A Cigarette and a Cinnamon Roll: Smoking My Grief Away

Friday night I went out to see a local cover band I love, A Band in Kansas.

I paid my $10 cover and went to the front row, ready to lose myself and dance. As I do!

But this time, I was overcome with tears. Immediately I was sobbing. I ran inside to the restaurant, hoping to order some food. Kitchen closed. I started texting my friends, hoping someone could calm me down.

Full-blown panic attack mode. I felt like such a freak, sitting in a booth by myself and ugly-crying.

I called Kristin, a local friend who answered. I could barely talk, my breathing was ragged.
“Where are you?” she asked. “Are you safe?

I told her that yes, I was. Just mortified.

“I just baked some fresh cinnamon rolls,” she said. “Do you want to come over?”

It was 10 p.m. and she has a family, but God bless her. I did.

“Calm down first,” she told me. I nodded.

I went to the bar, still gasping. “I need a drink of water.”

A young staff girl was to my right, sweeping the floor. She made eye contact but didn’t respond.

“I NEED WATER,” I said louder.

The bartenders looked at me with pity, handed me one.

A staff in a yellow t-shirt asked me gently, “Do you want to get some air with me?”

I nodded and followed her outside to the alley.

She offered me a cigarette. I haven’t had one in years. I used to smoke socially, but never buy my own.

“Do you want one?” Her lighter was small and had a weed leaf on it.

“YES I fucking do,” I said.

Taking a deep drag, I instantly calmed down.

The nicotine flooded me with relief. I love the taste of smoke.

I’ve been doing everything right– managing my anxiety and feelings in “healthy” ways.

I’m in therapy and medicated. I’ve tried running, focusing on work, blogging, hot baths, talking it out, prayer, Mass, Confession, martial arts, Adoration, the Rosary, Bible study, volunteering. I even have a spiritual advisor!

But WOW, how immediately that cigarette worked.

I decided to just surrender to what I needed and not judge myself.

Because no one can judge me like I can!

I started to explain why I was freaking out.

“My ex,” I managed. “I came out to have fun… but–

She gave a knowing nod and a “Mmmmmhmm.”

“Girrllll, me too. My baby daddy…..” the staff in a yellow t-shirt said.

And THEN the band began playing “Creep,” by Radiohead.

“He died a year ago,” I said. “And he LOVED this song, dammit!”

“I wish I was special

You’re so very special…”

I started laughing.

That fucking song– a favorite of Dan, my First Love.

He used to play that in his truck constantly. ‘

I’ve been trapped within myself this week, ruminations as I grieved the one-year anniversary of his death. I’d been obsessively reading my old journals, revising the tribute blog I wrote about him. I couldn’t figure out the bottom line about us: what was the truth?

I couldn’t let him go and I couldn’t commit to the end of that blog.

It was not good for my mental health.

Then I leave my apartment to try and get out and have fun, and this happens?

I mean, COME ON.

At that moment, I honestly felt HAUNTED.

Like my love was saying to me, “Don’t let go, baby. I’m still here!”

I felt angry.

Angry at the choices we both made.

I felt as if my grief would never end. He also was a smoker.

And a guitar player who sang in several bands. It was the music triggering me. Music used to be my happy place.

How dare he invade my happy place, when he’s dead?!

I think, since then, I’ve felt guilty.

As if it’s not okay for me to be okay without him.

As if it’s not okay for my heart to beat, for me to be happy, without him.

But it is okay. I gave him all I could. He knew.

He’s okay now.

I know he would want me to be okay now.

He introduced me to Grunge, the smell of weed, desire.

Now it makes sense. I casually liked music before I met him.

But it was all pop– New Kids on the Block, Debbie Gibson, Ricky Martin. N*Sync, Britney Spears.

Sure, I liked Aerosmith, Meatloaf, Guns n’ Roses. I loved Mtv as much as anyone did.

But until I met him, rock and roll was just a genre of music.

When I became involved with Dan, he brought the rock n’ roll INTO my life.

Passion. Conflict. Longing. Rebellion. Trouble. Heavy breathing.

He actually played guitar– acoustic and electric.

For the first time in my life, someone was serenading me.

Dan introduced me to Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, STP. Later, Audioslave and Chris Cornell solo music.

It was dark and emotional, just like him.

He gave me a love letter with a Fender Heavy guitar pack taped to it.

Dan viewed himself the way the persona in the song did, immortalized and sang by Thom Yorke.

He never felt comfortable in his soul, although he possessed one that endeared me deeply. Officially, he didn’t believe in souls at all. Although I knew something changed toward the end of his life, as he spoke with hope about God. A fledgling acknowledgement, despite his militant pro-claimed Atheism.

He was overtly masculine in his build and the structure of his face. His voice was just deep enough. He exuded this cave man sexuality that made me burn.

But despite how often I tried to show him, to envelop him, to prove his beauty and power– he would lose faith in himself so easily. He was the biggest personality in the room, but so fragile.

And because I had issues with myself, my OWN anxiety and despair- I did the worst thing.

I shut down, desperate to convince myself that I didn’t love him. Didn’t need him.

