I wrote this at the beginning of the year and wasn't ready to publish it then. I am now.
It is a continuation from another letter I wrote last year.
10/01/15
Dear
church member who has forgotten us
Hi.
Remember me? I'm the one who wrote that slightly-too-honest letter that a
pastor's daughter should not have written. The one who accused you of being
unkind and uncaring and said she was angry at the world... and God. Yup, that
one.
I
thought I would reintroduce myself because I'm not sure you remember who I am.
You might have forgotten my family too. We're the family with depression. That
disease/condition/sin that we all talked about after Robin Williams committed
suicide and you found out about us? The subject has gone somewhat out of
fashion. It's had its limelight; we've had our fifteen minutes. Our time is up.
Clear the stage. Time to talk about abortion again. Or is it gay marriage this
month?
The
problem is, we're still here. And no, it has not gone away. Turns out, this
thing does not just magically die once you bring it out into the open. It has
not, sadly, moved on with your interest. Oh, how I would love to step off this
stage, but even though you've left the theatre, and the lights are out, we're
still here. In the dark. With it. It still lives with us, still colours our
lives, still makes us feel alone, angry and afraid.
I
can understand why you might have forgotten us. I should not be so
hypocritically judgemental. I too have tried to ignore it. Since we last spoke,
I have tried to run. I have focused on my own life, my own struggles, poured
myself into other places and people away from home, filled my days and thoughts
with other problems that are more manageable. Sometimes without even realising
it.
But,
unlike you, I cannot ignore this thing forever. I am attached, tethered to it.
Although I try, I cannot run from it. I must return eventually to where I
belong: in the midst of the discouragement and questions and frustration and
silence, with my family. It's just, I thought you were family, too, and, I
thought I might see you here.
Maybe
we paint our masks a little too accurately. Maybe we can act okay a little too
well. Maybe you really think we are okay. Maybe you are just uncomfortable.
Maybe you just don't know what to say. Maybe I convinced you a little too well
that we had to do this alone.
I
didn't mean we wanted to be left alone.
What
exactly am I saying? I'm not sure, and that's not fair on you, I know.
Maybe
I'd just like you to be the church. I don't know how, and that is unfair on you.
But
I wish someone would join us in the depths. It is dark down here. And we're so
tired.
