Coming Clean

I am Ashley Renee Titus. I am a daughter of God, fully redeemed by the blood of Jesus from my sins past, present and future and all the sin that has been done against me. 

This alone is what defines me. 

I am also the wife of Andrew and the Mama of Owen. I have blue eyes, am 5’9” and have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

There, I said it. No more hiding. No more covering up. 

Research says that people with OCD generally take between 6-9 years to seek help for their disorder due to a variety of reasons including fear, shame, and not knowing that there is help for the way they think and live. 

It took me over 20 years.

Growing up, I can remember fear. Terrible, horrible fear. All consuming fear. 

Fear of death. Fear of earthquakes. Fear of volcanic eruptions. Fear of sickness. Fear of someone breaking into our house. Fear of someone or something looking into my bedroom window. Fear of being awake when my parents were asleep.

I remember specifically in the first part of elementary school sobbing on the playground even before school started because I was thinking about that night and feared being awake when my parents shut off SportsCenter and went to bed. 

The panic gripped me and I tried to stop the anxiety by pleading for reassurance. From my parents, from teachers, from other kids, from myself. “Are you sure Mt. Rainier won’t blow up and kill us today?” “Are you sure there are no such things as UFO’s?” “Are you sure no one is going to break in and you not hear and kill me as I run into your room to tell you?” “Are you sure North Korea won’t kill everyone in Seattle with a bomb today?” “Are you sure the world won’t end and we won’t all die when the clock strikes midnight on January 1st, 2000?”

The fears were terrible. I never knew that they weren’t how my brain should have been processing things. I assumed I was a freak, and that this was just how it was for me. My lot in life. It sucked, but oh well. 

Then there was the organization. I was known for the immaculate desk and pencil box in school. I would beg to clean the kids’ desks around mine, and not stop hounding them until I was allowed to. I didn’t know why, but it felt like my mind was going to spin out of control if those desks weren’t clean and organized. So I just cleaned. The shouting and spinning of my head would stop, for a while, and I could calm down, so I just kept doing it.

Through the years, times were better and times were worse. Small things would bug me like the chairs in rooms not being aligned, or posters being hung crooked. As I got older I realized how I thought was odd and tried to keep things to myself. I would stare at things that were ‘off’ instead of listening to teachers or paying attention to friends and plan ways to find time to fix them when no one else was around. Always constant was the anxiety, the not being able to get the ‘off’ things out of my train of thought. The feeling like my mind was on broken record, one thought being replayed over and over again.

My parents always said that I would never let anyone else make my bed. It would have to be a certain way or I would start over and fix it until it ‘felt right’. This moved into my nannying and babysitting as I got older. I would play a game with the kids I babysat to see who could make their rooms cleaner and they would frolic off to cleaning while I cleaned alongside them, staying the course as they, at some point, would get distracted and start playing with toys they forgot about but found during the cleaning. Time and time again, parents would come home shocked that their kids cleaned their rooms, all the while my mind obsessed over the corner of the closet I couldn’t get to, or the pile under the bed we ran out of time for. It was long and terrible. But hey, the kids had a great time and the parents seemed thrilled. Too bad for me. 

All this being said, I never sought help. Actually, I never knew that I had OCD. Sure people would tell me “oh Ashley, that’s just you being OCD” or “you’re so OCD” but I never thought they were serious. OCD is for crazy people, right? I don’t wash my hands 100 times a day and horde things, so clearly I am an oddball freak and this is a personality quirk. Right? I mean, sure I cleaned every day and my husband noticed but thought it was a personality quirk but nothing more. True, I checked and rechecked and triple (or more in all honesty) websites through my pregnancy to ensure I wasn’t having a miscarriage, or wasn’t going to die. Doesn’t everybody?

After Owen was born, the chronic depression that I had dealt with throughout my life came back deeper and darker than ever before. I was diagnosed with Post-Partum Depression and began to seek help through a psychiatrist, psychologist and anti-depressants (after spending 4 months refusing help until it got so bad that I finally consented to those around me pleading for my safety and health and admitted I needed serious help). I expected help for the depression, I never expected it for OCD. 

