Life in Grayscale

I've struggled with depression for years. To some, that may come as a surprise. To others, it's been quite obvious. It first came to my attention as anger--irrational and barely controlled rage that would rear its ugly head periodically. At first I was frustrated and confused. Where was this coming from? After all, good Christians with a real walk with God don't get depressed. If they are, they've failed. I'd failed enough in my life, I wasn't going to allow this to be added to the list.

But then I slowly realized even on good days the color had drained out of life. Everything seemed
bleak. I didn't enjoy things I used to love. It wasn't so much feeling down, the typically stereotypical signs of depression, it was just... grayness. Day after day after day. Mundane drudgery, even the "fun" stuff. I was SO tired. Tired of feeling tired. Eventually that accumulated until I felt like life was worthless. I was worthless. Heaven looked so attractive, and I got tired of burdening my family with my despair.

Yes, that meant what you think it means. I wished I were dead. And I thought about how it might happen. I'm not proud of those moments. When life felt like an unbearable burden and there was no way out. I was crying out for help, and no one heard. No one wanted to listen. I felt so alone. 

Then someone DID care enough to listen. Someone who was able to put an official name to the depression, and validated the label I had so feared. (And I am SO grateful to that precious, lovely woman!) I had clinical depression. And hope. Just the tiniest little glimmer. Depression can be fought. There are things to do, medications to take, to help my brain overcome these issues. I chose to try some other things outside of medication first, to see if that would help. So I ran. I took a few vitamins sporadically. But most of all, now that I had a label, certain people started to listen. And I could be honest. It was a hard road. I still had bad days. Life was still gray. But I could feel just a little bit better. I could see what I was doing was taking the edge off my issues, little by little. There was relief.

But I knew there was still something wrong, somewhere. Someone we sought for counsel told me that depression is a sign of unforgiveness, and that night I cried myself to sleep, again. I knew the dire warnings in the Bible about forgiving others so God would forgive us. I HAD forgiven people, as much as I knew how. I had said the words, had prayed the words, had tried as hard as I knew how to forgive as much as possible. Somehow I knew that he was right, but I didn't know what else to do. 

The Lord led us to a lovely couple about that time, and I immediately connected with the wife while we attended a conference they were speaking at. However, they lived a long ways away, and I didn't think we would be able to go see them for help. My wonderful husband said we were doing what it takes to find help. That we were in this together. So we went.

And I learned how to really forgive. I had said the words sincerely, trying to ignore the pain and hurt the offense had caused. I had forgiven and tried my best to forget. Now, I was guided to go back in time and release the pain simmering under the surface. Facing memories I had hoped to forget altogether. Reliving them. Allowing the pain to twist and turn. Letting the tears and the anger alike flow. To grapple with the depravity in my heart, and the depravity in other hearts that had deeply affected my life. And then, facing the anguish, to choose release. Just when I thought there was no way I could ever make it through the mire, the festering volcano of pain, to the path of forgiveness, Jesus stepped in. He wrapped me in His arms and took care of the price. I signed the check of forgiveness, so to speak, but it came from His account. 

And I was set free. HE set me free. I could see color again. And He danced over me with joy and delight, rejoicing in the woman HE created me to be. And how that woman is coming to be, is a story for another day.