2017 & 2018: Years of Depression
2017: When I saw her message, I made a beeline for my car.
I’ve already become a monster. I’m so sorry. I love you dearly, friend
I knew she was attempting suicide. A dozen incoming calls and texts jacked up my phone as I made calls and sent out texts. But even in my hurried movements, there was no fear or worry. There wasn’t even any surprise. There was only anger.
I seethed as I drove to the hospital. The others with me wiped red-rimmed eyes or fidgeted nervously, but I could only shake my head. I understood their fear and their grief- I’d already passed through them myself. Some part of me had known she would go through with it eventually, so I had mentally prepared beforehand. Strange as it may sound, I had already cried for this day.
Fluorescent lights cast hollow shadows on the faces around me as we all listened to the nurse’s explanation. It was an overdose of Benadryl and, thank God, Benadryl alone, so there should be no long-term effects. She had been conscious when they brought her in, which was also a good sign. They were going to vacuum her stomach and then let us know how things were going. The nurse disappeared behind the definitive click of the door closing. The plain, off-white walls of the windowless room bore down on me. I sent a text of what I knew to her parents and waited for a response, exchanging weary looks with the faces opposite me.
We sat like that for a few hours. A few people chatted, but for the most part, there was silence. And I fluctuated between prayer and angry ranting. She had told me herself she realized it was selfish. She had said herself she had no reason to do it anymore. Things were still hard, but they were looking up. She had told me she understood how much it would wound her siblings- though I knew she could never fully understand that. I had warned her how it would scar her friends, and how long it would take for their trust in her to be renewed. I had warned her how, if she survived, she would complicate the remainder of college, and how she’d have to go in for treatment, which she refused to do. And, if she didn’t survive, how long it would take for everyone close to her to recover, that is, if they could recover at all.
2016: I never thought it would happen this way- or that it would happen at all, really. But there I was, a tree root digging into the small of my back as I wept. All week I’d been breaking down, unable to function as a rational human being anymore. In the middle of meals or as we worked, my throat would clog and my vision flood, so I’d run off to calm myself. Usually, I could wipe my eyes and be back in a few minutes.
This time something broke, and I cried for two hours straight. The suffocating form of crying, with gasps that hurt all the way down one’s throat and sobbing so hard it steals one’s voice away.
It had been building up for months, ignored and strengthening. I suppose I qualified as depressed, considering I couldn’t even feign normality anymore. My first semester on my own was over, and now half the summer was too. In that time, I’d managed to lose two of my three closest friends and my whole family. Some of them would be lost only for a time, but some are still lost to me, even now.
I wanted to pray, but all I could do was gasp to God was, “please, please,” over and over.
“I’m the man who has seen trouble,
trouble coming from the lash of God’s anger/
He took me by the hand and walked me
into pitch-black darkness.
Yes, he’s given me the back of his hand
over and over and over again.
…He ground my face into the gravel.
He pounded me into the mud.
I gave up on life altogether.
I’ve forgotten what the good life is like.
I said to myself, “This is it. I’m finished.
God is a lost cause.” (Lamentations 3; MSG).
2017: I dragged myself off the couch and into the cold late-morning light. The sky was overcast, which seemed appropriate. I drove to the hospital and took the stairs to the ICU unit. Through the double doors, second door on the right.
She was awake and staring somewhat blankly at Friends on TV. That seemed a little ironic. Her eyes widened when I stepped in, and she pushed aside her food tray to hug me. She was shaking and pale, speaking faster than usual. She was awake and safe from danger, though still affected by the drugs.
I hugged her, then sat next to her on a chair. I can’t say I was relieved, for it was all exactly as I had expected. I had prayed for her to live, and since I believe in the power of prayer, I knew it would be answered. And it was.
So, instead, I fought a war with anger and weariness as we small-talked. Then she complained about having to go to a psychiatric ward the next day, and I stopped her, reminding her this wasn’t our fault. Yeah, she said, but she hadn’t expected to survive and therefore must go. So, I reminded her of the prayer, which I had told her about before. Her eyes grew as big as her head, and she grew quiet. After a moment, all she said was, I guess you were right.
“I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,
the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed.
I remember it all- oh, well I remember-
the feeling of hitting the bottom.
But there’s one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,
his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.
They’re created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He’s all I’ve got left” (Lamentations 3; MSG).
2018: I guess she forgot about the prayer by the next day. At least, she chose to. Within a week, after several days of therapy and numerous apologies, she was back to depression. She claimed she wouldn’t try suicide again because of her siblings. But, of course, it wouldn’t be the first time she said that.
I still sit at a loss often, staring into the distance, unsure of what to say. I can’t even summon tears for her anymore. I just pray for a prayer.
She speaks less of death now and more about future plans. But when she told me about how God was good but became the evil one, how am I supposed to feel? When she advocates gay love and decides she may be bisexual simply because she had a crush on a guy who turned out to be gay (none of which even makes sense), what am I supposed to say? She doesn’t hear a word I say, and I don’t know a word to speak to God, for I feel I’ve said them all, so, I sit here waiting for a word from God.
2016: Eventually the tears ran out, but my body still sobbed for air. I could feel a physical pain in the left side of my chest. I stared at the massive cliffs across the valley and watched the clouds’ shadows drag along them, trying to slow my breathing. My mind was calm enough to pray, but still, I didn’t know what words to say.
My life was fine, in the grand scope of things. I had a house, a school, a car in a safe town. But that wasn’t the focus either. That was still trying to rely on the wrong thing, and I was still coming up short.
So, I sought words to say.
“God proves to be good to the man who passionately waits,
to the woman who diligently seeks.
It’s a good thing to quietly hope,
quietly hope for help from God.
It’s a good thing when you’re young
to stick it out through the hard times.
When life is heavy and hard to take,
go off by yourself. Enter the silence.
Bow in prayer. Don’t ask questions:
Wait for hope to appear.
Don’t run from trouble. Take it full-face.
The “worst” is never the worst.
Why? Because the Master won’t ever
walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
His stockpiles of loyal love are immense” (Lamentations 3; MSG).
