NOLA Series: Worth Saving

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 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/