I’m not gonna lie, I’m depressed. Not that I was lying before
when I pretended that I wasn’t. Life is a silly game, and a beautiful dance, It takes skill – to weather life’s storms.
(And we’ve been in a blow-your-mind-knock-you-down kind of hurricane!)
It’s a special skill to endure, to survive, to not
depressed. Even for people who aren’t inclined, as my doctor so kindly said. I’m inclined, thank you very much. My mind and body, the know well the slippery incline toward this sink hole.
Still, no matter what I know, no matter what I am told, what I tell myself or read, or have in my head from doctors, the evil voices in my head say – FAILURE.
I’m doing my best. I’ve walked fifteen miles this week and let me tell you it took me a whole month at least to gather up the energy to dust off the treadmill, plug it in. To only do that. Just to start, to begin again when I’m so damned tempted to give in to this beast,
the dark nights, the soulless thoughts, and the depravity which is my companion,
It’s a sinkhole.
Lordy, if there weren’t so many counting on me, I think I might collapse. You see I don’t care about myself and that’s a big part of the problem. I don’t care about me.
I live for others, mostly my kids, my mother, this house, and our life. I know this is wrong. And I’m not lazy, though the voices tell me I am. I know money doesn’t equate success, or my value as a person, and yet still, I quake in my soul as I lie in bed, hiding away under the heavy down comforter, with quick glances at the clock.
4:30 am is too early to get up, 5:00, 5:40, finally dragging my sorry self out of bed.
I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to take care of everyone. I don’t want to be an enabler.
And I am angry. Angry to still have an adult child
freeloading living in my house sleeping till noon. Angry to have a teenager whose beautiful life is spiraling out of control into a major anxiety disorder. Angry because my husband still enjoys things, wants to be with friends and in this case spends a few minutes of music making downstairs. I don’t enjoy anything right now. I am angry that we cannot figure out what’s going on in my little boy’s brain. Angry that my teenager cannot, will not, does not read books. Angry that everyone gets hungry, on schedule, three times a day. I’m even angry that I have the space and freedom to go the three-hour doctor appointments with my mother up to three times a week. I’m angry about my priviledge. I am so sick of being angry.
This is simply part of the thermometer of my spirit telling me I’m
far gone, depressed.
And so, machine like, for a week now I have put on my workout clothes and the beautiful running shoes I earned this summer. I walk downstairs, set the machine to three miles, turn on the book of Hebrew, or Luke, or Matthew. and I listen for themes of Jesus seeing or hearing women.
I listen hard, I listen angry about this too, feeling that this is also something stupid that I accept, something about not caring about myself. Angry that the Church pretends women aren’t fully human, made in God’s image, just like men. I’m angry as I quickly jot a note on a piece of tape I’ve attached to the treadmill, looking for themes from the creator God, the Holy One.
It is a scribbled prayer,
Jesus sees me.
Jesus hears me that I’m angry
And people care, so many good people who reach for me. Know me. Care. And I’m not so far gone that I’m oblivious or ungrateful. And I’m not so far gone that I won’t get up when the alarm goes off and continue. I’ll continue to pray, because the anger is the depression speaking and I need to know
what it’s going on and on about. I know this — it’s not the kids, it’s not the so called problems, it’s not my hubby (for sure). It’s not a friend sick with cancer, or a child with mental illness, or an aging mother, or an elderly neighbor being committed to a home, or the sexist church.
This is about me. I’m not gonna lie, depression has come knocking. Now I have to listen.
Thanks, Jamie the Very Worst Missionary, for this.