I heard my cousin say she wanted to write a blog on depression. Said she wanted some way of helping others, or sharing her story, something to that effect but anonymously. But here I was laying listening to music, rereading my posts, then the thought hit me “you’ve suffered from depression too”.
Hmm, I guess I’d forgotten. More like, it got buried beneath the “harder” “bigger” issues of my days. I remember the darkness my granddad would come home to and how he always seemed to be asking me to draw my curtains. To let the light in. I think I had an allergic reaction to light back then. I kid you not. The light came in, my eyes hurt, my mind hurt, my heart hurt. The darkness was a grim pleasantry.
I binge watched sad movies. Sad series. Just about anything that involved hurting people, abused people, people that were fictional but borrowed from pieces of my broken life. At some point my granddad had requested that I refrain from watching things that reminded me of what I’d been through. I clearly didn’t listen.
I cried everyday it seemed. I was sad with the biggest smile it seemed. I was one of those involved depressed people. I actively participated in life but at days end I would choose to wear my cloak of dark sadness. In as dark a space as I could create. It didn’t help that I didn’t speak. I didn’t share my struggle with anyone. I faced it alone. I felt like I would be burdening others if I said anything.
But I couldn’t get out if no one knew. I couldn’t become the Phoenix I could certainly be, without first acknowledging the issue I had, asking for help and accepting the help. Then committing to abandon the dark clouds.
I think I tried some different form of escape just about everyday. I wondered how my granddad hadn’t noticed how terribly wrinkled my sheets were, all of a sudden. For more than a day I kept tying them in the door way by the bathroom (it had that space above the door jam that you find in older Jamaican houses) and climbed up, put my neck in the noose I made, kicked away the thing I was standing on, become devastated by the thoughts of my granddad coming home to my lifeless hanging body, reached my legs back into the bathroom and stood on the side of the shower and loosed myself and climbed down.
There was this day I downed one too many pills I found in his room. I ended up with a stomach ache and a bad taste in my mouth all day. I failed again. I’ve layed in a full bath of water, in my bathing suit (I had this thing about being found naked) with my stereo on my belly and every time I got ready to lower myself the stereo shorted out.
The list goes on. I’m only now realizing I always had support. I always had options. I always had love. Maybe not from the places or people I wanted it from. But I always had all I needed in places I hadn’t realized because I was so busy being overwhelmed. I was so busy overestimating what I didn’t have. Understimating what I did have. Silently dying alone.
I was depressed too for sure. But I’m ever so happy God always had greater plans for the life I wanted so badly to lose.
Being alive I’ve been able to hug others that needed a hug. I have been able to give a listening ear. Share my life and encourage. Love better than the broken versions of love I had received. I have been able to live.
I WAS depressed too. Now I live lost in Christ’s embrace. My life is no longer mine but a daily moment by moment gift from God I’m privileged to be in acceptance of. I’m WHOLE now. He undid my brokenness and made me complete. He is my binding agent, he holds me together and keeps me from falling apart.
Now I’m forever grateful. I live from a whole new perspective. That’s what he gave me, new eyes, new perspective.
I’m incapable of being depressed ever again with these new eyes, this new perspective.
May 24, 2016,