Depression is Insatiable

 Depression is Insatiable

 

(“[The Lord] is patient toward you, not wanting anyone to perish but all to change their hearts and lives.” 2 Peter 3:9b)

 

Depression is an insatiable beast.
Remove a single joy among thousands and I am
weeping on the couch,
praying on the toilet,
gnashing at my sleep,
and looking for just one more piece to
make my puzzle complete.

 

I have done it nearly all my life.

 

Where is the person who lets me get away with the worst?
Where is the room where I can simply boil over?
I should bottle my emotions and send them into the sea
for someone anonymous to find. I should send it unsigned.

 

But then who will speak back to my spit and tears?
Who will find my rebel heart and not give up after 1000 nights?
Who will enter with their own, bruised and guilty as mine?

 

In one day I can wipe away the joy of hours,
a single text can send a whole friendship creeping away.
They were my words, always mine.
They were my expectations; palaces, dreams, unicorns
and rainbows--a child’s watercolor illustration of belief
that should have brought every star near and complete
In every night sky.
In one major flaw the crack breaks open the useless stone
where I hide. And I never find the whole to fill the hollow.

 

I would have acted if I could, rearranged time like a sideways alphabet.
I would have stilled waters, but my own swelled on the calmest days.
I would have spoken better, but my days sometimes spin like haunted pinwheels.
I would have loved like I should. I have no answer, no defense, no lies
to help you or me or ancestors or silence understand.

 

They tell me God is patient, that he will not let me be destroyed,
but I have wrecked my own heart where it lies like a skeleton of driftwood
abandoned on the shore.

 

They tell me God is patient, that he wants me whole and redesigned,
but I’ve reformed more often than snowfall one winter to the next. I’ve
reformed, and still, more than less, my heart feels cold.

When Tapestries are Torn

When Tapestries are Torn

“I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” Job 19:25

What happens when your assumptions about life are disrupted? We all have a certain vision for how we expect life to play out. Shaped by our family and upbringing, moved along by our temperament and gifts, we may have assumed our future would unfold with all the colors of this tapestry intact.

The problem is, we have no idea the barriers, setbacks or struggles we will confront along the way. I have a lifelong friend from High School. She is a comic genius. Her ability to inhabit a character and bring comedic idiosyncrasies to a performance always amazed me. She usually had me in stiches during rehearsals. What was worse, she also could, with a single sound or scrunched up face, make me giggle right before it was my cue to take the stage.

Jeannie and I lost touch after High School. But then came social media and around 2005 I re-met my witty friend. Her sense of humor was just as real. Her posts were sharp and funny, though in recent times have turned to political jabs. As she and I corresponded, she shared her story, and I realized her tapestry had become tattered and unwoven in places.

She has lived in New York City for several years and a little over a decade ago she was assaulted, robbed and beaten. Besides the horror of the attack itself, she lives with its trauma etched upon her memory and a brain injury that will never heal. Jeannie did not plan on living with Traumatic Brain Injury.

Those with TBI often suffer with immediate or delayed symptoms including confusion, blurry vision and difficulty concentrating. They may also experience blackout, dizziness and fatigue. Mood can be affected, ranging from anger and anxiety to apathy or depression. With a lifetime of effects, a “normal” life is often out of the question. My friend Jeannie has not only had to give up her dream of comic theater, but struggles to hold down any job. She lives paycheck to paycheck, while still having to spend precious income on medical bills.

Jeannie rarely complains, but her life hurts. I know it hurts. And, if you knew nothing about her, you might think, “What did she do to get herself into such dire circumstances?” I wonder how often it occurs to us that the homeless person we pass once had a tapestry in mind for their life. Do we consider the caravan of immigrants approaching our border as real-life men and women who wanted to raise families and live in peace, but now are fleeing oppression and violence? They are looking for some way to complete their own tapestries.

In the Bible Job had a masterpiece life. God called him “blameless”. He had a huge ranch, a loving wife, along with sons and daughters who actually remembered his birthday (Job 1:4). But, in a moment all of his livestock are destroyed, his buildings ruined, and his children die as a strong wind wrecks the home where they are all gathered.