There must be someone better-adjusted, someone sober and not so dangerously attractive.

So I would break up with him.

I would hate myself afterwards, but thought I was doing the “right” thing.

I would run– from my true feelings, from his power over me.

“She’s running out the door (run)

She’s running out

She run, run, run, run

RUNNNNNN..”

And really, I kept dating different versions of him. But they weren’t real the thing.

After I got my breathing calmed own and chatted with the staff girl a few mins, I thanked her.

I left for Kristin’s.

I smoked the whole cigarette.

I arrived, and we talked and laughed on her porch and in her kitchen for two hours.

The gooey sugar frosting was the perfect wholesome anti-dote to my black mood.

I needed sisterhood.

And she was wonderful! Kristin really listened, she asked questions.

No judgement. She affirmed that I hadn’t been unfair, that all my feelings were valid.

We told stories about who we were in high school and boys we dated in our past.

And laughed, and laughed and laughed.

“My cheeks hurt!” I told her, pressing my hands to my face.

“That’s a good thing,” she said, smiling.

I felt very lucky to have a friend who was there for me at my most vulnerable.

She also told me that my calling her had fulfilled a prayer she had just said.

She had been asking God, “Who can I share these cinnamon rolls with?”

She’s very generous. I had been afraid to “bother” her, but my needing comfort dovetailed with her wish to comfort someone with delicious homemade dessert.

That’s how God works!

It reaffirmed my own faith in a “Dark Night of the Soul.”

I needed a hug.

I needed to be reminded of my humanity, what’s grounding me in the present now.

The good in my life.

The progress I’ve made, the woman I am today.

I’m not the girl who broke his heart myriad times.

I’m now the woman who realizes it was meant to be that way,

That it was no one’s fault.

Today I can forgive him

and forgive myself for leaving.

I can also admit that really, he wasn’t good for me. He mostly upset me- either because I was worried about him, or he was unreliable or not fully present emotionally because he was high. He would listen and could be very sweet and comforting. But he never asked the sort of questions I need to know someone is fully engaged with me. We had a very passionate romantic relationship, but not a strong friendship. He turned to Mary Jane for comfort every day, not me. I got fed up competing with a bottle for his devotion.

He was committed to his habits, but not to us.

I knew he loved me massively. But he didn’t understand me the way I needed, for that amount of time.

He was just not The One, and now I can finally admit that.

And I can forgive myself for letting go.

He would want me to.

He always wanted me to be happy. He also knew he couldn’t give me what I wanted. He said that.

I couldn’t give him what he wanted, either.

He moved on to someone else, and that seared my soul.

But now I’m okay with it. She was more like him, she was the balance I couldn’t provide.

And now hanging on and loving him is only hurting me.

Time to accept that it’s over.

I’m okay now.

Then I went to Quick Trip and bought myself a pack of Lucky Strike Reds and a Dias de Los Meurtos Bic lighter. Its only the second pack I’ve bought in my life.

The first was in 2011 when I was on deadline for a newspaper column and feeling utterly uninspired. I bought a pack of Marlboro Reds, and after smoking one I thought I would die! I felt awful and threw the rest out.

This time, I chose something not as hardcore. Something more affordable.

And I lit a Lucky in my car, allowing myself to be human.

Loving the taste of the smoke.

Another Confession: How Jesus Rolls

Tonight I returned to Confession and again left feeling incredible.

Usually our parish Confession times are quite limited (20 minutes on Saturday, during Mass, or by appointment)– so I had to take advantage of the evening extended hours during Holy Week.

Different confessional this time, different priest.

Still amazing.

This time I switched it up and did use a list format: three specific sins, briefly described. I used the handy booklet available to peruse whilst I waited in line. It was a long time tonight– it was great to see so many and I even recognized a few people.

This time as he listened, I heard him going “Mmm-hmm,” and I pictured him nodding his head in empathy. I told him three things that have been bothering me the most– I was very honest.

And despite him being a priest– there was no chastising.

Instead, support.

He said that he hears that these things are causing me “suffering and struggle.” He understood I wasn’t trying to disobey God or not do the right thing, but that these were problems– things I wanted fix. Feelings that are bothering me, habits I feel stuck in and am not sure how to quit.

Father advised me to talk Jesus about it– but he said the most wonderful thing.

“I can’t promise he will fix these overnight, that’s not usually how Jesus rolls.”

But that regardless, Jesus wants to know what’s on my heart. He wants to comfort me.

“Offer it up to him,” Father said.

What I heard from Father was humility.

He did offer me absolution– he directly forgave those sins. He did give me a small Penance.

But he reminded me that if I want to pursue change, if I want to find true peace– Jesus is the man.

Like a basketball player passing the ball to a player who can land the three-point shot!

That’s Jesus.

It felt like I was on the same team with them– I didn’t feel less than. Like he’s a priest and I’m just a sinner. I felt like Father understood my pain.

I felt part of a community.

This Confession was quicker. No crying, no heavy emotion.

But I left with a giant smile.

I love this feeling.

Talking to your best friends is wonderful too.

But there’s something on another level about formally confessing to a priest.

I’ve been struggling with depression and anxiety a long time.

