As I write this, I am sitting in a parking lot planning my next binge eating session at a Chinese restaurant. I am alone and emotional. I am not going out to have dinner with friends and have
My home life just felt like torture, but I didn’t understand why. And having parents that told me to grow up and get over it really didn’t help. So when I finally became an “adult”, I didn’t handle it well. I got married way too young, became an alcoholic, and just hated the whole world.
Depression is not something you just get over. Since being diagnosed with severe chronic depression almost 20 year ago, I have heard every possible good natured “cure” imaginable. “You can just get over it.” It’s just feelings.” “Have you prayed about it”. “Other people have it worse than you do.” “Be a man.” “Read your Bible more.” The list does go on and some of them even work for a short period of time, but not for long.
When he attempted suicide by drug overdose I realized something more serious was going on. He planned it so we would be there to see him suffer. That angered me a lot because Dad was supposed to be around to take care of us. We had no idea he needed to be taken care of. He was admitted to a Mental Institution for a few weeks. We didn’t talk about what happened to anyone. We were told Dad was” crazy” and that was all we knew. While he was in the hospital I believe Mom made the divorce final and we found ourselves relocating to her new life which pushed Dad further away. We didn’t know what to think or who to turn to for guidance.
I suffer from sever chronic depression. There are days getting out of bed is impossible the emotional pain is too much. I have thought of suicide more than once, and prayed God would take my life. I didn’t want it anymore. But in that room and in that moment I knew there was a higher calling for me and purpose for the pain. I knew God was speaking to me. Telling me that he wasn’t going to take the pain away, but I was to use it to create. I was to write, to act, to direct, and to feel free to do public speaking. This was what I was created to do and I had not yet even begun.
I received a call at work telling me that our youngest son had had a psychotic break and been picked up by the police and taken to the emergency room. What did that mean? I had no clue what the word “psychotic” meant. What in the world was going on? I could barely breathe. I left work and rushed to the hospital. I’ll never forget entering that bare locked room in the emergency department. There was my precious 17- year- old son lying all alone with a look of utter terror on his face. He was staring at the ceiling in silence. I took his cold hand and began to gently talk to him.