Springing from the Ground

In some years past, spring has crept up on me unawares. I looked out the window surprised to find the ground covered in fresh green grass.  This year the transformation seemed to come more slowly, probably because I was watching so intently. From the start of spring, I have looked out the window every day examining the ground five floors below. Dead yellow grass and bare brown earth. One day after a rain, I noticed the first hints of green. The next day the fresh grass had spread a little further, mixing with the dry remnants of the last year. Each day the green spread a little more until one day I discovered the whole ground covered in beautiful vibrant new life.

Spring often comes in slow, stumbling steps. One day the trees are covered with pink and yellow and white blossoms. The sky is blue and spacious. The air is warm and gentle, the world is friendly and accepting, bursting with life. The next day the clouds turn dark without the promise of rain. The wind picks up, cold and menacing. Even the flowers seem muted, disappointed. Perhaps spring was just a dream. Winter will not so easily give up the fight.

Healing also comes slowly when you are paying attention. Is today better than the last? Is anything really changing? Some days the world seems full of hope. Life is not so hard. I feel something like energy. Without great effort, my thoughts naturally turn positive. I find myself noticing the shine in Adalyn’s eyes and the softness of Nadia’s cheeks and the vivacious aura that radiates from Juliana.

Other days the world seems hostile again, irreparably broken, and I am broken in it. My thoughts swirl into darkness.  I find myself noticing the road that is torn and broken, the person in dark glasses watching me with a blank face, or a fluorescent light flickering in an empty window and think, “That is weird. Ominous. Something is not right.” I must remind myself that there is nothing inherently strange about sunglasses or road construction or dying light bulbs. But there is truth in my thoughts - the world is broken and waiting for healing.

The brokenness is real and so is the healing. Even Jesus, who saw the whole picture and knew the end of things, experienced grief and exhaustion because he was human. When his friend Lazarus died, Jesus didn’t just tell the sisters, “Stop crying guys, I’m about to raise him from the dead!” He also entered into their suffering and wept with them. He was grieved by the brokenness he saw in the world. He groaned with the weight of burden placed upon him. He was “a man of sorrow, acquainted with grief.” He understands us in all our humanness.

There was a moment all those years ago, a few days, when it seemed that death and brokenness and despair had the last word. The sky darkened and the earth shook. The people cried out in fear. The earth was torn apart, and his followers hid in despair. But it was not the end.

In fact, it was just the beginning. The day of greatest darkness birthed the dawn of greatest light. Cruel wounds brought healing, death brought life, despair brought hope, condemnation brought grace.

We look around and some days all we see is the brokenness, but we can look into it without despair. And we can also look for evidences of life - in the shimmering evening sky, in the sound of baby giggles, in a counter wiped clean, in the blessing of mercies and coffee new every morning. Each spring the new flowers and grass remind us that death does not win. Brokenness is being restored.  When we open our eyes, we see glimpses all around.

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

- "Beautiful Things" by Gungor

So Weak and Strong

The first pill was surprisingly hard to take.

It wasn't the first time I had been on an anti-depressant, and I was not opposed to starting again. I could understand the doctor's belief that this was more than just situational. “If you had high blood pressure or heart problems you might need to take medicine. This is no different. Your brain needs some help getting regulated again.” It was explained this way both now and in the past, and it made sense.

Still, starting medication seemed like an admission: This is bad, and I can't fix it myself. I suppose I already knew it was bad. I already went through the “ignore it and maybe it will go away” phase, and it only got worse. Eventually that word, that force I had dodged for so long was again staring me unavoidably in the face. Depression.

I tried to take care of it myself. Reduce stress, get sleep, exercise, eat well, think positive, get out of the house. But sleep has been a joke, and sickness has piled on sickness. My efforts at life change were thwarted by circumstances I could not control. Mama needs a break, but baby is crying with a fever. Mama may be throwing up, but baby needs nursing. The “self-care” I did manage was a brief pause in a downhill plunge.

I used to think depression looked like sadness and crying all the time. And sometimes it does. But actually I rarely cry. I don't feel sad as much as heavy. Hazy. Anxious. Deathly tired. It is like carrying around a giant weight everywhere you go. It is like too many programs open on your computer and nothing is operating as it should. It is like walking through thick smog – you know there is a road ahead but you can't see it. The weight of the future grips so tightly you can't get a full breath.

“You know that point in a book,” I told a friend, “When you see the person heading in a bad direction and you just want to say, 'Stop! Don't go there!' That's how I feel about my life right now. I know I am walking down a bad path and I just can't get off.”

I felt sick at the thought of heading back into the same situation with the same futile hope of fixing myself. The weight of responsibility was too heavy: I have to figure this out. I have to do something to fix this. And I am just so tired. I already have so many people to take care of – I don't want to have to take care of myself too. What if I can't make myself better and we have to go home?

So the medicine represented relief. This is something that will help me even when I can't do all the right things, even if we stay sick all the time, even if we can't get this baby to sleep. I cannot reasonably expect myself to change my brain chemistry. I can let the medicine do that, and that's okay.

And yet the medicine represented my weakness. Oh, I don't mentally believe that, but of course it feels that way. Whatever you tell yourself and others tell you, depression feels like weakness, like a character flaw. We have all heard that if you just think positively enough you can heal yourself. If you just have enough faith. If you just ate the right food or used the right oils or had the right genes you wouldn't have this problem. Even in this modern day we hear whispers of shame, shame. This is your fault.

I took the first pill. And the second and third and a couple of weeks down the line I already feel a difference, a change in my brain. Breath comes a little easier. Moments look a little sharper. I feel hope that I could climb out of this hole and enjoy life again.

I can face those whispers of weakness and say, No, that is a lie. No one chooses their genes, no one controls the makeup of their brain. I am weak, not because I am depressed but because I am human. None of us were meant to be so strong we have no need for others, no need for grace.

I am weak, but I am also strong. I am strong because I cared for my family. I am strong because I cared for myself. I am strong because I got the help I needed. I could not see the path ahead but still I kept walking.

I still cannot picture the months ahead or wrap my mind around the future. My brain becomes overwhelmed and turns away. I accept this gift of fog that allows me to focus instead on today. I look out the window at the bare trees and the cold brown earth. But I remember the springtimes of the past, I remember that one day I will be startled to find leaves in bud. The bare ground will sprout fresh green grass. Breathe in, breathe out, and watch the colors come back.

I write about my depression, even though it is very personal, because maybe you understand what I am talking about and you need to know you are not alone. I write about it because maybe you have never experienced depression, but I am almost certain that someone you know is dealing with it, whether you realize or not.  Maybe this will help you to understand them a little better.