So, this is going to be a little bit of a personal post. I’ll try to keep it brief; it’s just a little part of my story.
In the last few years, I’ve struggled with depression. It started with some small, insignificant (at the time) bad habits, and steadily progressed and grew into a overwhelming monster of fear that invaded my life and crashed my perfect plans into rubble.
At the very worst point, my husband came home one day to find me shut up in our living room, in complete darkness, bawling my eyes out. I had such a bad depression pit that day, and the thoughts that had flashed through my mind terrified me. In pain, in despair, I had a very real moment of wanting it to end, of taking my own life. And it terrified me to the core of my soul.
I’m a Christian. I don’t believe that suicide is ever the right decision. And I have experienced the effects and grief that suicide leaves behind in it’s wake. So why in the heck would such a thought ever pass into my mind? How could it? Was I losing my faith, had I somehow lost my way? I didn’t thing so, I was active at church, and had a decent prayer life. I’d always felt close to my Father, even in the more crazy times of my life.
Depression rattled my world in a way that I had never experienced before. That night my husband encourage, or demanded really, that I go see my doctor immediately. And I did. I took my mom. On the way to the appointment, I told her what had been going on. How I had done my best to hide it from her and my family, not sure why because they are some of the most caring people I have in my life. She was sad, a little hurt I had locked her out, I think, but most of all she was supportive. She sat with me as I talked to my doctor, who sent me immediately to the therapist on staff. We rode home together and talked about the plan that my therapist had set up for me: weekly group meetings for a Depression Support Group and bi-weekly one-on-one appointments.
I could write pages on what I learned over the next few months and the coming years, both about myself, about depression, and about how other people would react to hearing my story. And I will, at some point on this blog.
It was during those moments that I realized that I had let a very important part of myself die; the part that was created to, well, create. I’m an artist. (Maybe not a very good one!) but I had stopped creating, stopped doing anything that had fed that part of me. So I slowly eased myself back into it. That’s sort of what this blog is aboutL part art therapy, part my story.
This isn’t the end of my story, but I do want to wrap up this blog with this: there was hope and healing for me, and for my depression. If you are going through something similar, know that you are not alone. There are so many people who are on this journey with you, and there are so many who have walked it before you. Keep going, find help from those who are healthy, and find support with your community. You are worth it; you still have a story to tell.