An Open Letter to Those Who Have Failed

Today I'm writing to everyone who has experienced the sting of failure at something that mattered to them.

You had a goal, maybe one you set for yourself, maybe one assigned to you by an authority figure (a boss, a parent, a teacher), and you were determined to fulfill it to the best of your ability. You knew it would be tough, but you rolled up your sleeves, pushed into the fray, and gave it your all. You put in that overtime, you eliminated distractions, and you pushed past every obstacle that tried to get in your way.

You did your absolute best to ensure that the product of your labors was the pinnacle of perfection...

...and it wasn't. Your essay came back with an undesirable grade stamped at the top, your boss told you to scrap the project and start over (or even fired you), or you created something and put it out into the world only to discover that no-one enjoyed or got anything worthwhile out of it. And in that moment, when the adrenaline rush of having completed your task spiraled down into a sick feeling in the pit of your gut, you had this thought at the forefront of your mind: "I had one job, and I failed."

This letter is for you.

As with many of my posts (of which I know this is the first in a very long time), I'm writing this from a place of experience. As many of you know, in late 2016, I published the third book in my fantasy series, 'The Sehret Chronicles: The Survivor'. And then in 2017, I pulled it from the market and announced that I intended to rewrite it and publish the new edition at an undefined later date.

Those of you who know that much likely also know that at that point, I essentially dropped off the face of the earth as far as writing and blogging were concerned (though, let’s be honest – I’ve never been good at blogging on a regular schedule). What you might not know is why.

When I finished writing 'The Survivor', I faced a rather challenging situation -- where with previous books, I'd been able to recruit more objective third parties to help look over my work and point out problem areas/tell me when I needed to work on something, I faced what one might call a "beta famine". Others were willing to look the book over for me, but found their schedules too busy to allow them to get through the giant of a manuscript I'd sent to them (upwards of 140K words in its first draft form). No matter how many I asked, and how many (I'm sure) fully intended to be of help, I got hardly any feedback, and my self-imposed deadline for publishing the book I'd spent three years writing and editing loomed menacingly.

I had to make a choice -- push back the deadline until I could get more substantial, objective feedback (probably the most sensible option), or rip into the manuscript based on my own judgment and what little input I'd managed to glean from others and publish the book "on time".

And I made what was admittedly a rash and incredibly risky call: I chose the second option. I combed through the book, chopped scenes relentlessly, tuned up as much as I could, and with much terror and stomach-twisting, I uploaded the manuscript and hit 'Publish'.

And it tanked. I mean absolutely, spectacularly TANKED.

This could have been partially due to my subpar self-marketing skills, but I largely blame myself for failing to hold out for better feedback and rushing to publish something that clearly was not ready to be released into the world. Beyond mere low sales figures, the only reviews I got on the book cited a plot in shambles, characters who didn't seem like themselves, and a message that was confusing and, in some places, actually disheartening.

When the first review came in and pointed out these glaring issues, I went to my parents' room in the middle of the night (yup, I'm a low-energy Lymie and still live at home), told my mom about the review, and cried my eyes out. My depression/anxiety/OCD/etc. kicked into overdrive, and my headspace got unspeakably dark. This was my primary method of ministry, of contributing to a world I was rarely able to reach otherwise, and instead of helping my target audience, I'd produced something disappointing and potentially discouraging. I wanted to pull the book right then and never publish anything ever again.

But years of talking to other indie authors have taught me that sometimes a few one- or two-star reviews are mere flukes, and that you shouldn't act on them unless they become a trend. I did not feel the review was malicious or even necessarily incorrect (I take reviews very seriously, especially when I can tell the reader is sincere), but as it was only one, I made the decision to leave the book on the market for a while and see what happened.

And then it came -- the second, lengthy and painstakingly detailed review, relating not only every single thing that I'd felt insecure about during the process of writing and editing the manuscript, but also concerns for aspects of the story with which I had been happy, or felt I'd done well for once. And I cried again. My stomach roiled. I felt like I'd failed utterly, like I could never recover from having thrown so much time and effort and passion into a project for three years of my life and produced a result as catastrophic as this.

This left me with a decision. From my perspective, I could have done one of four things:

1. Left the book on the market, accepted that it was the "black sheep" of the series, and tried to make up for my mistakes with the next installment,

2. Take it off the market and pretend it never existed, either proceeding with a new, completely different book or just leaving the series as-is,

3. Take it off the market and never publish anything again (something I seriously considered more than once), or

4. Take it off the market and try again.

After consulting trusted sources close to me (including an old writing buddy who was invaluable in providing feedback for the first two books), I chose the fourth option. I swallowed my pride (most of it, anyway), unpublished 'The Survivor', and posted my apology to the world, along with the promise that I would undergo a rewrite, and requested prayer, as I'd never done something this drastic before and knew that I would struggle once the euphoria of having a second chance wore off. (It was stressful having something on the market that I felt might not be good enough, and I gleaned some measure of relief from the knowledge that it wasn’t available to potential readers anymore.)

It's been seven months since I made that announcement, and the manuscript for said rewrite is still at... *checks current word count in Scrivener* ...6,587 words.

Yup, you read that correctly -- seven months, and the current version of the rewrite doesn't even contain a thousand words per each month I've been working on it. Granted, this is partially because I've made several attempts and, upon being unhappy with some of them, pulled scenes that would have added onto my measly word count. In any case, rewriting this book has been possibly (I daresay almost certainly) the most difficult thing I've ever done as a writer.

Why? Because every time I open that document or someone asks what I'm working on lately, I'm reminded that the whole reason I'm still working on this book is because I failed. As even one of the aforementioned reviewers acknowledged, I threw my heart and soul into the project and tried my best to make it everything it could and should have been, but still it flopped profoundly.

So every time I try to get back to work and make progress towards what I hope will be a better and more worthwhile result, it feels like I have someone leaning over my shoulder, continually whispering, "You failed. You failed at this once, and you'll fail at it again. You are a failure."

But I’d like to draw your attention to an important element of this post’s title: It is addressed to “Those Who Have Failed”, not to “Those Who Are Failures”.

It is crucial to draw a distinction between the two, and to understand that failing and being a failure as a person are two entirely different things. Everyone fails at something eventually, and while the consequences vary in their nature and severity, we (and especially the perfectionists among us) can all relate to the crushing discouragement that follows, and thus may glean much from the following one-liner that you’ve probably heard a million times:

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

But why should we “try, try again” when another attempt brings with it the potential to fail again? Would it not be safer to give up, to run up the white flag of surrender and save ourselves the heartache? Why should I put in another several months/years into rewriting a book from scratch when it brought me such agony last time despite everything I put into it?

As to the question of whether it would be “safer”, I would have to say that yes, from the perspective of a fearful human being, the idea of holding back from attempting something (especially something at which you've previously failed) would feel safer. After all, it's difficult to make the same mistake twice if you never make a second attempt at the pursuit in which the mistake was first made. 

