It feels hopeless to live with depression.
Others may think it’s not hopeless, but somewhat by definition, a person in the depths of depression feels hopeless. It feels awful, and it feels like it can never end.
I’m giving a talk on depression in a couple of weeks, and went over some old notes from a while back. I asked good friends of mine who had depression to let me know a little about what it was like. To read their words took the wind outta my sails, and stole my breath away. It left me feeling a little desolate and heartbroken to know that although they somehow go through the motions, carrying on through the day, it’s not easy for them. There’s a whole world of inner blackness that others may not know about or only guess at.
In 1835, a man visited a doctor in Florence Italy. He was filled with anxiety and exhausted from lack of sleep. He couldn’t eat and he avoided his friends. In other words, he had symptoms that were consistent with depression. The doctor examined him and found that he was in prime physical condition. Concluding his patient needed to have a good time, the physician told him about a circus in town and its star performer, a clown named Grimaldi. Night after night he had the people rolling in the aisles. “you must go and see him, “ the doctor advised. “Grimaldi is the world’s funniest clown He’ll make you laugh and cure your sadness” “no,” replied the despairing man, “he can’t help me. You see, I am Grimaldi”
These are words that my pals used to describe depression. I’m gonna let these words speak for themselves. Not going to turn it around at the end saying something trite and cheerful and motivating to encourage to people to go for counselling to make it all better. It’s not that easy for most, and I get that. Some of you who are “there” right now might find it meaningful to know that there are others who feel the same as you.
“Hell” is what I describe depression. Fatigue, not caring about anything, no interest in anything takes over your life, not to mention the physical symptoms. Between both the mental anguish and the physical symptoms, it is easier to die than to keep living in “hell”. It gets so bad that taking a breath is too much effort and death is the only solution that will take away this painful feeling.
I would go through a period of happiness and hope and then move into a period of sadness. At first it was subtle, but then over the years, the dark periods become darker and longer and the happy periods almost nonexistent. It was then that I began to wonder if I was experiencing depression.
In a fog. Sad. Surviving. Pretending. Alone. Isolated. Wanting escape.
A canvas of moving clouds colored various shades of grey and black. Sometimes the clouds shift and allow some light through, some sun, a shaft of radiance, perhaps its an evening out without working at being pleasant, perhaps it’s the smile of someone, perhaps it’s the sun outside, or a funny movie that has forced the clouds to break. But the clouds return, they shift, sometimes heavier, sometimes lighter. Sometimes tornadoes, downward spirals (thoughts go from bad to worse, and then yet worse, and the the worst is that you actually BELIEVE them), rip through the canvas and create destruction: not one is being responsible, no one cares. I’m carrying the entire world on my shoulders, it gets hard to breathe, there’s heavy pressure on the chest, even the stomach has a knot in it.
This is not the “blues” because with the blues you cry, this is not crying, this is destructive, this is hate, this is madness, this is hating what you love and loving what you hate. This could only come from hell itself.
In some ways I feel cut off from God. I would usually wake up early, go downstairs and spend time crying out to God, asking him to help me experience his love and peace. I cam to rely on God in a way I never had before. Sometimes I wondered if this dependence was really faith or just a crutch I needed because I was such a loser.
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