Sundays

I woke up this morning feeling okay--somewhere between lousy and just fine, I couldn't tell exactly where. I was steadied at least enough to keep myself up.

And then I fell straight into depression. It's interesting to me just how accurate this metaphor is. I was going along okay, but then I just fell. I got stuck in a hole that is never easy, and sometimes impossible, to get out of.

Initially, I panicked. What do I do? I screamed silently to myself. See, the thing is, down in that pit it's dark, and there's nothing to guard you from it. I have always been so afraid of the dark. Thanks to depression, all of your strength is somehow zapped out of you. Joy and ability are back on the surface, and you're physically separated from it.

Today, somehow, I did climb out of the hole. I took a nap, knowing my mind needed to be shut off until its panic wore down, then got to work. I put on makeup. I ate. I read. I sat silently while two of my roommates played chess. I meditated. I drank tea. Somewhere along the line, I found myself back on the surface, hurt and dirty but alive and in the sun again. I stood up. I took my Prozac. And I began slowly to walk once more.

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It's evening now, and I'm tired. Tired, but happy: house church was draining on me, as usual, but I just could not live without those people. The kind, wizened words of Dora always give such perspective and balance to life. The children never fail to make me smile. And dear friends, with arms ever open to embrace me, sustain me with their love.