In the Psychiatrist's Office

(Important Disclaimer: I'm not a psychiatrist, and so if you're on medication or thinking about getting off anti-depressants, talk to your psychiatrist first. I literally have been talking about trying life without medication with her since October 2013. I know nothing about how this brain thing and chemicals and stuff work, and so journeying with my psychiatrist has been key.)
(Important Disclaimer 2: Yes, I was in the psych ward in Spring of 2012 for five days. You can read more about that here!)

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I sat down in my psychiatrist’s office, a smile growing on my face. For almost the past year I had been persistent in bringing up to her that I wanted to wean myself off of medication slowly, “just to see.” Since October we had been reducing the dosages of the two medicines, and when the month of June rolled around, I stated that I wanted to try living day-to-day with no medication.

Besides the logistics of "I actually don't know how to get medication to Mission Year," I wanted to try living without medication because I believe that what led me to the psych ward and on medication were circumstances within my control (as in, things I could have done differently), and not related to my brain chemistry which is out of my control (as is the case with mental illness as a whole). Two and a half years ago during that downward spiral and mental breakdown, I didn’t have the tools I have today which help me in finding stability. Because I didn’t have the tools, medication was actually helpful in balancing my drastic mood swings and helping to stabilize me. I see that medication was good for me in that season of life. (Hindsight is 20/20, people.)

I also wanted to try living day-to-day without medication because there has been a lot of growth in my life in the last two years. By growth, I mean that I have learned more about how I operate, triggers that send me spiraling into deep depression, what to do when I’m incredibly anxious. These lessons have not been learned alone during this dark period in my life—in the past two and a half years I’ve gone to counseling (provided free through BGSU which is a GIFT!), I’ve met consistently with various mentors who have listened to me and challenged me, and I’ve been surrounded with a deep community of people of faith from all over Ohio who have helped me to understand my role in this Eternal Drama. Whereas before the psych ward I tended to journey alone (or felt as if I was a burden to journey with), now I’m trying to embrace “pack mentality”—the reality that we’re just all in this life thing together. I need to be surrounded by people who encourage me, challenge me, and call me out (and help me out) in my day-to-day, and I want to do the same for others!

(The irony of this is that it was in the psych ward that I was hit with the stark reality of this interdependence thing. How beautiful is that?!)

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By no means is life any easier now than it was during the downward spiral that led me to the psych ward. In fact, in the past two months I spent two to three weeks in a really really dark place where I was pretty convinced that it was never going to get better. I was cynical about all of my “therapies”—art, playing music, writing, talking to people, running, hanging out with kids, etc. I didn’t really see how life was even worth living with all the terrible (a constant struggle for me...we truly treat one another horribly as human beings and it really gets to me), but the Lord has proven faithful and reminded me of what is True and that I can put my hope in Him. He has surrounded me with specific people and conversations and has journeyed with me once again through another tough transition.

As I sat across from my psychiatrist, I was able to relay in confidence that everything was still hard and difficult, but it was okay, and I wasn’t alone. I actually giggled as I said that. We talked for a few more minutes (and I unveiled the lie that I'm believing basically saying that I didn't know if I could live without meds because I don't trust that I won't go to the ward again), and then I asked the question that was burning in my mind:

“Should I make another appointment before I leave for Mission Year?”

“No, I think you’re good to go. You know where I am if you ever need me. Just go ahead and walk out without making another appointment!”

She got up to give me a hug and I screeched "THIS IS HUGE!" Even as I write this, I am tearing up at the depths of that moment when I left her office. I thought about the first time I sat across from her not to long ago in 2012. She had seen a young woman who didn’t know up from down or how she was even going to function in a world that she couldn’t be perfect in. The joy had been sapped from her—she was a shell of her former self. My heart aches for that young woman to know the depths with which she is cared for.

The psych ward is a part of my journey, and I will never deny the deep, despairing darkness that led to my admittance, and I will always continue to tell the story of the slow (and beautiful) journey towards Hope, renewal and restoration that has taken place and continually triumphs over the darkness in my life ever since.

Onward together, my friends. 

The Laughter Beneath the Rugs

I dip my toe in the space in the pavement where a crack has formed—a blistering, puffy wound in the asphalt. 

