Drowning

I wrote this...maybe a year(?), two years(?) ago, and never dared post it until now. I do so now for a friend who is being pressured and guilted because of her depression. You know who you are. This is for you. Know that your feelings are valid, your struggles are real, and you aren't the only one punished for things beyond your control by the people, Christians, who should be most forgiving, most loving, and most kind. 

Drowning

Christians have a funny way of looking at depression. Somehow, even without being directly taught to view depression as wrong, it was ingrained in me to refuse to even contemplate the idea that I was depressed. I refused to admit I had a problem. I wouldn’t even listen to the idea of seeing a counselor. It would be admitting that things weren’t good, that Jesus wasn’t fulfilling me. Worst of all, it would signify that I needed help. And we did not accept help from others. Why would we need help if we had Jesus?

People could see some of the physical results of my depression. I lost more than twenty pounds in less than two months. I tried on the bridesmaid dress for my sister’s wedding before I purchased it. I tried it on when it came in. I tried it on two weeks before the wedding. Those mere two weeks later, the dress did not fit. People commented on my appearance all the time. I shrank because I did not eat. I was so gaunt in the face that I remember the first time it hit me when I looked into a mirror. I was shocked. I looked pathetic. The dark circles under my eyes could not be covered by makeup. I slept four hours a night if I was lucky, and most nights I wasn’t. I suffered attack after attack of migraines, bedridden because I couldn’t move without wanting to be sick. People could see my life wasn’t great.

What people didn’t see was the mental agony I was in. They never knew that I couldn’t sleep because of graphic dreams of killing and blood and death. I would wake up sweating, shaking, crying. They never knew how often I would sit out on the porch roof outside my bedroom window, even in the rain, wishing I could just jump. They never knew that I would sit in the bathroom late at night, clutching my head because I couldn’t handle the screaming I heard every night; the screaming I could never actually verbalize. They never saw me pounding the floor, telling God, “I hate you.” They never saw me standing in front of the medicine cabinet, wishing I could swallow every pill until I never woke up. They never knew the numbness of just not caring.

I wished everyone would just stop caring about me, so that I could die. I didn’t want to die because I felt alone. I knew people loved me. But I didn’t love me. I didn’t love life. I wanted people to stop caring so that I could die without the burden of causing the kind of grief I was going through. I wanted to be a friendless and family-less girl so that I could just find an end to it all. I was awake when I didn’t want to be.

I am supposed to be the strong girl. I am the girl people credit for pushing on when I face the odds. For pushing for a good life when I am in opposition from others. I am supposed to be the strong one; the one who stands up and says what’s hard to say. I am supposed to be the girl who is blunt and speaks her mind when she feels passionate about something. I am not the popular girl who is sunshiney and makes lives better. I am the girl who speaks when she’s displeased or pleased. I am the girl who is hard to read. I am the girl who is sarcastic and bitter. I am the girl who empathizes. I am the girl who is angry. I am the girl who is driven and stubborn and determined. I am the girl who jumped out of a plane. I am supposed to be the strong one.

I am not strong. Being a perfectionist is not strong. Sitting in your car or in the corner at work trying to remember to breathe through panic attacks is not strong. Surges of anxiety at the thought of being enclosed in small spaces with people is not strong. Crying because you think no one could like you is not strong. The inability to believe you are worthy is not strong. Believing people when they say you could never be kind to a future husband is not strong. Hating yourself is not strong. Discrediting your abilities is not strong.

This is what depression does to me. Depression makes me weak. It makes it hard for me to function, to breathe, to live. It drains me of independence, motivation, self-love, kindness, patience, energy. It leaves me angry, sad, bitter, self-hating, listless, exhausted, and sometimes, worst of all, it leaves me empty.

Christians believe in faking it til you make it. Smile because the only emotion we should have is happiness in our Savior. Christians believe depression is a sin because it means a lack of trust in God. Christians believe depression is a result of a sinful life. Christians believe that anyone who admits depression is giving in to “labels”.

I see Christians judge the depressed. I hear them say, “If you’d only trust God,” “You need to stop being so selfish,” “Stop labeling yourself,” “Clean your life of your filthy sin,” “Fake it til you make it,” “Smile because of God’s grace…”

Stop. Just stop.

I am here to deny and reject your shit, your mindless, heartless drivel. Maybe it’s not your fault. You don’t know what it’s like. You see the negativity that depression may do to my physical body, but you cannot see the mental torture and scars I carry. How can you understand what you cannot see, what you do not feel? Stop telling me I am strong in Jesus, stop telling me I am sinful, stop telling me to smile, stop telling me I am strong.

I am not strong. I am broken. My life is shit. And your Christian answer to my shitty life by guilting me is breaking me even more. It’s okay, Christians, you don’t have to hate on me. I do that enough for myself. I am drowning as you look on in your oxygen-filled world. If by admitting this, I am no longer welcome in heaven, or your home; if I am struck by lightning for not smiling, so be it. If this makes me a part of the earthly world and not the spiritual, so be it. At least, I am given a bit more oxygen in this earthly world. They, at least, admit the first step to fixing a problem is not smiling, hating yourself, guilt, lies, sin nature, or blind faith in God. It’s admitting there is a problem.

Christians, I am drowning. Stop pushing me under while I try to resurface.