A friend of mine recently posted a picture on social media that conveyed my life in an extraordinarily powerful way. It was a black-and-white sketch of a scruffily bearded young man’s profile. He wore a wide, toothy, squinty, wrinkle-eyed, joyous grin. Whatever the reason, he was wearing on his face what he wanted others to see and believe.
There was also a gut-wrenching cutaway of the side of his head, showing what was going on internally, the real him: a little boy crouched down against a wall barefoot with his knees protectively pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them, and his head lowered into his arms, hiding, buried in his aloneness. On the floor beside him, leaning against him as if clinging for dear life, was his teddy bear.
I’ve posted a lot of stuff I’ve written on social media, and occasionally, people find those posts funny enough or worthy enough to share. This picture, promoting mental health awareness, got an exceptional response. It received a bunch of likes. What surprised me even more was that 180 people felt the message was important enough to share. That’s pretty dramatic. I don’t know how many of those 180 have family or friends who struggle with depression or if they themselves combat that insidious disorder.
Whatever the reason, I believe there is a different story for every person who struggles. Every single one of those people is essential and significant. For that reason, I feel compelled to open up about my own personal albatross.
In 1798, Samuel Taylor Coleridge published his longest poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. In the story, an albatross leads an icebound ship out of a dangerous, deadly area. The storyteller, for some idiotic reason, kills the bird with a bow. The crew become angry, and they force him to wear the dead bird around his neck.
Thus began the legend that albatrosses are, metaphorically, a psychological burden that feels like a curse.
However, these creatures are, in fact, majestic birds with wingspans up to ten feet and lifespans as long as fifty years. They are incredibly social and have strong communities, thus making the albatross my second-favorite bird. As I’ve said, my favorite are hummingbirds, which are substantially smaller and don’t live nearly as long. But I digress. The point is that in the story, the punishment for killing the bird becomes synonymous with a burden to be carried.
I don’t remember a time when depression hasn’t been a massive part of my life. My battle. My thorn. My mountain. In this one area of my life, God has been merciful but quiet.
My days are pretty much a regular routine for me. I work, I go to church, and the rest of the time, I sleep. I sleep a lot.
Every night, when I get home from work, I plan for tomorrow. I will wake up. I will clean the house and do laundry. I will spend time writing. I will take my vitamins. And every morning, I wake up with a heaviness in my chest and a dark black cloud just below ceiling level. I am filled with anxiety, depression, and fear that the cloud will burst at any second. So I go back to sleep.
My dreams are always stress- and anxiety-driven. I force myself to get out of bed every morning, take the dogs for their morning constitutional, feed them, maybe eat a little breakfast, and then crawl back into bed and sleep until I’ll be late for work if I don’t take a shower and go.
It’s not laziness. It’s not a lack of desire to be motivated. It’s not a lack of positive thinking. It’s not wishing my house were clean enough to have friends over for supper. It’s not even a lack of spiritual health. I spend time with the Lord every single day. I love being with him, my Rock, who I know understands. I often pray Psalm 61:1–2 (MSG): “God, listen to me shout, bend an ear to my prayer. When I’m far from anywhere, down to my last gasp, I call out, ‘Guide me up High Rock Mountain!’”
I don’t talk about it much. I don’t want people to think I’m attempting to elicit pity or sympathy. In fact, I can’t stand that thought. I’d rather carry it alone than burden anyone else with it.
And why is that? I want people to know me as a lighthearted, laughing, joyful, loving guy devoted to friends and Jesus. After all, that’s who I am at heart. That’s the true me. And I have to remind myself that the knowledge of my disorder is what keeps me grounded. If I depend on my emotions, this disorder will overtake me.
But depression isn’t the real me. I have to remember and accept that my absolute best day will probably never quite reach most people’s normal day. I don’t experience fewer reasons for joy or sadness, anger or fear, disgust or happiness, or wonder or surprise. I have no more substantial or smaller life choices or problems than anyone else.
But there is always the cloud. A heavy chest. Chronic fatigue. The wish that it would be more comfortable. The prayer.
I have a few close friends who I know pray for me. Those are the ones I run to when I have the slightest energy. I look for them at church, the grocery, or anywhere else. They’re the important ones, because they bring me moments of escape into joy. If I can make them smile or laugh, mission accomplished. They know who they are.
Many other friends of mine have themselves been touched by depression in a personal way. Many have spouses, friends, or family who struggle with depression. Many fight it themselves. Many have spouses, friends, or family members who have lost their battle with depression or mental illness.
And by the way, depression is an illness.
For several years, I tried antidepressant after antidepressant with no measurable positive result. One doctor, after testing, gave me a prescription for a generic medicine for ADHD. Although I did feel somewhat better for a time, I suddenly found myself strongly considering taking my life. If I’d owned a gun back then, I would not be typing this right now. It was that serious.
