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By Lucille Kuiper
Last fall as I drove down our neighborhood streets, the sun peeked through
the clouds touching the trees and making them shout with color. I wondered
how the colors could be so bright, and then answered myself, “This
is a gift of God.”
Today as I drove the same streets, the trees were bare of leaves, the
air was crisp, and light snow fell. Yet even in their barrenness, the
trees awoke in me a sense of wonder. Look how they grow, I thought, arms
reaching to heaven. With an inner mimicry of the trees, I raised my soul
to heaven in thanksgiving that I can see the beauty around me again.
I was struck with the thought that coming out of depression is like
putting on the glasses of the soul. What was hazy becomes clear, what
was distant becomes close. I felt alive with sudden delight, surprised
by the joy of my rebirth from the emotional death of depression.
I pondered again the journey I’d made through the desolate landscape
of depression. Would sharing my experiences with the illness be helpful
to others who are suffering? If only one person would find courage or
comfort from reading my experiences, I should take that step. So I begin
by turning on the computer and programming the printer, knowing that
my preoccupation with the mechanics of the machine will insulate me somewhat
from the emotion of the subject matter.
My depression is physically-based, related to physical or biochemical
changes in my brain. Often there is a genetic tendency to develop this
form of the disease, although certain other diseases and/or the use of
certain medications may also be responsible.
During my illness I read some articles on depression written by w e
l l - m e a n i n g Christians. In many, there is too little real understanding
of the disease. There is too much assumption that everyone feels a little
down now and then and this is what depression is. The sufferer is admonished
that he or she needs no other therapy than prayer. There’s a strong
implication that if recovery does not occur through prayer alone, the
sufferer has too little faith.
To compare “feeling down” to the illness of depression is
like comparing a small paper cut to major surgery. The cut will heal
in a few days without interfering with normal life. You apply your own
bandage. But strong faith or not, major surgery will take several weeks
of gradual recovery with significant changes in your normal living. You
don’t perform the surgery on yourself, you seek a skilled surgeon.
I understand how easy it is to think of depression as feeling down rather
than as an illness. After all, one cannot see chemical imbalance in the
brain. There is no lesion or tumor to be found by xray. There is no difficulty
breathing or chest pain. But depression is as surely in need of medical
treatment as is asthma, heart disease, or diabetes.
With these physical diseases, there is no shame in seeking help from
a physician and taking medication while we pray. It is expected we will
do so.
It’s harder for believer and non-believer alike to seek help for
mental illness. The signs are not as easy to recognize or understand.
For believers, moreover, there is a strong element of guilt for feeling
emotionally disturbed. We take to heart the biblical exhortation to rejoice
in the Lord always and therefore see our flat emotions and loss of joy
as a sin against God. Soon we can’t break out of the endless cycle
of guilt/ depression, guilt/depression. If we finally seek help, we do
so worrying that in addition to all the other deficiencies we see in
ourselves, we lack true faith.
For me, the descent into the illness was agonizingly slow and confusing.
My husband rescued me from early feelings of worthlessness by his love.
We met when I was 19 and married five months later. That he could love
me was a delightful surprise. I was so grateful I devoted all of my time
and attention to him.
But life is full of unexpected stresses, and I had no intrinsic sense
of self to help me cope with them. I was who others wanted me to be—an
emotional and spiritual amoeba. Life became hectic and uncontrollable.
The chemicals in my brain, programmed genetically to be in disharmony,
sent me into the downward spiral of depression.
For several months, I rationalized I was just “blue.” I’d
snap out of it. I was not becoming ill with depression as had other women
in my family before me. During this time of rationalization, I was beginning
to feel the leaded feet, the loss of direction, and the amorphous dread
of early depression.
William Styron begins his book Darkness Visible with a quote from Job. “For
the thing that I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was
afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither
was I quiet; yet trouble came.” The months of my descent into darkness
were filled with exactly that same nameless dread.
