Humble Pie, Part II

As my marvelous cousin said, "Eat organic, take your meds!"  This is my new motto, and since it's such a reversal for me, I'm glad that humble pie goes down easier with a good antidepressant.   

I've been thinking about all the reasons that have prevented me from taking an anti-depressant all these years.  I started the excavation of all those ideas in my first Humble Pie post, but there were a lot more.  They were always so nebulous, but a phone conversation with a trusted friend helped me crystallize my thinking and I came out feeling that I knew myself better.  I'll share my thoughts with you if you promise not to laugh at me for being a weirdo.

Identity

I'm starting with this one because it's probably the one that startled me the most when I heard it coming out of my mouth.  I've been dealing with the illness so long and have been so open about it, that I have really started to identify myself as a depressed person who makes the best of it.  The love and positive feedback I get from friends about how bravely I face this challenge has become a bit of an addiction.  My inner martyr just loves the attention.  Could it be, I wondered, that I'm so content with the counterfeit happiness of praise, that I'm actually not willing so seek healing anymore?  I know.  It's so sick.  

My second identity question has a little more credence.  There have been so many real and wonderful compensatory blessings flowing from this disease.  As Ether 12:27 teaches, this weakness brings me to my knees over and over, teaches me humility every day, gives me gratitude for those who help me, and keeps me from forgetting how pathetically dependent I am on the Lord's grace.  I wondered where all those blessings would go if my struggle with depression ended. In the end, I had faith in the adversary to present me with plenty of opportunities for humility and growth.  That's his job, not mine.  


Diagnosis

"There should be a blood test," my friend told me, and she's absolutely right.  Depression is such a subjective thing.  I was diagnosed with depression after a couple of sessions with an LCSW.  I told my doctor, who will prescribe anything I ask him for, that I wanted an antidepressant, and he really didn't even ask me any questions before scribbling my prescription.  What if I'm not really depressed?  What if I'm too lazy to create lasting happiness, or too negative and ungrateful to see my blessings?  

I grew up laughing at people who need a pill to feel good, at a society that over-prescribes pharmaceuticals.  Doesn't everyone suffer?  Why should I be different?

I believe this paradygm has kept some of my dearest loved ones from seeking treatment, and I've thought all these years I was smarter than that--truthfully it's been influencing me anyway.  

But when I'm honest with myself, if a doctor told me I was not depressed, that I was just too lazy or too negative--I would know he was wrong.  I know the truth about who I am and what I struggle with.  And that's enough for me now.  I don't have to prove myself to anyone.


Existential

"Existential" being the only one-word title I could come up with that conveys the idea that I'm depressed because I deserve to be depressed. 

This one was tough to pinpoint, because it goes against everything Jesus Christ wants me to know about myself.  But it's been there all the time anyway, subtly and constantly influencing my decisions for my whole life.  

I don't remember ever feeling like I was good enough, even when I was very, very young.  I've only ever seen my failings and weaknesses, and so when things go wrong in my life, I'm not really surprised.  It kind of seems like if I could just be a better person, I'd be happier.  And so I try harder, I run faster, I pray longer, and when I'm still unhappy it's just another failure.

Depression is so very difficult to distinguish from spiritual problems.  We talk every week in church about how unhappy we are when we're not living gospel principles.  And so if happiness is not a good yardstick for worthiness, then what is?  

I'm working on this one, and I don't have all the answers yet.  But I'm trying to take my worthiness on the word of those who know me best: my bishop, my parents, my siblings, my friends, my wonderful husband.  Heavenly Father, too, makes contact once every ten years or so to tell me what I'm really worth to Him--and I treasure those experiences with all my heart.

And what if my depression does stem in some part from some of my own bad choices?  Does Heavenly Father want me to punish myself by not seeking treatment?  Of course He doesn't.  He wants me to repent. He wants me to trust in Christ's grace to make me clean.  He wants me to be as happy as I can.

If my sister were in my shoes, I'd tell her to be nice to herself.  So I finally decided to cut myself some slack.  I decided to assume the best about myself and to get the treatment that might just lift my burden.  I finally decided to be kind to myself.



And for those of you still reading and just dying to know how my medication is working--haha!--it's working great.  It took five whole weeks to kick in, and then one Sunday, I felt normal and cautiously optimistic.  Then I had a normal Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and so on until today.  I feel whole and well.

