As I write this, I cannot help but be struck by the juxtaposition between the blog series I’m working on of “celebration” and the terrifying confession I’m about to make right here:  I struggle with depression – on a regular basis, and even at this very moment.  It would probably be clinical depression except that I don’t see the point in having a doctor repeat back to me as an official diagnosis what I’ve already told him.  Besides, I’m not interested in medication.  I know that it has helped others, but it’s just not for me.

I don’t want to be writing this post.  I would rather write something inspiring and whimsical, and not have such deeply personal issues just “out there” for everyone I know to read.  I would much rather hide behind this computer screen and not have this part of me be exposed.  But what good does that do?  Hiding is sufficient for those who merely want to survive, but it is not enough for those who truly want to live.

I’ve struggled with depression ever since I was about seven years old.  I remember as a child wondering to myself where I had heard certain words, and how I came to understand what they meant.  Like when I was four:  I was reading a book to my mom on the couch and was having difficulty seeing the words.  I thought maybe I had made the word up when I told her that everything looked “blurry”, but the word just seemed to fit, and turned out to be a real word – as well as an accurate diagnosis.  I needed glasses.

But I remember a sunny day in San Bernardino when I was seven.  I was sitting in the backseat of our car and my mom was driving with someone else in the passenger seat.  I don’t know where we were going, but I do remember feeling an unsolicited but profound sadness, and leaning my head against the window, I said to myself, “I’m depressed.”  I didn’t know if it was a real word, and if it was, how I had come to know it.  But again, the word just seemed to fit, and turned out to be a real word – as well as an accurate diagnosis.

I won’t bore you with the details of my story.  Besides, I don’t have the exclusive rights to my story.  But I will say that I’m not convinced that depression is ever simply chemical.  I think there are events, or events that were supposed to happen that didn’t, that cause the chemical reactions leading to depression for most of us who experience it.  I think it would be nice if the cause of depression were merely chemical; then those who struggle with it could confess it with less shame or fear of stigma.  When so much of society is encouraging us all to “leave the past behind you, move forward” (as if progress and strength are all that matters at the expense of honesty and vulnerability) it becomes increasingly difficult to admit, “My past is a part of me.  It has shaped me, for better or for worse.  I am walking around still broken inside.”  Being broken is a sign of weakness in a herd where only the strong will survive.

It seems as though the medical profession is trying to eliminate the fear of the stigma by chocking it up to brain chemicals so that more people with depression will seek help, and pharmaceutical companies are all too eager to back that assertion with advertisements that offer drugs to counteract the chemicals.  But whether for noble or ignoble motives, eliminating the stigma of depression by ignoring the deeper cause only addresses the brain’s reaction when the soul is hemorrhaging.

Depression is a complicated animal.  The things that might “cheer you up” are the last things you want to do, and though you long to feel better, you’re not really looking to be cheered up.  You want to feel better because somehow things have changed, or you have changed, and you can feel better because life actually is better in some sort of measurable way.  Taking a walk, or getting a dog, or getting coffee with friends are only band-aids on a bullet wound.

It’s complicated because you don’t want to talk about it, but you do want to talk about it.  You’re afraid of people knowing, but you’re also afraid of not being known – or worse yet, not being knowable.  You want to be left alone, but you want to be truly loved.

It’s complicated because you can have some really great days mixed in with the pits of hell, and you find yourself not trusting the good or the bad.  You’re afraid that anyone you’ve told that you’re struggling with depression, if they see you having a good time, they won’t take your struggles seriously, or they’ll think you’re faking a smile.  And you’ll question it yourself.

It’s complicated because if someone says that they understand, even though all you want is for someone to understand, you find it hard to believe them.  And even though you want to feel normal, it’s still annoying to find out that others go through similar states, and your issues are not as unique and as special as you had assumed.

It’s complicated because you just want to crawl into a cave and disappear, but at the same time, you want your real life to swoop in and appear.

It’s complicated because it’s chemical, it’s emotional, it’s spiritual.  It’s hormone levels mixed with pain in the heart mixed with choices of what we decide to believe is true.

And it’s different for everyone.

So yeah, I’m aware of the glaring irony of this personal admission standing next to a post on celebration.  I did not choose the topic of celebration because I need cheering up from a bad couple of weeks.  I’m not going to ignore or hide the struggles I’m going through by conjuring up some temporary ebullience.  But see, I think there’s a truth out there, a truth that is truer than what I feel because I have already proven myself to be emotionally unreliable.  I believe there’s a truth that goes deeper than brokenness and is more authentic than brain chemistry.  No matter what I feel, those feelings never seem to be able to fully conquer what I know.  I can’t explain how I know this truth with such certainty, how no matter how I fight against it, it won’t let go of me.

I chose the discipline of celebration because it would not be a “discipline” if it were easy, which tells me that celebration is made for these difficult moments, and if celebration is made equally for the difficult moments, there must be something to celebrate.  I don’t choose celebration in order to feel better.  I choose it because it’s truth regardless of how I feel about it.  I don’t feel like celebrating, but neither do I feel like staying depressed.  My feelings cancel one another out, leaving me with a choice.  And I choose this:  “Finally, brethren, (as a kid, I was always made to memorize the King James Version), whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”