On Depression and Falling Apart

 

Today has been a rough day. And I cannot tell you why it has been a rough day or how this day is any different from yesterday. I have been crying, off and on, all day, since 9:00 this morning; it is 10:30 at night and I still feel like crying. My eyes are red and sore and dry, my head is killing me, and I basically feel like shit. The image above depicts fairly accurately how I feel right now, like pieces of me are being sucked away, sucked into nothingness. I cannot explain it, or rationalize it, or give anyone any concrete reasons for my sadness. Sadness...ha. What an understatement. Well-meaning people would say it is grief over losing my family, or caregiver burnout from watching my brother, or stress over the pandemic, the upcoming election, and the current sociocultural clashes. It is none of that. I am depressed. Deeply depressed. 

I cry over nothing

I cry over everything

I want to stop crying and that makes me cry even more

I am mad at myself for crying, for being weak

I am a Christian, a daughter of the King, and I still cry

I cry because I should know better than to cry

I should be calling on God

I cry because I call on God and I do not feel His presence

I cry even more

I want it to end, and I cry because I don't know if it will ever end

Depressed. Yes, you can say I am depressed.

I am surrounded by a huge, black void, a void that is sucking my soul out of my body. I say things I don't mean and hurt people I love, I withdraw into myself and have to force myself to get out of bed or go anywhere, and answering the phone is a monumental challenge--putting myself out there is debilitating, and exhausting. Many times, no, most times, I put on a happy face and smile, but the tears are always there, waiting to leak out as soon as someone asks me what is wrong. 

My only solace? Reading Genesis, specifically the narrative of creation. The garden of Eden was everything anyone could ever dream of; it was paradise. Man convened daily with God, without pain or sorrow or fear or death or sickness or work. But now? Yeah, ask anyone, even a non-Christian, and he will tell you we ain't in Eden anymore; we are surrounded with pain, heartbreak, and fear. So why does that give me comfort? Because I know that the craving, the awareness, the longing for a better world, a perfect world, one without fear and disappointment, is in my heart for a reason: to prod me to continue to yearn for that perfection, and to take comfort in that. This less-than-perfect existence of mine, this horrible depression, this pervasive sadness...it is all a reminder that perfection did once exist for mankind, and we will live it again. 

Something I read recently really struck a resonant chord: 

"We must remember that we are in a love story. And we will never appreciate or even desire the hope of our True Love if lesser loves don't disappoint. The piercing angst of disappointment in everything on this side of eternity creates a discontent with this world and pushes us to long for God Himself - and for the place where we will finally walk in the garden with Him again. Where we will finally have peace and security and eyes that no longer leak tears ... and hearts that are no longer broken? All of these places of longing and disappointment in our lives? They aren't proof that God is withholding good things from us. They're His way of leading us Home." (Lysa TerKeursrt, Proverbs 31 ministries)

I cannot say it any better than that. Sure, I am still broken, depressed, and sad to my very core. In a strange way, though, that helps me see more clearly how much better my eternal life will be, and makes me ever so joyful to know I am among the chosen.

Dealing with Social Anxiety

Last weekend my husband decided to have a social gathering for Labor Day; he went all out making slow-cooked pulled pork, his famous baked beans, and cole slaw; he then invited some neighbors and friends. When he initially told me about it the week before, I was on board, and let him take over the planning and inviting. But, when the day of the party arrived, I began to panic, feeling those all too familiar sensations: rapid heart rate, eyes welling up with tears, irritability, and an irresistible urge to run away, to escape, to avoid the event completely. It wasn't that I don't like company--I do--but in small, manageable numbers...like two. He had invited not one couple, not two, but three couples; not only did I not know one of the couples, all three couples also did not know each other, and there were some pretty strong outspoken personalities in the group, so of course I was concerned about everyone getting along and desperately wanted no one to say anything gauche. I was torn between being a helper, a wife, and a hostess, and giving in to my fear and anxiety. Needless to say, the closer the clock ticked to 4:00 pm, the more anxious I got, the more I simply wanted to do anything to avoid the impending social gathering. I could claim I had a  debilitating migraine, or perhaps I could just drive around for a few hours. Crying, irrational, and not sure what to do, I grabbed my gardening hat and tools and went to my one place of solace--my garden--where I weeded and watered and prayed and cried, all the while feeling ashamed for feeling so anxious. 