When I had my first psychiatric evaluation, I brought up my fears, my cleaning, my organizing and my broken record thoughts. After a few more questions, my psychiatrist said: “sounds like you have OCD”. What? No. Really? No one in my life seemed surprised when I told them though. The more I started opening up about what was going through my head, the more I seemed to check of boxes of OCD right and left.  The need for a clean and organized house went from a difficult personality quirk to what it truly was: intense anxiety mitigated the only way I knew how - through cleaning. No matter the time, no matter the level of exhaustion, no matter if it was supposed to be Date Night or family time. I cleaned. It had to be “just right”.

So now what? I don’t know. As the depression starts to lift (oh, praise you Jesus), it feels as though the OCD has once again become more oppressive. Or maybe I’m just starting to realize what feels horrific but normal to me isn’t how I have to live. Isn’t how others live. Things are on the road to me being able to manage this disorder, but nowhere near finished yet. In all honesty, I’ve taken nearly a dozen online surveys as to whether or not I have OCD in the past few days alone. All of which said I most likely do. All of which have been confirmed by both my doctors weeks ago. All of which I’ve taken before with the same answers. Several times each. 

I write and share this for three reasons. The first of which is I just feel strongly compelled to write it, and I enjoy writing so why not. The second is that I desperately want people to know what OCD is and what it is not. I want them to realize that you can’t just say “get over it” or “where’s your sin in this?” and someone with OCD will stop. If we could stop that easily, we would. Oh my, we would. 

The last of my reasons, and not in the order of importance, is that if me sharing can encourage even one person to seek help and treatment for their OCD, it would be awesome. I’ve struggled with this for nearly all of my life, as have other people close to me, and waiting 20+ years for help is far too long. My psychologist put it this way: you wouldn’t feel ashamed or stupid if you had asthma, but would want treatment and help to manage it. Having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is the same. You don’t ask for it, you didn’t do something to get it, and you’ll have it your entire life (aside from God’s hand moving in a miraculous way), why shy away from treatment and help to get better?  

Please don’t let your feelings of shame or fear or playing down of what you go through stop you from getting help. I don’t say this from someone who is perfect now, but from someone who could barely drive home tonight because the thoughts of all that “needed” to be cleaned caused such anxiety that counting “1,2,3,1,2,3,4” and tapping it on my steering wheel was the most logical way my OCD mind found to manage the screaming in my brain. 

Please dear one. God has so much more for you, for us. This isn’t how he intended our brains to work, and although it feels hopeless now (for you and for me), I trust that the God who spoke the world into being can help us manage OCD. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not for years, but he can and I do believe he will. You are so, so not alone. 

Why "Owen Ray" and more ultrasounds

On Monday Andrew and I were thrilled to be able to finally find out the gender of our baby Titus! It felt like forever since we had found out we were pregnant, and we couldn't wait to know more. The day I took the pregnancy test was rough (long story of me doubting whether or not I was correct in reading it, and if I was going to celebrate something that "didn't exist" but even bigger sin of not believing that God would want to give us a gift of a child...) and we ended up trying to have a celebration dinner, but doing a lot of praying and crying (that was me) and encouraging (that was Andrew). 

Needless to say, we planned on having a small dinner out - just the two of us - right after we finished with the ultrasound. Finally I can celebrate I thought. It would be perfect, why wouldn't it be?

I was nervous and super excited going into the ultrasound, and kept being absolutely amazed at how this small child of ours was moving around, and now I could actually feel the movements I was seeing on the screen! Everything was looking perfect, baby was healthy and growing well. The ultrasound tech moved over an area of baby's liver and stopped, pausing briefly to take a few screen shots of the picture. I couldn't help but think to myself that there was a random bright white dot that looked terribly out of place. As the tech didn't say anything about it, I dismissed my fears and continued being excited.

After the ultrasound was complete - the tech brought in the radiologist who, to my confusion and fear, looked immediately back to the spot on my baby's liver. She poked around a bit, and said that it most likely was nothing, but that it was up to my doctor whether or not she would want further ultrasounds to determine what it was.

