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1. #AH FUCK I CANT BELIEVE YOUVE DONE THIS BACKSTORY SKIN#
2. #AH FUCK I CANT BELIEVE YOUVE DONE THIS BACKSTORY FREE#

Those words released so much guilt and fear. The heaviness in my chest lifted as I drew a deep breath. I remembered a favorite verse from Psalm 139: if I make my bed in hell, you’re there. The rattle & hum quieted, vibrations and tension slowly fading. He’s not tapping his foot and looking at his watch, impatient for me to get it together. “I will always be there in the darkness.” It shook my soul like tectonic plates shifting, foundations rearranged. The second half of that whisper was sweeter still. It’s okay to face bravely into it, to let go of denial and learn to live with it. It’s okay that it’s there and it’s okay that it’s so hard. That whisper in my heart, “The darkness may always be there,” told me to stop fighting to fix myself. To some, it might have sounded like a death sentence. My mouth gaped open, eyes wide with suddenly welling tears. Then clear, sweet words whispered in my heart, “The darkness may always be there, but I will always be there in the darkness.” The bony hand of anxiety started to close around my throat.

There at the stoplight, my body trembled as the gray and weight and cloud pressed in. My heart raced with a sinking question: What if I never get better? Shame seared my flushed skin. I was running ministry errands that day, grateful for a reprieve from interaction in the offices. There was no need to smile, no show to put on. Despite the clutter, that old car was my safe place. Clothes were strewn over boxes of books and trinkets – I was always moving in those days. Empty paper cups rolled on the floorboards. I found that place in my old Taurus, a messy sanctuary in all my here-to-theres. So I kept the ache to myself, hiding questions and unkempt prayers until I could let out the mess. I couldn’t force that, no matter what I did. Īnd, in my mind, choose joy sounded an awful lot like snap out of it. Instead, I felt even more strangled by the unforgiving pace.

#AH FUCK I CANT BELIEVE YOUVE DONE THIS BACKSTORY FREE#

Years of spending every free moment in ministry, serving and caring without rest, hadn’t filled the gaping void. I just kept failing.Ĭountless begging prayers with all the faith I could muster hadn’t changed the ache inside. I’d tried, so hard, to make myself better.

#AH FUCK I CANT BELIEVE YOUVE DONE THIS BACKSTORY SKIN#

Those words left my skin flushed hot and nausea rising in my throat. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, even about yourself. How can you be sad with all God has done for you? You just need to serve others. Choose joy, they told me, as though it were a switch to flip.ĭepression is so self-focused. When I tried to share glimpses of the darkness, well-meaning Christians said things they didn’t understand. I knew that if I didn’t smile and act okay, I would lose my people…and even God. It wasn’t just the questions, but the story I believed underneath them: God doesn’t want this mess and neither does anyone else. God, are you there? Why can’t I be different? Why won’t you fix me? I know you can.

Still, the worst part was the way secret questions carved out my insides. I’d grown accustomed to smiling, saying I was just tired, doing my best to show up for my commitments while my chest burned and my body felt like lead. I couldn’t remember a time before depression’s waves rolled through me. There’s an excruciating physicality to mental illness that’s rarely acknowledged. Most days, it seemed nobody, not even God, can break through. The fog formed a dense wall, hedging me into isolation. It was exhausting: wrestling to be whole, never shaking the bone-deep loneliness. The familiar fog of depression had rolled in and I was weary of the struggle. The sky was bleak with charcoal clouds seemed to mirror my soul. I sat at a stoplight, trembling with anxiety’s rattle and hum.