Maybe part of the relief I’m seeking is right there— I just have to be willing.

Confession asks you to not just be accountable– but vulnerable.

I trust these priests.

For months now, I’ve been feeling as if my struggles are a burden I need to keep to myself, that I don’t want to bother my family or friends with them. That what I felt was too much for them.

And literally, these priests have chosen a vocation to do just that: to hear confessions, to absolve sins. What strength it must take for them to quietly listen to us. I’m awe of how much they love God, Jesus, the Blessed Mother, and our parish– to commit to such deep service.

The best part is, you can do this anonymously. It gives you a freedom to speak your heart.

The Holy Spirit guided me into Confession– it’s a true gift. A gift I’m comprehending on a new level.

And by confessing to them, I’m getting to know THEM, too. Beyond the Homilies, beyond a quick at Mass.

Makes me want to serve my parish.

My soul is opening up, just like my heart.

Through Mass, the Rosary, Confession, Adoration, stewardship– I’m building a new relationship with Jesus. I’m not just demanding of him, “Fix this!” I’m showing Him that I care about him, too. That it’s reciprocal. That I want to spend time with him, that I know he’s busy. That I don’t expect him to always do what I want. That maybe He really does have wisdom and it’s worth my patience to seek that wisdom.

I want this kind of experience more than once or twice a year.

It’s a wonderful new thing to cultivate.

What a blessed Holy Week it’s been, indeed.

Confession and Absolution: Beauty and Healing

Tonight I took my soul to the cleaners: Confession!

I estimate it’s been about three years, maybe closer to four. I remember I had the hardest time finding this parish, I kept getting lost and going in circles because my GoogleMaps. It was when I had first moved bac to Wichita and was living with my parents and didn’t have a job yet. I was struggling, wanting to be independent and get going in this cool new life I uprooted myself to pursue, after 30 years of stability in Joliet, IL. I was also feeling sick and wasn’t in good health at that time. I just really needed the sacrament.

I tried to talk to the priest, who I had never met. I’m part of a large group of young Catholics and we were hosting a group Adoration for us that night. There was at least 20 of us there. He didn’t listen at all to my pain, and just cut me off and said, “You need to get a roommate.”

I was scandalized by his rudeness and total disinterest in my earnest attempt to find some meaning in that time of transition. I respect priests, but not unprofessional behavior in any industry– priests included. I might have offered a curt reply but most likely I just abruptly stood up and stormed out. Any jerk on the street could have told me that. In all my years– nearly 40– of Catholicism, no priest had ever talked to me like that. It permanently damaged the relationship I had with Confession, which I had always enjoyed and gone at least once a year if not twice. I was there to discuss my soul, not get life advice.

I’ve stayed away since, like you feel after a bad break-up and want to avoid dating for awhile. To recover.

But tonight, I felt ready. I’d heard through Altar Society that Confession was happening during Holy Week during the evening– usually it’s only during Mass and only for a short duration. It never seemed like enough time, like I hadn’t gone.

Tonight I was prepared. I brought my Rosary and my list of prayers. As I stood in line, I saw the Cross at the entry of the church, shrouded in the purple cloth to remind us of Christ’s crucifixion. It was somber.

My new parish– the church was dark, just a small light on to signify Confession was open and where.

As I waited, I began praying a Rosary casually as I stood. I got my new rose-scented and blessed one. I held each bead and softly whispered each prayer. I got through the first decade and a half and it was my turn.

I knelt inside, the bench was high! My feet were off the floor. I waited, but silence. I decided to relax. There seemed to be a booth on either side with the priest in the middle.

After a couple minutes, Father’s voice spoke to me. It wasn’t a screen, but a black felt cloth.

I began the routine. “Father, I have sinned…”

I don’t use a list when I confess. I just focus on one or two things that weigh heavy on my heart, things I need help with. Maybe three if there’s time. But I prefer to have a little talk rather than just read off a list. I want to connect. I want to be listened to, prayed over, reassured of God’s love and forgiveness. Told my Penance.

I spoke of my struggles learning to pray the Rosary, and how I’ve felt resistance toward it the past month because I wasn’t learning it the way I wanted. It had been my number one Lenten promise and I had failed. I felt shame.

I asked Father, “How do overcome this? I lose count with the Hail Mary’s. I don’t have The Apostle’s Creed and Hail, Holy Queen or Oh My Jesus prayers memorized. I need to read them off a card, and the print is too small. I told him how when I’ve tried to lead the Rosary for Altar Society, I’ve stumbled.

That I want to be a good daughter to God and my parents. That learning the Rosary is important to me, but activates my anxiety. I don’t want to do it wrong.

Basically, that I had set myself an impossible standard of perfection and given up. That I wanted to work through it and move forward, to keep learning.

And his response was amazing.

First he said, “Good confession.”

No priest has ever done that.

That simple validation meant so much to me, put me at ease.

He told me that God, Jesus and Mary are happy that I have this desire to pray the Rosary at all. That feeling called to lead it, even if it’s not perfect– that effort is seen and appreciated by them.

That really, it’s an act of devotion, an expression of LOVE.