Whisper. Whisper.

Wind curls my hair gently, breathing wisps of life into the city of rubble.

I am alone, unsure of how I got here. But I am here.

Rocks crunch beneath my toes; I meander down the street, trying to gather my bearings.

All I see is rubble.

Whisper. Whisper.

This place was once cared for; it was once a place of peace and community.

I can tell—there are tools for tending, and laughter hiding in the corners and doorways, beneath the faucets and under the rugs. 

There was joy.

(I don’t know where I am going, only that I am going.)

I begin crawling over the mountains of rubble, slicing my palms on sharp edges of brick and glass that were once smooth.

I am disoriented, panic rising like boiling water within me.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m lost. 

Whisper. Whisper.

The panic boils over and out of my eyes, a soul weeping, clamoring over the rubble.

I don’t know. I don’t know. I’m lost.

Where do I go? How did I get here?

I’m empty. I rest my cheek on the jagged brick. Tears and tension leave me.

“I’m scared. I don’t know.”

Whisper. Whisper.

I finally pull myself up and continue moving over the city of rubble until I reach a precipice.

A noise startles me; I see you sitting still, alert, staring at me.

“Hi.” I speak tentatively.

“Hi,” you say.

Whisper. Whisper.

I slowly inch towards you. “What are you doing here?”

(Your look of insecurity mirrors my own.)

“I don’t know. But I am here.”

I stare at you. We are silent.

“Well…I don’t really know what I’m doing here or even where I’m going, but…we could walk together for a bit if you’d like.”

You stare at me. “I’d like that.”

I extend my hand; you grasp it, releasing a weary soul sigh—an ache for rest.

We turn towards the city of rubble, the one with laughter hiding beneath the rugs.

Whisper. Whisper.

All that’s lost will be restored.

 

 Photo Credit: http://www.courierpress.com/photos/2010/jul/30/65259/

When Only Art Makes Sense

There are seasons in my life where art is the only thing that makes sense.

I can’t use words.

I can’t use words.

“Just exist in the moment.”

I lie on the floor and allow the bass beat to become one with my heart beat.

It makes sense.

I saw a sunset yesterday in a city that I love.

I almost cried.

The photo I took—a prayer.

It makes sense.

In my room—

“Reach out to me; make my heart brand new. Every beat will be for You. For You.”

Exhaling slowly, arms extending, motions fluid and raw,

Movements to the words in my soul.

It makes sense. 

*  *  *

 

Understand that if I stare at this single grass blade for minutes it is only because

I am in awe that it is there in the first place.

Understand that it is when I am quiet and reserved that I am in a beautifully deep place of worship.

Understand that these dark spaces are places where I am seeing the Light shining most vividly in the big picture of all.

Please.

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Can you hear me in my silence?

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“And I know You know You touched my life when You touched my heavy heart and made it light.”

May my life be a series of dances for You. Embracing Your freedom, living in that gift.

I dance for You. Oh, my soul.

*  *  *

I sat in that corner yesterday, looking over the place where my soul sees most clearly. I watched her listen, and it was beautiful. My presence was a prayer.

And it made sense.

*  *  *

You ask me how I am, what I’m doing, what I’ve learned, what I think about this, question question question and I can’t answer in the words you expect. Words just don’t make sense right now.

But I could give you a fragmented poem, or a picture, or my quiet presence, or a dance, or a song.

Would you understand that I'm trying to communicate? 

I'm trying,

I promise.

--I'm trying.

There are seasons in my life when art is the only thing that makes sense.

*  *  *

Can you hear me in my silence?

—I’m here.

Join the "Support Amber Cullen" Rally

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On September 5, 2014, I will be boarding a plane to Atlanta for Mission Year orientation. Days later, I will be heading to Philadelphia for the year to live in a community, extend my skillsets to a local community partner, and live with 5-6 other Team Members in community. 

...GULP.

 
Today I feel like a deer in headlights--kinda shocked that this is all going down, honestly. As excited as I am to navigate new environments, to intentionally live in a community with a community, to build better spiritual disciplines, and to learn about what justice and peacebuilding might look like through the eyes of Jesus Christ, I am still frequently floundering in shock. Nothing triggers this feeling of being overwhelmed more than when I begin to think about how much money I have to raise to cover my living expenses for Mission Year--$12,000. 

