depression

How to Beat the January Blues? Don't.

Caroline Ferdinandsen — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 14:00:17 -0800

Sadness comes in all sizes. Sometimes it’s huge and powerful, a villain worthy of a heroic, medical take-down, and other times it’s just a quiet lump in the throat. Sadness can come on gradually or flash like winter lightning. It sets us up for failure, affecting both the body and spirit. It can surely be contagious.

And sometimes sadness is exactly the right thing.

Americans might believe that sadness is the negative detour that keeps us from the unrelenting prosperity and happiness we deserve. We are ashamed of it as though it reveals some weakness, and we attempt to cure it as quickly as it comes. Yet what if the role of sadness firmly belongs in the natural order of things?

So as a tribute to the month that is colder and darker than the rest, I offer some considerations:

Sadness can clear a path to God.

I wish it weren’t so, but grand, happy celebrations can drown out the quiet voice of God. In the darker hours, I listen for him because I need him desperately. Skeptics try to call it a weird psychological crutch, but children of God accept their desperation--and God’s faithful response.

Sadness is truthful.

Every person will grieve in his lifetime. Without it, we are not authentically human. Divorce, death, sickness, and sin--these not only allow for grief, but they require it. Across human history, the story of man includes his honest rituals of grief and despair. Self-medicating cannot bypass the natural order of grief; it merely postpones it.

Sadness is a paradox; it counterbalances joy.

Joy and sorrow are twins. Lebanese writer Kahil Gibran says that “joy and sorrow are inseparable. When one sits alone with you, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.” Like most opposites, we might not even grasp one without the other. Anyone who has experienced great joy has done so only with sorrow’s help. Surely God allows for both as part of our human experience.

Sadness, when it arises from our sin patterns, is appropriate.

If I screw up, fail miserably, embrace evil, violate the law, or offend my Creator, I pray that I would suffer. Sadness that washes over me because of my stupidity should be expected; without it, I might be taught a lie about truth and consequences. Before I feel sorry for myself in the Valley, I should take inventory of such things.

Sadness awakens compassion.

I recently sat with a woman in great despair who added this footnote to her sadness. “If I ever meet someone who has gone through this,” she vowed, “I will come alongside and wrap them up in my arms. I now understand it.” Unlike pain that comes from sin, some suffering allows us in the months and years to come to bear one another’s burdens. Show me someone whose life is a chronic party, and I’ll show you someone who cannot hoist his brother’s burden. He might not even notice, or worse--if he does, he might not even care.

So, January, do your bluesy, cold, foggy best to bring me down. I’m ready for it.

I Can Be a Failure: Thoughts on Christian Identity

Holly Ordway — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 17:51:30 -0800

I struggle with what I call the shadow: my name for that sudden darkening of my inner vision, the acedia or spiritual apathy, the gray and muffling pall of depression. Sometimes it is mercifully absent from my inner horizon for days or weeks; other times it is hovers, vaguely threatening, in my peripheral vision.

I’ve tried fighting back: asserting, in the face of crippling self-doubt, that I have so much evidence of my own accomplishments that the shadow is absurd. Unfortunately, the positive-thinking route does not work. It has been more effective to accept the reality of the feeling while intellectually recognizing that it is based on a lie, a distortion of reality. Better yet has been to also offer up my sadness to the Lord in prayer, and turn my thoughts deliberately toward gratitude for all the good things in my life, which are many – to be grateful, even if I don’t feel happy.

Today, I was ambushed by the shadow. As I came home from work, it fell without warning across my inner vision, and all went gray. What if my writing is not as good as I think it is? What if my colleagues don’t really respect me? What if my self-image as a good teacher is just that, an image, and the reality is that I don’t help my students as much as I think I do?

Interwoven with this self-doubt was anger at my own self-pity. What have I got to be depressed about? Even just a few days ago, I had been reflecting with cheerful gratitude on all the good things in my life. I hated my own weakness, yet I knew that I could not argue myself out of this mood. Whether or not the feelings were justified, I felt like I was a failure. And the feeling impeded my work – just as the Enemy intended, I imagine.

I felt ill and tired. I wanted to work, but knew from experience that I would not be productive. I decided to take a nap instead. I took a couple of Advil and crawled into bed. My mind wanted to fret over these self-doubts, pull them to pieces, but I resisted, and instead prayed: Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy; Lord have mercy... Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy; Lord have mercy...

I drifted off into an odd half-sleeping, half-waking state. Not for long, really. But then I woke all the way up – totally awake – with an insight as clear in my mind as if it were a physical object placed in my hands.

