notes from the desert: #1

"How are you? How's life?"

I take a deep breath. My inner dialogue begins. The words that have been begging to be let out for months are rattling the bars of the prison I have put them in. They encroach the inside of my lips, threatening to override my will and force me to clean them up with my pride. My hands are starting to shake. I'm going to tell myself and everyone else that it's because of the coffee I have been slowly sipping all day. But deep down I have a feeling that the words that are still trapped have started a revolt that has resulted in a tremor rippling through my body to my hands.

"I think I have depression," I want to say. "I'm sad and lonely on more days than I'm not and I'm scared. I'm mad at God that my battle with depression isn't over. I'm mad at myself because I feel like a bad christian. I know I'm loved by God and my friends and my family but I still don't feel normal."

I picture the stares. The awkward silences. The looks that silently scream, "what the hell do you expect me to say?"

I can't say that.

I take a deep breath. I smile. "I'm good!" I say. "Busy, stressed out, you know how it is. Navigating the world post-grad. How are you?"

..............................................................................................................................................................................................

It's been almost two months since I wrote the section above. Through lots of conversations, tears, and awkward silences, God has taught me a lot. 

When I first realized that the name to the dark cloud that has followed me around for the last eight months might be depression and not just a rough patch, it was painful. Really painful. I prayed every day for God to remove it from my life. "I just want to be close to you again," I prayed. "I want to be where you are. Bring me to the mountain. Bring me out of this. I don't want to feel this way anymore. I'm sick of being in the wilderness. Don't you want to help me?" I re-read countless verses on joy and beat myself over the head with them. I put on layers and layers of guilt like I was getting ready to go ice skating in the middle of January. Basically, I did everything except for trying to process that maybe God is still working? Like he's done since the beginning of time?

Below is a (brief) excerpt of a conversation where God was gracious and I was everything but.

Me: "This isn't working. Don't you want to teach me something? Aren't I supposed to feel your presence? Aren't you the true source of joy?"

God: "Yes, Maddi, in my presence there is fullness of joy. And yes, I do trade mourning for dancing. But you're forgetting that when I was on Earth, I was called a man of sorrows. And I also wept bitterly. You keep asking me to bring me to where I am and I'm right here. In doubt. In depression. There is no desert you could walk through, there is no forest you could be lost in, where my feet haven't already gone. You don't only find me in joy. I have something to teach you here, now." 

Me: .........................................

Sometimes, joy and suffering can exist together. Life is rarely lived in one or the other. It is entirely possible to have hope yet also feel very sad and lonely. 

Good thing being a christian is *very* simple right?

Instead of asking, "God, bring me out of this." I'm learning how to ask, "God, show me how to glorify and praise you while I'm here." As painful as this is, as much as it is often times my deepest wish to just not feel this way anymore, I also know that suffering is how we grow closer to Jesus. Our deepest sorrow can force us to lift our gaze to our greatest joy. It's very confusing.  

I'm writing this because I'm still here. My tent is pitched right in the middle of what feels like a forsaken, barren place. If you're on a mountain looking down, I'm the one that is looking at the dirt wishing I forced myself to like kale when I had the chance.

Some days are long. And hard. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be out. But even for all of the long nights, hard conversations, and tears of confusion, I take comfort in the fact that God was here. He is here.

When everything seems dark, it's hard to remember who you are. It's hard to remember a time when you felt the sun on your skin and noticed the beauty of life. And if you found yourself reading this and placing yourself in the midst of your own desert, then I just wanted to let you know that I'm here, too.