Dear church member who is discussing this thing called “Depression” like it is the flu

I wrote this weeks ago and it has been read and reread, edited and chopped. I do not post this flippantly. It is a large issue that many are talking more about recently. I’d like to add my voice to the discussion. I do not address my convictions about what depression is and what we as Christians should think about it in the piece, but would like to say here, briefly, that I personally believe that depression is an illness, with complex causes and facets, that may or may not have spiritual aspects. It can, and should when advised by a medical professional, be successfully treated with medication. When science and medical knowledge given to us by people with God-given abilities and wisdom open our eyes to ways to improve our lives, we should listen and accept this gift. Christians who need to go on medication to be able to live a life free from the hold of this illness often feel immense guilt, and this is wrong. We as the church need to be aware of the damage we do to people within and outside our community, by not speaking about this, and other mental illnesses, in an open and loving way, often alienating both those suffering and their families, and helping to create feelings of guilt, shame and isolation. Whatever your thoughts on the theology of this issue, I hope that you can read my letter below with the same openness in which it was written. Thank you for listening.

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10/09/14

Dear church member who is discussing this thing called “Depression” like it is the flu

I have heard your discussions, or news of your discussions: theological debates and philosophical arguments on the origins and meaning of this thing called “Depression.” Oh, it is so interesting to bat ideas around like tennis balls, back and forth, resting occasionally to consider what God might say in His Word, then, using whatever verse you have found to hit the ball with renewed vigour. I have no desire, here, to hit the ball with you. That is a conversation for another day. This is just to remind you, in the midst of your game, your intellectual discussion, that mixed up in this thing called “Depression,” there are people. Other people who are struggling to understand it as well, but not because they enjoy the stimulating conversations, the batting of the ball, but because they live with it. I am one of those people. I have lived with it in my house. Its darkness has covered the room I sleep in and painted grey the windows that I wake up to. I cannot speak for those who suffer from this thing called “Depression.” No one who has not felt the depth of their darkness can be so foolishly presumptuous as to attempt to describe what it feels like. For that, we need to put the ball down and listen to them. There are many who have courageously stepped onto the court of our game and tried to share their world; we would do well to just sit down, be silent, and listen. I am not one of those, and will not attempt to tell their story. But, I can tell the story of one who has lived with this thing called “Depression” in my house as it has consumed someone I love.

I would like to tell you what it is like to live with someone you love who is suffering from Depression in just three words.

Alone. Because of the silence surrounding this disease, the stigma attached to it, and the church’s often unkind and ungodly reactions to it and the people who have it, it is impossible to not feel totally alone. As you watch your loved one suffer and sink further and further into darkness and silence, away from you, you have to do it alone. No one knows what happens behind the walls of your house. No one is let in. A face is painted, and then you get in the car, go to work, school, church. Sometimes the mask slips outside the walls and someone sees a glimpse of the reality, a hint of the pain, a suggestion of something not quite right. But nobody asks, really. And usually, you hold things together, until you come home. And then, face washed, you see the reality happening in your family. The silence, the pain, the confusion. Even at home, however, you cannot afford to be fully real. You must be strong. You must continue, day in and day out. Fighting the despair, in the one you love, and in yourself, on the outside at least. Sometimes contradicting, sometimes just listening, accepting the negativity, the tears, the hopelessness, the silence, the gloom that falls and settles into the rooms in which we must live, eat, and sleep. And you must do it alone. No one enters into that place. No one knows, and if they did, they would not understand. They could not move in. You must continue, and continue, and continue, alone.

Anger. I feel a lot of anger. Some of it is misplaced, and that is my problem to deal with, kindly do not tell me that, I know it. But I will not lie; I feel angry. Angry at this disease that has stolen the one I love; that consumes and surrounds them with a dark, impenetrable wall that I can’t break through; that turns them into someone I don’t know, can’t understand, and cannot hold.

I find my anger turned on them in their helplessness. I want to shake them out of their fog, to scream and shout in their face, to beat them into feeling-saying-doing something. But I cannot. Because it would not be fair. And because it would not help. My anger must find another outlet.

Enter unthinking, uncaring people. I feel angry towards people, so many people, who do not understand, who do not try to understand, who do not see that there is even something to understand.

Enter church. Oh, church, how can you stand there and not see? How can you leave your brothers and sisters to suffer silent and alone behind the walls of the houses you give them? How can you ignore the pain that is so evident if you would just open your eyes to it?

And then, when I follow the horrifying train of my thoughts, I turn to God. And, God help me, I am angry at you. How could you do this to us? Where are you in our pain and darkness? Why do you leave us here alone and afraid?

Afraid. I am terrified. I do not know where this disease will take the one I love. I do not understand it and, as I stand watch from the other side, I cannot help. There is no quick fix, no twelve-step solution, no magic formula: I cannot problem-solve this thing. And I cannot step into the darkness with the one I love. I cannot follow. And yet sometimes, an even darker fear stalks me, perhaps, I will follow.

Alone. Angry. Afraid. There are other feelings that drip off this thing called “Depression” when it moves into your house: guilt, grief, pain, hopelessness, confusion. These three, however, accompany me and cannot be shaken off. And this is my experience. I do not speak for all who have had to live with this thing called “Depression” in their house. I do not even speak for every member of my family. I speak for myself. It is not the experience of all who live with and care for family with Depression. But it is mine. Hear it and consider it as you debate the ethics, the origins, and, God help you, the theology of this thing we call “Depression.” And then, eyes a little more open, please, be kind.