I’ve been immersed in the darkness of depression. And through the grace of God, I’ve emerged, whole and healed on the other side.
But through my experience, I’ve realized what a stigma and silence there can be. The suffering of isolation and self-condemnation that comes along with this illness.
It doesn’t have to be this way. Through sharing my story, I want to offer you the same promise hope and healing I’ve found.
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I remember the darkness.
If I could have skipped the whole holiday season that year, I would have.
I had unknowingly suffered from growing depression for over a year, and it was finally coming to a head. I retreated from the world. My emotions were turning off, and so was my body.
I watched my reproductive system shut down. I suffered from endless fatigue, no matter how much I slept. And I muddled through episodes of what I could only describe as “a fog.” Where the world was thick around me. It took heroic effort to cross a room. To swim through the oppressive atmosphere.
And the worst part was, I didn’t know there was something medically wrong with me. I thought I was being a melodramatic jerk. I thought I was failing at my vocation. I tried to pray my way out of it, to think happy thoughts, to push through the hard days. But nothing worked. I sank lower and lower into my misery, and all the time tried to hide it.
And then I couldn’t any longer. I poured my heart out to a dear friend who helped me recognize the illness I was suffering from. Who looked past the smiling face I showed to the world, and saw the depression festering underneath.
Thanks be to God for her advice.
She didn’t tell me try to fix it myself. She didn’t suggest that maybe I was being too self-centered, or ungrateful, or a bad Christian, or any of the things I had been telling myself.
She told me I needed to get help. That same week, I saw my doctor. I went on antidepressants, and made an appointment for counseling with Pastoral Solutions.
I was so unhappy.
But there was something there.
Something that dragged me out of bed, finally, three hours after I woke up. Something that made me want to try to be patient for just ONE more minute before I inevitably lost my temper on my kids. Something that kept me running back to You, God, in prayer, in the Eucharist, in confession.
Begging You to give me the grace to stop.
To stop being a failure of a mom, wife, and Christian.
This something kept me going even on my darkest days.
It wasn’t happiness.
But I didn’t know what it was.
It was joy.