Dear Depression,

We need to talk. Your manners are atrocious. Your approach is abhorrent. And your presence is wearying. You’re a sneaky, lying, lazy, messy jerk!

When you first moved in, I thought you were only staying for a visit, you know, until the baby was a few months old. I was so preoccupied with him and his big brother that I scarcely noticed you loitering. You were not even remotely subtle, so I can only blame myself for not realizing how obvious you were; but I was navigating the rough waters of parenthood and had convinced myself that it was normal to feel angry every day. It was normal to never get enough sleep. It was normal to sleep as often as possible. It was normal to be 50 pounds overweight. It was normal to feel unattractive. It was normal to think I was trapped by emotions that were too burdensome to acknowledge. I believed that this was the new normal and that was how everyone who had two kids under 3 felt. It never mattered how kind people were to me. It never mattered what I accomplished in a day. It never mattered that my husband loved me unconditionally. It never mattered that my precious boys were perfect and sweet and loving and smart. 

I was never enough.  You always made me believe that I was lazy and didn’t deserve to be healthy. You made me believe that I was angry and that if I just prayed about it, God would make me happy; clearly I didn’t pray enough.  You convinced me that people were judging me harshly for being fat, too young to have two kids, too stupid to be a good mother, too ugly to be a good wife, too lazy to deserve any rest, or too sinful to deserve any grace. I wanted to fix me, but you were always there to remind me what a mess I was, interrupting every good thought I had, rooting around looking for things to hold against me, to give me worthless advice, recklessly sapping the meager amounts of energy I had before I even had a chance to enjoy some or share it with my family.  Like I said, your manners are atrocious.

But if that weren’t enough, you sneaked into my life so effortlessly I never knew to fight you off with everything I had.  You started off by making me just a little bit tired or a little bit angry, but little by little, you were robbing me of every dream I ever once had.  The funny thing is that none of my dreams were even grandiose.  It wouldn’t have affected you one bit to leave them alone. I simply wanted my kids to trust me, to love my husband as much as he loved me, and to experience the presence of God in my life.  Above all, I wanted to live every moment the way God wanted me to live and this reveals possibly your most abhorrent approach; you convinced me that I was living the way God intended and that He intended it to be miserable. 

My faith in Christ had been the only lifeline out of the mire and muck, but you expertly muddied the waters by convincing me that God Himself had ordained this unsatisfying trapped existence.  If I didn’t know any better, I would say you had something against God or people who want to believe in Him.  The knowledge that God loves me and will take care of me was obscured not by any tangibly awful thing, but by the subtly convincing message you expertly, almost soothingly whispered into my ear practically while smoothing my hair with your disgusting fingers. 

“There there,” you’d say, “today is going to be a little bit better. Not so good that you will finally feel free from me but just enough to enjoy a break as well as a cruel reminder of what it feels like to be normal … to actually LOVE life. It will be just long enough to remember what you’re missing and I will snatch you back to reality. Calm down now and don’t fight me.”  And I didn’t fight you.  You know why?  Because I was too exhausted!  That’s why.  It would be four years before I'd get the help I needed. Your approach is effective, but abhorrent,

And finally, your presence is wearying.  That’s why I’m writing this letter.  I have come to realize during our long-term tumultuous relationship that you will always be part of my life.  That at any given day or week, I am somewhere on a continuum of managing you effectively or desperately fighting for every smile I can fake.  On any given day, you are winning or I am.  You’ve proven your mettle so I know I can’t control you on my own; it will take my family, my doctors, my counselor, and a very precious resource called good friends. Above all, it will take blind faith in God even when I’m not feeling it.  Some days, I’m going to feel stigmatized because you’re winning and I’ll want to tell people that, but we already know what happens then. 

You’ve trained the masses well to pretend it’s sensitive to the reality of depression and anxiety or other mental illness. But in their minds, they think they know how to manage everyone else’s depression and rarely will they acknowledge the important role that medicine plays in this battle. God love them, but they will spiritualize it or naturalize it not realizing that I can’t wade through all the trials and experiments to find something natural or spiritual that works.  I need something that works.  Period.  I will never be able to enjoy a non-medicated existence and I’ve come to terms with that because only with the right medicine and support, can I combat your wearying presence effectively.  One day, I won’t have to rely on medication for anything and trust me, I am NOT taking you with me there. 

Until then, I know I have to be careful with the degree of honesty I practice about you. I know I have to be much more aware of your effect on my psyche and consequently, those who I love. I know I need to be shrewder about your approach before you get too much traction in my brain. And I know I have to use up even the tiniest of energy stores to combat you at the first signs so I don’t fall prey to your sneaky ways before it’s too late.  I guess we will have to learn to get along, but I don’t have to let you in. And in all fairness, I should let you know that I’m investigating better weapons for the battle. 