To the question of whether it would be better, though, my answer would have to be… maybe not.

The reason I say “maybe” instead of “definitely” is because sometimes there are things we are truly not meant to do, either because they are not worthwhile pursuits or because they’re simply not part of God’s plan for us. So the first step following any failure should be to ask ourselves (and, more importantly, God) whether what we failed in doing is something we are meant to do.

If the answer is no, the next step should be to let go – there’s no point to continuing in something that wasn’t meant for you, and neither is there anything to be gained by holding onto guilt and regret over falling short in the pursuit of something that you weren’t meant to achieve. It’s okay. You’re allowed to not excel at some things, and you’re certainly allowed (and I would encourage you) to step away if you feel that what you are pursuing is getting in the way of something more important. God is the ultimate giver of second chances, and you can always seek Him and pursue His will anew, even if you find you've strayed from it before now. 

If the answer is yes, then that’s when you really need to buckle down and get brave. Because with every new beginning, there is risk. There is the potential for stress and failure and heartache, and there’s no way of knowing what lies on the road between where you begin and where you’re trying to go.

But is the risk of embarrassment or a temporary emotional low really worth turning away from something God has set before you to do?

This is where my answer has to be a resounding NO. And let me tell you why.

First off, if you’ve already consulted God (through prayer, the Bible, and the input of godly advisors) and determined that the seemingly failed pursuit is one you’re meant to undertake, nothing else matters. Nothing. Not fear, not shame, not any insecurities you might have (remember, Moses had speech difficulties and thought he wasn’t worthy of speaking on God’s behalf because of it). If God has set you on a path, He has a purpose for it, whether you see it or not, and He will bring you through it, no matter how many times you think you’ve faltered or even fallen along the way.

“Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.”

- Philippians 1:6, KJV

"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths."

- Proverbs 3:5-6, KJV

Second, if what you’re doing is for God and backed by His will, you can bet that any doubts and fears that might arise are not from Him. After all, if God is with you in your pursuits, then who are you doubting when you think things like, “I can’t do this”? It would be understandable to doubt yourself, as a fallible human being, especially when the Bible explicitly says that “without [God], ye can do nothing” (John 15:5, KJV). But if you’re doing God’s will and leaning on Him for the strength to follow through, then to doubt your future is to doubt Him. And that is an entirely different matter.

If we truly trust in God to direct our paths, we have no reason to fear, because He knows the way and is infinitely capable of getting us to the end of the road, regardless of our own inadequacies.

“For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord, nor of me his prisoner: but be thou partaker of the afflictions of the gospel according to the power of God;

Who hath saved us, and called us with an holy calling, not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began.”

- 2 Timothy 1:7-9, KJV

Third and finally, anything done for God is done with eternal benefits in mind, and thus, continuing in a difficult task when God is in it will ALWAYS be better and more worthwhile than anything we might lose in the process (time, energy, comfort, pride, etc.), and is certainly well worth the risk. 

This is why, despite how atrociously behind I am in my writing goals, no matter how badly I feel about myself as a writer or how much I would like to throw in the towel and give up trying, I refuse to give up. This is not out of pride or stubbornness (although I'd be lying if I said those never play a role in my decisions or my resolve), but rather because I believe God has set this task before me, and even if I failed the first time, I have to believe there was some purpose to my efforts (even if it was just to teach me a lesson -- for example, not to rush to publication like that again), and that what God has in store for me is worth pursuing. Because while I may have failed, and may often think of myself as a failure, God is not and has not, and I can trust Him to do His will through me regardless. 

I just have to press on, keep a stiff upper lip, and trust that the infallible God I serve will use even my stumbling efforts to His glory. 

If God is in what you're doing, then even your failures (crushing as they may seem at the moment) will lead to a greater victory in Him. This is our hope and our promise in the face of even the most devastating failure. 

“Brethren, I count not myself to have apprehended: but this one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,

I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

Let us therefore, as many as be perfect, be thus minded: and if in any thing ye be otherwise minded, God shall reveal even this unto you.

Nevertheless, whereto we have already attained, let us walk by the same rule, let us mind the same thing.”

- Philippians 3:13-16, KJV

Rejoice in the Lord (a cappella) - Hamilton Family

Why I Fear Being A Role Model

It was a day like any other -- I was at home, going about my business, and struck up a conversation with a friend on Facebook (the main place where I, a chronically ill hermit, get my socialization fix). I don't remember exactly what we were talking about. But I do remember the conversation digressing into MBTI discussion and jokes. My friend mentioned a habit she'd begun to develop, and I made a joke along the lines of, "Uh-oh -- you're turning into me." The gist of her response was, "I could do worse -- you're a pretty good person to aspire to be like."

I blinked at the screen, stared at her words for a few seconds, then rattled off a joke to change the subject. Her words echoed through my mind, and I had no idea what to do with them. Me, someone people would want to be like? A role model?

No. Obviously she was just being nice. And of course, I tossed around the seemingly rhetorical question in my mind: "Why would anyone want to be like me?"

So here's one of the most basic facts you need to know about me: I am not perfect. Nobody is, right? But somehow, the idea of having someone -- especially a younger person who's still figuring themselves out -- look to me as an example of how to behave is terrifying. I mean, how do you even do that? As the fourth-born child out of five and the youngest girl, I never felt much pressure to be an example for anyone. (Firstborn children, my cap is off to you for getting through life with the myriad of expectations placed upon you just because you happened to be born before any of your siblings.)

But I mean I am really not perfect. At least from my own perspective, I have a lot of flaws, some of which I'm on the road to conquering, others not so much. In fact, it seems like the longer I live and interact with others, the more aware and self-conscious I become about my own shortcomings. Having a few invisible physical and mental illnesses only compounds this. Because here's the deal -- I am literally brain-damaged. Not in the sense that I got in a car crash and bashed my head against something or anything like that, but because since I was in high school I have had parasites crawling through my body, burrowing in and eating away at whatever they found. And part of what they found was my brain and nervous system. As a result, even though they're clearing out of my blood bit by bit, I'm still left with a flaky brain and a tendency to be less than normal in my behavior (not that I ever really was in the first place). Depression saps my motivation. Anxiety paralyzes me and compels me to run into the arms of the many sources of procrastination which I've discovered. And brain fog sees to it that, on those rare occasions when I have both the motivation and the confidence to work, every word written or edited is... is, um... What was I going to say, again?

Oh, right. It's a struggle. That's what I was going to say. Except I was going to use much better words and some kind of original metaphor to make myself sound clever.