I've been reminded recently of the beauty of interdependence--of people supporting one another. This in essence is what I'm asking people to do when I'm asking for donations for my living expenses in Philly--I'm asking them to support me, and this support is in the form of monetary donations. There has only been one other time in my life where I remember feeling this beautifully interdependent, where I needed the support of others to further a goal. This was the summer of 2011 when I was in the running for a NATIONAL scholarship and needed the support of people's votes.

Three summers ago I won a $10,000 national scholarship through Bridgestone Americas, but that was only possible as the entire Springfield Township, Bowling Green, and Akron communities rallied behind me and voted for my "Phone Bandit" Safety Scholars video. That was a crazy impossible thing to happen, and it wouldn't have happened without people backing me and spreading the word (and all of this occurred in only a month!) 

A screenshot from "The Phone Bandit"

These flyers were passed out to hundreds in the Greater Akron area

Right after I found out I was the 1st place winner; I BAWLED

 
































Just as rallying those "Phone Bandit" votes and winning that gift of a scholarship would not have been possible without Springfield Township, Bowling Green, and Akron communities, so it is with rallying the financial support for my upcoming Mission Year in Philadelphia.

If three summers ago these communities rallied behind me to help me go to college, these communities will rally behind me once again to help me move to Philly for a year to get a different (yet just as valuable) kind of education. I truly believe that. Right now, there has been about $2,500 raised; by summer's end I envision being at $10,000, just three summers ago $10,000 was gifted through they rallying of votes. 

How you can help in this rally and support me through your gifts and networks:

1. Donate through my fundraising page online-- https://missionyear.thankyou4caring.org/ambercullen

2. Donate through writing a check (Made out to "Mission Year"; Memo Line: "Amber Cullen 14-9011") Send to "Mission Year / P.O. Box 17628 / Atlanta, GA 30316"

3. Utilize your network: Do you know of a peer, family member, boss, or business person whom you think would be interested in supporting me financially? Refer them to me! (Or me to them!) ( <--- This would be a HUGE help!)

4. Do you know of a business, organization, etc. that offer grants or support for people pursuing a "year of service"? Let a sista know, please!

5. Do you go to a church that you believe would be interested in hearing me speak about Mission Year this summer OR do you go to a church that you believe might be interested in financially supporting me? Can you connect me with your church?

 

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I believe that everyone reading this has something they are able to give, whether it be a connection, financial support, advice, experience, or networks. (And all of these are SO valuable!)

                                   How can you help out? What can you give?

Thanks, dear Springfield Township, Bowling Green, Akron, "and beyond" communities, for helping me in this journey of discovery about what it may look like to "love my neighbor as myself" and to Love God, and Love People.

*Pictures (beginning and end) are from my commUNITY fundraiser event held in Bowling Green.

"Caring"

It has taken me a week to pinpoint why the art installment in front of the Federal Building in Akron bothers me. When I went to the building last week, my jaw dropped at the massive two story installation that greeted me. The art piece, entitled “Caring” showed two people, one who was seeming to help the other up from off of the ground.

I stood outside of the Federal Building staring at the magnificent art piece, soaking it all in. “Caring.” One who is standing helping someone who has stumbled to stand once again. One offering a hand. It was a fascinating visual of the word “caring” that I couldn’t get out of my mind.

And yet, although I couldn’t get the art piece out of my mind, I couldn’t get that feeling out of me that something about it didn’t quite sit well with me. 

What I’ve concluded:

The art piece tells a story where you’ve fallen on the ground, I walk over to you, extend my hand, say, “I care for you,” and help you up. 

My visual of caring is one where you’ve fallen on the ground, I walk over to you, get on the ground with you, say “I care for you,” and we get up together. 

And that to me paints a drastically different image of what caring for one another might look like.

Amber Cullen's Mission Year (in Philadelphia) Fundraising Page:

https://missionyear.thankyou4caring.org/ambercullen

The Other Side of the Table

“Cheese and crackers, please” the man said to me. I put the cheese and crackers in a paper bag and gave it to him saying, “Here ya go!” The man walked away, socializing, merging into other food lines, and going about his day.

