when it was time for help...

 {when it started...here}

2015 brought us our highest high (Emmerson being born after 4 years of trying) 

and our lowest low (leaving Tennessee and the best friends we've ever had.)

The move to Kentucky was far from easy.

I handled it with the grace of a gorilla on ice skates.

Kicking and screaming, Brandon drug us with him to a new city, new house, new church.

I knew in the deepest part of my soul that we we're NOT supposed to be there.

I physically felt the darkness come over me as we crossed the city line.

And yet, we were there.

Youth pastor, wife, and 9 month old baby.

Fake smiles.

Fake promises.

Fake friends.

I became someone else completely.

There was no joy to be found.

No song in my heart.

Our marriage was on the rockiest of rocks.

Husband had to hide medications and guns.

I called upon him almost everyday, unable to do the simplest of chores.

We knew something had to change.

When searching for help, I would usually suggest starting with your primary care doctor.

Unfortunately, mine wasn't very good at his job and prescribed 3 medications at once.

I wasn't down anymore, but I wasn't happy, sad, mad, joyful, either.

I was a robot.

A zombie.

Thankfully, my Husband (always need someone to advocate for you when you can't!) noticed what was happening and we stopped all medicines.

I eventually found a "Christian" therapist.

But, like everything else in Kentucky, that didn't work out either.

She didn't listen to me and didn't understand why I followed my Husband (suggesting I divorce him) so I fell back to square one.

It wasn't until Husband came home one day and told me we were moving that I finally felt TRUE help was just around the corner...

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