Family lore has it that when I was in my playpen on the front lawn, neighbors would peer in and coo, “Oh, what a cute baby!” and I would scowl and reply, “Dope!”
That story always inspired a few laughs, but being gloomy as a child is no joke. It is rather telling that when I sift through my childhood photos, there are few that show me beaming a smile.
Looking back now, I am fairly sure I was suffering from depression, but in those days this diagnosis wasn’t applied to children, so no one scrambled to help me. In most people’s eyes I guess I was simply an extremely shy, overweight kid who didn’t make friends easily and was unusually moody.
The melancholy monster stalked me mercilessly throughout high school and college days, and into middle age and beyond. There were long stretches when it wasn’t so bad, and then it would emerge again and drag me down into its lair.
Like many depressed adults I kept my problem a secret by putting on a cheery facade with friends. But when I was alone I battled a stream of negative thoughts, self-recrimination and a sense of doom about the future.
When I would muster up the courage to confide to well-meaning relatives about my predicament, they usually said they would pray for me. But one suggested I might be suffering from a lack of faith.
“You have to pray to God for healing,” she insisted. “Try not to worry. You just have to have faith and trust in him.”
Telling a depressed person not to worry is a bit like advising a car wreck victim to avoid bleeding. In truth, I did have confidence in God, but I couldn’t trust myself to do ordinary things without fretting.
A few years ago, the melancholy was intensified by gnawing, bone-crunching attacks of anxiety. The kind where you wake up with a feeling of dread even though you’re facing an ordinary day.
Simple excursions like grocery shopping became a big deal because leaving home was like venturing into enemy territory, where wolves were ready to lunge and attack. Nights were bad, too.
As soon as my head hit the pillow, my brain would start firing off memories of all the terrible things I had ever done, and spinning out catastrophic images of what the future might hold.
Worrying that my crisis was linked to my own spiritual weakness only made matters worse. I questioned how a Christian could feel so blasted bleak. After all, isn’t joy one of the hallmarks of a devoted follower of Christ?
Things finally got so bad I mustered up the courage to ask my doctor for a referral to a psychiatrist. Fortunately, this man turned out to be a compassionate listener who explained that depression can be connected to low serotonin levels in the brain.
Since I began taking an antidepressant, my somber moods have lightened considerably. I’m certainly not the cheeriest person on the block, nor the most adventurous, but I’m grateful for the improvement.
When people are depressed, it’s no use hinting that their relationship with God has gone awry. Or telling them to pray harder, read more Scripture and spend more time in church.
Instead, it’s better to remind them of the old saying, “God helps those who help themselves.” And in the case of people suffering from mental anguish, that may mean seeking medical attention.
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