And finally, that nameless dread takes a name: depression. I can no
longer deny the truth. The days are gray no matter how bright. The nights
are endless. I lie in the arms of my husband unresponsive. From head
to toe, my body feels thick and dull as though it has been deadened with
novocaine. My senses of smell and taste are nearly gone. I eat because
I have to.
A malignant and pervasive apathy blankets me like a shroud. I am the
walking dead. It is as though a great weight is pulling me downward,
sapping my strength.
I spend hours on my knees praying for deliverance, but God has vanished
beyond reach. I recite words that used to comfort and give me peace: “Behold
I will never leave you” and “Where can I go from your spirit
and where can I flee from your presence. If I go to the heavens you are
there. If I sink to the depths, behold you are there. If I rise on the
wings of the dawn and settle down past the sea, even there your hand
will lead, your hand will hold me fast.” They are only words after
all. The God I so desperately seek seems far away, lost to my searching.
I seek relief in medication that numbs the pain and in buying things
I don’t need. I feel absolutely and completely unworthy of the
love of anyone. Life has become something to be endured. I can’t
even sing any more. The words are lost to memory and the near perfect
pitch I had deserts me. The strain of acting normal and holding in my
pain is sapping my energy. I feel GUILTY for feeling this way. I am drowning.
The mercy in actual drowning is that so little time elapses before the
final submersion. There is no such mercy in this drowning I now endure.
Days and weeks and months drag by.
Finally I find myself in deep water with no shore in sight. I begin
with hope to swim in what I think is the right direction. I rationalize,
I chastise, I pray. But gradually my arms and legs feel weighted with
fatigue, and I begin to think I’ve been swimming in circles. I
feel a tide pulling me out against all my efforts. I think, “I’m
so tired, I’ll just rest a while,” and I go under for the
first time.
Underwater, I come to and struggle to the surface gasping for air. I
go into a survival float, knowing I can’t swim anymore, but hoping
someone will rescue me. I feel numb. I sink again and struggle to the
surface once more, gasping for breath and calling for help. I would welcome
death as an end to the struggle. My life flashes before me and seems
piteous.
But I call out one last time with a desperate cry. I see the anguished
looks on my children’s faces and the haunted confusion in the face
of my husband. I feel his arms around me and their hands clutching at
me. I cry out, “I’m sick! Can’t you see it? There’s
something terribly wrong with me! I feel like I’m drowning. Can’t
you help me? Help me, please!”
How grateful I am that my husband listened to my cry. I hadn’t
the energy to follow through on my own. He took the first step in what
was to be a long, difficult climb back to wholeness. He called a friend
who is a Christian psychiatrist, and he went with me to see him. His
loving commitment has never wavered.
Through therapy, I have learned to examine my past and its relationship
to my present, and in doing so, to forgive, accept, and grow from this
knowledge. I am learning the difference between dependence and submission.
I am learning to have a sense of self based on who I am in the image
of God, created for a purpose rather than a sense of self based on what
I thought others wanted me to be.
I am convinced I could not have been healed without medication and caring,
competent therapy. I would encourage anyone who feels depressed to pray
for healing. But pray also that the Lord will lead you to a Christian
therapist who will guide you through and out of the darkness.
It’s been a long, difficult journey. I feel as though I’ve
driven into sunlight through a dark tunnel whose length I never want
to travel again. And yet, this journey has given me an opportunity for
rebirth for which I’ll always be grateful. Out of darkness, light.
Out of suffering, perseverance. Out of silence, communication.
Now I am able to finish the Psalm: “If I say darkness will hide
me, and light be night, even darkness will not be dark to thee. The night
will shine as the day, for darkness is as light to thee.”
I’ve seen the face of Jesus in my husband’s face. I’ve
felt the love of Jesus in the love of my husband, my sons, my family,
and my friends. I’ve experienced the compassion and wisdom of Jesus
in the patient instruction of my therapist. And I have been forever changed.
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