After my son had his first seizure at 7 months old (you can read more about that here), the enemy kicked the door of opportunity wide open. I became more vulnerable as a new Mother, absolutely riddled with fear.

That’s the moment he barged his way in, and locked claws on my brain. By the time my son had his second seizure and we realized this wasn’t going to be a One and Done type scenario, my mind began spiraling into a vortex of extreme irrationality and darkness.

It was right around that time I found out I was pregnant again. My son was only 8 months old. As we Mothers do, I faced the challenges of parenting by putting all my energy and focus into caring for my babies, meanwhile neglecting my own mental health. I became dreadfully afraid of public places . Everywhere we went I envisioned bacteria and viruses growing all over everything. I kept my babies home for the majority of the time. My logic was skewed, unbeknownst to me. I kept my kids away from the public and germs, which would keep them from getting sick, and would protect my son from seizures. I tried to control their health, and took full responsibility for their well-being.

My husband and I began attending separate church services so one of us could stay home with the kids and not expose them to germs. When rarely leaving the house,  I was armed with all manner of antibacterial wipes, gels, and plans in place to keep them from touching anything. One time we arrived at Walmart and I had forgotten the hand wipes. I began to panic. Tears sprang to my eyes. I made Chuck hold one kid and I took the other lest their little hands touch a germ. I bolted to the middle of the store to grab a box of wipes off the shelf before we shopped. It was embarrassing to be holding back tears over hand wipes, but I knew no other alternative.

Things got progressively worse after we bought a house and moved out to a neighborhood in the country. I was terrified of our neighbors, and wouldn’t even take the kids for walks for fear someone would break into our house while we were gone. One time a couple of big, nasty spiders showed up downstairs where I did laundry and I could no longer wash our clothes unless Chuck was home to walk down there with me. The harder I worked to control what was happening around me, the more out-of-control it all became.

Don’t think for a minute I had turned my back on God at this point. Quite the contrary. I was in the Scriptures regularly. I was leading Bible studies. I was memorizing Scripture verses. I led a small group of teenagers and weekly shared with them about our great and wonderful God. Yet I was so broken inside I was barely functioning. Finally one day I walked into the kitchen, sat down on a chair and told my husband, “Something is wrong with my brain.” He, being the eternal optimist, said he thought I was fine. I pressed further, “No, something is wrong with my brain. I need help.”

Together, my husband and I sought out professional therapy for me. I began the process of intense counseling in the Fall of 2016, and continued until this past summer. My counselor was nothing short of a God-send. During my first session, I sat on her couch with hot tears pouring out of my eyes the entire hour. Everything had gotten so out-of-control, so dark. I felt such a strong sense of shame.

Yet, despite all of those feelings, after showing up for my first appointment I felt something I had not felt in a very long time.

H.O.P.E.