler alert: this blog post mentions infertility, depression, and suicidal ideation. I've tried to address these topics with sensitivity and authenticity, but if you need to skip this post for the sake of your own mental health, I completely understand.

About seven years ago, I decided it was time to have another kid. We already had three, but I'd thought for several years that our family wouldn't be complete until we had one more, and now the time finally felt right. My depression was under control, I'd stopped taking medication, and we'd moved closer to family. Plus, it felt like God was telling me the time was finally right. I was energized and hopeful.

I didn't get pregnant the first month, which wasn't weird, so it was fine. I didn't the second month, either--but my sister-in-law did. They announced their awesome news at a family gathering. I probably felt a little bad, but the women in my husband's family are notoriously fertile. It was fine. Completely fine.

I told my brother-in-law's wife that we were trying to conceive. She knew exactly how I felt. Though she and her husband didn't have trouble conceiving, she did have a hard time carrying pregnancies to term. We'd bonded before over our shared misery of having married into such a baby-come-easy family.

Then, a month or several later, she said she was pregnant, too.

This made me feel a little worse--or, you know, maybe a lot worse. I tried to be happy for her, but I wasn't, not at all. Now I was an awful person in addition to *not* pregnant.

This was sometime in the winter, which was colder, snowier, and generally more miserable than my last ten winters had been. I'm sure this had something to do with my worsening depression, but I was too far gone to make that logical connection, and my depression quickly spiraled into suicidal thoughts. Church was soul-suckingly bad, and family gatherings were worse. At least my *other* brother-in-law's wife had no bun in the proverbial oven and showed no signs of wanting one. We didn't talk as much, but I decided we were tight, on the same side, and all of that.

Until--you guessed it--she announced that she was having her first baby.

There were now three babies coming to my husband's family, and not a single one was mine. Why was God rewarding them but somehow not rewarding me? Was I less righteous, less deserving? Then why had I felt so strongly that the time was finally right?

This was in, like, February, and my suicidal thoughts were pretty much out of control. After sitting down to talk about it with my husband's parents, I decided I would give myself two more months to conceive. The thought of giving God a deadline didn't sit quite right with me, but even I could tell that this was rapidly becoming a life-or-death situation. Two more tedious months passed, and I didn't get pregnant.

Still.

I was beaten. I was vanquished. Scheduling that doctor's visit felt like admitting defeat. I mean, I knew I had to do it--for myself, my family--but I didn't *want* to do it. And I didn't understand why God had let me wander recklessly so far down the wrong path.

The day of the appointment came. I told the doctor all my crap. (I've been doing authenticity since before it became cool.) Then she told me something wondrous, something I'd wondered about but never let myself believe: there was a type of medication that would *not* affect the fetus even if I took it straight through an entire pregnancy.

This, of course, was the solution, the detour I couldn't see from where I was firmly stuck. I started this new medication, and after working out the dosage over the next several months, I managed to sweet-talk my husband into trying to conceive again. (He was understandably gun-shy after the year that we'd endured.)

We got pregnant right away, and our Gummy Bear was born in April of 2018.

This wasn't the first time that, with the benefit of hindsight, I could see how Heavenly Father's plan was so much better than *my* plan, but I swore it would be the last. This ordeal had to have changed me. The next time I hit a roadblock, I couldn't spend weeks, months, or years working myself into a frenzy or shaking my fists at God. I had to hope. I had to trust. I had to let myself believe that God really does know what He's doing, that He's looking out for me, and that He knows how to do more with and make more of my life than I ever could alone.

I didn't know it then, but as it turned out, my next hard thing had already begun. EARTH TO DAD had sold to Capstone in February of 2017--right when, incidentally, I was going nuclear--and since then, perhaps you've noticed that I haven't sold a thing. *I* didn't notice right away, but it's become hard to ignore. I also had to leave an agent after he didn't connect with the new stuff I was writing, and the new agent I found had to medically retire in May earlier this year.

But honestly? I'm fine. Actually, completely fine. Do I wish I'd made a sale in the last six or seven years? Um, of course, yes, absolutely. But am I foaming at the mouth because my journey hasn't gone the way I wanted it to go? For once, thankfully, no. I still have some not-great days, but for the most part, I've been able to keep writing, writing, writing and give God the time and space to lead me down the proper road. I hope I'll know it when I see it, but until then, I'm content to keep waiting on the Lord. There are much worse ways to wait.