I still cry sometimes--my family is still in turmoil and there's still grieving to get through--but I only cry for good reasons now, and I don't carry the constant weight of despair.  I feel emotionally sound and strong.  And that's way more valuable than my pride, any day.  

Wellbutrin Tastes like Humble Pie

I hope you like the title, because I'm pretty in love with it myself.  It doesn't match the tone of this post, though, so if you're in the mood for witty observations, I'm not your girl.  In fact, I want to take this moment to say that I'm sorry for being a little too chipper sometimes.  To be perfectly clear: I'm messed up.  What you read here is the healthiest, most positive, shining version of Kari, cheerleading her sad little heart to the finish line--and it's funny that I chose that metaphor, because I find cheerleaders annoying.  The nature of blogging is such that you see me on my best days and not my worst. The idea that anyone might think I have all the answers is too ridiculous for words, especially given the awful state I've been in lately.

Even accounting for the grief I'm still going through, which I consider a separate matter, I'm in pretty tough shape.  Anxiety, hopelessness, frustration, guilt, and deep inadequacy are my constant companions these days.  I spend a lot of time crying, avoiding, hiding, being mean, begging for forgiveness, and watching lame Youtube videos.

My therapist recommended medication, which idea I rejected out of hand.  The whole idea behind seeking counseling in the first place, was to do the cognitive work that would help me heal without the use of antidepressants.  After all, I am the cheerleader of drug-free depression here.  Please don't stop reading.  I hate what I just wrote, too.

I experienced a lot of relief when I took Zoloft about ten years ago.  After awhile, it started losing its effectiveness, and the side effects were bugging, so I went off and tried one or two other medications with no success.  Finally I sought out other options, such as light therapy and exercise, which have been huge for me.  So huge that I write about them here all the time.  But back to why I didn't like my counselor's suggestion that I start on an antidepressant while continuing my cognitive therapy--why was my goal to heal without the use of antidepressants?  Shouldn't my goal just be to heal?

So I've been digging into all my reasons for not taking an antidepressant, and finding most of them to be irrational.  I've found so much food for thought that I'm sure this post is just the first of many.  But I think one of my biggest obstacles to taking medication is my perception that it would just mask my symptoms without addressing the underlying causes of the disease.  To consider the possibility that medication may just be my very best method of treatment for the rest of my life, feels like giving up on real healing.  But here's the thing: all these years I've been trying to get to the root or cause of the depression and fix it.  It must be that my body needs more light in the winter.  It must be that I have unresolved issues from my childhood.  It must be that I need more exercise.  All these things are probably true, but years of attacking the problem from that angle have brought only limited success.  Maybe the "root" really is the chemical imbalance, and I'll be better-equipped to address peripheral attacks on my sanity if I can just get the baseline right.

I started Wellbutrin yesterday.  After all I've written here about beating depression the hard way, I feel like you deserve to be the first to know.  I believe in the easy way, too, if it can be called that.  Facing the very real stigmas still associated with antidepressants isn't easy.  The exhaustive search for the medication that will work for your body isn't easy.  Dealing with side effects isn't easy.  Really, out of all the steps I've taken to beat depression, this may end up being the hardest.  Isn't that just classic depressed thinking--I'll seek medical attention only after I've exhausted every other possible hope for healing.

So here I go, trying another option.  I really hope you find me here in a few weeks telling you how well it's working.  I remember the way the world's weight rolled off my shoulders when I started Zoloft, and I long for that relief.  I remember feeling truly myself for the first time in years: like I didn't have to fake being me anymore. I know that finding the right medication can be a journey.  In fact, from my experience and observations I may well be dealing with this illness for the rest of my life.  Oh, how I long for the permanent healing that will come when I arise to meet the Lord!  Until then, it's my job to cope and to hope.  Maybe I won't have to wait that long.  

Bearing Depression...Cheerfully

I know my title is hilarious.  In fact, the whole premise of this post is a little outlandish, so if you're not able to stomach it today, I totally respect that.  But this is something I've been thinking of a lot for the past few months, and I'm excited to explore it here with you.

