Foul Mood

There was a time when I thought of depression as just having a bad day. These bad days can be brought on by all sorts of maladies including a bad day at the office, getting feelings hurt in school, wishing for more than we have a right to expect. The list is endless. There is no end to the kinds of things which can confront us on a daily basis to make us wish for even the unthinkable.

I took an online quiz not long ago because I have been at a point of uselessness and listlessness that I cannot seem to shake and I began to wonder if somehow while I wasn’t looking, depression had set in (is this even possible?). I cannot recall the last time I had anything resembling a “good day” though there have surely been one or two here or there. The quiz asked some questions that threw me a little because I had somehow had a preconceived notion of what depression-related questions should look like. How this quiz evaluated my level of depression is still beyond me, but it suggested that if I have ever in the slightest way considered ending my life then I needed to consult a mental health professional “immediately”.

I cannot recall ever having suicidal thoughts, so I know I’m not there. The worst part of this whole ordeal is that I have absolutely nothing to feel sorry for myself about. There are a couple of elements in my life that I’ve allowed to slide out of control that have definitely affected my emotions and sense of guilt (feeling sorry for myself being one of them), but beyond that I have nothing that gives me the right to mope. Still I do, and I don’t know why.

My job leaves me with a severe sense of uselessness, but I am still employed and able to pay my bills. I have three healthy children who have never caused me any real grief though if I said that I never worry about them I would be lying. And today I discovered that one of my children committed a profound act of charity that, though I could easily see it coming from her, left me breathless. Though I would give her mother far more credit, I can still see that I must have done something right as her father.

I don’t take care of myself physically (and it surely shows!), but I have no major health issues. We have plenty to eat (again, consider the physical evidence!) and a solid roof over our heads. All things considered, I am blessed beyond measure and I know that the sins of my past do not allow me the right to be depressed because everything in my life is without question far more than I deserve. I sometimes think that my life is as good as it is because the Lord is looking out for my family, and I’m getting the residual effects from it.

“There but for the grace of God go I.” One would have to be completely blind to not be able (or willing) to look at the news, read a newspaper, or just take a walk downtown to see that there is misery everywhere. Somewhere someone is in extreme physical, emotional, or mental pain; these are the ones who have every right to feel bad, to feel somehow cheated, to feel as though life has dealt them a bad hand. I, on the other hand, can see all the goodness that is in my life, and I cannot seem to find a grateful thread in my hard heart. Why is it so difficult to see how blessed I truly am? Or be able to appreciate it?

I have never been much on prayer though I have no problem believing that prayer is effective. Yet there is something that keeps me from approaching the Most High because my faith tells me that He can easily see the dark spots of my soul. If this is the benevolent, wise, omnipresent, and omnipotent God who blesses anyone who would ask, why am I so afraid to approach Him?

As depression goes, I’ve always written it off because in my case there is nothing for me to feel sorry about. And because I’ve never really suffered in any real manifest way, it is virtually impossible for me to be able to appreciate what it must be like to suffer so. The few things in my life that are not quite the way I would like for them to be are just not enough to justify my lowly state, and yet I still cannot shake free from it.

My faith prevents me from seeking any kind of medical attention before I’ve even tried to pray, but one friend who is trying to help suggested that my prayer may be answered by medication. Still, a certain stigma prevents me from going in that direction. Though I have no real moral qualms about those who take medication for such (who am I to judge??), I cannot bring myself to consider it.

Hopeless? Hardly. As long as the sun keeps rising in the morning, there is always hope. As long as there is a God in heaven, there is always hope. As long as one has patient family and friends, there is always hope. I see all this and appreciate all this, and yet it is not enough.

I know that I am taking an extreme risk by posting for all to see, but in doing so I hope that maybe some kind soul will offer a perspective that might help me to see a way out of this pit I’ve managed to dig for myself. I say again: I AM NOT SUICIDAL; not even close, but I’ve been carrying this foul mood around for far too long. Why is there so much good that I can very clearly see but somehow refuse to embrace?