It is not necessary for me to be a success – in anything.

I can be a failure.

Failure does not – cannot! – alter the fundamental reality of my life, which is that I am a child of God. I am an adopted sister of the Son, a beloved daughter of the Father, a temple of the Holy Spirit.

I want to do good work, and it is right that I do my best, honoring God in the use of His gifts – but after that, the results are not in my hands, and are not my concern. The good that I do, might be so hidden from me that I never see it.

Or, in truth, I might never accomplish anything of great worth. I might never have someone to particularly love me. I might never fulfill my hopes of building up my ministry and my work – it might go nowhere, and be forgotten or ignored.

I knew in theory that Christ’s love is unconditional, but I had not fully grasped what that meant. I could think about God loving me in spite of my failures... when those failures were in things I didn’t care all that much about, or if I failed in some areas but could offset them with successes elsewhere.

But what about failure in the things that matter deeply to me? What about failure in all that I desire, all that I hope?

I know, I know – it’s unlikely that I would fail so utterly. I mean, look at all the good things in my life already, right? But the Enemy knows how to play on the “what-ifs,” so let me look it right in the eye: I might turn out to be a failure in all that I do. What then?

Accepting that I might fail doesn’t mean that I don’t care – not at all. But it means that I am free.

If it is all right for me to fail, what can the Enemy hold over me? I can be forgotten, despised, and rejected, but so was Our Lord. Nothing that I feel is unknown to him; and none of my failures can separate me from him.

If I can fail today when I am strong and working in the world, then I need have no fear of the day when I am weak – when I cannot teach, or write, or serve others, but can only be served by others. I will still be who I am, a beloved child of God.

If the world’s judgment of my work does not enter into my relationship with the living God, then I am free to do the work that I am called to do, unselfconsciously.

If I can truly rest in my identity as a child of God, then I do not need to define myself by anything else. I can give thanks for the good things that come to me, and I can rejoice when the Lord allows me to see, at least partly, the fruits of my labor. I am free to be grateful, without fear and without the need to cling to these good things in case the darkness comes again.

For now, this moment, the shadow is gone as if it were never there. Thanks be to God! It might come back – it always has, before – but with God’s help I can look straight at it and not turn away. I think I fear it a little less today than before. May God help me to remember who I am.

Naming the Shadow of Joylessness: Acedia

Holly Ordway — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 15:27:00 -0700

As I write this, it’s October, the Southern California summer finally shading into fall. A year ago I was feeling very low, physically and mentally exhausted and ill. What was worse than feeling tired and sick was what I came to think of as “the shadow.” When the shadow fell on me, it was as if all the color washed out of the world. My accomplishments – meaningless. The work that I was trying to do – a waste of time. My need for friendship – pathetic and sad. Why bother? It became difficult to do anything under the shadow. I had trouble getting myself even to eat at times; it seemed hardly worth the effort.

And all of this, it is important to note, at a time when my ministry work, teaching, and writing were by all accounts successful. I knew that my lecturing at church was well received, because people would come up and tell me how much they appreciated it. I knew that my writing was satisfactory, because my first book was about to be published. I knew that my teaching was solid, because I was in the final stages of earning tenure at my college. The very irrationality of it made it harder to deal with. To whom could I say, “I am overwhelmed and I feel like nothing I do is worthwhile,” when by any rational standard I had all my ducks in a row?

It came and went, this shadow, but I started to see a pattern. When did the shadow fall on me? When I was alone, working, tired, or self-critical. When did the shadow lift? When I went to fencing or church– activities so built into my routine that I would go, no matter how tired I felt. On a Wednesday evening, I might not want to go fence, but I would anyway; on a Tuesday morning, I might not want to go to church, but I would anyway. I didn’t want to go, but the habit had worn so deep a groove that it was easier just to follow it – and that was saving me, giving me reprieves from the shadow.

Even just seeing the pattern was helpful. I realized that when I was low in energy, I was particularly vulnerable to becoming low in spirits. I was now lecturing regularly at my church, and every Sunday that I gave a talk, I would ‘crash’ once I got home, and be depressed the rest of the day. Could it be that I was “running on empty?” Knowing that I was probably going to feel sad and worthless after doing a task that I knew, rationally, I had done successfully, made me realize that the feelings of “this is a waste of time” and “I am a failure” were just that—feelings. They did not necessarily have an anchor in reality.

So I began to say “I am feeling as if I am a failure,” rather than “I am a failure.”

Now, this may seem like a distinction without a difference, but it helped me realize the disconnect between my feelings and objective reality.