Anyways, you probably get the picture by now. Whatever flaws I might have had as a "normal" person are exacerbated (though not caused) by all the stuff going on in my brain and the rest of my body. Where I might have once been a little nervous about sending someone a message after extensive silence between us, now I tend to avoid conversations altogether just so I won't have to deal with my brain saying, "But what if they don't want to talk to you? What if they want to talk to you but you're not interesting enough? No, don't say that or they'll think -- uggggghhhhh, why on earth did you say that? That was the stupidest possible way to answer that question. Just close the chat window and run away to watch Netflix with me and never try to talk to people again." Where I might have been a little flustered to see that someone challenged my strongly held belief (oh, woe of all woes), now I panic and have to resist the urge not to lash out or dissolve into tears over the perceived rejection of my point of view.

In fact, if I were to believe everything my addled brain tells me in an average day, I would believe myself to be the:

1. Least reliable
2. Most irrational
3. Laziest
4. Most cowardly
5. Most ignorant
6. Least interesting
7. Most awkward
8. Most annoying
9. Clingiest
10. Most paranoid
11. Most temperamental

...person in the world.

So why, out of all the ~7 billion people on this planet, would anyone choose to look at me and want to model their lives and behavior after mine?

I have no idea how many people out there actually look up to me and how many just say so to be nice. I don't know what I look like from the outside, any more than most of the people I meet know how I see myself from the inside. The truth is, most -- if not all -- of us are our own harshest critics. It's easy to look at someone you admire and think, "Wow, they've really got their lives together," because they have a nicer car than you, a larger group of friends, or a Bible that's a lot more heavily highlighted than yours.

But I don't live inside your head. I don't know what thoughts cross your mind as you roll out of bed in the morning, what you notice first when you appraise yourself in the mirror. I don't know whether your comfort in social situations is natural or whether you're just really good at faking it. For all I know, if I compared my list of my own perceived flaws with the one you've made for yourself, yours might be just as long or even longer.

And yet if neither of us ever took a gander at the other's list, we would never know. We would probably just hide our lists behind our backs, smile and laugh pleasantly, and pretend we never felt insecure about anything in our lives.

And most likely, we would believe each other. Because even as we're aware that everyone is human and you should never judge a book by its cover, still we do it every day.

In fact, I believe this happens a lot, especially in this digital age where nearly everyone is on various social networks, posting and tweeting and snapchatting all the most interesting parts of their lives to everyone else. We spend ages searching for the perfect profile photo, then touch it up a little just to make ourselves look a little better and more put together. We take a few extra moments before posting our statuses to make sure everything is worded in a way that will make us look as clever, spiritual, funny, [insert preferred descriptor here] as possible. Everything gets filtered through our own ideas about what people like or don't like about us and what we could do or say to make them like us more. And the more we use that filter, the more impressive we appear, and the less our insecurities show through to anyone observing us.

This phenomenon also occurs in face-to-face interactions, though, not just online. Isn't it only human, after all, to want to be the best version of yourself that you can be? And if you can't be perfect, you might as well try to make others think you are, right?

But no-one is perfect. We all come with our own baggage, our own insecurities about who we are, what we are, and how other people view us. Listen, it doesn't matter how amazing and confident and put-together someone looks on the outside -- everyone, from your next-door-neighbor to the guy sleeping on a park bench to the celebrity whose face you have as your phone's wallpaper, has insecurities. Their life might seem perfect, but they have bad days, too. They just might not air them out for everyone else to see, or if those days do come to light, it usually wasn't their desire to allow that.

That's a big part of why the idea of being a celebrity is frankly terrifying to me. Because you get little to no privacy. As a living, breathing human being with a beating heart and a brain capable of forming thoughts and emotions, you have insecurities just like everyone else. The difference is that, when you're a celebrity, everyone is watching you. Everyone expects you to be perfect, and they're constantly looking to you for inspiration on everything from their hairstyles and clothing to getting ahead in their careers and having the best relationships possible.

And if you fall short of their expectations, everyone is disappointed. Everyone looks at you and shakes their head and says, "How could you? You aren't supposed to mess up like that. You're a role model -- you should know better."

And right there, that is why the idea of being anyone's role model scares me. Because I'm not perfect. I'm not even good at pretending to be perfect. The closest thing I can do is to try and behave as normally and respectably as possible and apologize when I mess up, hoping beyond hope that everyone will forgive me when I inevitably slip up and disappoint or hurt them in some way.

Because it happens. Always. The people who love me unconditionally stick with me anyways no matter how much I let them down, but that doesn't mean I never do anything that falls short of their expectations for my behavior. I can't help it. I am human, and I am flawed, and no-one is more aware of this fact than I am.

Well, I suppose there is one person -- the only perfect person who has ever lived or ever will live.

You know where I'm going with this, don't you? The only perfect human ever to walk the face of the earth since the first humans committed their original sin is Jesus Christ. He was fully human, but was -- and is -- also fully God. God knows everything and everyone. And on top of that, you know what I went and did when I was a kid? I asked Him to come into my life and pay the price for all my sins and stupid mistakes, to work in me and make up for the imperfection that has always been a part of me. So I don't even get the luxury of pretending that no-one knows what I've done or what makes me feel insecure, because He's right there in my heart (figuratively speaking), and He's around all the time, nudging me when I'm headed the wrong way, and waiting patiently for me to come back to Him when I disregard His directions and take the crooked path anyways. He's so thoroughly perfect and patient and all the things that I am not, and just thinking about it makes me a little weak in the knees, because how am I ever supposed to match up to that?

Here's the simple answer: I'm not. Well, of course He wants me to try. But I will fail, because I am human, because I am me, and anyone looking to be exactly like me in every way will either fail in the same ways or be disillusioned when they see me stumble. Anything good they see in me is not really mine, but rather is the result of Jesus standing with me, holding me up when I'm weak, telling me which way to go when I feel thoroughly lost.

But maybe that's been the point all along. Maybe it's not about what people see in me so much as it's about what they see through me. I fall short of perfection daily (strike that -- multiple times a day), but Jesus is still with me, and even when I don't see it or try to forget it, He's shaping me and the course of my life to accomplish His purpose, even when I'm not being particularly cooperative about it. He works all things together for good, even my laundry list of flaws and insecurities that I try so desperately to hide behind my back.

Well, I'm airing a few of them now. And my desire is that when you see me open up about my life and some of the areas where I fall short, you aren't disillusioned by my broken nature. Instead, I want people to look at me and see Christ's light shining through all the dark cracks in my soul that mark me as the damaged creature that I am.

Because that's the gist of it, digressors. Jesus is the ultimate role model, the one person worth emulating in His entirety. If you see Christ-like attributes in people you know, by all means strive to adopt them, but not because a fallible human possesses them. Rather, do it because what you see in them reflects Jesus and His pure perfection. Lift the weary when they fall, not because a celebrity you like helped that one person one time, but because "what you do unto the least of these, you do unto Me." (Matthew 25:40) Be "merciful and gracious, slow to anger and plenteous in mercy" (Psalm 103:8), not merely because your one friend has a skill for it, but because that's how Jesus is and how He wants you to be. Be honest and sincere, and "whatsoever you do, do it heartily, as doing it unto the Lord, and not unto men" (Colossians 3:23), because this isn't about other people, right? It's about Jesus and trying to emulate Him, in recognition of the fact that He has never failed and never will.

