It comes in waves, periods of time when I can no longer hide it.
The the first wave was in 2011 and then again in 2012.
There was loss.
And the onset of physical change.
The I found distraction.
After a while I thought I had begun to find faith.
(At least I stopped preaching the Psalms)
But then we were robbed in June (2016),
gone was the feeling of safety, sentimental things and I was robbed of what I thought was a stable emotional support.
Life changed. Although I wasn't aware.
And my denomination left me behind. I watched it happen in Portland.
And then they came
blow after blow
plans smashed after plans smashed
And betrayal.
(People who say they love you but abandon you)
The riptide pulls me under
and the black dog barks from shore.
And I relive that first loss from long ago
a slow death of what had distracted me always before.
And I cry out
once again
and again
and again
SHOW UP and SHOW OFF
as my faith sinks
hope fades.
There is no one to share this with anymore
who cares
only a band-aid is offered anymore
the phone is silent
messages wait hours, even days.
And God is silent too.
But I hold on
by the tips of my broken and cracked fingernails
amid the dryness of of my life and my body
I hold on through the liturgy
the rhythm and ritual.
No drugs
(at least not yet).
This article spoke to me
inspired me
because it is me (without the drugs and the understanding spouse)
The Black Dog, The White Pill, and Liturgy
January 15, 2016 by Jonathan Aigner
My name is Jonathan.
I suffer from depression. I have as long as I can remember, although I didn’t always know it was there or what its name was.
I’m okay most of the time now. Some days are still better than others. Some months, too.
But I have strategies. I have routines. In one of the more hilariously ironic (and lifesaving) moves I’ve ever made, I married a mental health therapist. Before her, I didn’t have a name for how I felt. Now I know, and I’m thankful for that.
Oh, and I take pills.
Wellbutrin is like a sacrament in my life. It’s a gift, a grace. The nightly discipline of popping the little white pill helps bring me back to my senses. It lets me feel like myself. It helps me be productive and kinder to the people who matter most. But some days, and like so many before, I’ll feel the little shadow creep up on me once again.
Of course, the deep-fried, Southern Baptist Christianity of my upbringing didn’t jive with the whole being depressed thing. It said so, and continued to say so through crystal-clear remembrances of pastors and Sunday School teachers and R.A. leaders from days gone by. And the things they said were horrifying.
“All you need is Jesus,” they said.
I’ve already found Jesus. And I still feel awful.
“People who know Jesus don’t just walk around feeling sorry for themselves.”
I can’t help it. Maybe I don’t really know Jesus. Maybe I’m going to hell.
“Modern psychology is a lie! God’s put his own anti-depressants right there in the Bible. Claim his promises and you’ll feel better.”
I must not be doing it right. I must not have found the right verse.
“Depression means there is sin in your life. If you’re depressed, you must repent!”
I repent. All the time. For everything. Even when I’m pretty sure I’m not doing or saying or thinking anything wrong.
“Whenever you feel bad, just praise and worship, and all your troubles will melt away.”
That’s not the worshiping. That’s the kick-drum. And it doesn’t work. Not for long, at least.
I tried not to believe this crap, of course, but it’s hard when it’s what you’ve been taught by the people and institution you trust.
It may sound strange, but I think my depression has proven to me how the Christian life desperately needs the discipline of liturgical worship.
I found liturgical worship in the fall of 2006, about a year after I had slipped to my lowest point. Maybe the depression was that bad, or maybe my spiritual perception had become that desensitized, but I couldn’t do the feel-good worship anymore. I still can’t. I just can’t with the dark room, the bright lights, the emotional coercion. I can’t with the forced happiness, the expectation of limbic stimulation, the cravings for entertainment. It affects me viscerally in a very negative way.
If it wasn’t for liturgy, I really might have been done.
It’s not a matter of preference. It’s much deeper. It’s meaning, necessity, freedom. It’s grace. In the liturgy, I find grace to make up for whatever my spirit is lacking.
My depression is worlds better than it was that fall, but there are still times when I feel disconnected. I don’t always feel my faith. I don’t always feel God’s presence. I don’t always believe.
But I still go, and with quivering lips and stammering tongue I say and sing and pray what my heart is often unable to.
Even when I don’t believe, I say it anyway. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty…”
Even when I don’t feel, I sing it anyway. “…and adoring bend the knee / while we own the mystery.”
Even when I don’t mean it, I pray it anyway. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…”
Even when words fail, I listen anyway. “The body of Christ, broken for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you.”
And I know that I’m no longer alone.
It’s restoring.
Renewing.
Reconciling.
And it’s life-giving. Even if all I can do is muster the energy to show up and do my job. The liturgy, the Word and Sacrament, nourishes my faith at its weakest points, and gives me strength to carry on. There is freedom. It demands no false pretense on my own part. It meets me in my depression. It gives me a language I often can’t conjure on my own. It’s profoundly moving without all the emotional manipulation. As I speak and sing and pray and taste, I’m filled with awareness that the meager groans of my spirit are increased on high by the deep groans of another Spirit.
And I find the strength to go on.