Subsequently Job is also struck with terrible sores from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He takes a piece of broken pottery to scratch the painful wounds.

Along come three friends who sit with him in silence for several days. They do well to show up, and they show restraint in not speaking too quickly. The suffering do not need our words, our advice, or even our wisdom: they need “us”.

But eventually they can’t take the silence anymore and decide they must find the mysterious reason behind Job’s suffering. They pontificate about everything, accusing Job of greed, lust, blasphemy, a lack of faith, and just, well, generally being sinful. Silly boys, if they had read the first chapter of the book, they would have known none of that is true.

Job, for his part, decries the day of his birth. Most of his speech is filled with agony as he calls on God to either show Himself or to leave him alone. But, in the tarpit of his pain, occasionally a bubble of hope rises to the top. He says, “I know that my Savior lives, and at the end he will stand on this earth.” (Job 19:25) He longs for God. He longs to present himself and say, “God, Why?”

But, he also simply longs for God. He says, “Yes, I will see him for myself, and I long for that moment.” (Job 19:27). If your tapestry is ragged, if the edges are frayed, if the color is faded or threads are unstrung, let the bubbles of hope rise to the surface. God will not judge you for your doubts during your pain.  He does not condemn His suffering children. Indeed, He comes. Christ came to “stand on this earth.” He became a person of dust just as you and I are dust.

Cry out to Him in your suffering. And, when you see a lump of thread on the side of the road, remember: that once was someone else’s tapestry. Be kind.

Robin Williams and God's Kingdom

“Jesus said, `I tell you the truth. No person can see God's kingdom if he is not born again.'” John 3:3

William Barclay said, "There are two great days in a person's life - the day we are born and the day we discover why." I think Jesus was saying something similar when he told Nicodemus, one of the Sanhedrin, that no one could see God’s kingdom unless he is born again. I am certain Nicodemus was a bit shocked; after all, he was part of the Sanhedrin, the 71-member Jewish judiciary council.

Nicodemus hasn’t even asked Jesus a question yet. He simply acknowledges that no one could do the great works Jesus had done unless God was with him. I happen to believe Nicodemus was sincere. He came at night, either because he didn’t want to be seen, or because he wanted a private interview with Jesus. Either one suggest that this wasn’t an effort to trap Jesus, but rather an honest inquiry into what Jesus was all about.

I am writing this just one day after the talented actor and comedian Robin Williams took his own life. He had one of the quickest comic minds, spinning off characters in non-stop monologues. At the same time, under the guidance of expert direction, he was able to deliver intimate and stirring dramatic portrayals in many of his films. By all reports he was an extremely generous man. His neighbors in Tiburon, Ca report he acted more like a neighbor than a celebrity.

Colossal talent, a huge heart and comedic genius all blended to present to the world a man with inestimable who you hoped could be your best friend. Though he may not have measured up to evangelical standards for faith, he had his spiritual side. He famously quipped, "I don't understand the whole fundamentalist thing; you see, I'm an Episcopal; that's Catholic Light. Same religion, half the guilt!”

So, we find his death hard to accept on two fronts. We have trouble accepting that behind the laughter and smiles was someone dealing with intense pain and suffering. And, for some, suicide is the unpardonable sin. They draw the conclusion that if a person was truly close to God, they would never take their own life.

Early in my Christian life I remember discussions about whether or not someone who committed suicide could go to heaven. I cringe to think I ever thought I had the right to judge such a thing. Now, experiencing more of life, walking through my own valleys of darkness, and understanding the grace of God in Christ to a greater degree, the question of the eternal destination of someone who has completed a suicide is the last one on my mind.

Think about how much love is being poured out for this wonderful man. Read the interviews of his closest friends. Listen to the depth of compassion from the family mourning his loss. This was a man deeply beloved. So, how, we ask, could he do such a thing? How selfish, we say, forgetting our own moments of darkness when love seemed to have evaporated away like puddles on desert dunes.

