Yesterday, I was curled up in my ugly brown recliner, chosen for its comfort and not its looks, when my husband reminded me that I needed to be ready to leave soon. So, I hurried upstairs, which was a miracle in and of itself ( the ability to hurry up those stairs, that is). I exchanged my colourful sweatpants and T-shirt for something more appropriate for a meeting with ladies from my church. I hastily dabbed on some concealer that wasn’t up to the task of its design when it comes to the dark bags under my eyes, and quickly swiped some mascara across my lashes to make me feel better about my naturally fair lashes. This moment gave me pause, because the odds of me crying on any given day are above average, but lately those odds have somehow increased tenfold.
Typically, it could just be a brief tearing up at the most saccharine commercials, or a genuine cry from built-up stress or hurt feelings. As of now, it could be any of those, but the result is a complete and utter sobfest. With my emotions already in a frenzied state of flux, I questioned my vanity in deciding to apply mascara, especially since I was going out into public. It would be mortifying enough to fall apart in front of all of the ladies, but even if I could manage to do so discreetly, afterward I would end up with the telltale signs of a good cry in the smudged black tracks down cheeks.
Still, I made my way back downstairs, feeling somewhat put together for my evening out. I popped a couple of ibuprofen to stave off the flare I could feel brewing and hoped it would ebb the already existing pains. My nerves were frayed as I gathered my Bible, journal and purse. I chided myself for being so ridiculous in being so nervous to be with the women from my church, especially on an evening I had been looking forward to. I knew that despite the overwhelming depression that has been stifling, I needed to go. Actually, it’s because of the overwhelmingly stifling depression I knew I needed to go; And I was grateful I didn’t give my apathy time to talk me out of going.
I have never been an extrovert, so I slipped out of the family minivan, bid my family goodbye, and awkwardly made my way to the large garden tent where there were already church ladies gathering and mingling. I say awkwardly as if I strolled in there like I was in the Monty Python sketch about silly walks, but I am fairly certain it was all in my head. I felt as if I were exuding a great deal of awkwardness, but I have a feeling it was far greater in my own mind.
It was a relief to see women I knew and have often spoken with at my table but I always feel like a robot learning to be human during such interactions. Am I saying the right things? Did that come out wrong? How am I supposed to stand? How much eye contact is too much or too little? Seriously, I wouldn’t wish my brain on anyone else.
Once it was time to eat, I settled in and focused on that task. All eight of us ladies around the table conversed genially, whilst passing around the assortment of picnic foods that had been provided in a cute, little picnic basket as part of the centerpiece. We talked amongst ourselves, passed more food around, and laughed. It was a breath of fresh air, literally and metaphorically, to be seated underneath the white tent with all of the other women present.
I have been walking in a heavy, suffocating fog of depression, with anxiety lurking in the shadows. This isn’t entirely new for me, I have dealt with mental health issues since my adolescence, and have not kept that hidden. God has seen me through the many ups and downs that come with battling these very human conditions over the years. I often worry that all people will see of me is those struggles, but I am living proof that God is with me. I have no doubt that if He wasn’t with me through the highest of highs and the lowest of lows alike, I would not be here writing this post now.
Last night, as the evening grew darker and the fairy lights strung around the garden and the tent shone brighter, it was a moment of clarity. The fog parted for a time, and I could breathe in the truths. It hurt when I felt the fog closing in around me again. During the final song, while we all sang “I Love You Lord” I saw the perfect illustration of my turmoil. I had written out that song as a teenager, along with a sketch up hands, and then pinned it to the cork board in my bedroom. It is a song I am fond of, but I sang along with so much hope, joy and sorrow intermingling in my heart. In the distance, sirens wailed, as emergency vehiciles barreled to or from an emergency. It felt like such an odd pairing of chaos and peace, all at once, and I thought, with a rueful laugh, isn’t that an accurate representation of my state of mind?
I gathered up my belongings, both old and newly acquired, and hastened to the snack cart. I thought about just sidestepping this final activity and seeking out my family’s van instead. However, while the fog was becoming suffocating, I wanted to remain in a place where God was so clearly at work for just a little longer.
I made it to the van with my parting treats and plopped down in the passenger seat. On the short drive home, the fog completely closed in. By the time I disembarked, I was eager to shed my put-together look and throw on my comfortable pajamas. I found myself once more curled up in my recliner, feeling the crushing weight of life pushing down on me with ferocity.
It’s hard to breathe, it’s hard to see and it’s hard to move under the pressure of it all. There is just so much overwhelming hurt, and fear, that I find myself recoiling from any human interaction, yet desperately not wanting to be alone in it. I don’t have anything to offer in this state, I tell myself, so why waste people’s time?
I wondered, if I were to get up in front of everyone and share my testimony, as several of the ladies from my church did last night, would it be encouraging or discouraging? Can I be an encouragement even in the trenches? Experience tells me yes, though that nagging voice (which we know isn’t worth listening to but is so very incessant) says, “Absolutely not! You’re too much of a mess.” I am a mess, but God is still very evident in this mess. I may feel like this fog will never lift, but He’s with me in it. I don’t know where I’m going, but He guides each step. I don’t see the way out just yet, but He does. I can’t do this on my own strength, but He is my strength. My testimony is that God is always present, even when I can’t see or feel Him because the fog is so thick. He’s the hope that keeps me going when it feels like everything is falling apart. This has been the case throughout my life.
An evening with women who know heartache and joy, and openly shared their hearts last night, was God leading me through this. It was like coming up for air, no matter how brief. He keeps nudging me in the right direction and I trust that though it doesn’t feel true, it is true that I will get through this season with Him. So, while I write this with a knot in my chest, and having already had to reapply my mascara once today, I will leave you with two truths in my life…
Mascara runs, but God’s love doesn’t.
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