I wish I had taken notes and quoted him, I loved his words so much. Next time I might.

That what I need to remember about the Hail Mary’s is that it’s just telling Mary, “I love you.”

I’m talking to her.

Not to think of it as a duty.
He made the analogy of how we want to tell our parents we love them, how it’s important for us to do that and it makes us feel better if we do. That he himself makes it a point with his own parents.

So just like I tell my parents I love them and it’s natural and easy, talk to Mary like that.

And immediately I felt unburdened.

I spoke to him about a couple other small things and we finished.

He reminded me that I am God’s perfect daughter, that I am loved.

I read my Act of Contrition, he issued a small penance that wasn’t harsh– but just right.

I cried, and I felt clean.

Like a child. Innocent, free.

I exited and went to the pews. I finished my Rosary.

Then I felt like I wanted more time with God, so I went upstairs to Adoration.

I stayed an hour. I did an intention for a friend.

Receiving this absolution tonight truly FELT like a sacrament.

I realized tonight too that Reconciliation is not just about being accountable to God by admitting our sins and our struggles out loud to a priest.

But it feels good to then be given a penance– something direct I can do to make reparations.

It’s not about attending because you’ve done something shameful and need to be chastised.

It’s about being honest with YOURSELF first– that something weighs on our soul.

The priest is the conduit, the vessel.

And in return, we receive grace.

I will definitely not wait another three years.

I want to experience this regularly.

And it makes all the difference that now it’s not just a stranger listening, but my pastor.

A man I know, trust, respect.

In hearing my Confession tonight, he made reparations for the bad experience I had three years ago.

I’m ready to trust again.

Myself, my priest, even Jesus.

A Beautiful Heart

I’ve met now with a new Spiritual Director three times, and she is wonderful.

As Catholics, we are encouraged to participate in Spiritual Direction. It can be a nun or priest or a lay person, but they act as a spiritual mentor. You can meet with them just once at a retreat, or on a continuing basis, one-on-one. They listen to where you’re at on your faith journey, and try to be a support for the things you’re struggling with and your goals to connect deeper. Sessions are about an hour.

It’s a legitimate business with fees, but I found someone who is looking for practice — so it’s free.

It’s not therapy, but it does mirror it in some ways. The focus in on your spiritual life, not mental health.

She is kind, and listens well. We’re getting to know each other and now have an easy rapport. She is single too, so we both relate to that.

My director is a good fit for me because she is accepting, supportive and positive! My family do their best, but they’re not emotional people. They don’t like to listen for very long and often think I’m over-thinking, feeling too much, impractical. They’re extremely conservative and I’m a liberal. Also on the anxious side and I have to reassure them. They’re business-oriented, I’m creative.

She is helping me so much! She asks me specific questions and makes observations that show that she’s truly learning who I am.

I told her that I often wear my wooden Catholic bracelet, with pictures of Mary and Jesus. Also my rose gold medal of The Blessed Mother, or a simple cross that’s gold or silver.

I asked her once if she thought I was over-doing it, if it seemed obnoxious?

“I think it’s an expression of you,” she said.

That made me feel seen.

During our first session, she said, “You have a beautiful heart!”

That was a balm to my soul, after always being told my heart is a weakness. Too big, too curious. I’m expecting too much, I’m should stop dreaming and just focus. That I’m just being silly.

Luckily I have some amazing friends who counter-balance this, who cherish my depth and thoughtfulness. And I’ve dated and loved some wonderful men who loved me and did admire and respect my heart!

She talked about my self-awareness and wisdom! That I’m at a point of discerning, and that’s wonderful.

When I expressed that I feel stuck in some lessons I can’t seem to learn, she asked me, do you ever just say to God, “What’s up with my life?!”

She said she’s hearing that I want Him to connect with me personally, in a concrete way.

That I should challenge him to show Himself to me.

I love that. Why not?

While some Bible verses talk about his grace, others make it sound as if we’re condemned if we don’t obey, if we ever doubt him or worry. I’m dealing with big spiritual dissonance here. I’ve been a stalwart Catholic all my life and the obedient daughter– both to God and to my parents.

I’ve sacrificed a lot for my religion. If I’m trying so hard, why am I still not getting it right?

I realized I have some anger with God and have been avoiding talking to him. I haven’t wanted to pray the Rosary.

Direct communication with God makes sense. Reciprocity.

I’m that way with my friendships and dating relationships. If it’s one-sided, I will back away.

But I don’t want to let go. I want this to work. I’ve invested 41 years in God and Catholicism.

The Bible makes God sound like a pretty angry father, but I’m still in the Old Testament.

I want to feel trust toward him.

And I’m beginning to trust myself.

Ash Wednesday 2022

I went to receive my ashes at Mass tonight, and it was so beautiful. I was so plugged in.

In 2020, Mass was canceled. In 2021, we received them sprinkled in our hair.

This year, back to tradition. I loved it.

And if I’m right, this is my third year attending Ash Wednesday at Blessed Sacrament.

Maybe because now I’m officially a parishioner (since June) it feels more special.

But also, now I’m making not just my faith a priority– but my Catholicism.

