I’ve struggled with depression off and on since I was 12. It runs through the family, even though “run” doesn’t accurately describe depression. It’s more like a swamp monster: dark, oozy, coming upon you sneakily. So I guess depression oozes through my family?

Gross.

Anxiety is my more constant companion, while depression comes for weeks or months, and then is gone for years. Until now, I haven’t had many symptoms since 2012.

What changed? Oh, just uprooting my whole life and moving to a new state during a global pandemic. That, and I still had a touch of postpartum depression after my last baby spent 57 days in the NICU last year.

I can’t say the depression is back full swing, but it’s visiting more than I’d like. It’s very situational, and hormonal, and I have support. I have a great psychiatric nurse practitioner and a great therapist. I have faith that I’ll process this and get through to another balanced phase of life.

In the meantime, when my depression or anxiety hits me strongly, I write it out as I feel it. It helps a lot, even though I have to trick myself into doing it (If you write for 10 minutes, you can have dark chocolate!).

Here’s the latest entry:

Sometimes depression comes at you quickly.

Sometimes it hit sneaks up on you, in increments.

And it’s so heavy. And it’s so unwelcome.

Like the doting friend you never wanted, it follows you, clinging to your back with the weight of every negative thought you’ve ever had about yourself.

Why are you such a failure? Why can’t you do all of this alone? You’re so weak. How come you can’t just be happy and joyful? What’s wrong with you?

It whispers it’s bleak narrative, over and over again, bringing you down until you’re too tired to argue back. You begin to believe the lies. You lean into the brokenness.

Of course I’m a failure. Of course I feel this way. I’m weak. I’m a terrible person. Nothing goes my way. Everything sucks. It’s impossible. There is no hope.

I’m alone.

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Depression wants you to curl up so far inside of your own misery that you can’t see the love surrounding you. It wants you to close your eyes to the light, and believe that the darkness you see is your new, inescapable reality.

I am weary with my moaning;
every night I flood my bed with tears;
I drench my couch with my weeping. – Psalm 6:6

Depression lies.

Oh, how it lies.

It tells you that you’re trapped. It zaps all of your energy and resolve so that you feel – with every ounce of yourself – that you are stuck. No way out.

But there is always a way out. What you can’t see, is God. He is there, too. When your eyes are swollen with grief, and your body filled with lead, God is there.

Where can I go from your spirit?
    Or where can I flee from your presence?
⁸ If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
    if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
⁹ If I take the wings of the morning
    and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
¹⁰ even there your hand shall lead me,
    and your right hand shall hold me fast.
¹¹ If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
    and the light around me become night,”
¹² even the darkness is not dark to you;
    the night is as bright as the day,
    for darkness is as light to you. – Psalm 139:7-12

A priest once told me a long time ago, “You can only fall as far as the cross.” He told me that there is NOTHING that I can do or say or feel that is beyond Jesus Christ, Our Redeemer. Even in the depths of depression. Even in the depths of grief and tragedy. Even in the darkest nights of our lives, Christ is With Us.

Through our Church and community, God gives us everything we need to cope with depression: prayer, therapy, sometimes medication, friendships, leisure, good diet, exercise, good sleep and gentleness. He is with us every step of the way, and waiting for us on the other side to rejoice in our perseverance and trust.

He wants us to be healed. He wants us to be free. He wants us to trust that He can heal everything. We have to accept the help from those around us.

But the last few years have shown me over and over again, that I am not in control; that despite how hard I try, things still fall apart.

But I get back up. Over and over again. And I reach for Him, like a child clings to their parent’s hand, and let Him lead me back to peace.

I’ll get there soon.