Will it be easy? Probably not. Will you mess up? Most definitely.

But in this way, when someone does choose you as a role model (because let's face it, even though you're not perfect, God designed you to be pretty amazing and someone out there is bound to recognize it), they won't just see your mistakes or some front you've put up to make yourself look good. They'll see your imperfections, true, but they'll also see how God uses those imperfections to bless others around you, and that will encourage them to go to the source, to the ultimate role model you so openly emulate.

This is, ultimately, my goal. It might seem incongruous, but as proud as I am, as strong as the instinct may be to stuff all my imperfections into a trunk and shove it into the back of a closet somewhere, ultimately I hope people understand just how imperfect I am. I hope they see that I have...

1. Bad days (but He gets me through them)
2. Insecurities (but He works through me anyways)
3. Temptations (but He always offers a way out and forgives me when I fail)
4. Bad habits (but He motivates me to attempt change, even if it's a slow, bumpy process)
5. Fears (but He gives me courage)
6. Weaknesses (but He gives me strength)
7. Misgivings (but He encourages me to forgive)
8. Doubts (but He gives clarity)

...and that if they consider me to be any kind of role model, it's really not me they're seeing. It's my Savior and the continual work He is doing in me (and in those around me) to make me more like Himself and show His love and goodness to those around me.

And, dear digressor, if He can work through me, an overly emotional, depressed, anxious, bitter, often disturbed human being... what might He do through you?

"I am crucified with Christ:

nevertheless I live; yet not I,

but Christ liveth in me;

and the life which I now live in the flesh

I live by the faith of the Son of God

who loved me,

and gave Himself for me."

Galatians 2:20 (KJV)

An Open Letter to Those Who Feel Left Behind

(Hey, fellow digressors -- I'm alive! I bet you were starting to wonder, huh? I've actually had this post mostly written for a while, but I'm only posting it now. Sorry about that. Just so you know, I do intend to address the short story situation, as well. And I'm sorry if the formatting is off; I'm using the Blogger app on my phone. That will probably drive me crazy until I can get to my laptop and fix it. Sorry, OCD/OCPD people; I never meant to cause you pain... *ahem* But I digress. 

[UPDATE: I fixed it! Yay! ...I shall let you read now.]) 

You're not sure when it started, exactly. Life was normal -- even if it wasn't always perfect, it was fairly predictable. Then something started to change. Maybe a friend moved to a different state or went off to college. Maybe a sibling went off and got married. Maybe you were diagnosed with a long-term illness. Whatever it was, when it came, you thought you would learn to deal with it. You and that friend would keep in touch often, the sibling would meet with you for lunch once a week, and all your friends assured you that your illness would not change anything between you. You exchanged e-mail addresses, agreed upon an ideal day of the week on which to meet, and started treatment for that illness, confident (or at least hopeful) that things would return to normal soon. 

But sometime between then and now, something has shifted. You no longer feel the security you once did. You don't hear as much from that friend or that sibling, or you find yourself incapable of fulfilling what most people consider to be basic tasks. Oh, sure, all around you life goes on. But somehow you just don't feel like you're part of it. You've begun to feel disconnected from your friend or sibling, or you feel stuck in a rut of lying in bed all day while everyone else works, goes to school, gets married, or just keeps chugging away at [insert ideal "normal activity" here]. 

And here you are, standing (or sitting, or lying) right where you were when it all started, stuck. Fading into the background. Left behind. 

This letter is for you. 

On August 28th, 2012, I rode with my mom to a doctor's appointment. In my lap, I held a notebook, and on my way to see the doctor, I scribbled all the symptoms I could think of that had plagued me for the past couple of years. I can remember a few of the items now: Fatigue. Brain fog. Memory problems. Arthritis. Muscle aches. Depression. Sensitivity to light. The list went on. Part of me thought it was ridiculous, that at least some of these symptoms had to be in my head. There were too many, and no-one had fully explained them. 

Well, I supposed, someone had. Upon describing some of my symptoms to a friend, they asked if we had investigated the possibility of Lyme Disease. Being a chronic Lymie herself, she was well-acquainted with the disease and even knew who we could visit to get it tested. By then, I had been through several tests, most of them involving blood work, one of them involving electrodes stuck to my chest for a day to measure my heartrate. Although this physician was fairly new to us, we figured that we might as well visit him and try to get some answers. And anyways, his blood tests only involved a prick of the finger rather than a needle stuck into the arm, and for me, the less invasive the needle, the better. (Needles. Blech. I can't even type the word without shuddering.) 

So we walked into the small practice where the doctor worked, and I held tight to the list of things that had plagued me over the recent months and years (more specifically, the past year and a half). We walked into his office and sat down, asked our questions, and I handed my lengthy list over to him. I remember that he told me the list was consistent with Lyme, but of course he would have to check my blood to make sure. I held out my hand, and he pricked my finger and smeared a drop of blood onto a glass slide. I had to look away, of course. I've never been good with blood. 

As you've probably figured out by now, it wasn't a normal test, where you take vials of blood and ship them off to a lab and test for a hundred different strands of disease. This was much simpler. You take the blood and put it under a dark field microscope, and then observe the cell activity and look for parasites. (And believe me, it is effective. It's just different, is all.) The doctor took a look, then switched on a small television set connected to the microscope, indicated all the telltale signs in the bloodstream, and confirmed our suspicions. 

I had Lyme Disease. And by his estimation (combined with our own accounts of when my symptoms had become noticeable), I'd had it for about a year and a half already without treatment. So not only did I have Lyme, but it was late-stage, chronic, and had gotten into my brain and nervous system, wreaking havoc there. 

Strangely, when I got the diagnosis, I did not panic. I did not cry. I did not even wonder much about how this might impact my life in the near future. I just thanked the doctor, went to the car with Mom, and while she stepped into a grocery store, I sat in the car and vented my thoughts and feelings into a document on my iPad as I came to terms with my new identity: 

"I have Lyme disease.

I have been diagnosed with Lyme disease.

I am a Lyme patient.

I am a Lyme sufferer.

I know what's wrong with me.

I know why I've been sick for the past two years.

I know why I've had to quit karate.

I know why my peanut allergy has become life-threatening.

I know why dairy makes my stomach upset, and gluten makes my head heavy.

I know why I'm depressed.

I know why my liver is on the verge of collapse.

It's not my fault.

I have Lyme disease.

I know why a debilitating fatigue sometimes sweeps over me, making it impossible to work.

I know why I'm always sick.

I know the name of my disease, the name of my tormentor.

I have answers.

I have closure.

I have peace.

I have Lyme disease."

In my eyes, at that moment, everything was a little brighter. Sure, I was sick, but we would soon make the illness go away, and I could return to life as normal. I would keep going to church and drama ministry group, and soon I would be able to help around the house again without ending up on the couch. People would look at me no differently from before, and within a few months, I would be normal again. 