Today, I wore my prayer veil during Mass. It’s a rosy pink with embroidered flowers. It helped me focus, and it made Mass more special to be wearing it. I’ve always admired when I see women wearing them.

I’m attending a women’s Bible study and have formed a legit bond with those women in my group. I’ve stepped into a role on Altar Society Board, and leading the Rosary before meetings. I’m planning a retreat sometime this year, with my co-chair.

But I haven’t always been good about attending Mass and especially not participating in it. I would attend, but I wasn’t really there. Ashamed to admit this, but I brought my phone with my a lot. I would be there because I felt I *should go, but checked out– thinking about errands I need to run, what to eat.

I think because of my hearing-loss and tendency to arrive either just on time or a little late, meaning I get stuck in the back– where it’s impossible to hear. But tonight I was 15 minutes early. I left my phone in my car. I actually looked up the readings and songs and followed along.

It meant so much more, being able to read the words of the hymns– seeing how they reinforce the readings and the theme of this Holy Day. My parents always did, especially my step-mother, Diane. I’m not sure if I just gave up on it at an early age because it was too hard to follow it with my hearing, or I was just too lazy to pay close enough attention. It always seems like when I’ve tried, I can’t find the readings or songs fast enough.

But now I get it. Catholic Mass is usually about 45 minutes to an hour, depending on the priest and his Homily style. That’s a long time to stand, sit and kneel– and that alone keeps you busy! The readings and songs and responsorials and prayers are so key because they hold your attention and occupy your brain.

But even more, they connect with your heart.

Now that I’m studying Holy Scripture, listening to readings and the Gospel hits different.

It feels more familiar now.

I connected with a verse from Matthew 6: 16-18

¹⁶ “Moreover, when you fast, do not be like the ^[a]hypocrites, with a sad countenance. For they disfigure their faces that they may appear to men to be fasting. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. ¹⁷ But you, when you fast, anoint your head and wash your face, ¹⁸ so that you do not appear to men to be fasting, but to your Father who is in the secret place; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you ^[b]openly.

Honestly, I don’t fast either.

Hey, I’m a flawed Catholic. None of us are perfect.

But I’ve never fasted in terms of eating smaller meals during Lent– only avoided eating meat on Ash Wednesday or Fridays. But I’ve been pretty lenient with myself on this matter.

But legit, I’m now Diabetic, and eating small meals at regular intervals is how I keep it well-controlled. I looked it up, and The Church exempts Diabetics from this practice of smaller meals and long intervals.

I love the part about taking care to look your best when fasting– take care of yourself. Don’t complain and neglect your appearance so that you look miserable and thus more pious– which is false. Instead, represent your faith and Our Father well by attracting positive attention in a humble way. He will notice your quiet discipline and your joy in this act of worship. That devotion will be rewarded with grace.

How beautiful is that?!

It takes true power to bear your struggles with strength and humility. It’s good to reach out for support when you need it, I want to emphasize that. Mental health is vital.

But what’s the point of doing something for prayer or a good deed if you’re just going to nag about it? No one enjoys that.

No one likes a Dante Hicks type, bemoaning, “I’m not even supposed to be here today!”

It’s not a sacrifice if you hate doing it and make sure everyone knows. It’s not genuine.

I actually started this very blog in 2011, because of a Lent promise. To hold myself accountable.

And here I am, still blogging. Sporadically, but still here.

I’ll end with my own Lenten promises, to hold myself accountable:

I will give up bubble tea, something I indulge in several times a week and truly enjoy.

I will stop swearing. Today I already blew that one– but tomorrow’s a new day!

And I will commit to praying the Rosary every day, for a specific person. Each time it will be someone different. If I want to pray a second Rosary or a decade for another person that day, I can. But each day, one person will be given my intentions to help me focus and also give weight and urgency.

If I commit to praying for 40 people, I won’t back out on that.

What are you feelings about Lent? What are your promises this year? Talk to me in the comments!

And bless all of you on your Lenten journey.

In the Immaculate Heart of Mary,

Amee

Praying (the Rosary) for a Miracle: Managing Anxiety

I’ve always respected the power of The Rosary, as a cradle Catholic. But unlike many, I did not grow up praying it with my family. I never got into the habit of praying it alone, which I regret. Throughout my life, I’ve been given them. I think I may have bought one for myself. Others were free. I would hang it in my car, carry one in my purse– like a good luck charm. For protection.

Some carry a gun to feel safe– I carry a Rosary.

Same reason I often wear a cross necklace– not for fashion, although it’s beautiful and classic. I wear a cross to feel protected in a dangerous world, and also to identify myself as a believer. As Catholic.

The Rosary is the prayer that might as well be a silver bullet toward Satan and all dark energy. It’s a legitimate spiritual weapon if you’re feeling bullied, gossiped about, or threatened in any way. You cannot control others and what they may try to do to you– but if you pray, you can give yourself strength against them.

Right now and for years, my go-to prayer has been a simple Hail Mary ad infinitum until it helps.

When I’m struggling to wake up and get out bed. When I left for work five minutes late. When I notice the gas in my car is dangerously low and I’m not sure I’ll make it to fill up before running empty.