I panicked. Every single fear and unbelief I had about God not giving a good gift, about things going right only for God to pull the rug out from beneath me, about never celebrating or being joyously hopeful about something before it was actually there and complete came washing over me yet again. I tried to be ok, but feared the worst immediately. Andrew was concerned, but knew without a doubt how trustworthy God was and that he trusted Jesus with our baby and his/her health. We walked to a small area outside the hospital to open our gender-reveal envelope and Andrew prayed for me and baby. I knew that it would be ok but completely let myself go down the rabbit holes of fear and forgot the goodness of my Savior. That he was in control, and loved me enough to die for me, and already loved my unborn child as he knitted that baby together in my womb. 

Needless to say, the dinner wasn't the one filled with tears of joy and laugher we had pictured. Both of us were thrilled to find out we were having a baby boy, but I was stuck in the unknown. I regretted staying there, but stayed there nonetheless. I am daily reminded of how good God is through my amazing husband, but Andrew was again used by God in such a great way that evening - he pointed me back to the truth of God, Jesus's love for me and our baby, and the truth that it was completely out of our control either way.

Talking with my doctor Wednesday, she assured me that it was most likely no big deal and told me she really didn't want me to be worried at all about it. The coolest thing though, was that while her tone and confidence in baby's health was helpful, God had walked me through a day and a half of fear and lead me time and time again to truth and comfort. I poured over Psalm 139 and 1 Samuel 1 and 2 -- crying and pleading with God to comfort me, and to forgive me for assuming the worst, even when it was most likely nothing at all. For doubting his goodness and his love for me, and for playing "god" as I determined my fears were the future in no regard to God's true plans.

We have another ultrasound scheduled for the beginning of September, just to see if whatever it was goes away (as apparently most things do). My genetic screening tests were awesome earlier, and it seems as though my doctor isn't too worried. It is so interesting to me though that the littlest of things can catapult me to the most extreme fear and worry. What a difficult but oh so worth it lesson in standing at the foot of the cross and surrendering my plan and child completely to Jesus. 

_________________

Why Owen Ray though?

Andrew and I had thought about names for months, but had not come to a consensus on a boy's name until about a month ago. We knew we wanted something biblical - a strong name of a man who was after God's heart and lived his life for God's glory (as much as a sinner can...). We came up with plenty of names, but nothing really seemed right. Then, as God was revealing some pretty deep sin in my heart, I began to read the book "The Mortification of Sin in Believers" by John Owen. For some reason, the name Owen stood out and I adored it. Apparently so did Andrew :) Owen was a English theologian during the 1600s who loved the Lord and had some pretty legit theology. Who knows what God has in store for our Owen's life, but I can't wait to talk about why he has his name, and have nerdy theology discussions with him and his Dad for fun :)

The name Ray is special for two reasons - both my Dad and Andrew's maternal Grandfather are/were named Ray. I had always wanted to name a son after my dad, and it was a total blessing to be able to have men on both of the sides honored with our son's middle name. 

Our little Owen Ray is already so dear to us and loved immensely. I love seeing Andrew talk with him and read to him every night, and I am constantly reminded of miracles when I feel him moving around inside of me. I am still in awe of what God is doing in our little family, and can't wait to share with Owen how much he was prayed for and loved even before he drew his first breath. 

"For this child I prayed, and the LORD has granted me my petition that I made to him." 1 Samuel 1:27

Back pain and a whole lot of sin.

Out of all of the adjectives I would have used to describe myself, independent was never one I would have chosen. Passionate, old-fashioned, quirky - all yes, but independent? Not even close. Prideful? Probably, but not to a great extent. 

Until this month.

Some people say that circumstances make you stronger. I disagree. I believe without a shadow of a doubt that the God who loved me enough to die for me uses any means necessary to draw me into a deeper relationship and sweeter knowledge of his grace and mercy. Even more, I know he is using my inability to be independent and my current back pain to show me his character in a way I only thought I knew before.

I was diagnosed with kyphosis and scoliosis in middle school, wore a brace for over a year, and have fought back pain since, but haven’t had pain this nearly debilitating since 2009. When I was first diagnosed I remember my doctors talking about how if I ever were to have children I could be in for a tremendous amount of pain, but as a 14 year old I could care less. Now as a 25 year old well into my second trimester of my first pregnancy, their concern makes a lot more sense.