The couple I had never met arrived first...bearing trays of food and a vase of flowers, and wearing masks. They hailed me as I was bent over some particularly stubborn weeds...and I knew I had to suck it up and become the consummate host. I introduced myself, thanked them for the beautiful flowers, and ushered them into our home. I was stuck. The next three hours were a blur (yes, I realize that is an overused cliche, but they really were a blur). The food was wonderful, my husband worked his butt off (no pun intended), we ate outside, everyone got to know each other the way humans have gotten acquainted over the centuries: over good food. Everyone was talking to each other, folks laughed and listened, and believe it or not, yes I was talking as well; I just do not have a very good recollection of what the heck I talked about.  That is common for me in social situations--I panic ahead of time, and then during it I have some sort of out of body experience, like I am watching myself flounder. Next, the after effect of my social anxiety kicks in: I try to play back the videotape that is in my head, trying to recreate the afternoon, to ascertain if I did anything or said anything stupid or insensitive or hurtful. Did I laugh too hard or too long? Did I talk too much? Too little? Did I pay equal attention to all our guests? What about Alex? Shouldn't I have helped him more? Should I have put a tablecloth on the spare table we put on the back deck? In my effort to get to know the new couple, was I rude to my neighbors or my friends that I did know? Did anyone think it odd that my husband did all the food preparation and planning and all I did was move chairs around? Could anyone tell I was nervous? Or that I had cried less than ten minutes before they arrived? 

Are you exhausted yet? 

This is what I deal with for most social situations--not all, mind you, but most. Big gatherings where I can remain fairly anonymous are safe, as our small, intimate encounters with folks that I know, but going to my husband's work-related soirées was exhausting and beyond stressful. Speaking or teaching in front of groups, even extemporaneously, does not trigger any anxiety, but having to meet a new person at a coffee shop makes me want to run for the hills. Running a fundraiser attended by hundreds of people may exhaust me, but it doesn't scare me, yet cold-calling or visiting potential donors or participants and asking for donations is so frightening I would rather go buy all the raffle prizes myself and send emails and texts. Even more puzzling? I served in the military for 22 years, then as a military contractor for another decade, and for most of that was a subject matter expert, trainer, teacher, supervisor and mentor. Panic attacks and anxiety were always there; I just pushed them back or hid behind my characteristic defense mechanisms of sarcasm, humor, and wit (and, I am ashamed to say, sometimes with passive-aggressive comments). Since I've retired, though, I am far more aware (PAINFULLY aware!) of who I am as a highly sensitive person; I recognize that I do have social anxiety--as folks are apt to say in the vernacular of the day: it is what it is.

So while I may appear to be poised, in control, exuding confidence, and handling all matters of social nuances with ease, nothing could be farther from the truth. My self-assured exterior is a facade, masking my fear that others won't like me or believe me or listen to me. But I'm getting better...with the help of friends, counselors, my very understanding and patient husband, and the Holy Spirit; I know how I see myself, how I view my shortcomings and abilities. And I hold that view up to God's truth, and let His grace wash over me. 

And if you are also like me, do not lose hope. You are not alone.

Measuring Up

Remember those growth charts parents would hang in their children's rooms? The ones with giraffes or other cute animals on them? We would measure our children as they grew, marking the chart or the wall or even a yardstick, with milestones reached each birthday. Some families created measuring walls or posts that now serve as bittersweet mementos of the past, growing up, and simpler times. Grandparents aren't any different--we love to measure and record the growth of all our grandkids. Since we live in a log home, and have exposed beams and posts throughout, we have set aside three posts--one for each of our children's families--to mark the progress from infancy to adulthood.  With kids (and grandkids) scattered around the US and India, not all of them can visit at the same frequency, resulting in some kids having more marks than others. But that's okay--we still love marking their growth, and we marvel at how quickly each one is shooting towards adulthood. I even bought myself a wood burner so I can permanently etch a line for each measured occasion. 

