TIM E HOLDER

A friend of mine posted a picture on Facebook recently that conveyed my life in an extraordinarily powerful way. I reposted it on my page. It was a black and white sketch drawing of a scruffy bearded, young man’s profile. He wore a wide, toothy grinned, squinty, wrinkle-eyed, joyous laugh. Maybe he was watching something hilarious on TV, or listening to a friend retelling a story about falling on an icy sidewalk, or remembering a practical joke that worked. Whatever the reason, he was wearing on his face what he wanted others to see and believe. 

There was also a gut wrenching cutaway of the side of his head, showing what was going on internally. The real “him.” It was a little boy, crouched down against a wall, barefooted, knees protectively pulled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around them and his head lowered into his arms, hiding, buried in his aloneness. On the floor beside him, Leaning against him, as if clinging for dear life, was his teddy bear. 

I have posted a lot of stuff over the years on Facebook. And occasionally people will find those posts funny enough, or worthy enough to share. This picture, promoting mental health awareness got an exceptional response, It received a bunch of “likes.” But, what surprised me was the 180 people who felt the message important enough to “share.” That’s pretty dramatic. I don’t know how many of those 180 have family or friends who struggle with depression, or if they, themselves combat this insidious disorder. 

Whatever the reason, I believe there is a different story for every person who struggles. And they are, every single one of them, important and meaningful. And for that reason, I feel compelled to open up about my own personal albatross.

In 1798, the longest poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge was published. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” In the story, an albatross leads a ship stuck in ice out of a dangerous, deadly area. The storyteller, for some idiotic reason, kills the bird with a bow. The crew becomes so angry they force him to wear the dead bird around his neck. Thus, began the legend that albatrosses are, metaphorically, a psychological burden that feels like a curse. However, Albatrosses are, in fact, majestic birds with wingspans sometimes up to 10 feet and live as much as 50 years. They are extremely social and have strong communities. My second favorite bird. My favorite being hummingbirds, which are substantially smaller. And don’t live nearly as long. But, I digress. The point is that in the story, the act of killing the bird became synonymous with a burden to be carried.

I don’t remember a time when depression hasn’t been a huge part of my life. My battle. My thorn. My mountain. In this one area of my life God has been merciful, but quiet. My days are pretty much a normal routine for me. I work, I go to a prison for ministry once a week, I go to church, and the rest of the time, I sleep. I sleep a lot. Every night when I get home from work, I plan for tomorrow. I will wake up, I will clean house, do laundry. I will spend time writing. I take my vitamins. And every morning I wake up with a heaviness in my chest and a dark, black cloud just below ceiling level. And I am filled with anxiety and depression and fear that the cloud will burst at any second. And so I go back to sleep. My dreams are always stress and anxiety driven. I force myself to get out of bed every morning and take the dogs for their morning constitutional, feed them, maybe eat a little breakfast, maybe, and then crawl back into bed and sleep until I’ll be late for work if I don’t take a shower and go. It is not laziness. It is not a lack of desire to be motivated. It is not a lack of positive thinking. It’s not even a lack of spiritual health. I spend time with the Lord every single day. I love being with Him. My rock who I know understands. I often pray Psalm 61 “God, listen to me shout, bend an ear to my prayer. When I’m far from anywhere, down to my last gasp, I call out, “Guide me up High Rock Mountain!”

I don’t talk about it much. I don’t want people thinking I’m attempting to elicit pity or sympathy. In fact, I can’t stand that thought. I would far rather carry it alone than burden anyone else with it. And why is that? I want people to know me as a lighthearted, laughing, joyful, loving, devoted to friends and Jesus guy. After all, that’s who I really am at heart. That’s the true me. And I have to remind myself that the knowledge of my disorder is what keeps me grounded. If I depend on my emotions, this disorder would overtake me. But, it’s not the real me. I have to remember and accept that my absolute best day will probably never quite reach most people’s normal day. My life is not filled with any less reasons for joy or sadness, anger or fear, or disgust or elation or wonder or surprise than anyone else’s. I have no larger or smaller life choices or problems than anyone else. But there is always the cloud. A heavy chest. Chronic fatigue. The wish, the desire that it would be easier. The prayer. 