Just about every time adversity comes up in the church, it comes with the exhortation to "bear it well" or to "endure cheerfully."  Our beloved President Hinckley used to tell us to "cultivate an attitude of happiness."  And strangely, if you suffer from clinical depression, these words of encouragement can sound like rebukes, and can even exacerbate classic symptoms, such as low self-worth, hopelessness, inadequacy, and guilt.

What is the meaning of bearing your trial cheerfully when the very definition of your trial is a clinical inability to feel cheer?  Does it mean pulling yourself up by your boostraps each day?  Because most of us have done plenty of that.  And to tell the truth, that's where this blog post was headed originally, because I consider myself pretty good at "bootstrapping."  After all, the dark thoughts and feelings I struggle with would alienate me from most people in the world if I shared them as constantly as I felt them.  This disease requires a good filter or it will spread. 

But there's a difference between putting on a happy face--which is actually an essential skill whether you suffer from mental illness or not--and showing true cheer.

First, let's look carefully at what cheer means in an LDS context, because when I think of cheer, I tend to think of skipping down the road singing "Zippidee Doo Dah."  (And to be clear, I think we could all use a lot more of that song in our lives.)

But does the Lord require skipping and singing on the toughest days of our lives, even figuratively? President Thomas S. Monson's 2009 talk, "Be of Good Cheer," provides a window to our answer.

How might we have joy in our lives, despite all we may face...'Wherefore, be of good cheer, and do not fear, for I the Lord am with you, and will stand by you.'  The history of the Church in this, the dispensation of the fullness of times, is replete with the experiences of those who have struggled and yet who have remained steadfast and of good cheer as they have made the gospel of Jesus Christ the center of their lives. This attitude is what will pull us through whatever comes our way.  It will not remove our troubles from us but rather will enable us to face our challenges, to meet them head on, and to emerge victorious.  Too numerous to mention are the examples of all the individuals who have faced difficult circumstances and yet who have prevailed because their faith in the gospel and in the Savior has given them the strength they have needed.  (Emphasis added.) 

President Monson goes on to describe the harrowing experience of a German mother who mourned the loss of her husband and her home, and who walked many miles in the freezing cold with her four small children, whom she lost to starvation and cold, one by one.  Her despair almost drove her to take her own life.

Does this sound like good cheer to you?  Then why on earth did our prophet and seer even bring it up?  Look again at the quote.  He defines cheer a little differently.  He defines cheer as an attitude of faith that allows us to face great challenges and emerge victorious.  And our German sister did exemplify this cheer, this faith, in just the way that we can, yes, even those of us whose minds aren't working quite right.  President Monson shares her conversation with God during that terrible time:

Dear Heavenly Father, I do not know how I can go on.  I have nothing left--except my faith in Thee.  I feel, Father, amidst the desolation of my soul, an overwhelming gratitude for the atoning sacrifice of Thy Son, Jesus Christ.  I cannot express adequately my love for Him.  I know that because He suffered and died, I shall live again with my family; that because He broke the chains of death, I shall see my children again and will have the joy of raising them.  Though I do not at this moment wish to live, I will do so, that we may be reunited as a family and return--together--to Thee.

Not too many days later, while still in the advanced stages of starvation, this amazing woman bore testimony that she was the happiest of the exiles because Christ gave her hope for a glorious reunion with her loved ones.

So cheer looks a little different in the toughest times: if it wore a grin, truth would revolt and the Spirit would flee.  When there is death and despair, or when mental illness makes you feel like there is, cheer will look more like sincere and honest prayer.  It will look like reaching, believing, hoping for better times, because Christ is still leading the way.

Let us cultivate faith and hope in Jesus Christ every day.  It might look like "bootstrapping" to people who don't understand, and that's okay.  Because when we let our faith move us out the door to help others in spite of our own pain; when we let hope put smiles on our faces even on tough days; when we keep our hearts open to the possibility of joy--then Christ can do miracles. 

I try to make this a whine-free zone, but today I just need to share where I'm at.

My depression has gone from manageable to unmanageable.  My tricks and hacks and boosts are not getting me above water anymore.  My eyelids are swollen from crying all the time.  I can't sleep.  I can't focus.

I'm going in to see a good therapist sometime soon, to help me manage grief over my recent loss and the attending feelings of stress, anger, and despair.  It feels like a step back, since I felt I graduated from therapy about ten years ago, having sorted out all my negative patterns and beliefs.  And I'm not excited about the work ahead.  Cognitive therapy is a lot like physical therapy after a traumatic injury.  You have to go through a lot of extra pain to ensure proper and permanent healing.