But I digress (as I am prone to do). Human beings love to measure things--weight, height, age, bank account, calories, sporting scores, mileage, you name it, we measure it. We may not always like the results of our measurements, but at least they are concrete numbers, and definable. Even better, we can track progress, set goals, and measure (there is that M word again) achievements and set backs. And that is often how I have gone through life...checking my progress, taking notes, evaluating how I am measuring up. How old am I? What did I score on my promotion exam? How much do I weigh (yikes!)? How much should I budget for my next vacation? Do I have enough in my account to cover a home repair? How many miles until we get to the grandkids'? 

So many questions, so little time...and I am an overachiever, perfectionist, with ridiculously high expectations for myself; regardless of the task or goal, I typically set the bar so high that it is humanly impossible for anyone to meet them, even superhero me.

All these numbers and measurements appeal to my sense of orderliness and things being in the right place, nice and neat and easy to decipher, and easy to ascertain corrective actions, what I am doing right, and what I am doing wrong...in other words, I can measure my room for improvement and correct my course accordingly. Cut my calories, increase my exercise, save more money, spend less money, study harder, drive faster...measure again. Whew! On track now. 

But, how do I measure my sanctification? How do I know if I am measuring up to Christ? Meeting God's expectations? Accomplishing what I should be accomplishing, fulfilling my purpose in life, in line with His will? I see myself as flawed and sinful and inadequate, and I panic. A lot. Worse yet, I continue to see myself as certain people in my life have painted me--you know, the ones who sued me, betrayed me, and shunned me. They were family, so they must know me better than anyone else, right? So I push myself, trying to measure up to my own unachievable, unrealistic expectations, to prove I am NOT that person they see me as, that I am worthy and good and, well, salvageable. And when others tell me I am good and decent and honest and, not only loved, but LOVEABLE, I shake my head and don't believe them. I keep pushing, keep straining to be perfect, to prove myself, to be, after all, like Christ. Measuring every single word, each and every breath, holding myself against the standard of God's own son. 

Until lately. Not only has my husband told me I am too tough on myself, that I hold myself to an impossible standard, and that I am blind to all I have accomplished, but a dear, dear friend laid it all out for me in a letter the other night. She reminded me I am human, that moving mountains is above my pay grade, and that I will NEVER meet the standard I am straining to meet. Nor should I even try, because, as she so poetically and succinctly put it:

"When we come to the unscalable wall, He is reaching down, gripping our forearms, and pulling us up and over. When we are belly-crawling through the mud, He is in front of us and on either side of us and cheering us on. He expects us not to handle all the details of this imperfect world, but to lean on Him as we do our imperfect job. Give up trying to measure up to Christ. You're wasting your time and it's hurting your spirit."

A major ah-ha moment. Life in Christ, growing in grace, as the title of my blog says, is NOT about measuring up to my standards, let along the standards and expectations of anyone else...including those who love me and those who do not. My sole purpose is to put my faith and trust in Jesus Christ, and seek HIM at every turn, and, instead of measuring my growth or progress or successes or failures, to fall on my knees and give thanks for the immeasurable, beautiful, boundless love He has for His children, for the grace that covers every manner of "not measuring up." God measures me against the cross, His Son's shed blood, and the conquered grave. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, I do or say or think or hope will ever measure up to that, nor does it have to.

And that leads to the final and pivotal issue I face (and fight and fuss and fluster over) on a daily basis: how others see me. I want to be loved and good and perfect and worthy and understood and respected, and most of all, I want to reflect Christ in all I do. But my past haunts me, and I still see myself as those misguided, toxic, and mean-spirited souls portrayed me; the mirror they held in front of my face was not unlike those fun house mirrors at amusement parks, distorting my image to the point of being unrecognizable (and impossible to love). For some time, I remained trapped in that fun house of mirrors, surrounded by derisive laughter. Until I broke free, and shattered the glass. And began to see myself as God sees me, a new creation, covered in the grace of His beloved son. At least half of the time that is how I see myself--admittedly, at times I get sucked back into that funhouse and cannot fathom why friends see good in me. 

Good thing I am blessed with people who love me, who see me as God sees me, and who love me...maybe not as much as my Father loves me, but enough to help me believe them when they say I am loved and beautiful and fearfully and wonderfully made. After all, I am still growing and, as Paul says in Philippians: 

"Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling," (Phil 2:12)

Will I ever measure up? No. "All have sinned and come short of the glory of God" (Rom 3:23). 

Nor do I need to.