I have a few close friends who I know pray for me. Those are the ones I run to when I have the slightest energy. I look for them at church or the grocery or anywhere. They are the ones that are important because they bring me moments of the escape into joy. If I can make them smile or laugh, mission accomplished. And they know who they are.  Many others are the ones who have been touched by depression in a personal way. Many have spouses or friends or family who struggle with depression. Many fight it themselves. Many have spouses or friends or family members who have lost their battle with depression or mental illness. And by the way, depression IS a mental illness. For several years, I tried antidepressant after antidepressant with no measurable positive result. One doctor, after testing, gave me a prescription for a  generic medicine for ADHD. Although I did feel somewhat better for a time, I suddenly found myself strongly considering taking my life. If I was in possession of a gun back then, I would not be typing this right now. It was that serious. I began to research the meds and found that one of the possible side effects was suicidal thoughts. And I remembered the psychologist asking me several times, before he wrote the prescription if I ever thought about “suicide.” I never considered taking my own life  before. When I read the side effects, I stopped the drug immediately. The thoughts of taking my life went away, never to return. Depression is so pervasive and overwhelming, I have taken the word “suicide” out of my lexicon. “My friend died of depression.” “She struggled with anxiety and fear.” “He just wanted the pain to stop.” And for the record, I am confident that believers who have desperately struggled with addiction or depression or mental health problems who felt, on this side of the veil, they couldn’t handle the pain of life any more and chose to go to the One who truly understands will be in heaven. A friend told me once that taking one’s own life is like showing up to a party where we weren’t yet invited. It’s called grace. When I as a senior in high school, we read a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson called “Richard Cory.”  Until recently, I never understood why it resonated, even then,  so profoundly with me and why I’ve remembered it so well for nearly 45 years.  Now I know.

Richard Cory

BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

I was diagnosed 12 years ago with a disorder called Transverse Myelitis. It’s sort of a first cousin to MS. The symptoms are the same, they just don’t progress like MS does. After doing research, I discovered that TM and MS are the two strongest disorders that cause depression and one of the major contributors to people considering, or succeeding in taking their own lives. Although, rest assured, taking my life is not in my thoughts or desire, I absolutely understand how others can feel so alone and isolated that dying is a much more comforting thought. 

I choose to live my life as an emotional, empathetic, compassionate humanoid. That’s how my precious Jesus, my best bud, created me. I also, on the other side of that same coin (sobriety chip), recognize  that constant knowledge of this disorder and the possible contributing factors is key to my survival. Knowing it’s there keeps me in the light. And darkness can’t live in the light.

There are specific things I will and specific things I will not do. I will continue the fight, even when I’m so tired I can’t see past the next hour. I will seek the Lord in all things. I will fight this fight with Him. He carries the sword in front of me. I will not listen or respond in anger (hopefully…prayerfully) when someone says, “If you just prayed more.” “If you found the right meds.” “You can be delivered from this.” “The Lord told me…” “It’s a sign of weakness or sin.” Those types of responses are ALWAYS said out of self-protection and lack of research or understanding. I’ve sincerely, with everything in me, tried countless times all of those things. And here I am. Still struggling. Many Christians throw “lack of faith” or “doubt” together as an excuse for depression. But, it’s neither. It’s real. And it’s pervasive in our culture and in our churches. And we must show mercy and compassion. And we must be aware of those around us. We must love them and move to keep them from isolating. And we must be vigilant to be accountable to them and hold them accountable. It’s not a choice to isolate. It’s a condition. It’s not a choice to feel afraid and tired and anxious. It’s a disorder. And it’s horrible. It’s horrible and it’s debilitating. 

I don’t know if it’s a life long part of my journey. But, I can tell you this. I know it’s not eternal. On the really hard days, I think of my future home. Isaiah 25:8-9 “But here on this mountain, God-of-the-Angel-Armies will throw a feast for all the people of the world, A feast of the finest foods, a feast with vintage wines, a feast of seven courses, a feast lavish with gourmet desserts. And here on this mountain, God will banish the pall of doom hanging over all peoples, The shadow of doom darkening all nations. Yes, he’ll banish death forever. And God will wipe the tears from every face. He’ll remove every sign of disgrace From his people, wherever they are. Yes! God says so!”

My heart is set on things above. When He calls me home, it will be a great day. The best day. The heaviness I have always felt my whole life will finally fall away and the dark cloud will disperse just as the veil is lifted.  And I will see the love I’ve waited to see all my life. The one I’ve leaned on for protection and hope and truth and answers and salvation. I will finally see my precious Jesus face to face. I used to hear and believe that we die alone. That is absolutely not true. I’ve never been alone and I will never be alone. The moment I close my earthly eyes, I’ll see the One I’ve waited for. Jesus. And then there will be all my friends and family who have gone home before me waiting at the gate. The joy I’ve longed for will be mine, because I am in the presence of pure love. The trivial, normal things that seemed monumental here because of this disorder will no longer matter. All the dreams that seemed impossible to accomplish here because of constant sadness and fatigue will finally be fulfilled. I’ll lift my head and breathe in the crisp, clean air of knowing what it means to be free of pain and sorrow. And I know that those feelings are no different, in kind, from anyone else who has given their hearts to Jesus. We will all be there together, laughing and praising and worshipping and working and living out the truest of dreams, truly, finally living. It will have been worth it all.

And I will fly.