I'm Not Depressed

She walked into my hospital room in her pastel colored scrubs and squeaky, comfortable shoes. I was curious about what she needed to say, but I was also distracted by tiny babies who were suddenly my responsibility. I just wanted to get all of us home. Then, she smiled, sighed and asked if she could sit down. Sure, I said.

She said she wanted to tell me something. That I looked like the kind of person who might not recognize the symptoms. I might try to shrug it off. “Postpartum depression is real,” she said. “I'm telling you this because you seem like the kind of person who might not think it's true. But, it is. Get help if you need to.”

She had my attention. Then, she handed me a stack of papers telling me who I could call if I needed advice and how to take care of the hard, black belly button stump on my twins and walked out the door. I never saw her again. I've asked my friends and no one had a similar experience after giving birth. No one knows who that nurse was. I think she was an angel sent to remind me of what someone had told me several years before.

Bobby and I were working as missionaries in Austria, one of the most beautiful places on earth. I'm an extrovert, but found that I was overwhelmed with people and their immense needs; needs I could never, ever meet. I craved sleep constantly and took every opportunity to sneak naps in between ministry activities. Living cross culturally was getting to me – the strain of communicating in another language, trying to figure out what basic ingredients were at the grocery store and realizing I had been washing our clothes in fabric softener for weeks. We hadn't been given governmental permission to live and work in Austria, so we had to leave the country often to have our passports stamped.

One cold, snowy Saturday afternoon in the midst of this stress and uncertainty Bobby and I headed to the grocery store to pick up some things for a relaxing dinner with friends. Long story short, our car slid on the ice and plowed into a Mercedes. Not able to communicate beyond sharing our names and asking if someone could speak English, we called our “boss” who quickly came to help. After speaking with the police and watching our car being loaded onto a weird tow truck, we settled into Tom's car. Instead of driving quickly away, he turned in his seat and looked into my eyes. “Are you OK?” he asked. “I'm fi-ii-nne,” I whimpered, trying to be stoic. “You don't have to be,” Tom said.

You don't have to be fine.

That changed my life.

I've always thought I had to be OK. It's just tiresome and self-centered if you're not. Life is much easier and tidier if you're fine.

I've never seen myself as “depressed”. In fact, I've found some misplaced pride in being “the happy one”. Like the title character in Jane Austen's Emma I had “a comfortable home and happy disposition,... and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.”

Though I had been overwhelmed with missionary work and completely consumed with caring for two baby people, I don't think I was really depressed during either event. I think they were preparing me for recognizing 2 times later when I would be.

The first came about 9 years ago, just after my Dad passed away. Daddy went into the hospital with pneumonia, we thought. Two weeks later we were having a funeral. I had a friend that I saw almost daily during that time. Our boys were on the same baseball team. Before staying home with her children, my friend had been a grief counselor. I could look at her without explanation and say things like, “People keep giving me books,” or “I can't bring myself to read all the cards in my mailbox.” She would have a calm, direct answer every time. She was an amazing friend. But, I didn't tell her about the bathroom.

For weeks and weeks I would walk into our hall bathroom and think, “Wow. This needs to be cleaned.” Then, I would walk out or brush my teeth or tell the boys it was time to take a shower. But, I never cleaned the bathroom. Who knows how disgusting it got. But, one day about 3 months after Daddy died I walked into the hall bathroom again and thought, “Wow. This needs to be cleaned.” But instead of walking out, I picked up a rag and wiped out the sink. It wasn't until I finished and walked into the hallway that I realized it. I had been needing to do that for forever, but just couldn't connect the dots between “this needs to be done” and “I should do it.”

The second time was more recent, just a year ago after moving to Pennsylvania. We had left a town and friends and a church we loved, I desperately needed a knee replacement and was in so much pain that I planned my days around what I could accomplish sitting on the couch.  The weather was gray, wet and cold.

My new knee!

This time the depression affected my hearing, understanding, and memory in addition to my disposition. I had been attending a Bible study at our new church each week. One day the videos and small group discussion seemed to be clear. It all made sense and I didn't have to work very hard to make it so. I called Bobby on the way home and told him I could, all of a sudden, understand what was going on with no effort; a fog had lifted. He said, “Yeah. I thought you'd been depressed.”

My first reaction was “depressed”? Why didn't you tell me?!!

Neither of these times did I realize what was happening. I had no idea something was wrong until I suddenly “snapped out of it”. Have there been other times in my life when I've been depressed? I'm sure there have been. I've said before that I have afternoons when I feel an irrepressible need to lay on the couch and watch Jane Austen movies. At times my children have walked into the living room, seen Sense and Sensibility on the TV, and asked with worried eyes and voices, "Mom, are you OK?"

But, this deeper depression snuck in from the behind and latched on. I was completely unaware. I still washed clothes and got dinner on the table. I still showed up for church and got my kids to school on time. I've been able to continue taking care of myself, my family and home. But, some people can't. Jane Austen can't even help some people.

I don't have persistent depression that requires medication and counseling, but I think I'm more sympathetic to those who do. I know that sometimes you can't just “buck up”. I know that you may not even realize what's happening.

These experiences do leave me with more empathy , but they also leave me with questions. Why is there such hard stuff in the world? Why does God let lovely people suffer? What about my friend since childhood who struggled with depression and anxiety for years before finding a solution that works for her?

C.S. Lewis said, "God allows us to experience the low points of life in order to teach us lessons that we could learn in no other way."  Psalm 71:12 says, “O God, be not far from me, O my God, make haste to help me.” So, while going through these low points I have to believe that God is not far off. That if He leads us through something awful to learn something wonderful, He's got to be keeping a close eye on us.

This is Easter time, there's new life springing up all around; the daffodils in my neighbor's yard, the green grass poking it's way out of our brown lawn. Jesus had to die, to be buried, to suffer for there to be anything good at the end of His trial. I'm not saying we're like Jesus, but I think it's a similar principle. Maybe we have to suffer in order to poke our heads out again, look around and see something new and wonderful. Maybe the thoughts of "oh my goodness, how beautiful" only come after the bleak, flat, sad thoughts. Maybe the contrast is what makes the good seem especially good.

Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow

I do believe there are good outcomes. I do believe in a brighter day. I do believe that God will make a beautiful tomorrow. And, I do believe that He's here. He knows you and loves you and cares what your life is like right now.

Hear me when I say this, if you're fine, that's great.

But, you don't have to be.