I’ve woken to a cloudy disposition and wearied motivation today, feeling body deep in a pocket of depression, whereby compulsions feel like my only way out. Feasts on narcotics of control, productivity, food, release, sleep, isolation, and so forth, feel like my only saving grace. And yet, God seems to be drawing me toward something more—or maybe less.

By His grace, I can only surmise, I’ve lost my voice. Never before plagued by such a condition, it’s a new state of depravity for me, as one prone to words, and “explaining” my way out-of, into, or through modes of my true self, and situation. Who am I without my voice? How do I represent myself? How do I show who I am to people, or talk my way through the pains of my soul this hour? Or could it be, that there really is another way—that really is an I beyond me without a voice, or me as an addict, or depressed saint?

I’m reviewing a couple books* on addiction and depression this month, which has shared a timely personal coinciding with some areas of addiction and depression. Not sure if one initiated the other, or vice versa, but the combination of feeling the contents I’m reading, as well as reading the contents I’m feeling, for the most part has seemed helpful (at other times, combined weights of linguistic explanation, plus experience, has seemed too much.

Depression (and its sister, Anxiety) are nothing new to me. Parts of my make-up, I would say, have battled them since I was a young girl. Given outlets (/addictions/dependencies/false lovers/idols) of hiding though (long-distance running, eating disorders, people pleasing, busyness, perfectionism…), I kept them under wraps. Given (usually virtuous) “fig leaves” of covering (see Genesis 3), I kept them at bay. By the grace of God, however, my bay hit up against an ocean not too many years ago and all prior frameworks were stripped—all previous mechanisms of strength shattered. Apart from my salvation, I’m not sure such any such collision has found me more Grateful.

Painful though it was to come face to face with realities of my soul, and true self, the more prevalent sensation was relief. No longer did I have to hide my unsteadiness. No longer did I have to inwardly defend conflicted associations with addiction, depression, or self-condemnation. No longer did I have to run from, or “run-off” the likes of exhaustion, or inadequacy, nor harbor the weights of an inward lie. As if born anew, I got to (re)start the journey of life learning to be who I really was—a saint saturated by addiction, a depressed stranger searching for Home. In the words of Gerald May, I began to realize, “To be alive is to be addicted, and to be alive and addicted is to stand in need of grace” (“Addiction and Grace,” p. 11).

Could it be that I am Loved here, forgiven here, and invited here, to a glory untold? Could it be that such silencing is a grace…such sorrow an unveiling of newfound contents, and newly experienced surrender? Could it be that where I am, just as I am, voiceless, addicted and depraved in my sainthood, is just the place Christ wants me…just the posture by which Arms have space enough draw Near…just the ineptness for which Grace has room enough to save…




Further Resources I’ve found helpful on these topics:
*No Stones": Marnie C. Ferree; "Addiction and Grace": Gerald May
"Acedia and Me": Kathleen Norris
"Kingdom Triangle": J.P. Moreland
"The Return of the Prodigal Son": Henri Nouwen
"Abba’s Child": Brennan Manning