To be honest, I could write a lot about the pain and discomfort which happens when my back is like it has been. I could write about not being able to drive the 15 minutes to my doctor’s office without wincing, or how I had to lay down on the bathroom floor last week after cleaning for a half hour, because I knew the pain was bad enough I had to stop, NOW. But really, the pain isn’t what has most characterized these past few weeks. It’s there, and difficult yes, but what God has been teaching me through the pain is vastly more important.

So far, I have learned that I am much more like the Galatians than I ever would have cared to admit. In Paul’s letter to the Galatians, he makes the case strongly and passionately that Jesus’s work on the cross is all that is needed for salvation, and that if we are to add ANY work (whether that be following the Jewish laws like circumcision for the Galatians, or me adding my various roles and titles of ministry at Mars Hill, or a clean house and dinner made for Andrew) to the cross in attempts to earn favor with God or a more right standing before him, makes Jesus a joke the cross absolutely worthless.  

Whether I could see my sin or not before my back pain began again this month, God has been showing me that I have attempted to justify myself apart from only believing the cross for so many years. My fears of being lazy around the house if I don’t have it perfect by the time my husband comes home from work, and my dread of him having to make dinner or help me run my errands like grocery shopping only were the tip of the problem. What it comes down to really, is not believing that Jesus is enough for me. That I can do it on my own, and that I need to be perfect to be a good wife, or a good follower of Jesus. I so badly wanted to fulfill my role as a wife, that I forgot the most important part was to adore Jesus with every ounce of my being. As for ministry, I worried that backing down from roles because of the pain would be seen as a cop out, and laziness as well. That instead of grace, those around me would see my weakness as failure and a lack of love of Jesus. I so deeply wanted those around me to know the redemption that God has for them, that I pushed through pain that should have shown me I needed to rest, in order to maintain the level of discipleship and ministry was doing. 

How incredibly wrong and sinful I have been. How much unbelief? The greatest thing is though, that even if I was blind to all of this, God never was. And never for a moment would he leave me sitting in this mess of lies and doubt and “Jesus + my works = justification and righteousness”. No, the God I love is such an incredible God that he would use anything to get my attention. C.S. Lewis has a quote which says: “pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains. It is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” 

Without question God has used this pain to show me his love and patience with my sin. The idea of “sitting around” all day terrifies me. I want to do something, and serve, and love my husband well. But yet, the ways I have been prior to now are not the ways God is asking me to walk in during this season. This means a ridiculous  amount of my independence and pride needs to die. The fear which stops me from taking up offers from friends to help me clean, and go grocery shopping for me needs to be laid at the foot of the cross and repented of. The pride which is mortified at the thought of a friend seeing how dirty my bathroom really is needs to come before Jesus and see him as so much mightier. The feeling of uselessness which is spurred on by greeting my husband as I lie on an ice pack on the couch when he gets home, rather than putting dinner on the table in a perfectly clean house, must trust in my Savior’s total and complete work on the cross and not in my picture of an ‘ideal wife’. 

Funny. When I found out I was pregnant I began praying for many things, but the one on repeat (along with Baby Titus coming to full term as a healthy baby who loves Jesus even from my womb...) has been that God would bring me to a place where I could not even fathom spending a day without being in his Word, or praying. That even during the chaos which is motherhood, I would know without a doubt that I could not make it through one day, one hour, one moment without my Savior. God seems to be answering this. Not quite in the way I was anticipating, but in a way far more deep than I pictured. 

Yes, I am praying for God to supernaturally take my back pain away. Or that he would work through the physical therapy (I start with a more specialized therapist this coming week actually, as my former therapist could do “nothing more” to help stop the pain or progression). But ultimately, I am praying that God would draw me closer to him, and that I would lean on him like I never have before. That he would break me where I need to be broken, and mold me into the woman, wife, and future mother he desires me to be. It’s not an easy season, but I know God is bigger. And I am extremely grateful for Jesus’s work on the cross, a husband who loves me enough to gently demand I rest and lay down, and a community and church which are meeting needs I never knew I had.  

We shouldn't be having this baby.

We shouldn’t be having this baby.

It sounds surprising and shocking. Why joyously announce a pregnancy when you think you shouldn’t be having a child? To tell you the truth, it is shocking, but not in the way you’re thinking.