It is easy to say that “If he had been ‘born again’, he would never have done such a thing.” Such thinking angers me. It might have only fired a theological discussion in my younger days. But now I have seen the pain in the hearts of people who are deeply loved by nearly everyone in their lives, but for one reason or another, they do not sense it.

If I am anything, I am a “born again” Christian. Not because I’m a fundamentalist, not because I’m an evangelical, not because I support right-wing causes. Even as a youngster and teen I longed for God. I was a church kid. Even better, I was a preacher’s kid! I knew the rules, I talked the talk, I memorized the books of the Bible and earned the God and Country Award as a Boy Scout. But, I was still glued, brain, soul and body, to this material world.

The short story is that, at 17, I told Jesus, “If You are real, You can have control of my life.” He took me seriously, and there has been no turning back since that December day in 1972. I learned a great deal about God, the Gospel and walking with Jesus. I also learned a lot about evangelical culture, and until a dozen years or so ago, I had difficulty telling the difference between the two.

I also discovered a great deal about myself. When a boy makes a life-decision at 17 he may not realize how that plays out for a 35 year-old man with a wife and three children. What I did discover is, I had a terrible time feeling loved. I was scared stiff of failing or not being accepted. Every sin or mistake buried me beneath a hole of my own self-loathing.

I figured the key was being a better follower of Jesus. So, when my anxieties wouldn’t let me sleep, I got up, went out to the living room, knelt at our couch and poured my heart out in prayer and weeping. Sometimes only for a few minutes, sometimes maybe an hour. But, when I was done (drum roll please) I felt worse that when I had begun. (You didn’t expect the sentence to end that way, did you?) It wasn’t until into my 40s that I understood that I was afflicted with clinical depression.

From my own experience, and from conversations with fellow-sufferers, I can say without a shadow of a doubt, the level of depression has nothing to do with the level of one’s faith, or with their spiritual maturity. It just doesn’t! We would do well to listen to medicine when it comes to these things. The darkness I regularly wrestle with is not the result of a poor prayer life. It is not about demons attacking me. It is not about some sort of generational spirit. You can’t lay hands on it and make it go away. (Though, yes, I believe God can and does heal. But that is an act of His grace, not a measure of the sufferer’s spirituality).

Robin Williams has made me think a lot about my friends who suffer. I know, though they “should” realize I love them, they need to be shown over and over. They need my hugs. They are not whiners because of it; they have a real disease. I would not withhold insulin from a diabetic just because he needs it every day.

From what I’ve read, Williams was going back into a 12-step program to do some addiction fine-tuning. I do not think we can even imagine the pressures of a life lived in front of the entire world. Once, when an interviewer commented on Williams’ Oscar-worthy performances, he replied, “The Academy Award lasts a few moments. Then, I walk out on the street and someone yells out, “Nanu-nanu.”

Me? I’m going to try to let people in, to be more transparent. I’ll be 60 next year, I have nothing left to prove. If anything, being “born again” means I have an entirely different family. It means I have a family that understands unearthly love that doesn’t measure worth based on performance or emotional fortitude. I’m pretty sure Robin Williams is experiencing the love of God right now in a way he always longed to on earth. 

Sun Hogs

“Arise! Shine! For your light arrives! The splendor of the Lord shines on you!” Isaiah 60:1

Penny is a sun hog. Actually, she is a nine year-old German Shepherd, Chow, and Husky dog who we think also has a bit of coyote in her. We rescued her seven years ago and is one of the most beautiful dogs we have ever had. Light brown with the Chow tail that curls up over her back, she has the Husky “smile” constantly on her face. She has learned nearly every command with very little work. She loves to go to the river with us. When you splash water toward her, she bites at it, swallowing far more than her tummy can hold over an afternoon. She is quite miserable the same evening, having to go outside to relieve herself far more often than normal.