Two and a half years later, still Lyme-ridden and depressed, anxious, foggy, etc., I've begun to feel stuck. I'll admit it. Yes, when I really think about it, I can point to ways that my illness has blessed me even as I've suffered from it. It's mellowed me, made me care more, and forced me to slow down and take things one day at a time. It's given me no option but to trust God with all that I have and am, and it's taught me to reach out to others and not wallow in my own problems (though I can't say I always succeed in this). 

But I am not perfect. I am human. I have a mind that likes to twist everything and make me feel all the things that are least helpful to my recovery or to my ability to serve God. I have a body that gives out on me randomly and nerves that wreak havoc with my ability to function in public or even sometimes at home. I smile to the world, while inside I'm just hoping and praying that soon I will find relief. I walk into stores, and people stare at my cane, then look away when they realize I've seen them. I throw myself into helping with a project, then try to avoid people's frustrated gazes when five minutes later I have to retreat to my room to collapse. I tell others to hold on and find hope in God, while inwardly I'm screaming and pleading with God to give me even a glimmer of that hope which I pray I've been able to pass on to others. 

Oftentimes, I feel alone. I feel scared and tired and hopeless. Sometimes I stare at my bottles of supplements and just think, "Why am I still taking these? I've been taking them for years, and I'm still sick. It's still costing my family money. What's the point?" 

And when my mind takes that turn, it also likes to dwell upon all the things I haven't done. I wanted to go to college. I'm too sick to go and probably wouldn't have the necessary concentration, either, even if my treatments hadn't made finances complicated. I pictured myself as a stay-at-home mom. I guess at this point I'm open to marriage, but since I'm almost never out in public, I've sort of accepted that men are unlikely to notice me (not that this is an entirely bad thing; being single leaves a lot of opportunities open), and I'm not sure I'd be able-bodied enough to keep up with the responsibilities involved in having my own household, much less in having and caring for kids. I want to get a job and be able to contribute to the family finances so I don't feel like a freeloader. Well, I do have a job, but it's not all that lucrative, and since it's basically freelance work, it's not all that regular of a paycheck, either. 

And then I look around me at all the people who are moving on with their lives and doing all these great things for God and others, and I feel left out. I feel invisible. 

I feel very left behind. 

Maybe you've been there. Maybe you still are there, and it hurts. You wish you didn't feel this way. You see others in situations worse than yours and feel like a whiner if you so much as open your mouth about your own problems. Part of you knows and understands that not everyone does life at the same pace and that it's fine for others to move on with their lives while yours is apparently in intermission. 

But then there's another part of you that wants to run after everyone and yell, "Stop! Wait for me! I don't want to be left out anymore!" 

I guess what Theodore Roosevelt said is true: "Comparison is the thief of joy." 

I know it's hard not to compare our lives to others' when we feel stuck and miserable, but it really gets us nowhere. For me, it just makes my depression worse and makes me want to try less. 

But for me, at least, at the heart of all this comparison is not necessarily jealousy or anger, though those do play their roles. For me, it's more that I feel like everyone else is doing what they're supposed to be doing, and I am somehow inadequate. I should be moving on and pushing through all my difficulties. Yes, I try to serve God where I am in the ways I can manage, but some part of me feels like that doesn't matter when I can't keep up with the everyday stuff that everyone else is doing. 

Okay. Let's stop right there. Enough of my pity party. What does the Bible have to say about this? 

"For all things are for your sakes, that the abundant grace might through the thanksgiving of many redound to the glory of God. 

For which cause we faint not; but though our outer man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day. 

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; 

While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal." 

- 2 Corinthians 4:15-18 

Sometimes life is hard. Crazily hard. Unbearably so. Sometimes people get busy, health declines, and things start to look bleak. Sometimes you find yourself standing on the tracks, staring after the train of life as it pulls out of the station, and wonder why you didn't catch it in time. But God will make a way. Even if that way means trudging through the wilderness with sweat pouring from your brow, and even if no-one else you know takes exactly the same route or shares in your struggles, God will be there to help you keep moving at the proper pace (not the one everyone else is keeping), and He will give you rest when you finally reach the destination He has ordained for you. Maybe you can't see it now, but remember: Things are always harder to see clearly from a distance. When you get there, it will all become clear, and the struggle will be worth it. 

Recently I discussed marriage and parenthood with my mom, and expressed to her how unnerved I was by the idea of enduring childbirth. I mean, yeah, if I do get married, kids would be nice, but there has to be a reason why mothers scream and cry and curse the day they met their husbands as they bring their children into the world. She told me (not word-for-word, because I have a terrible memory), "When the labor is over, and they lay this cute little baby in your arms, and you realize that it came from you and your husband, the pain is left behind, and you wouldn't trade a moment of it for the world." 

So next time life gets hard and you feel left behind, just hang on and keep pressing forward. Don't worry about the pace; you'll get there eventually. You may not like where you are right now, but with God's help, you will reach your destination, and never again will you be left behind. 

Like A River Glorious

Hey there, fellow digressors. So today (or, well, yesterday, since I'm posting this after midnight), I went to church. Shocking, I know. What on earth was I doing in church on Sunday, of all days? Well, besides watching a video about Noah's Ark (put out by Answers in Genesis; they're awesome) and sitting through a slightly different (but still good) sermon by a local missionary, we sang the song that the church in general has set to memorizing over the past several weeks: 'Like A River Glorious'. During Family School (which is like Sunday School, except with the whole family together), one of the pastor's sons told us the story of the hymn's author, Frances R. Havergal. She wrote several hymns, actually, including the popular 'Take My Life and Let It Be', 'Who Is on the Lord's Side', and 'I Gave My Life for Thee'. 

While her hymns are beautiful and inspirational, and her life story is fascinating, the part that leapt out at me was the account of how she once became very ill -- with a severe cold that caused inflammation of the lungs -- and, upon being told that her life was in danger, exclaimed, "If I am really going, it is too good to be true!" 

That seems a little off, doesn't it? When you find out you're within an inch of your life, you're supposed to panic. You're supposed to gasp and cry and frantically look for any way of prolonging your life a little further. Such news is supposed to rock your world. It's only natural. 

But the peace of God is far beyond natural. It is supernatural. 

I know this because I have been in Ms. Havergal's approximate position before. 

No, I've never faced a doctor and been told I might die. I was once informed that I had a chronic illness that would take years to beat, but it's not bad enough to be fatal. But... Well, maybe the best way to explain it would be to tell you a story. It's a story I've lived several times over the past few years. It goes down a little differently each time, but there are some common characteristics, enough that I feel I can share a relatively accurate account with you now. It'll be somewhat fictionalized, since no two instances are exactly the same, but here goes. 

