I want to talk about something that's hard for me. I want to talk about it because I believe it keeps me locked up in a prison if I don't, and because being vulnerable is what sometimes bridges the gaps between people, and finding out that someone else is where you've been is sometimes salvation.
I want to talk about depression.
It's such a scary thing. It's a destructive, soul-sucking thing. It pulls you down into yourself so deeply that you can't see anything or anyone around you, and even if you could, it wouldn't matter. It's the pinnacle of suffering because it means you can only focus on yourself and the lack within you, and it robs you of hope that there is merit and worth in living. And if you can't appreciate what life is for, then you can't imagine that anyone else's life, or joy, or suffering counts, and that is the greatest loss.
I also want to talk about suicide.
It's the most selfish act, even while it offers, at the time, what appears to be the release of the burden you place upon others while you ache. Of course, it also seems the only way out of the psychic pain that responds to nothing: no encouragement, no platitudes, no effort to "pull yourself up by the bootstraps and keep going"... not even love. The prospect of suicide, to a person so lost within his or herself that there seems to be no surface to return to, is the pull of relief -- the only way to make it stop.
My confession is that both depression and the contemplation of suicide have been, for me, lifelong companions. I wouldn't say that they've been perpetual, but they've always been close friends, waiting in the wings for their moment to come forth again. And they produce a shame like nothing else. I have always been afraid to talk about them, except with my closest friends, because of the risk inherent -- that people would shun me and keep away because I must be nuts. They're especially shameful for me to discuss because I have always been applauded for seeming to have an internal reserve of limitless strength and resiliency. As well, I carry an enormous burden of responsibility to appearances, and people who know me expect that I will do the right thing and behave maturely... because that's what I've always done.
So the prison grows darker. I can't risk that anyone should find me out, and I can't conquer the darkness that seems to thrive in secrecy. The truth is, only light conquers darkness, and a door kept closed never risks the chance of being opened to light.
So here I am and I'm making an effort to speak honestly about it all. The past two months have been the darkest I have ever lived, and more than a few times, I thought they would be the end of me. Indeed, I wished they would. I'm not out of the woods yet, but something remarkable has happened as a result of this journey and I want to make that known, too.
"Redemption" tends to be treated frivolously in our society. Everyone suffers, and we say, with our glib tongues, "that which does not kill us makes us stronger". But I want to say this: that which does not kill us, but which acts as a fiery crucible to burn off the crap that would otherwise continue to enslave us, redeems us, if we will let it.
When I felt the beginnings of that familiar darkness beginning to descend on me, I did what I have always done in the past: I started fortifying myself for the shit-kicking it would be. I started going to the gym, I started journalling in paper, I started praying feverishly, I started analysing myself and telling anyone who would listen what was going on. I figured that would be "getting real" and superficial though it was, it seemed like a good idea. I wanted it to not take hold, but if it did, I would be ready for it, and would keep it company as long as it would stay, because it was awful, but it was familiar and familiarity feels comfortable. Then I began to indulge it. I did dreadful things to fertilize it. I drank myself stupid. I checked emails I had no right to check. I listened to sad songs and looked at old photographs, and set myself a table for a pity party that would invite anyone to come and bring sympathy as their gift.
You know what? It got away on me. It was no longer just a dreary feeling. It was suddenly a monster, out of control, and it was a daily battle to keep getting out of bed and doing the things that life demands when this beast was with me, taking suckerpunches and knocking me on my ass again and again. I was terrified, because the beast didn't just live in me, it was me. It was my own heart. What the scripture says is true: "the heart is wicked above all things". I became my own enemy, and while an enemy without is something one can avoid in some measure, even if it is difficult, an enemy within is impossible to escape.
I'm not sure what happened to turn the corner, but I know there were several things that contributed to it. For one, it was the outpouring of love from people who didn't need the hassle, but who bothered anyway. I'm talking about a flood of love. If I couldn't believe I was worth anything, I could at least hear from others that they saw my value and I forced myself to take their word on it. Their persistence made it impossible to ignore. I am lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, planning my funeral, and they are on the phone, at the door, in my face, insisting that I listen and pay attention. I have to say that my friendships are an embarrassment of riches for me. I have done nothing to deserve them, and indeed, have done much to destroy them, but they persist.
The other, and more significant thing, was the realization that this was meant for a purpose and it was one that I resented bitterly. I asked God to make me the woman he wants me to be. His response was, "Are you sure?" And had I been feeling less gutsy, I would have said, "Hell no". But no prayer is ever wasted and God said, "If you mean this, I am about to become real to you in a way you would never have imagined and it is going to hurt like nothing you have ever imagined, because you can't become what I want you to be while you continue to carry all that shit on your back". (God didn't actually say "shit", because I don't think he would. This is the Maryellen paraphrase, you see) You know what? Growing up is painful. Putting your money where your mouth is (for lack of a better cliche) is PAINFUL. Deciding that you will walk through the desert, even while you bemoan it and throw temper tantrums, and seek any kind of escape, is devastatingly painful. But it is good. And though I committed myself to what I didn't even understand when I made the commitment, I have to trust that God, who is wise, knows better than me and even though I cry and beg him to stop, he has founded in me an intangible appreciation for the idea that to get to a mountaintop, you have to walk through the valley. To be mature is to throw off childish ways and to accept that with much suffering comes much growth, and with growth, character, and with character, joy.
Shit. No no no no no. No more growth. No more FUCKING CHARACTER. But oh yes. Lots more. And I don't even know what it's for, because I'm not that far yet, but I can say, honestly, that if I were given the chance to go back and undo it, I wouldn't. I don't even know why I wouldn't, since I haven't been able to stop complaining about this since it began. But, my pastor told a story this Sunday of a man who spent 14 years in a communist prison in Romania, being tortured day in and day out. When it was done, he was asked if, given the chance, would he have changed it and avoided being sent to that hell? You know what he said? He said that the man he was before he went in was nothing compared to the man he was when he came out, and that his understanding of God would never have reached the depth or quality that it had a result of that suffering, and he wouldn't have traded that for anything. I mean, what? Seriously? But yeah, seriously. And the weirdest thing is, man, I get that. I don't know why I get it, but I do.
So, no more shame. Some people are tortured. Some people lose everything in natural disasters. Some people wrestle themselves in the throes of depression and self-loathing. All people, if they have any substance whatsoever, suffer. There is no shame in suffering, especially if, because of it, we become the people we were meant to be, even if we only see that in retrospect. "Humility tells us that suffering is an evil which we must always expect to find in our lives because of the evil that is in our selves. But faith also knows that the mercy of God is given to those who seek Him in suffering, and that by His grace we can overcome evil with good. Suffering, then, becomes good by accident, by the good that it enables us to receive more abundantly from the mercy of God." (Thomas Merton, No Man Is An Island)
I continue to pray: not my will, but yours be done. And I continue to tremble at the thought of what I am actually saying. But I will not be undone, and I will not perish, for there is a purpose in this that I can't even begin to imagine. And at one time, I thought I had already crossed this bridge and patted myself on the back for having "arrived", but it was foolishness, and this too, will some day prove to be foolishness, but for the time being, I will stand here and take it and I will not waste it, and I will not be ashamed of it.
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
