I’m a little late for Mental Illness Awareness Week (the
first week of October), but thought I should go ahead and post this anyway.
Every year I dread the coming of autumn because for many years it has meant an
increase in depression symptoms starting around Labor Day. Sometimes that
includes unexpected “crying attacks,” or as I’ve also referred to them, the
depressive equivalent of panic attacks. After that happened one time recently,
I shared with a friend that this is frustratingly familiar territory.
Today I was reading an article in the November issue of Guideposts.
The author heard from someone who experienced panic attacks: “I used to fight
those panic attacks. Now I just try to see them as a familiar part of me. When
I feel one coming on, I say, ‘Hello, old friend,’ and I talk to it. All the
power fizzes out of it.” Although I haven’t tried that particular tactic with
depression, that’s the kind of accepting attitude I am trying to cultivate. I
can’t change whatever is going on in my body, and medications don’t help during
these months, so my only option is to accept and endure with as much grace as
possible.
I was reminded of Simon & Garfunkel’s words in The Sound of Silence, “Hello, darkness,
my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.” But the reason I feel
compelled to write this comes later in the song, “‘Fools,’ said I, ‘You do not
know silence like a cancer grows. Hear my words that I might teach you. Take my
arms that I might reach you.’” Chronic or recurring depression is one of those
private battles that are often endured silently. It feels like it takes too
much effort to make people understand, and we don’t have the energy to maintain
relationships during these times. We feel like we’re carrying cement blocks on
our backs and we can’t get rid of them. Many of us continue to work only
because we have bills to pay, but we’d rather crawl in a hole and sleep until spring.
We don’t need sermons on joy or lectures on positive
thinking. We need reminders that we are loved in the midst of the battle, and
that God is present in the darkness even though we can’t see Him. Endurance is
possible, but we can’t do it alone. We need support, which may range anywhere
from an encouraging word and prayer to medication and hospitalization,
depending on the person. I tried for a long time to get through on my own
strength, but I learned several years ago that I need to let other people
inside so they can fight the battle for me and with me.
John Piper wrote the following in Desiring God, and it’s also included as the devotion for October 29
in Solid Joys:
“All experiences of suffering in the path of Christian obedience, whether from persecution or sickness or accident, have this in common: They all threaten our faith in the goodness of God, and tempt us to leave the path of obedience.
“Therefore, every triumph of faith, and all perseverance in obedience, are testimonies to the goodness of God and the preciousness of Christ — whether the enemy is sickness, Satan, sin, or sabotage. Therefore, all suffering, of every kind, that we endure in the path of our Christian calling is a suffering ‘with Christ’ and ‘for Christ.’”
So for those of you who share this present darkness, don’t
give up and don’t go silent. Let others in so they can be praying for you and
supporting you as best they can. And for those who are our friends, take
seriously the call to pray for us, bear our burdens, and love us as brothers
and sisters in Christ. We thank you.
© 2017 Dawn Rutan. Unless otherwise indicated all images are copyright
free from pixabay.com.