It was a day like any other. The sun rose long before I did, as did most of the people in the house. Physical pain was either faint or nonexistent, but I awoke tired and sluggish. I dragged myself out of bed, grabbed my trusty cane -- which I often call my "buddy," not to be confused with Sohrem -- and made my way down the stairs. My feet dragged a little, but with much concentration, I managed to avoid tripping or making it too visible. I spotted our dog, Mia, nearby and leaned down to pet her before going to the refrigerator and looking for something to eat. There was plenty available, but the slight churning of my temperamental stomach warned me off of anything too strong. I would have to find something non-threatening to feed it. 

My gaze fell on a carton of almond milk, some farm-fresh eggs, and some maple syrup, and I pulled out these ingredients to make an egg nog. I noticed throughout the process that every move required a bit more strength than usual, and as I finally mixed everything together, a flash of heat went through me. That didn't bode well. I quickly rinsed off the stir-stick, put away the various ingredients, took a sip of the egg nog, and grabbed my buddy. I took a moment to check my pocket. Yep, my phone was there. Good. That was one less thing to find before I crashed. 

I reached the stairs, set the rubber grip of the cane against the first step, and thrust downwards, then dragged my foot up onto the step beside it. Another step, another thrust, another foot grazing the step as it passed over the top. This might have been simpler if my mind didn't insist on counting the stairs and stepping in a certain sequence on the way up. It was hard enough taking the steps in the first place -- counting them and insisting on taking them in a certain way? Come on. 

A wave of heat passed over me again, and my legs started to get shaky. I gritted my teeth and thrust again, and a faint groan escaped as I scaled the next step. I'd have to be careful not to slip -- a tumble down the stairs would not end well. A little while longer of doing this, and I reached the top, and walked across flat ground again. Finally. 

My walking had almost turned into plain old tripping by this point, and I managed to grip the doorframe with the same hand that was holding my buddy without losing hold of either. Just a few more steps. A few steps, and I could lie down. I took a second to be thankful that my family helped me haul most of the junk out of my room a few months ago. There were fewer things to trip me without it. I made it to the bed and had to work hard not to fully collapse onto it. I took a seat, then hauled the cup of egg nog to my lips and took a sip. My arm begged for relief almost before I got any of the sweet liquid into my mouth. I slumped a bit and set the cup on a hard surface nearby, then let myself collapse onto the bed. Great. I'd only been here for a second, and already my body had decided that this was where I would live out the rest of my life. I always was an ambitious sort, I supposed. Maybe there were worse things to do with my life than lie in bed all the time. 

Well, drinking that egg nog I made for myself would also be nice, but the inches between me and the cup seemed to have stretched into miles. No way would I be drinking out of that anytime soon. 

The next half hour was spent mostly in staring at the ceiling. There was a faint fluttering in my chest, and breathing evenly took concentration. Funny how these things I learned to do so well as a baby and a toddler seemed like Olympic events to be championed now that all my energy had been drained out of me. 

The bed vibrated. I blinked and turned my head, and after a moment determined the source of the buzzing. The phone in my pocket was ringing. Uh-oh. I took a second to muster strength, then dragged my hand along the bed beside me and hauled the heavy device from my pocket. Another moment's concentration, and I hit the green phone button and pulled my phone to my ear. "Hello?" 

"Hey." Mom's voice. She sounded like she was at the store. 

My tongue felt impossibly thick, but I managed to make it move. "Hey," I slurred. 

"How're you doing?" 

"Um... A little worn out." Ha. That wasn't an understatement at all. "It's a low-energy day." 

"Oh, no. Have you eaten?" 

"I made an egg nog. What's up?" 

"Jonathan and I are out running some errands. Do you know if we're out of almond milk?" 

Almond milk. I forced my scrambled brain to recall how much liquid had been in the carton downstairs. "I think we're getting low." I swallowed and tried to combat the slur that blurred my words together. "Unless we have some outside. Do you know?" 

"I'm not sure. I'd probably better get some just in case." 

"'Kay." The fluttering in my chest got worse, and I forced my lungs to draw a breath long enough to speak again. "Mom, I've gotta go. It's hard to talk." 

"Okay. Call me if you need anything, okay?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"I love you." 

"Love you, too." 

The line went dead, and I pressed the red 'off' button before dropping the phone. Its landing sent another vibration through the mattress beneath me, but I didn't care. I was too busy breathing. I closed my eyes and focused. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. That's all it takes. 

Now if my heart would have just stopped fluttering, I might have actually been able to sit up and do something. Breathe. 

A thousand items from my to-do list flashed through my mind, and tears bit the corners of my eyes. How was I supposed to write anything or even pick up something off of my bedroom floor when it took a feat of strength just to breathe normally? I felt like I was dying. Keep breathing. 

Maybe I was dying. I'd heard of people dying from Lyme-related complications before. They had heart attacks or some such thing -- I couldn't remember all the different anecdotes, but they were out there. They really happened. What if I turned out to be one of those people? Air in, air out. Goodness, this is hard. 

Of course, logic told me that I probably wasn't dying. I had these attacks every few weeks, if they even had the courtesy to wait that long, and I was still here. I was still breathing, even if it took a lot of effort. And that fluttering in my chest told me that my frail heart was still beating. A normal doctor would probably do a check-up on me and tell me there was nothing wrong. 

But then again... what if I was dying? What if I was wrong this time? Would I ever muster the strength to get out of bed again? 

I took a moment to take stock of my emotions. They were a little hard to gauge, as the concentration it took just to breathe detracted from everything else, but I didn't feel particularly afraid. A little bit, sure. I was worried for my family. How would they react if I never came downstairs? Would they have to rush me to the emergency room? Would they think I'd done something to myself? Given my history of psychological issues, the idea of being found in my room unconscious or otherwise unable to communicate terrified me. I'd at least want to be able to explain what had really happened. 

But at the same time... I was okay. And that didn't really make a lot of sense. But when I thought hard about it, I realized that whatever happened, it would be okay. Of course, I didn't want to upset anyone, and I definitely wanted to get up out of bed and check off those items on my to-do list. I wanted to greet Mom when she came home. I wanted to help her carry in the groceries, carry on a normal conversation with her and the rest of my family, get out of the house and live a normal life again. I didn't really remember what having a "normal" life was like anymore, but it had to be simpler than lying there struggling to breathe and contemplating my immediate life expectancy. 

I looked up at the ceiling again. Talking was out of the question, but at least I could pray silently. God, help. Wow. My thoughts were so articulate. I focused on dragging up the proper words to use. I'm really tired. If You want me to get up again, please give me the energy. And if You don't, please help my family be okay. I've gotta admit, Heaven sounds really good right about now, but I also still want to do some stuff for You down here. So it's Your call. I trust You. 

And with that, I felt calmer. My situation had not changed. I still lay in bed, focusing intently on drawing life-giving breath, heart fluttering in my chest. I still couldn't reach the egg nog nearby, and I still dreaded the idea of having to talk again. 

But I knew it would be okay, one way or the other. 

