In Companions in the Darkness (which releases in about a month), I share a bit of my own story with depression along with the tales from church history. When you open up your own life like that in a public space, it invites questions. What was that like for you? How did your community respond? Did they contribute to your mental health struggles? What could they have done differently? In private conversation, I’m happy to share frankly about some of these things. In public, I feel a tension between honesty (because we are inclined to cover up too much about mental health as it is) and not wanting my words to be twisted to bash or overly-harshly criticize spaces and communities of which I’ve been a part. I just don’t find that to be beneficial at this point.
In the book, a lot of what I share about my own depression is in the past tense. This is in large part because the deepest and most debilitating seasons of depression in my life are, at least at this moment, in the past. But I’ve realized as I’m involved in interviews and writing opportunities about the book, that it would be disingenuous to paint a story that casts depression as only a part of my history. Sure, I don’t struggle to get out of bed most days. I don’t want my life to end. I can find enjoyment and delight in people and places and moments. I am not under depression’s smothering grip. But this doesn’t mean it’s not a part of my life.
I have found it helpful to think of depression and other mental health struggles like I do other physical illnesses and conditions. Let’s compare it to something like heart disease or diabetes or cancer (or take your pick of any other host of ailments or chronic illnesses). Some people, by virtue of genetics and pure luck, can waltz through life giving no concern about some of these conditions.
Most of us, though, know we have a proclivity to one of these problems. Maybe we have a family history of high cholesterol. Maybe we’ve had cancer in the past. Whatever the case, we know it’s something we need to keep an eye on. It may not be a fully present, crisis-mode problem all the time (Lord, willing). But we know we need to pay attention to our lifestyle in order to support our good health. We know we need to keep an eye out for warning signs that something might be wrong. And then sometimes, even with the best of intentions and efforts, our bodies react outside of our control and we find ourselves in dire need of help.
I know I have a proclivity toward depression. I’ve seen it in my life in the past. I’ve seen its darkness build. I’ve felt its weight. And I know that there is a decent chance I may experience it in a deeper form again. But in this middle land, where I’m fairly stable and functioning well, not in need of medication, and able to enjoy life—I know it’s still there in the background. Sometimes I forget it’s there. It’s like a hazy memory, a bad dream. Other times, particularly when life is painful and emotional stress is high, I can sense its shadow, can feel its icy talons trying to tighten their grip. Depression may not be fully or debilitatingly present, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
As with other health problems, I know there is some level of powerlessness I have in ensuring I never endure depression in its fullness again. Our bodies break down. So do our brains. And to some extent, there’s no way to fully protect ourselves from this. We are human after all.
But there is a lot I can do to do my part to stay healthy, to care for myself, to give my brain and my body the best chance they’ve got. Part of my own recovery has been learning some of these tools and strategies. I know I need to get good rest. I know I need to reach out to friends, even if it’s remotely, to talk and laugh and process. I know I need physical things to pull me out of my own head and use my body, whether that be gardening or walking or even simply sitting outside in the sun. I know I need to build delight into my life, even in the smallest forms. I know I need to care for my soul—to find and embrace spaces and practices that bring spiritual refreshment and encouragement. I know I need to find ways to laugh, even when (especially when) life mostly makes me want to cry. I do these things not only because they’re generally good practices. I do them also because I know that depression is still there, in wait for when I become vulnerable.
Eugene Peterson famously referred to discipleship as a “long obedience in the same direction.” I think this is also an apt phrase to describe life with (or a proclivity toward) mental illness. It’s a “long obedience” of self-care to do your part in prevention. It’s a “long obedience” of doing the work in therapy. It’s a “long obedience” of taking your meds every day. It’s a “long obedience” of choosing life each day, no matter how messy or difficult. I move in the right direction as I care for myself, and pay attention to my own vulnerability—and I move in the right direction when I admit when I need help and seek out whatever that help may be.
The reality of depression is a part of my long obedience. It’s something in my past, yes, but it’s also something in my present. And God will be no less faithful (and no less pleased with me) if it is part of my future.