It would not be an exaggeration to say that I am experiencing a lengthy faith related depression. In the thirty odd years of defining myself as a Christian, I have never walked a path quite like this. It is difficult to explain. It has involved, in no particular order, the self effacement of parenthood, breaking up with America, a deep suspicion of mainstream evangelicalism, watching none of my stated dreams come to fruition, despondency about the President and our political system, and an awakening to the long term suffering of darker skinned peoples with whom I share citizenship. It asks a lot of questions, none with very good answers.
So I have, for the first time, a psychiatrist. He is a nice white man with not entirely controlled silver hair, slim, probably a runner or cyclist. I like the furniture in his office and I don’t find the paintings on the wall to be utterly detestable. His demeanor is warm and he seems to think I am relatively intelligent. The thing that won me over, persuaded me to stick with a white male psychiatrist, was that he told me his wife breastfed their kids a really long time. Years. This is a reality very few people seem to have any connection to, so I’m glad to have his empathy in the nursing category, because Jr Jr is not remotely interested in weaning. Not now, not ever.
The thing I tell Dr M is that I no longer have any baseline for how I should feel. So I can’t tell if I should expect to be much happier than I am now, or if this is all there is in the mood department. I’m not particularly despondent. I’m just sort of a drab rental home wall color. I’m washed out from what I used to be, but I’ve never been forty before, maybe this is just age. I’m not sure if I have any desires anymore. I definitely don’t enjoy “fun” the way other people do. I tell Dr M this is a new experience of depression for me: prior bouts were splashed with passionate meltdowns, wild hysteria, grim and dire pronouncements about myself and my future. This one is just… dull. He nods and says I’m stuck in chronic dysphoria.
“I hope you’re writing about the fact that I’m really funnnnnnnny,” interrupts the Hubs as I type this. “Well I am now,” I say, as I capture his quote and try to decide how many extra Ns to give ‘funnnnnnnny.’
So, what would I say to Jesus if he appeared to me today? You’ve lost your sparkle, dude. Are you in this with me, or what? I can’t give a whole lot more, I’m drained, fried. When you come next, for everyone’s sake, would you please come as a woman? What do you want from me?
What do you want from me?
What do you want from me?
The answers have never changed: To do justly, to love mercy, to walk humbly. Love your neighbor. Pray for those you strongly dislike.
I know all the answers. Those kind of answers. And they’re hard, so hard, but I will keep after them. I’m cranky about this faith that won’t let me go but I’m also thankful, because there are no emotional pleasantries holding me to it now. Just bald faced determination to not cut ties with the craft that sucked me into its orbit and lashed me to its side. The universe is vast and wild; I have no interest in navigating deep metaphysical space untethered.
However. However. To feel something, the misty eyed sensations of a familiar hymn. To read a bible story to my children with certainty instead of confusion. To be able to let dualism slide right off my back instead of frustrate me.
And then, at the apex of all of this: a global pandemic.
To be continued…