It would be hours before I had enough energy to do anything productive, besides what could be accomplished by hauling out my cell phone or iPad, but eventually breathing became easier, and the fluttering stopped. I heard noises outside my room, indicating someone had come home. The idea of getting up still wasn't appealing, but it appeared I had made it through another day. I felt a bit silly for being so melodramatic throughout the incident, but it really had been crippling. Still, you would think I'd learn after the first dozen or so energy crashes. 

It has been three and a half years since I contracted Lyme disease, and over two years since I received my diagnosis and began treatment, and these attacks are still a normal part of my life. I have attacks of other varieties, too. Depression, anxiety, neuropathy, restless leg syndrome, OCD, chronic fatigue, and other issues all play a part in my everyday routine. I battle them constantly. And I have little doubt that, if I had to battle them alone, I would lose. But the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, keeps my heart and mind in Christ Jesus. To say I do not struggle to feel that peace sometimes would be a blatant lie. I struggle just like everyone else. I have moments of terror, despair, and hopelessness. But in those moments, I can hold to the hope that I have a God who loves me and will never abandon me, even when life seems impossible to bear, or even when it seems like I might not have much life left at all. The peace of God truly does surpass all understanding, and overcomes everything else when it matters most. 

Little wonder, then, that Ms. Havergal penned the words, "Stayed upon Jehovah, heart are fully blest, finding, as He promised, perfect peace and rest." 

Turmoil and pain are a normal part of life, whether you have a chronic illness or are completely healthy, believer or otherwise, wealthy or impoverished. But as believers, we can take comfort in the fact that, when we reach rock bottom, when we feel like we have nothing left, God's perfect peace is ever-flowing, and sustains us in the face of everything else. 

And beyond all this, I know that somewhere down the road, whether it's in fifty years or five, or even next week, when God calls me home, I will have peace. This fatigued, degenerate body is only a temporary dwelling. None of these trials are permanent. Even if the Lyme never goes away, even if I struggle with these trials for the rest of my mortal life, I will find freedom in Christ and in His salvation. 

"Now this I say, brethren, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God; neither doth corruption inherit incorruption.

Behold, I shew you a mystery; We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed,

In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall all be changed.

For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality.

So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory.

O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?

The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law.

But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.

Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord."

1 Corinthians 15:50-58, KJV

----------------------------------------------------------------

"Like a river glorious, is God's perfect peace

Over all victorious, in its bright increase;

Perfect, yet it floweth fuller every day

Perfect, yet it groweth deeper all the way.

Stayed upon Jehovah, hearts are fully blest

Finding, as He promised, perfect peace and rest.

Hidden in the hollow of His blessed hand,

Never foe can follow, never traitor stand;

Not a surge of worry, not a shade of care,

Not a blast of hurry touch the spirit there.

(Refrain)

Every joy or trial falleth from above, 
Traced upon our dial by the Sun of Love;

We may trust Him fully all for us to do.

They who trust Him wholly find Him wholly true.

(Refrain)"

'Like A River Glorious', by Frances R. Havergal

Depression and the Psalms

Hey there, fellow digressors. Recently, a friend and I admitted that we had been slacking with our Bible-reading, so I've purposed to read five Psalms each day. (Obviously, that plan will have to change a little when I get to Psalm 119.) Yesterday, I read Psalms 6-10. One of them really got to me, and I thought I would share it here:

"O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither chasten me in thy hot displeasure.

Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed.

My soul is also sore vexed: but thou, O Lord, how long?

Return, O Lord, deliver my soul: oh save me for thy mercies' sake.

For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the grave who shall give thee thanks?

I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.

Mine eye is consumed because of grief; it waxeth old because of all mine enemies.

Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity; for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.

The Lord hath heard my supplication; the Lord will receive my prayer.

Let all mine enemies be ashamed and sore vexed: let them return and be ashamed suddenly."

Psalm 6, KJV

"Well," you might say, "that's a rather depressing scripture to share. Is there a point to this?" I'm glad you asked. Here's the thing: I think this psalm is just about the most accurate portrait of faith-filled depression I've seen in a long time. And it was written millennia before clinical depression became a widely-accepted illness, before there were support groups and social networks where people could share their stories and compare notes on their struggles. Did King David have clinical depression? Who knows? But the Psalms have always been a great encouragement for myself and for others who struggle with depression. 

Okay, wait -- let me back up for a second here to clarify: Yes, I do have depression. I've never gone in for a medical diagnosis, but given its persistence, its recurrence, and its correlation to my Lyme timeline (I started having depression problems around the time I started having health problems, and it gets worse at times where it would make sense for Lyme-related symptoms to worsen), my guess is that it is clinical. It's not something I generally broadcast to the world. In fact, it's something that I tend to hide as much as possible. Depression is an isolating illness, and has this way of convincing you that you're alone in your problems, and that you should be. 

Let's just say a depressed brain is not a normal brain. At all. 

Also, I should clarify the differences between feeling depressed and having depression. If something bad happens and your mood takes a turn for the worse, and you have depression symptoms in the short term only, it's generally not indicative of a clinical problem. For example, if I'm generally happy/normal, but my dog gets hit by a car and I cry for a while then get on with my life, I probably am not clinically depressed. On the other hand, if my dog gets hit, and I start to internalize about the situation, blame myself, cry a lot, and my depressed mood lasts a long time without letting up much, there might be a problem. (Not to minimize the trials of people who aren't clinically depressed; your problems are perfectly legitimate. It's just that pain tends to be processed differently by depression sufferers as opposed to "normal" people. We're not as good at getting past things or accepting that things aren't our fault.) 

Generally speaking, if your depression symptoms persist for longer than two weeks, it is considered indicative of some chemical imbalance that needs to be dealt with. Some of the symptoms, according to the CDC, include: 

- Depressed/sad mood 
- Diminished interest in activities which used to be pleasurable 
- Weight gain or loss 
- Psychomotor agitation or retardation (either restlessness or a slowing-down of thoughts and movements due to stress and/or sadness/depression) 
- Fatigue 
- Inappropriate guilt 
- Difficulties concentrating 
- Recurrent thoughts of death 

According to the American Psychiatric Association (in the article I linked to above), five or more of these symptoms must persist for at least two weeks to constitute a diagnosis of depression. Anything less might still be a problem, and especially if you are having recurring thoughts of death, I recommend you talk to someone you trust IMMEDIATELY, whether you fully meet these criteria or not, but officially, this is what it takes to be diagnosed with clinical depression. 

When people hear "depression," they tend to get a certain picture in their mind. A common idea might be that depressed people wear dark clothing, cry a lot in public, engage in some kind of self-harm, and probably have at least considered killing themselves, if they haven't actually tried. There is a lot of stigma involved. But the truth is, most people with depression might look and act normal. They might go to parties, laugh at your jokes, and even get good grades in school. They can be the most devout people you know. They might have never harmed themselves, and it's almost certain that most of them will not openly discuss their struggles with you. And in fact, many people with depression never attempt suicide. You could know them for years and have no idea of their problems, and it would be perfectly understandable. 