But I know it's a step forward.  I choose healing and hope.  I choose not to hide my condition and let it fester.  I have learned from experience that pain, like Lanston Hughes' "dream deferred," can be a dangerous thing:

What happens to a dream deferred? 

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load
or does it explode?

If you can spare a moment, please pray for me and my loved ones.  And let me know when I can return the favor.  

Maybe They're Here for You: Hope for Home School Mamas

I suffer from clinical depression.  I home school my kids.  And before you go on, I need you to know that I'm what you'd call "high-functioning," which means I can fool most people into thinking everything's fine.  Even the kids don't usually notice my terrible days.  So don't worry, the kids are fine.  But I'm starting to see that the Adversary wants me to believe that it's a weakness to our family.

Two weeks ago, I had a really terrible day of home-schooling, and not really because anything in particular was going wrong.  I was just in terrible shape, mentally.

There are a few demons who like to buzz around my head when I'm tired, depressed or just weak, and they say the same things over and over.  "You're failing as a mom.  You're failing as a teacher.  Your kids would be better off in public school, just because they'd be away from you."  I bat at them half-heartedly, pushing through lessons, through power struggles with saucy tweens, through technology challenges, through messy rooms and undone laundry, and knowing that if I can hang on long enough, I can go to bed.

I'm not going to lie.  Depression and home school are unlikely and poorly-suited bedfellows.  When I'm really underwater, the people who love me most remind me that I can always send the kids back to public school.  If it provided me with a less stressful lifestyle, it might just help me stay mentally healthy more of the time.

Next year, my youngest will be old enough for kindergarten, and this brings my questions to the surface like nothing else could: is this really, really, really the very best thing for the kids?  Because, if not, I can see myself liking very much to spend six hours a day blissfully alone.  I see myself getting the groceries bought, the house cleaned, the budget balanced, and even having time to take a shower before they get home.  I see me staying on top of things that, lately, have been relegated to "Squeeze-it-in-Someday-Soon-I-Hope" list--like buying church clothes.  Ezra has been in need of church pants for at least three months, and finding the time to go with him to the store baffles me every week.  I see myself reading.  I see myself writing.  I see myself finally finishing my college degree.  I see myself finally getting good at yoga.  And I'm not gonna lie, I see myself eating a lot of food with gluten, eggs, and dairy.  So yes, I'd gain weight pretty quick.

This vision of complete introverted bliss tempts me.  The nasty mom-guilt torments me.  And some days I question why I'm even doing home school.  Maybe I should have sent them to public school this year, I think. Maybe it's too late for them and they'll suffer all their lives because their mother had delusions of grandeur. Maybe I'm wrong for home school and home school is wrong for me.

So, back to my story, it was a day to be endured.  I was batting at the demons, pushing for bedtime, and thinking, I'm not doing these kids any good at all.

And the Spirit said, "maybe you're not here for them.  Maybe they're here for you."

I felt free for the first time in many, many days.  And I saw my amazing kids more clearly than ever. God created them to be a joy to me, and they truly, truly are.  They are smart.  They are funny. They are compassionate.  They are wise.

What would my daily life be like if they weren't here with me?  Who would hug and kiss me when I felt hopeless inside?  And really, why would I even get out of bed on those hard days?  The love I have for these kids motivates me to fight my depression, to fight my demons.  I might not even try if they weren't here to try for.

Our culture talks a lot about the challenges of parenting, about the pain of parenting, about the stress of parenting.  And if you home school your kids, just get ready for all the pats on the back you get for being such a perfect parent.  You really start to believe that you are the most saintly martyr in the world for giving up so much for the sake of your children.

And it's true.  I've made sacrifices for these kids.  All moms do.  But I've fallen too often into the trap of believing that it's my job to provide them with happiness.  And forget about the fact that the weight of such responsibility is too heavy for any mortal shoulders, and that Christ himself is the giver of all good things--I have forgotten that my kids are here for me just as much as I am here for them.