But recognizing the disconnect wasn’t the same thing as resolving it. I knew, consciously, that it made no sense to think of myself as an utter failure; I knew for a fact that I have friends who love me, and that I am not a pathetic, needy, pretentious loser. But when the shadow fell, I still felt that way. And it was unpleasant, to say the least.

The turning point came in a rather unexpected place.

Late in January, I was teaching at a weekend youth conference at my church. On Friday evening, one of the activities a “Charade of the Seven Deadly Sins.” The teachers had each been assigned one sin to enact, in a humorous and exaggerated way. I had initially been given Pride, and my pastor Fr Doran had been assigned Sloth.

As we were getting ready, I said to Fr Doran, “Can we trade sins? I struggle with Pride, so it might be hard to be light-hearted about it. But I work so much, and have so many responsibilities, that it’ll be really funny if I, of all people, act out Sloth.”

Easy-going as ever, Fr Doran said, “Sure, no problem!”

That evening, with the youth gathered in the parish hall, we went to the front one by one to represent our particular Deadly Sin, with the youth shouting out their guess as soon as they figured it out. Lust... Pride... Envy... Anger... then my turn.

I walked slowly to the front of the room, dragging my feet, getting myself into character.

Fr Michael, the “emcee,” said, “And so, our next Deadly Sin... tell us about yourself!”

Me (tonelessly): “What’s the point?”

Fr Michael: “So, you don’t want to talk to us?”

Me (refusing eye contact): “Yeah... whatever.”

Audience: “Sloth!”

Fr Michael: “Yep!”

Me (shrugging): “Whatever. Who cares.”

I joined the group of my fellow Deadly Sins, but rather than standing beside them, I slumped onto the floor, not looking at the group, as if to say: I am here, but I exclude myself. Who cares, anyway.

And it suddenly hit me. The attitude I had just acted out in an exaggerated way was precisely what had been eating at me over the past five months. What did it matter what I did? Who cares about me? Why bother with anything? I suddenly felt the weight of the shadow on me, but for the first time, I recognized it as something outside myself. Something to fight.

As it turned out, that year Easter came on the early side, so Lent started at the end of February. It was perfect timing, since I meet with Fr Doran for spiritual direction each year at the start of Lent – and I was in serious need of spiritual guidance.

When I met with Fr Doran, I had no idea what help he could possibly suggest, but that wasn’t my problem – all I needed to do was be honest about my own weakness. No more trying to muddle through on my own. I outlined all the different responsibilities I had, and how they were wearing me down; how I was exhausted and feeling physically ill, even though several different doctors and a battery of blood tests had determined that there was nothing ailing me. I told him about the strange connection I’d made with Sloth, even though it didn’t seem to make sense, considering how I was always on the go, always working.

Fr Doran listened patiently until I was done. “Sheesh, Holly, I feel exhausted just thinking about all of the stuff you’re doing. Yeah, laziness is not your problem. But on a spiritual level, “sloth” isn’t laziness, anyway. Let’s look it up.” A few moments later, and he had found a clearer definition of this particular Deadly Sin, from the Eastern Orthodox tradition. Sloth, as it turns out, is a somewhat imprecise English word for what in Greek is called acedia, the condition of spiritual apathy or joylessness.

Joylessness! That was “the shadow” – spot-on.

Knowing my own weaknesses in the area of pride, I had been vigilant there– but in being watchful against the temptation on one front, I had completely failed to see the Enemy’s assault in another front. Acedia was a the result of a kind of spiritual sabotage; those thoughts of failure, of self-denigration, of worthlessness were slipping in through the open door of my own perfectionism and chronic self-doubt, and, left un-checked, were poisoning my inner peace.

Right there and then, the tide turned in the spiritual battle. First, I saw that acedia was the flip side of Pride: I was vigilant about not having too high an opinion of myself, not thinking I was better than other people because of my accomplishments, but I had failed to see that the other side of the coin was just as bad – having too low an opinion of myself. I was swinging between two extremes because I was focusing on myself – trying to achieve a feeling of self-worth, a feeling of peace. Well, the Christian life is not all about me, and it’s certainly not all about feelings.

When I feel low in spirits now, I accept that this feeling is my cross to bear at that moment. I can’t make myself feel peaceful, happy, or loved, just by force of will. (A counterproductive exercise, I can assure you.) But to choose by an act of will to call on the Name of Christ, to pray, to carry on doing the work God has given me to do – these are all actions that I can do that are independent of my feelings.