There is also a popular opinion floating around that says people who have depression, self-harm, and/or attempt suicide must not be Christians, and must have chosen to be the way they are. If they would just read their Bibles, pray a little more, trust God more, then all their problems would go away. They could be happy, productive people again if they would just try a little harder. 

To combat this idea, I will refer you back to Psalm 6. Or almost any of the Psalms, for that matter. 

"Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me; for my bones are vexed.

My soul is also sore vexed: but thou, O Lord, how long?

Return, O Lord, deliver my soul: oh save me for thy mercies' sake.

For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the grave who shall give thee thanks?

I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to swim; I water my couch with my tears.

Mine eye is consumed because of grief; it waxeth old because of all mine enemies."

Psalm 6:2-6, KJV

King David, one of the great men of the Bible (though he was still human and certainly imperfect), struggled with depression (though whether it was clinical or not, I couldn't say), and was not afraid to admit it. He says plainly that he is weary of groaning, that he makes his bed swim and his couch wet with his tears all night. He is worn down by his trials and pleads for relief. This can be found elsewhere in the Psalms; for example, in Psalm 42: 

"As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God.

My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?

My tears have been my meat day and night, while they continually say to me, Where is thy God?

When I remember these things, I pour out my soul in me: for I had gone with the multitude, I went with them to the house of God, with the voice of joy and praise, with a multitude that kept holyday.

Why art thou cast down, O my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance."

Psalm 42:1-5, KJV

Whoa, hold up there. We just heard David express how his soul is cast down within him, how he no longer takes as much joy in going to worship with others, and cries day and night. But did you catch what else he said? "My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God." "Hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise him for the help of his countenance." And in Psalm 6, he said something else:

"Depart from me, all ye workers of iniquity; for the Lord hath heard the voice of my weeping.

The Lord hath heard my supplication; the Lord will receive my prayer."

Psalm 6:7-8, KJV

Time and time again, the psalmist contrasts his own struggles, his own weaknesses with God's strength, faithfulness, and glory. Does he suffer? Absolutely. Does he stumble and fall? That much seems clear. Does he ever feel hopeless, abandoned, and guilty? Does he plead fervently with God for deliverance? Yes, he does. 

But he also turns all that pain, all those trials and all that desperation around to praise God. He trusts in Him, even when life is hard, even when the world has turned on him and everything within him wants to give up. 

"In thee, O Lord, do I put my trust: let me never be put to confusion.

Deliver me in thy righteousness, and cause me to escape: incline thine ear unto me, and save me.

Be thou my strong habitation, whereunto I may continually resort: thou hast given commandment to save me; for thou art my rock and my fortress.

Deliver me, O my God, out of the hand of the wicked, out of the hand of the unrighteous and cruel man.

For thou art my hope, O Lord God: thou art my trust from my youth.

By thee I have been holden up from the womb: thou art he that took me out of my mother's bowels: my praise shall be continually of thee.

I am as a wonder unto many: but thou art my strong refuge.

Let my mouth be filled with thy praise and with thy honour all the day."

Psalm 70:1-8, KJV

The hardest thing about depression is that it paralyzes you. There are a million things you want to do, and about as many that you know you need to do, but it keeps you frozen or just slows you down so that it doesn't seem worth it to try. It tells you that you're alone, and that you shouldn't bother other people with your problems. It makes you feel guilty more than you should, might make you lash out and give more cause for guilt, and overall it just makes life not seem to matter as much as it should. It tries to steal your joy, and can even steal from you the desire to get that joy back. It is a monster, and it is not your fault. 

If this sounds like you, please get help. No matter what "real" problems you may or may not have, if you struggle in these ways and feel like you are slipping, please talk to a parent, doctor, or a trusted friend as soon as possible. Admit that you are struggling, and don't be afraid to ask for help. There is no shame in the struggle, and Christ did not die for you just so you could beat yourself up and suffer in silence. He loves you, and He is always there, no matter what you might be feeling. And despite how it might seem, there are people out there who understand (to at least some extent) what you are going through, and are ready and willing to help. Blogs such as The Hope Movement offer support and encouragement to those suffering with depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and other difficulties, and if you are in crisis and contemplating suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 or talk to your parents or a trusted friend IMMEDIATELY. 

I won't try to tell you that if you read your Bible and pray more, your problems will magically go away. That's not how it works, at least not always. Depression has a physical side as well as a spiritual one, and if not addressed, it can eat you alive. God never promised us that we would live easy lives, that we would never be discouraged or struggle to hold on. But He did promise that He would always be there. 

"Hast thou not known? Hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? There is no searching of his understanding.

He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength.

Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall:

But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

Isaiah 40:28-31, KJV

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?

As it is written, For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter.

Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come,

Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."

Romans 8:35-39, KJV

Life is hard sometimes. But we can be sure of one thing: If we have trusted in Christ, if we have confessed our sins to Him and accepted His free gift of salvation, we are His forever. Nothing, not even depression, is enough to drive God away. Everyone else may leave, may laugh at you or accuse you of faithlessness or abuse you with their words and actions, but God will never leave. He is faithful to the end, and beyond. Even when you feel like giving up, God won't. Even when you think you are hopeless and beyond redemption, He will stand by you and give you strength to continue. Human strength fails, but God's strength never does. Depression is real, and it is crippling. But it is not the end. And if we trust in God, we can be sure that He will work everything out in the end. All will be brought around to His glory, and if we endure in His strength, we will learn and grow in ways that we could never have imagined. And that, in and of itself, is enough reason to keep fighting. 

"And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose."

Romans 8:28 KJV

"For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end."

Jeremiah 29:11, KJV

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"I remember
When my eyes were too tired to see
I remember
When I choked on my sadness and failures
And I couldn't breathe
The yoke on my shoulders was heavy, and I couldn't stand
And if only I'd reached out much sooner and taken Your hand,
I would have realized

That You were there through it all
That You were ready to pick me up whenever I'd fall
When I was weak, You were strong
And when I couldn't breathe
You were my song
Before I heard Your call
I was weak and I'd fall
But You were there through it all

I remember when my mind turned on me
And I stopped believing in Your love
I remember
When the pain was too much
And I cried and I screamed that I'd had enough
Because the night was so dark and my eyes were so blind
I was blind, but now I can see
That You were there,
There with me

Though friends may desert me
Though foes may beset me
Though the pain, it still stabs at this heart of mine
Though my spirit's not willing
And my flesh, it is weak
And I turn on myself every time
Lord, I know every time

You'll bring me through it all
And I know that You hear me
Whenever I call
When I'm weak, You are strong
You're my breath, You're my song
And You pick me up whenever I fall
Lord, You pick me up
And You carry me through it all."

'Through It All' - Original Song
(Copyright 2014 (c) by C. F. Barrows)