if i'm depressed, why am i smiling?

a note: may is mental health month. while i think our world is much more open to hearing words like depression, anxiety, panic disorder or bipolar disorder, we're not nearly where we need to be. men, in particular, don't say those words out loud. if you do realize you need help, resources are limited -- especially for those who don't have insurance or who have a limited income. i'm sharing my depression story this month in the event you or someone you love needs reassurance. help is available. you can talk about it. i promise you somebody cares. i care.

i recently spent two nights in a cabin. all. by. my. self.

i needed it.

a couple of years ago, i met a buddy for coffee, and told him i needed some "me" time. the words sounded selfish as soon as they left my lips. i immediately wanted to take them back. i don't take "me" time. that's something self-absorbed narcissists do. married family men don't take "me" time. "me" time is reserved for single guys whose only responsibility is to fill the gas tanks on their sports cars.

so i didn't. instead, i continued to sink into the familiar darkness of clinical depression. i know it well.

my first experience was 20 years ago. i was less motivated and withdrawn, but i didn't think anybody else noticed. they did. my boss called me into her office and told me she was concerned. she told me i was angry -- a lot. she told me i wasn't myself. she asked what was wrong.

until that moment, i hadn't even processed it myself, but there it was.

"i don't have any joy," i told her, the last word was lost in a choke of embarrassed tears.

on her advice, i went to my doctor and told him what i was feeling.

i was turning 40, he pointed out.

"surely i'm not that vain."

depression doesn't work like that, at least not for me. it came after several stressful years. over the previous few years my grandmother died. that was followed by my wife's miscarriage. my dad died later that summer. my mom got sick and moved in with us. i changed jobs. i was leading worship at my church. my daughter was diagnosed with epilepsy. the build up of those stressors took a gradual, definitive toll.

going to church was probably the hardest. on a regular basis, our choir sang a song, so you would know:

how many times must I prove how much I love you?

how many ways must my love for you I show?

how many time must I rescue you from trouble

for you to know just how much I love you?

didn't I wake you up this morning

clothed in your right mind.

when you walked up on a problem,

didn't I step right in on time

When you got weak along life's journey,

weak along life's journey,

my angel carried you,

so you would know just how much I love you.

source: https://www.lyricsondemand.com/b/brooklyntabernaclechoirlyrics/soyouwouldknowlyrics.html

i couldn't sing that song. i stopped going to choir. the words just weren't true for me. i wasn't clothed in my right mind, and it didn't feel like God was stepping in. i was weak, and i didn't sense any angels. i sure didn't feel loved.

i started taking medicine. i tried to hide my diagnosis from my wife, but it didn't work.

the first medicine made me even more reclusive. i didn't want my wife or anyone else to talk to me. i wanted to stay in bed -- alone.

my wife found out about my depression when i accidentally left my medicine on the kitchen counter. i was horrified.

we took a long, tearful drive. I explained how what was happening. i had withheld my diagnosis because i didn't want to worry her. her family had experienced serious mental health issues. the last thing she needed, i thought, was to be worried that i was about to fall off the ledge.

after she got over her anger, she told me she had noticed the changes. she was glad i was getting help.

the climb out of the pit was slow, aided by a second medicine with fewer side effects. there wasn't a magical moment when i suddenly wasn't depressed anymore. i just took my medicine, kept working, kept parenting and kept living until i realized one day that my joy had returned.

i stopped taking medicine a while later, and i sailed along pretty well for the next 15 or so years; but the events of the past three or four years have taken their toll.

the race riots, the bitter election, the loss of civility among friends and neighbors, the pandemic, the loudly argued opinions over masks and vaccines, job uncertainty, and, yes, with my 60th birthday on the horizon, i'm here again.

at first, i missed the signs. i chalked my feelings to the loss of church meetings and small groups, ongoing work stressors, and aging. but when things didn't get better, when i became more reclusive and more frustrated, i knew. i talked to my nurse practitioner. we've tried several medicine combinations to help me emerge from the shadows. i've added therapy as well.

one of the ways i knew my depression had returned was because i had every reason to smile. my wife recently just landed a better, higher-paying job . my daughter graduated college and is making a difference in the lives of children every day. my son toured the united states as part of the opening act for an established artist and is about to start a second tour. i'm making more money, living in a nicer house and driving the nicest vehicle i've ever had in my life. life is good. i should not be depressed. yet i am.

my new medicine is working, but it isn't an instant cure. my brain chemistry has to reset, and that's why i took that much-needed "me" time.

i'm not being selfish, my family told me. i am healing.