Second, I saw that this was truly a matter of spiritual warfare – and St Antony of the Desert, one of the great saints of the early Church, could act as a model for me. When faced with temptation – even something as subtle as a temptation to self-doubt and morbid self-absorption – I need to call on the name of Christ. Look outward, to Christ, not inward, to myself. And in all circumstances, pray. More often than not, when I do pray, I discover that I have entered into his peace: just as he promises: “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Mt 11:28-30). But that “easy yoke” is also the cross: the price of peace is to die to self, and sometimes that price feels very steep indeed.

I don’t like the shadow, but I no longer fear it. I am often aware of it at the edges of my mind, especially when I am tired, or when I’ve had a stressful day, or when I start to worry about whether my work is good enough. I suppose that God might call me to carry the cross of being faithful to Him even under the full weight of that shadow; I hope not, but I needn’t worry about it.

Today, the one thing needful is to be faithful to Him today. To do the work given me to do today. To pray; to listen; to accept that I cannot do everything, and that all I do is incomplete, imperfect, flawed, but also that all I do will be completed, perfected, and redeemed in Him and by Him.

Addicted, Depressed, Voiceless Grace

Abbie Smith — Mon, 17 May 2010 08:44:21 -0700

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…

For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God… Ephesians 2.8

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

The Legitimacy of Sadness: Why Blue is so Cool

Caroline Ferdinandsen — Sun, 10 Jan 2010 12:32:15 -0800

In the Greek pantheon of emotions, Love has the power of Zeus, Compassion is the lovely Aphrodite, and Anger kicks butt like Ares—but Sadness? He’s just a hated Cyclops, weeping out of that one ugly eye, a monster that nobody likes at all.

Sadness is the emotion that Americans like to eliminate right away. If our children are sad, we try to fix them with candy and distractions. If our best friend has the blues, we invite him to Happy Hour. A spouse feeling down? Well, here’s some shopping money, a round of golf, maybe a massage. We are uncomfortable with sadness; it’s such a downer to everyone in its radius.

Poets seem to understand the beauty of sadness better than the rest of us, but some are really just happy pretending they are sad. Bands like Atreyu (who sing lines like It only hurts when I breathe) capitalize on youthful angst with an almost self-conscious joy, and when the Smiths sing My gut is burning. Won't you find me some water? / Hey,just forget it . . . Can you bring me gasoline? their hyper-tragic lines betray a twisted kind of happiness

Yet John Donne, a profound 16^th century metaphysical poet whom I reckon never wore an emo haircut or painted his fingernails black, wrote “Affliction is a treasure and scarce any man hath enough of it.” I believe he was closer to getting at the real paradox of sadness: that when we try to kill suffering too quickly, we short circuit the natural order of things.

And what is the natural order of things? It’s first moving in rhythm to Ecclesiastes chapter 3, where there is a time for everything under the sun. It’s experiencing both suffering and joy, the juxtaposition of which ultimately defines both. It’s found in the book of James which makes the audacious claim, “Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”

Solomon writes, “It is better to go to a house of mourning than to go to a house of feasting” and later that “a sad face is good for the heart.” He even asserts that “The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of pleasure.” If this is so, the Bible is downright anti-American in a land where we believe a little deep breathing and a martini can put a smile back on yourface. So why does he write such a thing? Perhaps because unrelenting happiness here on earth is artificial, a counterfeit condition which deadens our spiritual nerve endings.

Of course, sadness is not a permanent state; we pass through the valley rather than taking up residence there. We have much to do in God’s kingdom, and a life of permanent asceticism can make us self-absorbed. But natural sadness clears a pathway for God to speak to us in ways that happiness doesn’t allow. In my house, my husband and I have taught ourselves to stop asking, “Why is this happening,” and instead look at each other and say, “I wonder what God is up to?” Our children, our best friends, our mothers and father—should we not leave them alone for a time to live in their sadness, to lose a night or two of sleep, to weep? There will be time to come alongside and help them hoist the burden, but perhaps not in the early hours before God has had time to speak. He is up to something.

I read a story in my local newspaper about a young man who not long ago decided to walk across California like John Muir. When asked what the high points were, he offered a few stunning memories of euphoria and beauty, but insisted that slogging through the repetitive, monotonous Central Valley gave him reference points against which to measure his occasional joy. Ah, I thought. There’s wisdom in his experience. The metaphor almost writes itself.

My essays have a cool way of leaving markings for me to follow. In looking over the scores of postings over the last several years, I can see the line where the tide rises and falls. I’ve been inspired by Love, Compassion, Anger, and yes, even that hated monster Sadness. I am in a slow, dark season but God’s life is still stirring within me. The spring will come again, but not before his work is done.