In Pursuit of Patience

Three and a half years ago, in the fall of 2016, I got the impression it was time for Chris and me to try to have another baby. This was kind of monumental. From the time Monster was small--from the time he was born, really--I'd assumed we'd have another. I could almost hear her footsteps pattering around the house, and when I looked for my kids, I constantly looked for a fourth.

The timing had never been right. During most of 2013, spilling into 2014, I'd been majorly depressed. I felt like I SHOULD have a baby, but I didn't WANT another, which just made me MORE depressed. I'd been taught for years and years that children were a gift from God and that having and raising them were two of life's main purposes, so if I didn't want another, I was clearly horrible.

After going to a therapist once or twice a month for more than a year, I went back on medication. That put baby plans on hold, as I was under the impression that you couldn't have a baby while taking antidepressants. I was part relieved, part sad.

By sometime in 2015, I was feeling pretty good. I weaned myself off medication without talking to my doctor. (This was NOT a good idea.) Then 2016 struck. As I detailed in this post, Chris received a job transfer that really threw me for a loop. Still, I came to the conclusion I included in that post:

"I believe God was doing more with my life than I could do with it on my own. It's hard to let go, but I believe He loves and cares for us as a father loves and cares for his children. And because fathers are anxious to see their children succeed, He will help us steer our ships if we're willing to trust Him. In other words, when we let Him in, He won't ever let us down."

Three months after writing that, I was getting the impression it was time for Chris and me to try to have another baby. I was nervous but excited. As I detailed in THIS post, Chris and I had had to deal with infertility before. But this time, I was sure we were definitely doing what God wanted us to do. I was confident that meant the sailing would be fairly smooth.

I smile as I write that now. Hadn't I already learned that God carried out His plan, not what I thought His plan should be? I should have, but I hadn't. I was in for a crash course.

One month went by, then two. A sister-in-law announced that she was pregnant. I was mad despite myself. This sister-in-law had always gotten pregnant on the first or second try. Why had she never had to work? I shared some of these feelings with another sister-in-law, one who's miscarried several times. She completely understood.

Then, a month later, SHE announced that she was pregnant.

I cried a lot that winter, tried to get inside God's head. I hadn't really expected to get pregnant that first month, but what about the fifth or sixth? And why was God dispatching babies to every other family in our family? Was there something wrong with us? Were we less faithful, less deserving?

By the time March rolled around, I thought I was all cried out. Then a third sister-in-law, who'd put off having kids for years, announced that she was pregnant, too.

It was right around this time that I admitted to myself I was probably more depressed than I'd ever been before. I would go on crying jags that would, like, compress my chest and make it difficult to breathe, and my suicidal thoughts were slowly developing into suicidal plans. I spoke openly with Chris about the problems I was having, but they never went away. By April, I conceded to seeking medical help. We scheduled an appointment right away.

Chris went into this appointment thinking our window had closed. We'd tried. We'd failed. Time to move on. That said, I was less convinced. Why had I received that prompting if our family was complete? I know God sometimes allows us to take steps down the wrong path so we can pinpoint the right one, but that answer didn't sit. I was hopeful that the doctor would provide a better one.

Maybe you've already guessed what I learned at that appointment. As it turns out, I was wrong--there IS an antidepressant childbearing women can take from conception to delivery. Multiple studies have shown it has little to no impact on developing babies, and it's safe to take for days, weeks, months, even years.

This changed everything, of course. I walked away from that appointment feeling like I'd found the answer I'd been looking so hard for. And sure enough, a few months later, once this wondrous medication had had time to take effect and I was feeling good again, I got pregnant on the first try.

I could almost hear God's voice speaking softly to my heart: "THIS was the way for you to go. THIS was the path I chose for you. Wasn't it better than the path you would have chosen for yourself?"

What did I say after our house in Mesquite finally sold? "And because fathers are anxious to see their children succeed, He will help us steer our ships if we're willing to trust Him." You see, I ALREADY KNEW that God's way always works out. But when the next storm arose, I forgot and wrung my hands. What will we do, what will we do, what will we do, what will we DO? And yet I already knew: keep calm, carry on, and let Jesus take the wheel.

God allows us to pass through faith-promoting tests and trials just so they'll promote our faith. And if we let them work in us--in us, through us, and around us--then the next time we're confronted with a faith-promoting test, we'll be able to press forward and, if not rest fully easy, then at least rest easier.

