When I was just out of college, I took a job at a small church in a small town just north of where I went to school. I was 22 and working 20 hours a week for about $600 a month. I was the only person working during the week and for the first time in my life, I was living alone. My house was a shabby time capsule stuck in 1974 that I was unable to fix up or even live in completely. But it was free and I could have a dog.
I was what could only be described as severely depressed during that time. I had no friends in my town, didn’t know anyone very well and I either stayed up too late or slept too late or both. I had a friend who was living abroad and wrote him fairly regularly, usually without response. I wasn’t the most upbeat when I’d write and as I slid deeper into depression, I was good at pushing away the friends I desperately needed closer to me. Eventually, he wrote back to me and enclosed a letter I’d written him. In it, he underlined every negative thing I’d written and admonished me to be more joyful, that I had no real reason to be such a downer and Jesus was the great provider of joy.
It was a complete kick in the gut and in my youthful desperation for approval and friendship, I wrote back apologizing for my Debbie Downer letters and made excuses for being an unworthy friend. It was pathetic, looking back on it now, as the hindsight of 20 years will often help show.
I didn’t seek help for my depression until 2003, probably 10 years later than I should have. I know society’s perception of depression has changed a bit in those 20 years and my perception of my own experiences has certainly changed. I look at the prescription bottle in my drawer and I don’t feel guilty or bad or less of a Christian because I take an anti-depressant to stop me from offing myself. I know the words said to me 20 years ago about rejoicing always were probably well intended but they cut me to the quick, obviously as I still remember them so clearly spelled out on the page.
My struggle rages on; sometimes I slay the dragon, sometimes I only succeed in pushing him back a bit. Keeping busy helps. Daylight helps. My husband, close friends, family all help. Doing things for other people helps. Being told to be joyful does not help. It implies choice and that I’m choosing to be miserable. I’m not. If I could choose differently, I’d choose for my brain not to be busted in this way. But the dark despair? No one chooses that over being joyful.
If you know someone struggling with depression, please don’t admonish them to be joyful in all circumstances. Encourage them to seek help, medical help, mental health help, to reach out to people who are qualified to help them. And please don’t ignore them when they are reaching out for help in their own way.