I had a bit of a meltdown today, and the kids surrounded me with hugs, kisses, and offers of help with my work.  I hate being in that position--I really want to be the strong one for them, to be a good example of strength and courage.  But really, why?  In a world of entitlement and narcissism, my kids stand a chance a good chance of growing up with some compassion.

God knew what He was doing when He called me to this work, weak and mortal as I am.  In fact, maybe the calling was extended before this life even began--to the kids.

Book of Mormon Week--Day Seven

"It is inspiring to learn how Parley Pratt came to know of the book about which he wrote the words of this hymn. In August of 1830, as a lay preacher, he was traveling from Ohio to eastern New York. At Newark, along the Erie Canal, he left the boat and walked 10 miles (16 km) into the country where he met a Baptist deacon by the name of Hamlin, who told him “of a book, a strange book, a VERY STRANGE BOOK! … This book, he said, purported to have been originally written on plates either of gold or brass, by a branch of the tribes of Israel; and to have been discovered and translated by a young man near Palmyra, in the State of New York, by the aid of visions, or the ministry of angels. I inquired of him how or where the book was to be obtained. He promised me the perusal of it, at his house the next day. … Next morning I called at his house, where, for the first time, my eyes beheld the ‘BOOK OF MORMON’—that book of books … which was the principal means, in the hands of God, of directing the entire course of my future life. 'I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page. I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep.  As I read, the spirit of the Lord was upon me, and I knew and comprehended that the book was true, as plainly and manifestly as a man comprehends and knows that he exists.'^"

President Hinkley told this story in General Conference in August 2005, but this was not the first time I heard the story.  I clearly remember hearing it as a small child, and marveling that a person could love a book so much that they could barely put it down to eat or sleep.  As an adult, i hear this story with a slight sense of guilt:  I often forsake real life for a day or two in order to read, but this has never happened with the Book of Mormon. 

The Book of Mormon has been a part of my life since I was a little baby.  Mom, who was a convert, and Dad, who was raised by less-active parents, were the best missionaries a little girl could have.  When I was seven, the stake president issued a challenge for all the members of our stake to read the Book of Mormon together every morning.  Mom and Dad, who had always pushed for family scripture study, now committed wholeheartedly to reading together every morning.  Years later this was put to the test when I left the house at six thirty for early morning seminary, and the whole family got up to read together first.  This kind of diligence in the face of saucy teens and grumpy toddlers taught me the importance of the book we were studying.  Moms' and Dad's testimonies of the truths it contained sank in deep.

And so, although I don't recall any heralding angels witnessing the truth of the Book of Mormon to me, yet I know it is true.  I have always known.  When I was little, I knew in a small way.  As I have grown, my testimony of the book has grown.  It forms the bedrock of my testimony.  It has taught me who Jesus Christ is.  I have come closer to Him and to our Heavenly Father by studying and acting on the things I've learned.  With Elder Pratt, I can truly say the Book of Mormon is the principle means by which the Lord has directed the course of my life.

The Book of Mormon truly is another testament of Jesus Christ.  He is all over those pages!  The Savior is referred to on average once every 1.7 verses.  A few weeks ago I finished a special study of the book, highlighting references to Christ, attributes of Christ, words of Christ, and the works of Christ.  It was my favorite study of the book, hands down.  I loved reading the book with my Savior in mind constantly.  2 Nephi 25:26 is one of my favorite verses highlighting the centrality of the Lord in this book:

And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children my know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.  

This book has given me strength to continue on in the face of adversity.  I have gained comfort from knowing that the Savior knows me and loves me even when depression or other difficulties cloud my vision of Him.  In this stunningly beautiful passage quoted by Nephi from Isaiah, I am reminded over and over again that the Lord's love for me is unfathomable:

But behold, Zion hath said:  The Lord hath forsaken me, and my Lord hath forgotten me --but he will show that he hath not.  For can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb?  Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee, O house of Israel.  Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me.

The Book of Mormon is a miracle in my life.  It has brought me to an understanding of the Atonement, which is key to peace in this life, not to mention salvation in the life to come.  I can't fathom where I would be today without the personal connection with my Savior provided by my study of the Book of Mormon.  It is true.  He does life.  He does continue to minister to his disciples and indeed, all of humanity today.  I bear this witness in His sacred name, Amen.