I’m already calling out Mary so often, why not take it to the next level? It only makes sense that organizing something I’m doing anyway and increasing the number of prayers will magnify that calming effect it already has on me. Other times, it energizes me for a task that seems too big.

I realize now, I’ve been afraid of the true power of the Rosary. It means I have to study and practice.

I learn by repetition.

I remember in grade school learning my prayers by writing them over and over. Saying the out loud, over and over. Saying them together in class. Saying them to family, who helped me pray.

I don’t know The Apostle’s Creed by heart anymore. But I want to.

I’ve never heard The Fatima Prayer, which most would recognize by the first line, “Oh my Jesus…” — until I moved to Wichita. People here seem to say include that in the Rosary and I don’t remember that before.

And I’d like to be one of those “serious” Catholics who can pray the Rosary anywhere, any time– like a bad ass. I don’t want to have to read the lines of the play, I want to be “off-book.”

So I’m challenging myself to try. And I know it’ll take a long time.

But I’m willing to write those prayers out by hand. And each Rosary I pray, I’ll be hearing myself say it out loud and learning by hearing it.

I have several aunts who pray it all the time, casually– throughout their day. And I think that’s beautiful and a giant accomplishment. It gives them a stoic resolve that they will overcome anything and they do.

Truly, learning the rhythm of the Rosary–knowing it in your bones, without the Rosary in your hand to count the prayers–any notes or reminders– that takes discipline.

Several different prayers, in a specific order. There are different versions of which prayers to use, people vary in how they do it. Even Rosaries themselves contain enormous variety. Some are jeweled, beautiful, like crystal glass you don’t want to break. For display only, something you want to treasure but keep safe and not handle out of respect. Others are just simple plastic, utilitarian. Others can be knotted rope– reminiscent of how this beautiful prayer evolved. Those you can hold in our hand and count the beads anywhere— without fear of breaking it. They can be jostled, dropped, and lost in your purse. And stay intact.

Just like the love of Our Holy Mother.

Afraid to get it “wrong,” I was afraid to try it. I think I may have done it once when my Aunt Mary Jane, a Catholic nun for 65+ years, died. I prayed it for her and it helped me feel peace. But without the Mysteries, just the basic order of prayers.

I’ve always considered the Faithful who make the Rosary part of their routine to be the true devout. They have such peace and joy, they’re unruffled by the challenges thrown toward them. They sleep every night and wake up rested.

I’ve always struggled to sleep at all, or get more that three-four hours. My mind races.

I’ve tried many things to manage my anxiety– staying busy, writing, drinking, therapy, running. Hot baths. I tried anxiety meds for panic attacks, but they made me so tired I couldn’t drive– so that didn’t work. I’ve tried talking to my friends, which helps the most. But people are limited in how much energy and availability they have in adult life– and who are you going to talk to at 3 am on Monday night? Or if you get trapped driving during a bad thunderstorm in pitch night, out of town?

No matter how good your support system you have to learn to comfort yourself at times.

Now, I’m hoping The Rosary can be the “work out” I need– spiritually– to go to war with my anxiety.

Maybe I need to give a shout out to St. Michael, who can lead me in battle.

Anxiety sabotages me in the moments I most need to persevere under stress, sickness, lack of energy.

I haven’t been serious about prayer in a long time. I used to write to help myself pray. But I haven’t been able to commit to that.

But if I pray the Rosary, I’m not just doing this for me– it’s an act of worship. It’s a way to connect with the Blessed Mother, to reflect on the life of Jesus, and a way to become a better person for those in my life whom I love and want to give my best.

I believe that if I invest in learning this, eventually praying the Rosary can help me go to sleep quickly, stop a panic attack, and calm me when angry before I react and say something hurtful or unwise.

It will be interesting to see how my humble journey progresses.

But already, I’m feeling empowered.

When Panic Attacks: It Sucks and then You Breathe

It’s now 12:43 a.m. and I’ve been writing this blog throughout the day.

It takes a lot of energy to process what you feel, to write.

And time. So this post is actually about March 29. I started it March 30. Now it’s March 31.

Please, read on:

Last night about 9 pm , I got triggered into a panic attack sitting outside a Dairy Queen close to my place. I was about to go in and get myself a Blizzard to help, and then the the tears.

The rapid, shallow breathing starts— the intense crying. I stayed in my car.

A few hours earlier, when I had been feeling uneasy but mostly fine, I had called a few people to check in on them. They hadn’t been able to answer. I had been doing my best.

I was texting my sister, Virginia. She was amazing, reassuring.

I was telling her that my Dad had just called. How much it helped to hear his voice. That when he tells me things will be okay, I believe him.

But I still struggle with anxiety.

How I wish I could be more like him.

“Listen to Dad! You’re strong and confident, too. That’s the blood that runs through your veins and don’t forget it.”

I had just posted something on facebook — nothing belying how intense I really felt. Just a short quip, “My anxiety really is a daily battle.” My best friend Leslie saw that and called to check on me.

She magically called just as my panic attack was starting.

She was exactly what I needed. Leslie cared, she was kind, she was patient. Not in a rush. She listened.

