anxiety and goodness

I remember about five years ago, the principal of a school told me that I was "an impressionable young lady". I  was working there at the time, fresh out of college, afraid and ashamed that I hadn't made the grand mark on the world I thought I was supposed to be leaving. My graduation was followed swiftly by a crippling depression, paired with an exhausting anxiety, and finished off with a break up that I truly thought would end me. At the very least, it was the worst year  of my  life.

At the best, it was the beginning of it.

When I heard that principal call me that word, I didn't understand what it meant. I recall seeing my coworker and boss at the time looking incredibly uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact just enough for me to realize it wasn't a positive association. I looked it up later:

Easily influenced because of a lack of critical ability.

Well, shit.

I was shook, but not shocked. It was no secret that I was barely holding on to anything that year--to give you a picture, I ate lunch in the closet every single day. And my lunch was cereal because I was so poorly paid I couldn't afford lunch meat. And if you think that's an exaggeration, I was making exactly $13,000 a year, or about 6 dollars an hour. Before taxes.

It was rough. Physically, emotionally, relationally. I was bankrupt in every sense of the word. And that word, that word he called me? That was true too.

You see I spent most of my life looking to others to tell me about myself. Was I good enough? Pretty enough? Smart enough? Obedient enough? If I wasn't I adjusted and tried again. Fortunately for me, I was home-schooled the first portion of my childhood, and missed the memo about fitting into social norms--I was spunky, creative, and unafraid to call a little attention to myself in the name of fun.

But.

I was also very afraid. Unsure. The irony of it was that while I looked to others to see a reflection of who I was, I really only accepted the image that fit with who I thought I was.

And at my very core, I felt broken.

So, I became permeable. I let opinions flow in and out of me, attempting to use them to fill the spaces in which I was unable to fill for myself. Because I viewed myself as defective, I thought I couldn't be trusted in any area of my life--not in my decisions, not in my thoughts, and definitely not in my emotions.

This is a very dangerous way to live, this giving of the self so freely for others to frame. It means that you are responsible for every single person's reaction, every belief that they have about you or the world around them. It makes you beholden to their emotions, their behaviors in relation to you.

It's exhausting, and eventually, you break.

You become confused, bewildered and incredibly afraid that you are going to shatter anything and everything around you by simply breathing. You feel like you can't have an opinion, a single thought about something else because you are probably wrong and who are you to bring something smart or different or good to the table? 

It turns out, impressionability is deadly.

It's a parasite, feeding of the truest and most important and valuable parts of who you are in order to hijack the system completely and make you someone else.

Or in this case, everyone else.

But you.

Needless to say, I got tired of this way of living. Or rather, this way of living became impossible to sustain, pushing me closer and closer to the edge of  the cliff until really I had to make the decision--who was I  going to be and could I even continue this way?

The answer was no. I remember very clearly, so very clearly kneeling on my bedroom floor with my head to the ground and crying. Realizing that I was either going to stay stuck and depressed and wanting to die indefinitely, or that I could do something different. I could reach for life and maybe even reach for the true me, the real me that had been standing on the other side of that cliff forever, hand extended and head cocked to the side asking,

Well, what took you so long?

I took the leap. I'm actually still taking the leap, even up to the minute, five years later. I've learned so much about my unbelief in myself, about my mistrust of myself and my own experiences. I'm grateful to say that I've moved from impressionable to an ability to leave an impression, though my voice still quivers when I do so. This is not to say that I am brave and assertive and confident in all situations, but rather I have slowly and certainly moved towards self-assurance.

Here's what I've learned:

I have a voice, and when I don't use it, I'm doing everyone a disservice. I deserve to be heard. It's amazing what working in an all men's environment will teach you about voice and power. And I am, powerful. I have found that if I don't speak up, there is a chance the truth won't be spoken at all. That every time I choose to silence my inner voice, I am missing an opportunity for growth and advocacy for the people I serve, as well as those I serve alongside with.

We are meant to sharpen one another, and if I continue to let other peoples' impressions determine my steps, none of us will ever finish the race completely whole.

Not only this, but my choice to silence my own voice for the voice of another has a cost, and that cost is always anxiety, depression, or some other unpleasant emotion. It may not come at first but it will come, unrelenting until you listen to it--to its complaint at you choosing not to be who you were made to be. Peter Palmer talks about this in his book, Let Your Life Speak. He says of those who remain silent that "no punishment anyone might inflict on them could possibly be worse than the punishment they inflict on themselves by conspiring in their own diminishment."

