On depression
A friend recently loaned me the book Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation by Parker J. Palmer. She gave it to me not because I’m seeking vocation, but because there’s a chapter about his struggle with depression.

I’ve read some about other people’s experiences with depression. More often than not, I find myself intrigued, but I don’t really identify with what’s said. Some of the writing in excellent, some is just terrible, but much of it occupies that same place as memoirs about farming or raising children—interesting, but not about me.

I haven’t finished the chapter, yet. I started it because I respect the friend who loaned me the book and because I told her that I would. I haven’t finished it because it’s hard to see yourself in print like that—it’s like reading some of Dorothy Allison’s work, only this is about something I talk about even less than my past: my present.

Here’s Palmer’s definition: Depression is the ultimate state of disconnection—it deprives one of the relatedness that is the lifeline of every living being.

He goes on to talk about the way his friends and visitors handled his depression, about what worked for him and what didn’t. …people came to me and said, “But you’re such a good person, Parker. You teach and write so well, and you’ve helped so many people. Try to remember all the good you’ve done, and surely you’ll feel better.”

That advice, too, left me more depressed, for it plunged me into the immense gap between my “good” persona and the “bad” person I then believed myself to be. When I heard those words, I thought, “One more person has been defrauded, has seen my image rather than my reality—and if people ever saw the real me, they would reject me in a flash.” Depression is the ultimate state of disconnection, not only between people, and between mind and heart, but between one’s self-image and public mask.

One of the hardest things we must do sometimes is to be present to another person’s pain without trying to “fix” it, to simply stand respectfully at the edge of that person’s mystery and misery. Standing there, we feel useless and powerless, which is exactly how a depressed person feels—and our unconscious need as Job’s comforters is to reassure ourselves that we are not like the soul before us…by standing respectfully and faithfully at the borders of another’s solitude, we may mediate the love of God to a person who needs something deeper than any human being can give.

The bit about public mask was uppermost in my mind this morning. We did the Prayer Bowl for Prayers of the People at Church. There’s (surprise!) a bowl and a stack of cards in the aisle of the sanctuary and anyone moved to do so can write (or draw) a prayer. Everything’s read aloud and we pray together for what’s on the cards. On my card I wrote two prayers: in thanksgiving for the small friends, and for healing.

We don’t write our names on the cards. It’s possible that the village knew that that was from me (the small friends thing gave it away), but it’s not like I got up and stated publicly that I could use prayers for healing from this void of light that’s been in me for so long. But I did it—it was a way for me to start asking for this kind of help, even if no one knows it but me (well, and you, now).

I’m completing my term of service on a board at church and that was mentioned in a meeting after the service today. I’m happy and relieved to be wrapping this up and that was clear—my excitement was public and right out there. After the meeting, two different people caught me in the hallway to tell me that they think that I’m entirely too happy, in general.

My own self-image: depressed, disconnected, in need of prayer because I haven’t figured out a way “through or around this” (to snag words from Emily Saliers, again).

My public mask: so happy that people are commenting.