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me About Facing Depression

Tonight I talked with a dear friend who has been suffering from depression, and my heart broke all over again for what she's going through.  It took me back to the first days and weeks of wrapping my head around the word, "depression."  It made me feel old and wise.  I've always been too big for my britches that way, and I know got long-winded when I was talking to her, but I still don't feel finished.

 I will never forget what I went through to figure out that I needed help with my depression.  The memory of those months and years of suffering still fills me with sadness.  I had three kids under the age of four.  We had moved from our beloved college town to far-flung Wyoming, where we didn't know a single soul. My husband was deeply involved in building his career, and was often gone from dark to dark on weekdays, or even a whole week at a time. My beloved daughter had suffered a long illness which took her closer to death than I ever want to see my children again, and which culminated in a ten-day stay at Primary Children's Hospital.  I was trying to learn how to feed my newly-diagnosed celiac kids food that would not kill them.  I was potty-training my oldest so that I would have only two in diapers.  I was far from my family in sunny St. George, I was freezing, and I was very alone.

When we talk about clinical depression it's helpful to look for triggers, and boy, did I have triggers at that point in my life.  Does that mean that my life was meaningless or that I had nothing to be grateful for?  Absolutely not.  I was building something that I was sure would bring me joy.  But the problem was that I felt nothing but anguish.  All the time.  I felt extreme anxiety and constant guilt for my failings as a mother and wife.  Even when my darling babies kissed and hugged me, no ray of happiness could penetrate.  I was dead to everything but pain.

At church I felt I was just going through the motions.  I fulfilled callings, served ward members, visited with those who needed help, all because I knew I should--but without the attendant feelings of closeness with God I had always enjoyed.  I prayed to a God who was no longer speaking to me and read His words even though they didn't seem to mean anything anymore.  I wondered, after all the witnesses I had experienced in my life, was it possible for me to lose my faith just because being a mom was stressful?

I remember checking out a stack of books about depression in our small-town library, blushing at the thought of what the librarian was thinking of me.  I did not know that she would later become one of my  mentors through the illness, having experienced it herself.  I remember a conversation with TJ in which I confessed my devastating discovery: that I was broken, without hope of repair.  He told me we would get help for me, no matter what.  He said I would feel better.  I remember calling my sister and admitting the shameful truth.  She was not surprised, but supportive.  And then I called the doctor.  And then I filled my first prescription for medication.  And then I called the therapist.  And then I started feeling that there was hope.

If I could have a conversation with the 25-year-old version of myself tonight, I would start with a big hug.  Young Self was such a brave person in the face of such a bewildering host of troubles. And she felt so alone, unworthy, and guilty.  She felt hopeless.  I would love to tell her how many thousands of healthy days she has ahead of her: how many breathtakingly beautiful baby kisses will sink straight into her happy, healthy heart.  I would love to tell her that God is counting her tears and will repay them a hundred-fold.

And I would give Young Self some great advice.  Because I always give advice.  And sermons. Those who love me just listen patiently, and since this is my daydream, Young Self will have to do the same.  Here is the advice I would give her, not necessarily in order of importance:

1.  Learn all you can about clinical depression.  The internet's a great place to start, but even if you're not a huge reader, invest the time necessary to get an idea of what you're dealing with.  Knowledge is power!  Especially pay attention to the neurological explanations of what depression is.  It is so important for you to understand the physiological underpinnings of this illness to give you the strength you'll need to reach for healing.  Here is what I consider to be absolute required reading for those who are suffering from depression or who are long-suffering with a loved one who does:

"Like a Broken Vessel" by Jeffry R. Holland

Reaching For Hope: An LDS Perspective on Recovering from Depression

The Depression Cure: The 6-Step Program to Treat Depression Without Drugs

2.  Talk to loved ones, and listen to the ones who are committed to help you find healing, no matter what that entails.  I hope, so much, that one of these people is your spouse.  If not, keep talking.  But find those who will back you up when even you think it's not worth trying.  Because you will need their help to get better.  Talking is part of the therapy.  Talking is part of what will heal you. So talk.

3. Get ready to reach for help.  Fight hard against the destroyer!  Exclamation point! Right now, he will pull out the shame and work you over with it.  Don't be ashamed of your condition.  It's called mortality, and everyone has it.

