I needed that

I can't tell you how much I needed that hug and prayer.  Battling horrible depression.

Now Ron, God love him, doesn't get it.  He knows my depressions are "bad" and I "don't want to do anything" but he doesn't grasp it.  

His idea of "helping", if I mention "I'm having a hard time with depression" is yelling at God about  "breaking" me.  Calling God Torture Man and worse, shouting and very angry - he assures me "on my behalf".  Then walking around in a black, ugly, mood for days after.

If I mention I have been depressed, he wants to know why I didn't tell him.  Yeah, we could clearly use some counseling on this.  [snort]  When have I ever said that?

So, safe to say, things are not "supportive" at home.  He's not malicious, just oblivious.  He doesn't know, and doesn't want to know.  If I try to tell him he shuts down the lines of communication.

I also have to think, if Ron really knew the severity - he'd be even angrier at God.  So, maybe God has impeded his ability to understand.  I'm not sure.

I just figure God has given me Ron, in part, to keep my eyes on God, and not my husband, for support!  God has always understood me.

Sometimes, I want someone to say "You poor thing" and give me a hug.  Someone to pray with me instead of yelling at God.  Oh, how I want that.

I'll say it again, just in case I'm not clear: Ron does his best.  He gives me everything he can.  He would die for me.  The man came back from the dead for me.

Did I tell you about that?

After Ron's accident, when he finally came out of the coma, and knew me, I asked him if he met God.  He became very upset.  "Blackmail's a terrible reason to live" he muttered.  "I love you" and he rolled over and went back to sleep.

Frankly, I was always scared to peruse that.  One day, I asked Ron about it.

[Important point, January 7, 2003 - the date of the accident]

It's documented that Ron's heart stopped after the accident.  The paramedics and the life flight crew revived him.

While he was dead, Ron says some things didn't happen.  He didn't see a bright light.  He didn't have his life played back.  He just says he was in a wonderful place with no fear or pain.  Oh, he desperately wants to go back.  "Would you rather make love, or read about it?" he says when people ask.  They understand.

However, while he was dead, Ron was shown an image.  I was in a small medical exam room.  A doctor was telling me she'd have to put me into a mental hospital, against my will, because I was "a danger to myself".  I was crying and very distraught, begging her to reconsider.  She kept saying, sorry, no option.

Ron, "seeing" this, was furious.  How dare that doctor tell me I was crazy?  "Just give her some medication and she'll be fine!" he remembers shouting (which was true).   "Leave her alone!"  God, at that point, let Ron know "You can be with Heather during this, or not.  What will it be?"  And Ron elected to come back.

Here's where it gets creepy.  The date of the accident: Jan 7, 2003.  On September 1, 2006, I was sitting in the exam room, listening to the doctor tell me she would have to put me in the mental hospital, against my will, even though I told her I was OK to go home.  I would not commit suicide, I said, but she didn't believe me.  I could do it the easy way, by signing a form.  Or I could do it the hard way, with the police, handcuffs, and an ambulance.  What would it be?  Of course I was sobbing.

I realized later I had just enacted Ron's "vision".  At the moment, though, she left, and came back.  "Well," Doc told me "Since you are married, your husband can be responsible for you.  We will release you if you get checked out at the ER."

I don't forget that.  Ron has a very hard time of it, physically.  He can feed himself, bathroom, dress himself, but other than that he is dependent.  He thanked me recently for doing all the housework, as he got a clean shirt out of the closet (He does hang up his own clothes, after I put them on a chair).

So, I remember that.   I see Ron struggling to be a good husband, which to him equates as a good provider.  I tell him money doesn't matter, I want a hug, and he gives me one.  Usually.

But I feel alone and very isolated.  I want someone to "get it".

Today, after his usual bitter complaints about "bad trips", we went to church.  After church, the pastor came up to me.  I told him I was battling a nasty depression, taking my medication, going to see my doctor anyway on Friday, and could use a little prayer.  Right then and there, he put his hand on my shoulder and prayed for me.

A few minutes later, I saw Pete, the wonderful man who has helped us with so much.  He had just biked over.  I gave him a huge hug, even though he was sweaty, because he is a lovely man and a true servant of God.  He grinned at me and hugged me back

My church is very huggable.  I love that.  I love how it's perfectly normal for two, three people to huddle up and pray for an important issue.  Lovely.

The pastor gave me some real encouragement.  He says, hang in there.  Don't let the devil keep me from doing my work.  God loves you.

I needed that.