not swallowed in the sea

This summer my world became more dark and lonely than I've ever known it to be. At the start of the year, I thought I understood depression - having experienced a taste of it directly after graduating college. I ended a long relationship and was left questioning myself, my friends, and my belief system. But even though that time was difficult, it is nothing compared to the darkness of this past summer. This time, I experienced despair without any visible progress or relief. Everything went dark, and the darkness is still in the slow process of lifting.

There are a bunch of reasons I want to write about how depression feels: to throw light at a dark place, to scatter the false conclusion that depression is only First World self-pity. But the main reason I write is always the same - I want to find the beauty in the gut-wrenching experience that is being human.

A word to describe my experience of depression is horror. I can't imagine any place worse. With a body littered with chronic joint and nerve pain, I have experienced enough blinding pain to imagine "worse." But there is no physical pain I have felt that exceeds the hopelessness of this current darkness. Given the option of repeating my worst physical pain with the assurance that my depression would disappear, I would take the pain a thousand times over.

I am greeted by dread each morning. Before I can think, a nauseous weight in my heart presses down, relentlessly reminding me that something shameful is inside of me. I turn on myself with animosity and self-disgust. I am the problem and hearing my own thoughts is unbearable. Instantly exhausted, I resolve that the only option is distraction - something to lift my attention to another person's story.

Distraction is fleeting.

In my frequent gaps of thought, I am far away, fighting through a rough ocean. The thick air is crushing me from the inside. I try scrambling towards the shore but my feet won't move quickly through the water. The undertow won't release my legs. Gasping, it pulls me underwater. I resurface, choking and moving farther away from land. After finally drawing a full breath, a wave of darkness smacks against me murmuring, "There is no end. Nobody is coming to help." No matter how I learn to brace for the coming waves, I can't stop them from flooding into my chest and suffocating my spirit. I am left terrified, watching as all remaining good in me disappears. I fear that I will come apart - as if my mind and soul may splinter.

It took months to admit that I couldn't fix myself. I think it was the shame. I knew that vulnerability might help, but the words felt too dark for my friendships. My other option was faking joy, which was easier with some people than it was with others. I would crack. Rushing anger and anxiety would take over me and I'd be left ashamed, not knowing why I couldn't calm down. I was being swallowed alive by hopelessness.

But thankfully, we break. In June, I called my mom and told her that I may lose my mind to grief. She swept in and helped uncover that a leading source of my darkness was the very thing I depended on most: a medicine that helps me function normally through debilitating arthritis pain. It took a month to find the right doctor and additional weeks to feel any sort of relief, but I am slowly becoming Anna again.

I've written about the power of grieving before. It has always been a beautifully shrouded mystery for me - the fact that feeling my deepest pain will somehow relieve it. It's illogical and requires hope and action. But I think what I meant by "grief" was "lament." As the stupor of anger and sadness lifts, I'm finally sensitive to fear that I've ignored for years. Fear that may have been hidden inside since my initial autoimmune diagnosis in college. Maybe it was adrenaline, or my irreverent love of adventure, but it wasn't until this year that the endlessness of my illness crushed me. I am quicker to cry now, but I am relieved to feel the true depth of my fear without immediately giving way to anger. Perhaps lament is the shore I have been trying to reach - a place where I can feel the proportionate amount of sorrow to match the suffering that I see. But lament is not only about feeling. Lament moves me forward.

None of this is about becoming a better person. As someone healing from depression, the hateful self-talk can easily lead me to a place of shame where I want to change myself and become this better, more impressive human. Lament kills self-reliance. It compels the heart's search, strips the heart of pretense, and forces us to wrestle with God. It's not a happy place; there are a lot of tears where I admit aloud what I feel, what I believe, and what I hope. But there is joy again.

As a person that enjoys time alone to think and re-energize, I forget the benefits of vulnerability sometimes. I'm a long way from the depth of relationship I need to win these internal battles. The shame is still here. But I see that the hopelessness around my chronic pain doesn't have to be pushed to the darkest corner of my thoughts. When I lament with another person - expressing pain, anger or confusion in sight of someone I deeply trust - I don't shut off. I noticed this when Barbara died and Mary Beth and I grieved with Liz. It was a time marked not only by tears, but also by courage:  hard questions and honest answers. I will never forget the pain I felt for Liz during her mother's funeral. It's a pain I recall every time I consider how much I need my mom. The three of us offer lament together as sisters.

I'm told that I'm in union with God; That we share the same hopes, suffer in the same way, and see the same beauty. Sometimes it's hard to remember that he's not just beside me - but there is no line where I start and He stops.

I've heard that you know when you're in love with someone when you can't imagine a life without that person. You have found him whom your soul loves. I will always want and need human relationships - strong, messy, honest and kind friendships. But it's Him whom I can't imagine this life without. More than imagine. . . understand. Endure. Because none of the beauty or suffering makes any sense without us sitting in a quiet place together, Him feeling it all with me.