Greet my Dear Friend

Greet my Dear Friend

(“Greet Ampliatus my dear friend in the service of the Lord.” Roman 16:8)

Sit with me, tell me of your travels, make me hear the scattered
play of the grandchildren outside the window. Visit me, though my
socks are scatter around my chair,
yesterday’s clothes lie on the floor nearby. I sleep on the couch
these days,
a concession to day’s pain and night’s shallow dreams that wake me
to feel day’s pain far too early in the morning.

Be a large friend to me; not tall, not broad, but someone whose presence
is unmistakeable. Male: let it be the depth of your thinking, the valley filled
with silence in which I can spill my aching opinions and hear the echo.

Female: let it be the spring aroma in the winter’s depth. The words that
play at my wit, sip the air if you see me twinge, and understand my tears.

Brother: do not rearrange my feelings for your own comfort. Recently
God dangled a happy offering like a carrot, and reeled it in: He and I
both know the insane pain the crawls through my skin. I would spend
a week at the job I had dreamed of and go home early within the next;
headache’s cannonball level me upon the battleground. If I am angry;
if my face is blank, do not draw your happy face upon it. Let it
find its place as God and I struggle one more time over His
curious mystery.

Sister: when you see my depression-dropping-like-angry-rain,
please do not restrain your comfort. My face is red, I’m slapping
myself instead of any face closer. And, I am far too afraid to raise a
hand to God! Use your voice, invented, I am sure, for the cure of
comfort. Speak with the intonation of lullabies and wedding vows;
quickly tell me you wish the pain was gone. And do not leave before
you tell me that I must sleep: “You must sleep”. And do not leave
until the covers are pulled neatly under my chin.

I need a friend. I’ve made dozens. But wind and roads have scattered us;
a tiny minority have left the team in anger. But mostly I’m a hermit now,
locked up by three gatekeepers: Fear, Depression and Pain.

They have done their job well; so if you are an angel and have
an earthquake in your pocket, the doors are locked, but you are welcome
to open them.

An Indifferent Start

An Indifferent Start

(“For sound advice is a beacon, good teaching is a light, moral discipline is a life path.” Proverbs 6:23 [The Message])

He broke free without shattering; the first time,

after many times; trying times and crumbling before

he even began.

But this time he burst up the scene, without breaking,

and the same sun which shone upon every failure until then

Shone this time as well.

Waters Run Free

Waters Run Free

(“Behold, I do a new thing: now shall it come forth: shall you not know it? I will even make a way in the desert, and floods in the wilderness.” Isaiah 43:19)

The open space and arid desert land
like fish scales, shale and sand, once
were shallow and wet with ocean;
the fossils in stone testify.

Why not now, I wait and watch and
still find naked fragments of yesterday’s masterpiece;
I watch and wonder why
the same etching in pencil that began the
glorious oil on canvas is now dirt,
rust, oxidation and corrosion.

It was shiny once, it was perfect then,
the pieces fit, the shades were hints
of what the naked eye never sees.

Now I try the same, and must be to blame
for the colors that touch neither fantasy or
reality.

The open space, the empty, the arid air
robs the moisture and leaves it bare. My heart
is just the same, dangling where I left it.

My prayer: and I’ve said it before. My ache:
and I beg it all the more. Winced and lonely
with the air knocked out of me. My plea:
Renew these salty tears and let me laugh again.
My cry: I cry more than I should, and would trade
each whimper for something simpler. My day: Your
friendship and a way to see the

The waters run free from the mountains,
across the desert, to the ocean and over me.

Personal Strength

“May our Lord Jesus Christ Himself and God our Father… encourage your hearts and strengthen you in every good work and word.” 2 Thessalonians 2:16a, 17

We humans are the only “animal” given to self-examination. The more conscious of our true self we are, the more mature we are likely to become. Our language is funny, though, because we call someone “self-conscious” if they are shy or concerned about how others may respond to their words or actions.

Clouds and Architecture

Clouds and Architecture

Unexpected notions have come and
gone so often
that it seems the clouds have swept me up into
their architecture and laid me down
upon an unknown and soggy ground
that feels like familiar but hides
the humans that make crying worth the time.