Why am I sharing this now? Because I'm waiting to hear back on a non-writing endeavor that would mean the world to me. And because I've been on submission with one project or another for the past almost a year. I HATE being on submission. It's dumb and demoralizing. But as I hope I've FINALLY learned, I know how to handle it.

Have I had difficult days? Sure. Have I prayed for an end? Of course. But more often than not, I've prayed for strength to persevere, and that's made all the difference.

Depression Is Hard to Write About

Bonnie is about a lot of things--swimming, survivor's guilt, first love, forgiveness--but in my heart of hearts, she's always been about major depression. I started writing her almost a year and a half ago, so at first, my characterization was based on memories that were more than ten years old. But as I've experienced a few more low points over this last year, I've realized how much I got wrong. And how much I sensationalized.

The truth is, I'm the Mr. Rogers of depressed people. I've never attempted suicide (though I have contemplated it), I've never felt compelled to cut or inflict pain on myself, and my depression is brought on by relatively mild life events. Maybe I'm a wimp--actually, I strongly suspect it--and just can't handle the normal ups and downs that other people take in stride, but for better or for worse, this is how MY depression feels, and I accept that.

I think we writers have a penchant for puffery. We're always mining for conflict in our stories, so I guess it would make sense that we occasionally feel compelled to hunt for conflict in real life. For that reason, I sometimes feel guilty for claiming to be depressed, like I'm not depressed ENOUGH. Like my depression isn't real if I'm not a danger to myself or others AT THIS VERY MOMENT.

But as one of my critique partners oh-so-accurately put it, even moderate major depression can be deadly, and moderate major depression is what a lot of us seem to have. We know how to cover up our symptoms and put on a brave face. On our best days, we even seem normal and happy. But underneath it all is a steady stream of negativity that, if left unchecked, can come back to bite--or even kill--us.

Which I why I think this story is so important--and why I want to get it right. I'm not there yet, but as long as I don't give up, I think I can get there someday.

What is it they're always saying about art imitating life? :)

Oh, Look, Another Post About a Depressed Writer

I've started this post a dozen times and never finished it. I've rewritten, rearranged, added, and deleted. In fact, I've seriously considered just deleting the whole thing. I mean, there are only so many times you can read about a writer who's struggling, and I feel like those other posts have been far more insightful.

But for better or for worse, this IS my life. It's what I'm going through, and in that way, it's mine. Besides, I've never been very good at disguising how I feel, so consider this another in the long line of posts in which I wear my heart on my blog.

Being a mom is HARD. Like, write-ten-thousand-words-in-a-single-sitting hard. It seems like it should be doable, but the pace is so relentless. You're on every single minute of every single hour for the next eighteen-plus years, no sick days, no vacation. I suppose that should have occurred to me before I got pregnant, but the reality never sank in until I was knee-deep in kids.

Lately, I've been so jealous of writers who don't have these pint-sized distractions, who can pick up and move to Singapore to finish their revisions. Or write until three in the morning because they know no little hands will tug at their covers a few hours later. I've desperately wondered what it would be like to sit down and write whenever or wherever I wanted because no one was demanding anything of me.

The rational side of me knows that this is only the depression talking. (Have I mentioned I have depression? I haven't had a problem with it since high school, but in the last eight months or so, I've noticed some of the old thought patterns cropping up: the indifference, the negativity, the overall can't-do attitude. It's great.) The rational side of me also knows that EVERY SINGLE WRITER has to overcome one obstacle or another. But knowing and believing are two completely different things.

You'd think these sorts of feelings would have come up sooner. From a writing perspective, 2013 has been a very good year for me. But it's also been stressful (something I've learned about submitting is that it often takes weeks and sometimes months for the first hints of good news to blossom into book deals (if they blossom at all)), and I didn't expect that. Add to this three crazy kids who are just starting to have lives and interests of their own, and you've got one off-kilter Krista.

I want to say for the record that I don't regret being a mom or a writer. I chose to be both, and I stand by those decisions. You don't give up on something just because it gets hard. And it's not as hard as it could be. I'm still mostly functional, still capable of writing more days than I'm not. Hopefully, I'll be able to get a handle on this before I sink too much deeper.

For those of you waiting for the inspirational ah-ha moment these posts often include, I'm sorry to disappoint. I haven't figured anything out yet. But if I don't blog or tweet as often as I used to, I hope you'll understand. I'm trying to slow down, dig deep, get back to the basics. I've got a long climb ahead.