Do you need a therapist to help identify unhealthy patterns in your life and replace them with good ones?  Of course, you do.  In my opinion, everyone does.  Why is it that most Americans would not undertake to fix the brakes on their car because they feel under-educated or unqualified--and yet they feel the intricacies of the human mind are easy enough to tackle alone?  I would much rather risk a car accident than risk a lifetime of unhealthy relationships and generations of suffering.  Wouldn't you?  Find someone who has studied these things.  Find someone you can trust to help you.

Do you need medication to start your healing process?  I will never forget the day my Zoloft kicked in.  I was on the phone describing my day to TJ, who was on a trip.  I wasn't expecting the medication to work for another week or so, but as we talked, I realized that it already was.  I had told TJ how much fun it had been to make sock puppets with the kids--the type of project I never initiated because it was too overwhelming.  And as we chatted, I described the beautiful new flower screensaver on the computer, and I felt real happiness.  I had not felt that way for so long, it was stunning even in its simplicity.  I had enjoyed a healthy day for the first time in a very long time.  I felt like I was the person I had been pretending to be.  I felt like a good person.  I felt like a normal person.  I felt like myself again.

How could that be a bad thing?

Don't let the destroyer keep you from healing, no matter what.

4.  Keep a sense of perspective.  Remember my dear librarian-friend?  In one long, long, conversation she told me that if she got to choose a trial--if all the trials in our town were put in a basket and she could choose one--she would choose depression.  Only after a few years of dealing with this disease did her comment make sense to me.  As real as the suffering is, in my case it is limited to what goes on inside my brain.  My husband is faithful and kind.  The kids are healthy and happy.  We always have food on our table.  When someone is sick, the doctor fixes it.    Depression is curable.  Depression is manageable.  I would much rather my trials all happen inside my head, thanks very much.  Remember that most of the craziness happens between your own ears, and that your loved ones usually are too wrapped up in their own lives to read your troubled thoughts.  Isn't that a good thing?  You are not tainting the world by your suffering.

5.   Hang on, with both hands and all ten fingernails, to your faith.  Keep praying.  You can't hear Him.  It is part of your condition.  It is not because you are unworthy, and it's definitely not because He has stopped listening.  He is closer than ever, but you won't be able to see that until you start getting better.  In the meantime, hold on.  And nurture your hope.  God did not put you on this earth to fail.  It is impossible to fail as long as you keep getting up and trying again.  He does sometimes let us battle it out alone.  But even then, we are never alone, and someday, He will recompense every loss.  He will even make up for your weaknesses in the lives of your loved ones.  My kids are amazingly healthy despite being raised by a crazy woman.  Because of the Atonement, I know that each one of my precious babies will have exactly the experiences they need to lead them back to Him--because of my weakness and His strength.  Hold on.  Trust on.  I promise it will all make sense someday.

For so long I felt that I was on autopilot in my faith.  I kept going because of the memory of faith.  I kept going because I believed I wasn't seeing the whole picture.  Sometimes when people would talk about trials as these great spiritual experiences, I would wonder what was wrong with me.  I couldn't feel the Spirit in my life--did that mean I was handling my trials all wrong?  I have come to see that it's just part of the depression package.  And I'm so glad I held on even when all the warm fuzzy spiritual feelings were not there.  To me, that is what faith really means.  It means pushing the boundaries of our vision by walking past it.  Now I can see back and I'm so grateful I kept going. There have been innumerable blessings along this road.  And I believe there are still so many to come--for me and for you.

He Gives Me Hope

It has been an interesting couple of weeks.  I have been in pain, but there has been a swelling of hope to carry me through.  And I've been enlightened on things I thought I already had a firm grasp of.

Right after I posted my magical formula for mental wellness on Facebook, I started drowning again. I cried in the morning.  I cried at night.  And in my prayers, I cried out in frustration and pleading. Why, after all these years, am I still wrestling with depression?  I thought I had already slain this beast!  How many times must I experience the disappointment of failure after the elation of success?

Maybe, I asked myself, in the remotest corner of my mind, maybe I'm just lazy?  Maybe, with all my openness about my condition, and all the many people who love and support me through it, I have allowed depression to be what we all fear it will become: a crutch.

For days this question hovered over me, until one dark night, I had to voice it and see what would happen.  And as always, TJ was there to hear my darkest fear and to defend me against it.

