From The Editor: Get Moving

My alarm goes off, startling me, but it didn’t actually wake me up; I’ve been half awake for hours already. I’m exhausted. I feel like I haven’t slept through the night in about four years, but I’ll only allow myself to lay here for another 15 minutes. Then I really have to get up. Okay, that’s enough, now you REALLY have to get up. No really. Get. Up. Right, now you don’t have time to shower. Slap on some deodorant and live with the greasyhaired consequences!

This is unfortunately a typical morning for me; it’s actually a pretty good morning for me. On more difficult days, I can’t even wake up, let alone get up on time. On the worst days I can’t seem to convince myself there’s a good enough reason to get up at all, and I only manage to get up so that my son won’t be late for school.

I have an incredible life. I have the world’s most wonderful, intelligent, and loving husband, the most beautiful little boy for whom I wished and prayed for years, a job and ministry I adore, a house I feel safe and at home in, and a circle of true friends I get to do life with. My God has blessed me to overflowing!

And yet, I struggle to get out of bed.

I’ve always had a great relationship with God. I’m one of the lucky ones for whom He’s always been real, for almost as long as I can remember. I can go to Him with anything and everything, my concerns as well as my praises and thanksgiving. He gives me peace beyond my understanding, and I never doubt His love for me.

And yet, I just can’t convince myself to get up and get moving.

Depression runs in my genes. I didn’t know this growing up because my grandparents didn’t believe it was polite to discuss those types of things, which my parents naturally continued, though to a lesser extent (really not helpful when attempting to fill out my medical history). My grandmother was deeply depressed for many, many years, and I never knew until I was in college.

This foundational revelation about my background made my own struggles growing up start to make a lot more sense. I remember sometime in eighth grade lying on the floor of my room sobbing uncontrollably, feeling incapable of going on, unable to get up or even breathe. I never really felt suicidal, just like I couldn’t move forward, or even backward. I just couldn’t move. And given how much I loved my life even in those awkward teenage years, it made zero sense.

I used to feel ashamed during those moments. I felt like I must not be grateful enough for my blessings, that I must secretly hate myself or my life. I felt like I just wasn’t trying hard enough to be joyful or happy. And that just made me feel worse. I felt broken, like a failure of a human and as a Christian. I was obviously wrong somewhere, I just didn’t know where.

Turns out, it was my brain chemicals lying to me. Trying harder to feel happy wasn’t making anything better, but the smallest dose of meds did the trick when all the prayer and despair couldn’t.

I once described my depression to my husband like this: picture standing at the edge of a deep, dark chasm filled with ocean waves. Without meds, my foot slips, and I’m instantly dragged under, fighting for my life just to breathe. With my meds, I can stand at the edge and calmly think, “Do I want to jump in there and struggle? Or do I want to just let it go and walk away?” I could still go into the darkness and possibly drown, but it would be by choice rather than being swept away.

Most people who know me casually or in passing would never guess this is a near-daily struggle for me. I have been complimented on my smile more times than I could ever count. I’m quiet and introverted, but I tend to exude peace and joy wherever I go.

And yet, I have to convince myself to shower and take care of myself every day.

There are so many people who struggle with their mental health on a constant basis. We can’t judge or even guess what someone is going through based on their outward appearance. The bubbliest person you know may have had to scrape themselves off the floor ten minutes before leaving for work this morning. And that doesn’t make them a bad person. That doesn’t mean they’re living a lie, or in a wrong relationship with God, or falling behind on their devotional life, or not trying hard enough. Maybe their brain is just a liar.

For those of us who need just a little bit of help seeing the truth, please don’t be embarrassed or ashamed. You’re in good company. I would encourage you to talk to your doctor, but I would also urge you to be in the Word. The Bible has many stories of people dealing with mental health issues. Check out Naomi’s story in the book of Ruth, Elijah in 1 Kings, Nehemiah’s struggles, or many, many of David’s Psalms.

In Psalm 22:14, David laments, “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted within me.” In verse 19 he pleads, “But you, Lord, do not be far from me. You are my strength; come quickly to help me.” And in verse 22 he decides he will praise God despite his struggles, saying, “I will declare your name to my people; in the assembly I will praise you.”

If David can be considered a man after God’s own heart even while displaying consistent mental health struggles, we, too, can know that we are loved by our Father, no matter what our brains may tell us. Claim the truths that you are loved, you are chosen, and you are His. And get out of bed and get moving.