It must come down to only this, having heard
the medical reports and read the latest issue of Science,
explaining addiction and pleasure, the dopamine and
neurotransmitters shooting skeet in my brain.

“PULL!”

And the send the tingle to my ears,
the rush to my cheeks,
the ache to my stomach’s pit,
and the hunt for the last thing that
made me half as happy as the last time.

When did my brain decide
it would be the guide from adolescence
to a middle class home? Who stole the
dreams I knew
would come true
because they were good.
I have outrun my days. The dreams are
bubbles burst on wind and sunless day.

One man said, (I trusted his sincerity)
for increased clarity, keep your joy bucket full.
What he could not see (nor could I tell till now)
the bucket is rusted out and holds
less than my most rapid fill. He meant well.

For those who will allow it,
who are also enshrouded with brain ticks
that make clouds into bricks of dizzy architecture:
To want to start all over again,
and be further from the beginning, within reach of the end
is the most dangerous pain; clouds and anti-depressants,
prayer and Sunday school lessons, are the tension rings
that prevent the whole things slipping into the rapids.

Did I mention I hate the fact that some friends are gone
and I would like to have them back?

I Should Be Done

I Should be Done

I should be done by now,
over the unrelenting flow by now,
of days on end punctuated by tears in the morning
when no one watches,
and pain the same from first to last.

Will you remember me if someone mentions my name?
I know I shouldn’t ask, but would you meet me at the door
so I won’t stumble to the floor walking in?
I know you’re tired of pitying me,
You think I like this pantheistic game that sees
eyes evaluating every breath not drawn from the well
of a new repertoire of song.

I’m really not dressed to go to lunch,
the cinders from the last fire are still on my hands.
I’m really not ready to try to retrofit
a friendship I invested in with new window panes.

I thought you might be the one and only in
the long flat past halfway between then and there,
the only wayside station for miles upon miles of days.

It matters less than it used to, but it still matters mostly
more than the pep talks I try to use to fall asleep.
Morning brings the reminder of harsh winds whining
my blame for every blizzard on the prairie.

I want the couch again, the hidden language friend
who prescribes zero, reminds little, rewinds nullified…

Never mind, I am merely depressed to the core and
shouldn’t cry anymore over separations, reparations,
mistakes and antiquated relics that couldn’t help but
point me out publicly while trying to enjoy a meal.

I’ve tried the pills, and I slept a little better;
I’ve tried the prayer, over and over, and no echo.

And the God who I know loves me more;

I am weary as war.

Going to Drown

Going to Drown

(“So the disciples went over to him and woke him up. They said, ‘Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!’” Matthew 18:25)

I don’t want to fight the squall all alone,
or wake to find I feel I must beat the storm back down.
I heard Your words, memorized others, know the stories well,
recite them to the waters that roll, pitch and swell
reminding my only that the angry foamy is
under divine control.

Whether You are awake or alert, the floods spill
and I cry for You to still what I cannot endure.
You did it for them, a cork on the rage,
a bobber on the roar. While I sleep waiting to wake
without the pressure pounding my eardrums blind.

Must faith always be without sight, trust without
audibles massaging the bellow until I reach the distant shore?

Is my faith so miniscule it cannot move the simple dirtpile
upon my brink? Is my trust such a hallucination that to see is
never to touch?

I hold the tears violently within, cannot bail fast enough
and I give in
to the tirades cascading from memory to now; the flood undammed
and the tidal wave bulldozing hopes in the sun.

I am such a whiner, I know. Everyone else, I know,
has troubles more than mine. And so I am caught between
a storm untouched by the divine
and my own refractory mind unresponsive to
love’s comfort said.

I would step across time, or boundaries, or memories if I could,
to revisit more golden days my mind says were stiller than now.

Because my companions, once bailing left and right, clever
and center, are beyond my reach. Perhaps once they read
the labels I’ve acquired, they would walk arm’s distance
unbailing my daydream during the siren screech of the wail.