But to start, she asked me questions:

“What are you wearing today?”

“A black t-shirt and jeans that are too big.”

Small words with long silences… struggling to breathe. Trying to stop crying long enough to talk.

“What was the last thing you ate?”

“(breaths) a…… Taco………… Burger……… from Taco Shop.”

“That sounds amazing! What is a Taco Burger?”

Leslie wasn’t even bullshitting– she was genuinely excited and curious.

I laughed a little.

“What’s the last song you listened to?”

“Come On, Eileen,” on a CD in my car…”

“I love that song! What CD?”

“It’s an ’80s CD.”

I began to calm down a little. I started to tell her why I was upset.

Talking rapidly. Still crying.

She ever told me to stop crying, or “calm down.”

She just accepted my raw panic, as is— with patience. With calm.

For 39 minutes, I was mostly breathing fast and crying.

Apologizing.

Sorry for being upset, sorry for being intense,

“I’m trying to calm down, I’m sorry…”

And I told her how exhausting it was.

How grateful I am.

Because I know that it’s hard to listen to me like this. That it’s just too much for some people. But nonetheless, talking is what helps me the most in a panic attack.

She never got freaked out or uncomfortable.

She never made an excuse to go.

She never suggested I “get some help.”

She just showed me unconditional love.

When I was loud and erratic. When I might have scared her.

When I was not able to think or communicate well.

When I was irrational. Emotional. Desperate, needy.

What she DID do was stay with me. Validate me. Reassure me.

That it was okay to feel scared and angry.

That she was glad to be there for me.

And when I was breathing normally and quiet, she asked,

“Do you want to pray?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to start or should I ?”

“I will.”

And I said what was in my heart.

I asked God, Jesus, Mary, the Holy Spirit:

“Help me. Help me manage my anxiety. Please, help me sleep tonight.”

And several other things.

And then she prayed, and we said “I love you,” and goodnight.

And I didn’t want to be the weird girl who had been sitting in her car crying with a super splotchy face.

I texted back Virginia, thanking her and letting her know I had been on the phone. Told her goodnight, she works super early and goes to sleep early.

So I ordered a Fudge Raspberry Blizzard in the drive-thru.

Began to eat it, got home.

Then Johnny called me back. I told him what happened, and thank you, I’m winding down and going to bed.

He asked if I wanted to pray, too.

“Thank you for Amee,” he said, “And her light. Help her climb through the anxiety and be supported by friends, family and people who love her.”

I felt peace.

Two hours later, I was able to go to bed.

This morning, I was finally rested. For the first time in four days.

I hadn’t slept through the night for 72 hours when I broke down.

I texted Leslie and told her I had slept good, I was okay. Thank you.

My Dad called, bless him.

I called my therapist and let her know what happened.

She called me back and talked to me several minutes. We confirmed my next appointment.

And Johnny to check on me again today. He even texted me a prayer.

Johnny has always been so nurturing. He always sees the big picture. When I see myself as stuck, he sees growth.

He’s so incredibly giving.

And my brother, Ian.

He knows about panic attacks. Especially mine.

He’s witnessed about every range of emotion I have– in person and on the phone.

His gift is to make me laugh and re-frame situations in a creative, positive way that forever amuses me.

“It sucks,” he agreed. “And then you breathe.”

“Feelings are normal,” Ian said. “You should have them. I’d recommend feelings to anyone.”

And they made me laugh.

And feel loved.

I will have another panic attack, because they are a thing in my life.

Not all the time, but they happen more than they used to. Going through a lot of big adjustments right now.

And I’m learning to breathe, cry, and manage.

And always, pray.

And write.

Stations of The Cross 2021: True Empathy

I attended Stations of the Cross at a new parish tonight, only my second visit there. It’s small, different.

Probably less than 20 of us. I loved it.

The booklets were stacked on the table coming in. It was nice having my choice of which pew to sit in again. Felt like old times.

Normal, even.

And on the Third Station, I lost it. Tears. Jesus falls the first time.

Crying, with a a mask on. A weird feeling.

An older couple behind me were leading the refrains and sang beautifully. With every genuflect, I felt connected.

And it was the Eleventh Station where I was truly overcome : Jesus is nailed the cross.

The words were so beautiful, so raw– such desperation felt by Jesus:

“All my bones are racked. My heart has become like wax melting away within my chest. My throat is dried up like baked clay, my tongue cleaves to my jaws; they have pierced my hands and feet; I can count all my bones.”

That naked despair, that feeling of utter exhaustion. I have never suffered like Jesus or been crucified. But that hit deep. I’ve been battling some depression, just feeling lost. Not knowing what my next step should be. How to advance when I don’t feel confident about where I’m going or what my purpose is. Sometimes that fear can be paralyzing.

I’ve attended many Stations of the Cross in my life. But I don’t think I ever truly FELT Christ’s suffering until tonight. And it is certainly cliche, as it’s been testified over centuries now. But tonight I really BELIEVED that any pain I’m struggling to walk through, Christ has endured on a scale I will never imagine. I merely struggle with existential fear, and sometimes mildly inconvenient bodily pain. I feel tired, unmotivated. I want to sleep rather than make decisions or complete my routine.