I grew up wanting to be a stay at home mom. Oh, I wanted to be a singer, an actress, a marine biologist and a teacher, but deep in my heart, I desperately wanted to be a mom. Late in elementary school through undergrad I battled anorexia. I always had irregular cycles, but lost my period altogether for nearly a year after many years of starvation. It scared me. I told myself that something had to change or I would never be able to have kids. Once it returned, things did change, but in a terrible way.

Five years later I found myself deeper into my eating disorder than I ever imagined was possible. By “found myself” I mean I willingly walked into a sinful relationship, and instead of heeding the gentle warnings of my Savior and God I turned my back on him. This relationship, I thought, had “saved me” from anorexia. Like Gomer though, I thought my lover had saved me, when all the while God had provided and saved me with his own hand and provision (Hosea 2:8). In reality, the relationship turned more and more unhealthy, and was characterized by manipulation, control, abuse, and sexual assault. I wanted out. I wanted to feel numb. I wanted to die. I cut, I starved, I purged, and I continued to run from the God who had saved me.

Through the grace of God alone, I left that relationship. I had physical and emotional scars, but God had broken in and broke my heart to him once again - I was the prodigal daughter. God lifted the depression, the cutting, the purging, and the starvation. I struggled to believe a man who loved Jesus would ever want something as tarnished as I, but God continued to walk with me. I found him redeeming every part of my heart, especially my sinfully false beliefs about his forgiveness and goodness. The following year, a man who loved Jesus began to pursue me. I didn’t know a lot about him other than he had been redeemed from much,  and that he loved God more deeply than I ever thought was possible. He worshiped Jesus, he loved me well, and 3 1/2 months later he asked me to marry him. As we walked through dating and engagement we walked through our pasts, and it became time for me to face a dark reality with my future husband - I may never be able to have children. The years of abuse I wrecked my body with had stopped my cycle completely. A round of hormone therapy had been tried, but was unsuccessful. My sin had deep consequences. My godly fiancé stayed. He comforted me, lead my back to the truth of Jesus, and prayed for me. 

One month before our wedding I decided to try one last round of hormonal treatment. Only hours before I picked up the prescription, Andrew called me. He had a “weird” feeling and wanted to know how long the drug could be active in my system, and if there were any warnings about it. I called the pharmacist, who informed me it had a small precautionary warning - due to the drug forcing a menstrual cycle, if in the unlikely chance I became pregnant during the treatment, it could become abortive. It would stay in my system three weeks, which meant 3-4 days into our marriage. Through tears streaming, we knew I could not risk it, and cried out to God. I felt as though I looked like Hannah (in 1 Samuel 1:12,13) but God comforted me in the truth that he, and he alone, opened and closed wombs. We prayed for my womb to be opened by God, and cried, and prayed some more. 

Two weeks before our wedding, I started my period.

After our wedding, and after my hopes of conceiving on our honeymoon were gone (I thought for sure that was God's plan - how perfect right?), WebMD said that my periods were still too off for conception. They had their red warnings signs up saying that they calculated I was not ovulating, and should seek medical help. I was angry. I was hurt. My "perfect plan" might not happen. But, in those weeks, and through many tears, God brought me to a place where I could honestly say I deeply wanted a baby, but without hesitation I wanted God’s will for my womb above a child. 

The end of April though... I saw a pink "+". 

We’re now ending our first trimester, and are still in awe of God’s hand in our lives and this pregnancy. A few weeks ago my OBGYN’s jaw dropped when she heard about my medical history and irregularity/absence of periods. She commented about how it was unusual that I could have gotten pregnant under those circumstances, or actually at all. All we could do was shrug and smile. 

So, we really shouldn’t be having this baby. But God’s plan was different than our “should’s” and “should not’s”. This baby, who God is knitting together in my womb, has been prayed for, and prayed over, and longed for so deeply. Falling in love with my child causes me to stand more in awe of God’s grace and power and love than I ever have in my life. 

Baby Titus truly is a miracle. 

For you formed my inward parts;

you knitted me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works;

my soul knows it very well.

My frame was not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed substance;

in your book were written, every one of them,

the days that were formed for me,

when as yet there was none of them.

(Psalm 139:13-16 ESV)