Good luck,

Me

Jeremiah 33:3

Lent Me Your Ears

I’ve been thinking a lot about Lent lately.  It’s hard not to with my Facebook newsfeed blowing up with article after article about it along with suggestions of things to give up for it and reasons why we shouldn’t ignore it.  I was going to just dismiss it this year as I usually do, but I’ve been thinking a lot about it and decided to come up with a worthy offering for 40 Days of Lent.  But before I continue, I apologize to any Catholics out there or any Protestants who value the tradition and precise practice of Lent.  I am not Catholic and I may not officially do it justice, but I believe that a 40-day period of focused intention is a deeply spiritual practice and one I don’t want to miss out on entirely.  I hope you don’t mind me joining you, if sloppily and a day late.

I remember the year I gave up gum.  I could hardly wait for Easter Sunday to come around so I could chomp away at my favorite jaw-breaking snack—Orbit Sweet Mint (if you must know).  The year my husband was deployed, I gave up . . . well, my husband and all the things that go with having a husband.  Naturally, it wasn’t by choice, but I felt it was a sacrifice all the same so I claimed it.  I’m aware that we don’t get points or anything for the measure of sacrifice involved, but I wanted to be a participant.  I started to give up sugar one year.  That lasted about a week and I felt like I had done my thing and failed and it was too late to start over or start with something else.  I’ve clearly missed the whole point, haven’t I?  I don’t want to do that this time.  I want to celebrate it as a sacrifice and a victory, a difficult but satisfying challenge, and a painful but beautiful experience.  I want it to be real.

So this year, I’ve resigned to giving up my insatiable need for personal affirmation.  I’m not going to swallow as many words for fear that someone might not like them or how I present them.  But I will hold them back if they’re not true or kind or necessary or helpful.  My life story is riddled with moments that I have wanted to say something that seemed important in my head, but I’ll have no idea if it was or not because I never said it. Why?  Because I wanted to be affirmed for what I said and how I said it and further, I needed to know if what I said made a difference.  I haven’t written a blog post in over a month because I received backlash last time that I was logically prepared for but not emotionally.  And I only know how about five people who were brave enough to say something to my face felt about it.  The rest of you, I wonder in the back of my mind if I offended you or proved myself a fool.  That was a great introduction into this next 40 days—I will not require your opinion whether positive or negative before saying what I believe to my best ability to be true and helpful. 

This practice will be horrendous for me because I calculate every word I say and how I say it as it’s leaving my vocal cords.  I’ve shut myself up in the middle of a thought on many occasions because of a look of disapproval on your face.  You know that saying, “It’s better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt?” It does not apply here.  I invite you to consider me a fool.  Maybe I am.  How will I ever know if I don’t say anything?  My biggest fear is that you will actually get to know me and realize I’m vulnerable, and foolish, and reckless, and frightened.  I’ve reread and edited this post so many times, I’m afraid the whole season will be gone by the time I post it. As long as I have limited what I've revealed about what I think, you’ve been more likely to encourage me without having the slightest clue who I actually am.  I’m sorry I ever asked this of you, but I dare you to say to me that I’m not actually that great.  (And thank you for letting me say my peace in the first place). 

I wish I could post this anonymously.  I wish I hadn’t written it.  I wish I could go back and write something that 90% of the world would agree with to make me feel like I’m on top of the world.  But that ship has definitely sailed and I’m glad she has.  Ships might be safer in the harbor (if we don’t count the USS Arizona) but that’s not where ships belong. I have had the privilege recently of being vehemently criticized for having said things that I believed were true, helpful, necessary, and kind.  I let the weight of some people’s disapproval destroy my fire.  But it was good practice for these next 40 days, so I thank each of you for disagreeing with me and eloquently telling me why.  Each time I experience it, it gets just a little easier to take.  And yes, I did consider deleting that line about the USS Arizona. 

So, for Lent, I chose the one thing that has the power to destroy my spirit.  Why did I choose it?  Because I want it to be undeniably sacrificial.  Because I want it to be life changing.  Because I want to commemorate every day that I made a commitment.  Because I have a lot of words to say and I rarely ever actually say them.  And in the end, I hope I’ll have developed a new habit.  But for now, the most painful thing I can give up is the façade.  And I have a feeling, I’ll be the one who benefits most from it in the end. 

Maybe that’s the whole idea of Lent.

1 Pet 3:15