I found that when I learned to speak my own words, when I did not conspire in my own diminishment, my peace increased. I was able to operate from a sense of inward truth rather than outward uncertainty, and that made all the difference.

So today, I am working on leaving an impression. I am believing that I have something to offer that is good, because goodness lives within me and is just waiting for the opportunity to be let out. And that goodness is God given, that my gifts and talents were designed to be used and that if I do not use them no one else will because there's only one me. 

Your words matter.

You matter.

You have a right to the table.

So use it. 

Don't be afraid.

Do not let the waves of the storm wash you away.

Be the storm.

Change the direction of the wind.

But don't ever let it drown you out.

love and depression.

Depression.

It's hard to describe what it's sticky borders feel like, difficult to put into words because it relies so heavily on the senses. Or on the assault of the senses, that is. Depression raids every last bit of the brain and body until all that's left is a hollow space, but not the kind that you can fill. It's different for every person, but for me it's always felt like a shroud, one that I  can't take off or seem to be rid of. I am still able to connect to the world, still able to reach out and see and feel and touch--but not fully. Not completely.

The darkness limits me.

I've been thinking a lot about my depression  recently, the constant companion that it is. I know I am not alone in my suffering. It doesn't take a therapist to see that our world is filled with broken spaces, interrupted only by the broken people who choose to occupy them. And I say choose to in a loose sense--some of us are more impacted than others.

We all experience this darkness so differently, and yet so acutely the same: living makes us tired. I remember being so young as ten and feeling so strongly that I was unafraid of death--it was the staying alive through all that suffering that terrified me. It was never ending, my pain. It gave no relief, no day off, accepted no excuses. Depression was my drill master and I was the recipient of its deprecating orders.

I have always viewed my depression as a foe, though a much apart of me as my heart or lungs or any other breathing part of my body. This meant that I saw myself as a foe, a broken arrow that never hit its mark quite right. Everything pained me. I felt it all so deeply, so astutely that it would knock the wind out of my lungs. Not gasping for air but just releasing it, hoping that the stillness within my chest would quiet the cries of sorrow that constantly, constantly rang in my ears.

The older I have gotten the more I have come to recognize my depression as a fellow traveler, a sensitive friend that interprets the world around her in terms of loss instead of gain. I think that those of us who suffer with depression see things that cannot be articulated, cannot be processed in simple terms. As a therapist, I know that we categorize depression in a specific way, that medication can be helpful in softening the edges of a harsh reality that has been difficult to overcome. I know because I myself take medication that keeps me from spiraling too far down the hole.

And yet, depression lingers.

Many times, we characterize depression as a sense of hopelessness or criticism, a belief that life cannot, will not get better. We view it as misfire, a mistake of perspective.

And this is true, somewhat. Depression shifts our lens and makes it hard to see what hope lies ahead.

But.

I also think that depression, and those who experience it, are feeling something that cannot be explained away by positive thinking or behavioral exercises. They are feeling something true, not something imagined or conjured up. They are feeling a loss of life, not a failure to see it.

I am coming to understand that this grief I carry with me is a result of the very thin membrane separating my pain from that of those around me. I feel it because I'm aware of it, and that awareness sets a weight upon my shoulders that burdens my weary soul. You see, it's not that I have come to find life not worth living--it's that I have and am mourning the loss of it all over.

I think that depression wears on us not because we don't think life is purposeful, but because we loved life so deeply and are eternally bereaved by the loss of it, no matter the form. We are heavy because we breathe in sorrow as air, and often hold on to it for others.

If we are able, we learn how to carry it better, how to lighten our load so that it doesn't take us under. But if I'm honest, if I'm really honest, I don't think that my depression will ever entirely leave me. And if I'm honest, really honest, I understand why it will not--

Loss is apart of life.

Even Jesus grieved the death of Lazarus.

So while I will continue to fight for hopefulness, for joy in the midst of suffering, meaning in the middle of chaos, I will also show respect for my pain and the pain of those around me. I will grieve because grief is simply a tool to communicate that what I loved has been lost.

But not completely.

Because there's still some love left in me.

Some hope left to share.

And all darkness does is point us to the light that's still shining.

We haven't lost it completely yet.