He was the first of many voices raised in my defense during this time.  One particularly tough morning I spent about an hour in my room trying to put myself together in time for home school. As I prayed, an inarticulate wish issued from my heart that a friend would reach out to me.  TJ was morally obligated to love and support me, and so were my parents and siblings.  But my sick mind reasoned that if someone outside that circle could show concern, I might feel that I was worth something to the world at large.

Within two hours the Lord sent two loving friends to me with messages of love, validation, and encouragement.  One showed up with a sugar cookie and a long note of thanks for my friendship, emphasizing how she felt the Lord must be pleased with me.  When I asked later how she had known I needed help that day, she said she had received a distinct impression that I needed to hear from her. Then TJ's cousin called out of the blue.  We are about as close as two distantly related women can be, who see each other only every one or two years--and I mean that without sarcasm.  So to have a long phone conversation with her about my struggles was uplifting as it was unique.

Their message?  That I am not failing.  That I am doing good, in spite of, and maybe even because of this weakness.  That the Lord is pleased with how hard I try.  And that it's making me into a better person.

Two other friends I've heard from in the past two weeks have been Chad Webb and Elder Jeffery R. Holland, speaking in separate meetings with seminary teachers and spouses.  So, full disclosure, they weren't speaking to me personally.  But it felt that way.  Elder Holland's strength and conviction and tenderness sank deep into my soul and gave me strength, as it always does.  Brother Webb's teachings on the Atonement surprised me by offering a completely new perspective.  He quoted a conference talk by Merrill J. Bateman called "A Pattern for All"

For many years I thought of the Savior’s experience in the garden and on the cross as places where a large mass of sin was heaped upon Him. Through the words of Alma, Abinadi, Isaiah, and other prophets, however, my view has changed. Instead of an impersonal mass of sin, there was a long line of people, as Jesus felt “our infirmities” (Heb. 4:15), “[bore] our griefs, … carried our sorrows … [and] was bruised for our iniquities” (Isa. 53:4–5).

Mind.  Blown.  I have been taught all my life that Jesus Christ bore my sins, infirmities, griefs and even sicknesses, and yet when I heard this quote, my vision expanded.  Christ really does completely remember what it's like to be in my shoes.  And that means that I am not alone.

Not being alone means that Jesus Christ is sending help every day.  It means He inspires loved ones to help in ways that are meaningful to me.  It means that He teaches TJ the perfect words to say that will help me to heal, time after time after time--and it means that He will strengthen TJ to bear the weight of my sickness so he can always be there for me.  It means that He is pleading for my redemption before the Father.  It means that he is suffering beside me, and when the Father sees fit to give me a respite from the pain, Christ is bearing the whole of it.

Jesus Christ gives me hope.  I may never be completely whole in my lifetime.  I will most certainly experience the joys and sorrows of mortality in one form or another, until my earthly mission is fulfilled.  But in the meantime, these struggles are not in vain.  If they do nothing else, they humble me and show me His hand in my life.  And that truly makes it all worthwhile.

Heaven is Here

Have you read this book?  If you read it when it came out three years ago, have you picked it up yet again?  

This week I was struggling with my old enemy, and I reached for hope when I picked this friend up off the bookshelf.  I am so glad that I did, because my heart feels shiny and new again.  

Here is an excerpt from my journal when I first read the book:

"I admit that I chose motherhood out of a sense of duty and felt I was unqualified for anything grand as a real career.  My faith has hinted that there is so much more to my role--but I have gone about the business of raising a family with an astonishing lack of vision.  Today, on my knees, I felt the spirit testify that I am not 'just a mom--' but a beloved daughter of God with a mission to save souls.

"My thoughts return again to Stephanie's powerful example and perspective.  Even before the accident, she treasured the small joys and pleasures of daily family life: wet baby kisses, little girl giggles, the unexpected turns of a child's mind, stolen romantic moments, beautiful sunsets.  These little moments occur constantly in my blessedly home-centered life.  What worldly ambitions, accolades, or luxuries would I trade them for?  What distractions do I allow to crowd them out?

"Today as I knelt in gratitude, I shed tears of joy--then, opening my eyes, wiped my glasses clean.  My vision gets smudgy and unclear as I rub up against slobbery kids all day.  but as I draw closer to my Father in Heaven, I know he'll help me see a little better every day."