I was there at “Food for Thought” (the Toledo food line) with ten other college students who had woken up at 9am on their Saturday mornings to be there through the organization “Community Interaction Live Aware.” Our role that morning was to hand out the food we had to the people in the food line as they came up to us. We had bananas, clementines, apples, and cheese and crackers.

From the moment we got there we were swamped with people—people wanting apples, cheese and crackers, bananas, apples, cheese and crackers, bananas. Food was getting tossed into bags and we were working efficiently together as a team, us BGSU Falcons. It was incredibly overwhelming for myself to process all at once—this was the first “food line” I had been to. As one who is always analyzing social situations and how groups interact with one another, my senses were on overdrive during the entirety of our time there.

There was only a table between me and those there to receive the food, but it felt like we were worlds apart. I didn’t like this; I didn’t like this "us" and "them" feel at all.

Once the line had slowed down and everyone was socializing, I took that as my cue to step from behind the table and melt into the crowd. I took one lap around the parking lot where “Food for Thought” was located—there were bagels from Panera Bread on one table, a church group serving hot meals at a long assembly line of other tables, and others. People were milling around, some sitting on the wooden benches in the middle of the parking lot, some shaking hands and embracing friends, some laughing loudly and talking about the recent news in sports. It was a beautiful atmosphere to exist in; I put my hands in the pockets of my red windbreaker and scuffled across the asphalt, listening and observing all that was around me.

I was nearing our table when I stopped at a neighboring table. There were clothes being given away—beautiful garments. “Wow…these are beautiful!” I exclaimed to one of the women behind the table. “You can take any that you would like! Would you like a bag?” I looked up at her, not comprehending what she said.

All at once, the internal dialogue began shooting through my mind. Did this woman think I’m here to receive? Did I look like I’m here to receive food and stuff? I’m just wearing a red windbreaker and one of my ridiculously long patterned skirts. Wait…oh my goodness what am I really saying here?! “Look like I’m here to receive food and stuff”—what do I even mean by that?! Would it even really matter if I were here to receive food? 

I finally was able to answer her question in the middle of all of these thoughts. “No I don’t want any clothes, thank you. I’m with BGSU and I’m helping out today; our table is right next to you.” I could tell she was thrown off by this just as I was thrown off by her statement.

I find myself questioning many aspects about this experience. I find myself questioning why my response to being mistaken as someone in the food line was so dramatic. Why was I so worked up about being misidentified? Would it have mattered if I was there to receive instead of give at “Food for Thought?”

 

*  *  * 

This experience at "Food for Thought" has been on my mind a lot recently as I've been thinking about how I tend to view life (and have been taught to view life) in terms of "us" and "them."

Metaphorically, for the majority of my life I have been on the “giving” side of the table. I would identify with the "givers" as "us." I have been on the side of the table that has excess, that has the ability to give and decline receiving, the side of the table that believes that you’re a “hero” or a "saint" for being involved in charity work and for "giving food to the hungry." This is the side of the table that I'm familiar with.

But what if the "tables" were turned? What if I were to step out from behind the table, and into the crowd? How would the world look differently from here? What if I intentionally lived among people whom I don't necessarily feel I have much in common with on the surface and learned that there is no "us" and "them," only "us?" What if I learned that we all have a lot more in common than we think?

Beginning in September, I will have an opportunity to be "on the other side of the table" through a program called Mission Year. For one year, I, along with five other Team Members, will be living in an underresourced neighborhood. (On the website it says that we will be placed in an “area of need”). I will live in this community in a house with my teammates, serve alongside a community partner and non-profit four days a week, cook hospitality dinners from our home, sit on our porch stoop and simply exist with the neighborhood, and most importantly, (in my mind,) we will listen.

Life on the "other side of the table" is what I desire to learn about and better understand during my year in Philadelphia through Mission Year. If you would like to contribute financially to my journey and help pay for the living expenses for the year (I need to raise $12,000), you can donate here or contact me for further information if you desire to make a cash or check donation. AND all donations are tax deductible! (Hooray!) 

Please consider supporting me in this journey if able!