But Jesus was absolutely and relentlessly tortured– in every way possible. Emotionally, spiritually, bodily. He endured. He carried the Cross, the weapon of choice of the Romans— the device chosen to deliver upon him every humiliation and hurt. He did this, knowing it was not just happening– but his destiny. Knowing that his Father expected this of him, though he was terrified. He wanted to be a good Son. He wanted to be noble for his followers. But he felt abandoned, and he was praying for deliverance, too.

I finally understood the point of Christianity tonight– something I’ve been wrestling with. Jesus chose that pain. He didn’t hide. He had no strength, it wasn’t a good time, he was in no way “ready” to face it.

I understand now what it means to call Jesus our redeemer– and it happened in a parish called Holy Savior.

When I am weak, I can pray and release my pain. I’m not strong, but He is. His strength can deliver me.

There’s a lot of hateful people who brand themselves followers of Jesus: but I shouldn’t turn away from Him because they lie.

I’m grateful. It felt so good to cry. I’m crying now.

I’m okay. My depression is manageable and I have a lot of love in my life. Especially my parents. I am loved.

I’m glad to be Catholic. I love my Church, even if the Faithful are flawed.

I understand what it means to be One Body in Christ.

And I even ended the day without eating meat!

Thank you, Jesus. I am with you.

Rosary by Zoom Meeting: Bible Study Squad!

Yesterday my Tuesday night small group chicas and I “got together” courtesy of Zoom. Formally we gather for a bible study but this week we decided to just pray a Rosary and chat a bit, amidst all this COVID-19 insanity.

It was enormously calming for me. Usually we have six-seven members but it was just four of us last night. I’d never used Zoom before, so I enjoyed learning to use this new social media technology. A teacher friend of ours, Erica, took action and set this up since she is used to attending these meetings for work.

It was a bit of a twist because normally, I’m the one who has trouble hearing others; I have a severe hearing loss and wear hearing-aids in both ears. But they’re not magic.

For some reason, the mic in my pc must not have been functioning fully, and they all could barely hear me. I was annoyed to be the only person in the group who couldn’t figure this out, but they didn’t get annoyed with me. They were all good-natured and helpful and we even got some laughs out of it. There’s also a chat function and Erica pointed that out. If I wanted to say something, I would type it out! You even have options to address the whole group, or individual chats.

We all just talked about how we’re feeling and what’s happening with our jobs.

Being able to see video of my friends in their homes was so uplifting.

And then we got to business and prayed the Rosary with the Luminous Mysteries– because wanted to focus on the positive in this heavy time, especially considering the deep hit the economy is taking with so many businesses closing or reducing hours and services.

It was very well organized, and Jeanna gave us all a screen shot of the Rosary guide we should all follow, since there are different prayers used and small variances. There’s more than one way to pray a Rosary.

We all started praying together and I could hear them all so clearly. I felt emotional and almost cried as we began. Closing my eyes, it felt like we were all in the room together.

It was exactly what I needed.

I had laughed when I saw the screen shot Erica sent us of the Zoom invitation we would all be getting and the link we’d need to click in to join.

It was labeled, “Bible Study Squad.”

I laughed and felt so lucky! I have some faithful, innovative, hilarious girlfriends.

Mass in the Time of Corona

I attended Mass tonight at Blessed Sacrament, grateful that I still could.

The Diocese of Wichita sent an e-mail informing us that while we are pardoned from obligation to go to Mass, it will still be available to us. And after hearing about cancellations in Chicago and Joliet, where I moved from, I am so grateful.

I can’t imagine a more lonely world than knowing even God’s House is empty and that we are barred from visiting Him there.

I take Mass for granted. Not today.

There were no altar boys. No ushers. Only one Eucharistic Minister.

No holy water. No wine. No Sign of Peace, though that was already in effect.

Today it certainly felt different. But I was gratified that some of the faithful wanted to gather, in God’s House.

I did a little grocery shopping first, so was late. But it was sad indeed. Very sparse compared to usual. Normally if you’re late there are a few spots but they are awkward to get to and so most people just hang out at the side entrance or in the back, standing.

Tonight the priest gave us a message of hope in his Homily. He said God is there with us, and for us. To let Him be the rock in this storm. He could have taken it in a different direction– one of guilt and punishment.

I recognized a friend with his girlfriend, so I went to say hello after. I kept more distance than I normally would. He said that even during the Plague, he heard they hadn’t canceled Mass or the obligation to it.

As a Catholic, you are reminded of sin often. I joked that never in my life did I imagine I would be told it’s okay to not go to Mass! Especially in an official e-mail from my Diocese.

Quarantine is happening, nationwide.  In Illinois, bars and restaurants will be closed by 9 p.m. tomorrow to dine-in customers, as declared by the Governor.

Now any gatherings of 50 or more are supposed to be canceled for the next 8 weeks.

Until today, I was pretty logical and untroubled by all this. Last night I was with my family and then friends for a “Fake Patty’s Day” party.

But on my way out, I thanked the priest. I told him I appreciated his positive Homily.

And I drove home and unloaded my groceries.