Being depressed is like being in a tar pit.
I’m not sure if this picture really gives the best impression. For me, there is definitely no cute baby I’m trying to protect. But aside from that, the feeling that every kind of nasty creature, with very big teeth, is scarily accurate. That this picture is gray scale only heightens the colorlessness of my life right now.
Some people are probably thinking, “Well, you can’t be too depressed, if you’ve got enough energy to write this blog!” And you’re right. I haven’t sunk under the surface yet. But this mama mastodon is right where I am right now. I know that as long as I’m filled with rage and frustration, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m at the top of the staircase, looking down. I’d rather be a the bottom, looking up, but that’s not happening. Yet. Hope does spring eternal. I’m hoping to shake off this feeling before it dissolves into a miasma of melancholy, the kind of oppressive fog that obscures all emotion and reduces me to lying in bed all day, usually reading some self-help book that I can’t see working. I spend a lot of time praying and looking through my Bible. (Of course, I do that when I’m not depressed, too.)
I don’t really understand why God allows people to be like this, but I have to trust that He has a reason. Maybe to make me more compassionate. Maybe to make other people more compassionate. I don’t believe God likes to see me depressed—He’s not a sadist–but He still allows it. I have to believe that. The alternative is even more depressing.
Here is an excellent illustration showing the spiraling cycle of depression and how one feeling tends to lead to another:
[Also, please read the comments for this entry. They go into much greater detail than I would have put in this posting.]
After the Ecstasy, the Laundry . . . 