Today my depression has been getting the best of me. I laid in bed for hour after hour having staring contests with the ceiling. I cuddled with my two stuffed giraffes, but to no avail, they could not make me smile. I pinched myself to try and feel, but I was numb and empty, and tired.
I’m so tired. Being unhealthy is exhausting; and unless I make it painfully and annoyingly obvious that I’m hurting, nobody knows. I look fine: I have pretty bad bags under my eyes, but I cover those with concealer, otherwise I’m told I look dead.
In public, blank staring into space with a terse expression and glassy dead eyes isn’t considered acceptable. So in public I try really hard to grin, and laugh, and do all the normal things, exhibiting the normal behavior. I try not to cry out in pain when my whole body begins to hurt. I try not to cry or have my biweekly existential crisis under the watch of public eye. However, in my heart and my mind I’m yearning to be free of the health constraints that so bind me: the blankness in my mind, the hurting not only in my heart, but my left knee, head, butt, foot, stomach, you name it. Welcome to fibromyalgia and bipolar disorder, I’m sure many of you can relate.
Last night, as I was co-leading the middle school girls’ small group I encountered a topic question that hit home. We were discussing how “Jesus is our teacher” and were addressing ourselves and whether we truly listened and believed in what Jesus says to us. The particular question I struggled with was; “Do you ever feel like you’re not ______ enough to do something?”. Its’ aim was self confidence in the younger girls, to know that Jesus believes they are strong, beautiful, smart, caring, etc. enough to achieve anything they put their minds to. But what about me? Sometimes I feel like I’m not healthy enough to accomplish something or things. Where is the help for me and for all of those people that suffer with me? Does Jesus think I’m healthy enough? I know it sounds like a really idiotic question and that my crises could definitely be more profound than a question scribbled down on a sheet of paper for youth leading purposes, but it got me. Most of the time I don’t feel adequate: I throw my hands in the air, let go of my internal locus of control, and either sob or become completely devoid of emotion. Where is my hope? It’s certainly not in the numerous pill bottles. I know intellectually that my hope lays with God, and healing, my family and friends; but in my heart, hope is but a small flame that life has dumped an entire bucket of water on, then rained, then cast into the great ocean devoid of emotions. The flame has been snuffed. The hope is gone. What’s left are glassy eyes and tired sighs. Ahh, I’m such a poet with my rhyming. Now, I must get going, I’m waisting my “listlessly staring off into the distance” time.