I began to research the meds and found that one of the possible side effects was suicidal thoughts. I remembered the psychologist asking me several times before he prescribed the medicine if I’d ever thought about suicide.
I never had considered taking my own life before. When I read the side effects, I stopped taking the drug. Almost immediately, thoughts of taking my life went away, never to return.
Depression is so pervasive and overwhelming that I have taken the word suicide out of my lexicon. Instead, I choose other words: “My friend died of depression,” “She struggled with anxiety and fear,” or “He just wanted the pain to stop.”
For the record, I’m confident that believers who have desperately struggled with addiction, depression, or mental health problems will be in heaven. On this side of the veil, they couldn’t handle the pain of life any longer and chose to go to the One who truly understands.
A friend told me once that taking one’s own life is like showing up to a party where we weren’t yet invited.
It’s called grace.
When I was a senior in high school, we read a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson called “Richard Cory.” Until recently, I never understood why it resonated, even then, so profoundly with me and why I remembered it so well for nearly forty-five years. Now I know.
Richard Cory
Edwin Arlington Robinson
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
I was diagnosed twelve years ago with a disorder called transverse myelitis (TM). It’s sort of a first cousin to multiple sclerosis (MS). The symptoms of both are the same; TM just doesn’t progress as MS does.
In my research, I discovered that TM and MS are the two strongest disorders causing depression and one of the major contributors to people considering or succeeding in taking their own lives. Although, rest assured, ending my life is not in my thoughts, I understand how others can feel so alone and isolated that dying is more comforting. It’s called an invisible disability for a reason.
I choose to live as an emotional, empathetic, compassionate humanoid. That’s how my precious Jesus, my best Bud, created me. On the other side of that same coin (sobriety chip), I recognize that constant knowledge of this disorder and the possible contributing factors are critical to my survival. Knowing it’s there keeps me away from the shadows. I finally realized that if there’s a shadow, there has to be light somewhere.
There are specific things I will do and things I will not do.
I will continue the fight, even when I’m so tired I can’t see past the next hour.
I will seek the Lord in all things. I will fight this fight with him. He carries the sword in front of me.
I will not listen to or respond in anger (hopefully, prayerfully) when someone says, “If you just prayed more,” “If you found the right meds,” “You can be delivered from this,” “The Lord told me …,” or “It’s a sign of weakness or sin.”
I’ve sincerely, with everything in me, tried countless times all of those things, and here I am, still struggling. Those types of responses, usually said out of ignorance or self-protection, are a strong sign of lack of research.
Many Christians throw doubt and lack of faith together as an excuse for depression, but it’s neither. It’s real. It’s pervasive in our culture and our churches. We need to display mercy and compassion. We must be aware of those around us. We must love them and move to keep them from isolating. We must be vigilant to be accountable to them and hold them accountable.
It’s not a choice to isolate. It’s a condition. It’s not a choice to feel afraid, tired, and anxious. It’s a disorder. It’s horrible, it’s awful, and it’s debilitating.
I don’t know if it’s a lifelong part of my journey. But I can tell you this: I know it’s not eternal. On the really hard days, I think of my future home, as portrayed in Isaiah 25:6–8 (MSG):
But here on this mountain, God-of-the-Angel-Armies will throw a feast for all the people of the world, A feast of the finest foods, a feast with vintage wines, a feast of seven courses, a feast lavish with gourmet desserts. And here on this mountain, God will banish the pall of doom hanging over all peoples, The shadow of doom darkening all nations. Yes, he’ll banish death forever. And God will wipe the tears from every face. He’ll remove every sign of disgrace from his people, wherever they are. Yes! God says so!
My heart is set on things above. When the Lord calls me home, it will be a great day. The best day. The heaviness I have always felt will finally fall away, and the dark cloud will disperse as the veil is lifted. I will see the Love I’ve waited to see all my life, the One I’ve leaned on for protection, hope, truth, answers, and salvation. I will finally see my precious Jesus face-to-face.
I used to hear and believe that we die alone. That is absolutely not true. I’ve never been alone, and I will never be alone. The moment I close my earthly eyes, I’ll see the One I’ve longed for all my life: Jesus.
I will see all my friends and family who have gone home before me waiting at the gate. The joy I’ve longed for will be mine because I am in the presence of pure Love. The trivial, normal things that seemed monumental here because of this disorder will no longer matter. All the dreams that seemed impossible to accomplish here because of constant sadness and fatigue will finally be fulfilled.
I’ll lift my head and breathe in the crisp, clean air of knowing what it means to be free of pain and sorrow. I know these feelings are no different, in kind, from the feelings of all others who have given their hearts to Jesus. We will be there together, laughing, praising, worshipping, working, and living out the truest of dreams—truly, finally living. It will have been worth it all.
And I will fly!
