In this post Erika, my awesome wife, shares one of her experiences in New Orleans as well as shares her journey. She has come such a long way and I'm so proud of her. I am so amazed at her courage to share her journey.
One year ago, in the wake of Robin William’s suicide, I
wrote a journal entry about my own struggle with depression. His loss remains
an unbearable theft, and the truth of what depression does to beautiful human
beings like Robin must be told. One very important thought before I go any
further: depression is an illness just like diabetes or hypothyroidism. One
can’t wish, dream, or pray it away (if only). I have thought long and hard
about what my sharing this will evoke in people I know and love. I decided that
removing the stigma from mental illness is not possible unless those of us who
battle it are willing to speak out regardless of others’ reactions.
The following is a brief excerpt of that journal entry from
August 2014. I realize that for those of you who know me personally, this will
be hard to read. But it’s the truth.
I have thought about death. I have stood on the rooftop terrace of a swanky apartment building and wondered whether falling would obliterate the knot of pain rooted in my chest. I have believed, for brief moments, that my family would be so much better off without my complicated, emotional presence. I've driven down a winding road and been terrified by the thought that it would be so easy to just drive the car into a ditch. I've thought about The Awakening, and wondered whether Edna Pontellier found the freedom she so desperately sought in the rise and fall of that infinite ocean.
I could be alone if I wanted, there at the bottom of that pit. You know the one. That ugly word people either dismiss or suppress. Depression. Sometimes it seems more practical and comfortable to isolate myself. But what a waste. What a waste of love and joy and laughter. What a waste of opportunities to touch people, to help them, to be human. I love happiness. I crave it. I crave hope and the beauty of dreams. I love laughter and making people laugh because it is life-giving.
As I reflect on the last year of my life, a year in which I
have fought against a darkness so powerful that I often feared it would swallow
me, I feel equal parts grief and gratitude. I grieve the fact that my youngest
daughter’s first year of life was a painful, shadowy blur for me. Everything
was a struggle. Getting up, basic care, breastfeeding. It all took so much effort
that I barely remember the good times.
I grieve the fact that I wanted to die—that I spent any time at all thinking about that.
I grieve the fact that I wanted to die—that I spent any time at all thinking about that.
I am also deeply, wholly grateful. I am grateful for the
Church and its ministries. I am grateful for counseling, medication, and
spiritual direction—all of which have been vital to my ongoing recovery. And my
goodness I am grateful for my husband and his parents. Three more
unconditionally generous, supportive, and loving individuals I have not found.
In May of this year, Chris and I had the wonderful gift of
being able to attend a friend’s wedding in New Orleans. Just the two of us. It
was truly a breath of jazzy, sultry fresh air. The day following the wedding
we attended Mass at the St. Louis Cathedral, and the priest shared a story in
his homily. Bear with me—I promise it fits in with my own. He spoke of a young
woman, Michelle, whom he met through a church ministry that helps convicted
felons find work and a safe place to live. Michelle had been addicted to heroin
for years. She had stolen from loved ones, lied to them, and poisoned her body.
And she ended up abandoned by her so-called friends and left for dead. She went
to prison. There in her cell, Michelle began to read the Bible, and she was
overcome by the feeling that she was loved and worth saving.
Those words struck and then washed over me. Worth saving. I
began to weep that this woman who had seen the depths of darkness and sin
believed she was worth saving, yet I had over and over denied the same truth
for myself. Out of pride I believed that if I could not save myself then I was
not worth saving. Pride in a person suffering from depression is so dangerous.
Pride told me that I didn’t need anybody else—not even God. Alone in that
place, I could have died believing I was not worth saving. And that thought
brings me back to today and to the loss of our beloved Robin Williams.
I have such a hard time looking at his face, at his eyes
especially. Perhaps I’m projecting or
imagining it, but I see pain there that I know, and it gnaws at my sense of
wellness and recovery. And I wonder if mental illness, deep, deep sadness, and
maybe pride convinced him that he just wasn’t worth saving. My God what a
terrible loss. What an unbearable theft of life.
Confession: I feel a little guilty at this point. I don’t know
the answers to questions we all have—namely, why? What I have is my own experience, and the fact that I
recognize that someone suffering from mental illness often stands (many times
over) at the edge of some unfathomable precipice, and that the difference
between life and death can be a single damn moment in which someone helps you
believe that you are worth saving. WORTH. SAVING. And that is why we have to
belong to each other. This is not to say that any one person can bear the
responsibility of saving a suicidal loved one. Patty Griffin writes that “you
can’t make somebody see with the simple words you say/ all their beauty from
within/ and sometimes they just look away.” What I am saying is that we often assume
that people who seem okay don’t need us, and that is so far from the truth. Those
who need the most help often seem like strongest among us. What I am saying is
that we must be kind to one another, and that we need to make the effort to
connect personally with those we love. A phone call, a text, a visit. So much
power in simply saying to someone, “Hey. I think you are wonderful.”
So, I will say to you what I wish with all my heart I could
have said to Robin: you are necessary. The biggest most evil lie you could
possibly believe is that you don’t matter. You matter so much it hurts. Please
choose life every day and always. You are worthy of love, you are worthy of
hope. You. are. worth. saving.
**If you are having thouhts of harming
yourself, you can call 1-800-273-TALK
for help. In Houston, this is where I am
getting help for my depression. I could not recommend them more. The
compassion, the attention, and the absolute confidence they have in me—these
are hard to find in one medical practice!
Caritas Complete Women’s Care (for Post
Partum Depression): http://caritasfertilitycare.com/
Gratia Plena Counseling (for general
counseling needs): http://www.gratiaplenacounseling.org/