That is one thing I know, You have not bail or jumped ship,
but I would, please Dear Sir, for You to stop the waves

Now

Whether climate’s stew
or my broken mind’s vast
imagination.

Within My Sorrows

Within My Sorrows

I don’t mean to complain, it’s simply become a habit,
a well-worn path, a late morning communiqué.
Cranky is as cranky does and I’m doing cranky like
I’ve fastened it on my lapel.

It’s not that I revel in the drudgery; there is some evidence
I delight in smiles more than the four walls bearing down on
late afternoon winter like the closing credits of a movie
you wish you hadn’t paid to see.

I didn’t mean to be short with you; my skin is always tingling
and hair-triggered. I don’t mean to be famously gun-shy,
hiding so I don’t have to wave at people I have never met.

I cannot get it back, the lad who I was when the world was in front of me,
every decision a step toward the candy-store, every morning a reason
to try something new.

I pray, perhaps with my faith that has flinched. I pray,
while I scan the keyboard for happier letters to write.

I have less money than I need to make it till I die,
I have enough friends, but cannot find the money to
bring them next door or a day’s drive away again.

I play, perhaps with less abandon and passion. I play,
fingers curled around the guitar-neck, fingers ready to pounce
the black and whites. But nothing new fascinates me and my
old riffs rarely satisfy.

I don’t mean to complain, don’t want to be hypnotized by
tomorrow’s rainstorm. My day passes before I think of anything
that would fill my joybucket surely.

Here are my tears, My Lord, My Love, I am sorry I have less faith
and have not found the happy by riverbanks or back-porch friends.

Here is the remainder of the day and the one cent curiosity
about tomorrow. I will lay it on the page, a photo of rides around the bend
now too lazy to find.

I wish I was a loveable curmudgeon, but all I have become is
a cry-baby who can find nothing ahead to smile about.

I know the sun dwells beyond the clouds, and cannot bear to
give away the little hope I have remaining as I walk more disappointed
in my day than any reader.

I know the Savior dwells within my sorrows, and I drain the cup dry
holding to the love, the Creator of my days.

My Heart is Broken

My Heart is Broken

My heart is broken, that’s what it comes down to.
And, as if I had broken my leg, 5 years later I should no longer
walk with a limp.

But my heart is broken. And no one helped me cast it,
I was sent to lift more loads while it still burst at the seams.

As if I had broken my leg, 5 years later I should be able
to hike Yosemite.

But my heart is broken. And as with every broken heart,
all are at fault, and all wish someone would stitch it up,
take it to a better time, rewind the emotional health trap,
swath the mental health, retest the spinal tap, and give me the
CPR to replace the spirit that flew out the hole left in my heart.

As if I had broken my leg, 5 years later I should be dancing
like I had never quit.

But my heart is broken. Again. And I just don’t feel like dancing.
Broken hearts never heal in isolation, but ICU was the only room available.

As if I had broken my leg, I would be outpatient and 5 year later
racing to the coffee shop to people-watch with my best friend.

But my heart is broken. I wake after a good day to darkness.
I close my eyes and the good flies from my consciousness only to
have the movie of former times, I mean 20 years ago times, play
in grainy resolution.

As if I had broken my leg, my appetite would be unaffected,
my smile unforced, and the laughs natural walking down the pavement
on a warm spring morning.

But my heart is broken and spring feels like winter, winter never ends
and friends are better than my busted heart believes. But it was busted
by friends and my wasted allegiances, my unwise camaraderies, my
dance with those unlikely to return the favors.

As if I had broken my leg, I would not cry here, 5 years later.

But my heart is broken and the tears still do not stop coming.

Memory

(“Remember all the wonders he performed, the miracles and judgments that came out of his mouth.” 1 Chronicle 16:12 [The Message])

I admit it, I’m a melancholy. I am also a melancholy who wishes he wasn’t. I tend to have lower and sadder emotions than most people I know. I have puzzled my entire life about the nature of the blues I seem so prone to know.