Living Life Out Loud: Sometimes You Can't Just Snap Out of It On Your Own (and that's okay and you're not alone)

“…so then last week I went back to my primary care doctor. The physician’s assistant I saw listened to me and asked questions for a long time. Like 45 minutes. She told me she thought it would be a good idea if she gave me a prescription to help with the neck pain for a couple weeks. Then she said that many of the symptoms I was describing sounded a lot like depression.”

 “And how did you feel about that?” 

“I mean, it made sense. I had realized the way I was describing how I was feeling was how, professionally, I would describe depression: like I was caught on a merry-go round and couldn’t get off.  And I meant that both physically and emotionally. She asked if I had a counselor. So I told her I had you, and that just that morning my husband and I had been talking and decided I should schedule to come back in to see you. I emailed you to make an appointment while I was sitting in the room with her.”

 “You know what? When I walked out into the waiting room to get you, I looked at your face, and I thought to myself, ‘She is depressed.’ You can often see it in a person’s face.”

After spending most of that session describing this summer (and even back into the spring) from hell—a sort of health care odyssey that involved tests, surgery to remove my gallbladder, and anxieties that mounted which each day waiting for surgery or each day afterwards when I thought I should be better than I was—this was where my counselor and I landed.

I started seeing this particular counselor when my brother Dan started struggling with his own mental health issues again in early 2014. I’ve been in counseling on and off since college, and I’d learned a lot about family systems and mental illness and diagnosed patients, and well, I figured I could best help myself and him if I was getting counseling.

I often tell people, when I’ve had occasion to have discussions about health issues, that one of my least favorite medical questions is “Tell me about your family’s heart history.” Ha. Well, here goes…

It’s not pretty.

But an equally challenging question is this, “Tell me about your family’s mental health history.”

Because of my family’s heart history, I know I need to take seriously eating well, getting (and keeping) my weight down, and exercising. I know that doing all these things may still not make problems stay away, but given our genetics, it is foolish to do otherwise. Doesn’t mean I always do them well…but I know I should.

In the same way, it is foolish to pretend that my body does not carry tendencies that may make it easier for me to stumble into depression, or, since most people have down times, perhaps it’s even true to say, may make it harder for me to snap out of them. And while life experiences (and some really good counselors over the years) have taught me tools to maintain my emotional health most of the time without really even being aware of it anymore, sometimes life collapses on me—as it does on anyone.

By the time I was sitting there in my counselor’s office, a week had passed since my primary care doctor had given me meds to help relieve neck pain. My body (and yes, probably mind) has taken longer to bounce back from the summer and my surgery than I would like. And it’s been all too easy to let any physical symptom get rolled into all the others and try to self-diagnose what’s wrong.

Or turn to Google. The great enemy of having realistic views of any symptom you’re experiencing.

The simple, “You need to rest and let your body heal,” is a terribly unsatisfying answer (and truth) for me.

As my counselor told me, part of the challenge is that you cannot disconnect the body and mind. It is impossible to know for sure which came first—the body or mind (and that such a distinction was artificial anyway, really). I was already feeling a ton better—not back to normal—but a different person than when I’d been at my doctor’s office. The medicine had indeed helped ease my neck, and, perhaps just naming that I was struggling with the weight of all of this gave me the clarity and permission to cut myself some slack.

I’d already starting using the tools I knew I needed when I had to work more intentionally to stay well. This time, I’d even started using tools my father did when he was coming off of his diagnosis and hospitalization for bi-polar depression: things like posting positive, affirming notes (I used post-it notes) to re-wire the mental messages I’d been telling myself. Instead of convincing myself I was sick and not better enough, those notes reminded me what people had told me but I had trouble remembering: my body had been through a lot—it was strong but just needed patience; I needed to rest, and if being a mom and a pastor meant I couldn’t rest as much as maybe I really should, then yes, recovery was going to drag on a bit; that needing rest was a sign my body knew what it needed, not that it was broken.

I’ve had occasion, both recently, and throughout my life, to have conversations with people who have struggled with depression, anxiety and other mental illnesses. Everyone is different. Bodies are different. Life circumstances are different. Resources (money, time, relationships) are different. And all these things shape what treatments are helpful or possible.

For me, counseling, exercise, and behavioral changes have been powerfully helpful. Medication, intense psychotherapy, etc., are tools which have been helpful to so many. All of these can help people get to a place where they no longer feel caught in a feedback loop. For some, successful treatment will still mean they work harder day by day to be energized and motivated. What passes as success and health for one person will look different than it does for another. We do harm to ourselves and others when we hold expectations which are unreasonable and simply keep us feeling stuck. This is why we need professional support—not only to find helpful treatment (sometimes this takes lots of time—it took my father at least a decade to be solidly stable) but also to identify what a reasonable and maintainable degree of mental (as with physical) health looks like for you.

After Dan’s suicide (because even the best counseling for me couldn’t change the challenges he faced, and the pain he often overcame with great effort and strength but could not one night) a song that helped shape how I and my family wanted to move forward was Rob Thomas’ song “Someday.” It includes the words,

And maybe someday

We'll figure all this out

Try to put an end to all our doubt

Try to find a way to make things better now and

Maybe someday we'll live our lives out loud

We'll be better off somehow

Someday

This song is powerful to me not only because of Dan’s struggle, but because of the family system he and I were both tied to. A family system which for over a decade actively hid my father’s mental illness from so many--almost everyone. A system which did not live life out loud. People smarter than I could more accurately assess what went wrong. In my analysis, though, keeping secrets is a burden no one can bear long. Keeping secrets which prevent you from getting support you need can (well, definitely will) make you more and more unhealthy. And keeping those secrets makes all of us feel more and more alone—like we’re the only ones struggling.

So I decided after Dan’s suicide I was going to live my life out loud, try to throw a bit of light, even when much of what I learned and practiced for many years screams at me to keep it shut up. I want to do this for myself, for my husband and kids (who I don’t ever want to feel like they can’t confide in someone when I am having a rough time, or God forbid if they ever are) and for others, who maybe think they’re alone, or broken, that it’s they’re fault (especially if they’ve been told stupid things by other pastors or church folks, like just pray harder, or that struggling is a sign of spiritual weakness).

To be sure, my faith journey and spiritual disciplines are important ways I stay grounded and healthy. But they are just part of the tools God has surrounded me with. The tools God has provided for all of us to be whole and healthy.

For me, I remain committed to regular professional care (I love my counselor, and heck, I’d see her every day, but that seems excessive) and my body is indeed still physically recovering from surgery and my doctors are keeping a close eye in case anything else needs physical treatment or care going forward. I still get tired more easily than I’d like, but for the first time in my adult life, am trying to listen to that feeling and not just power through (people tell me I’ll come to enjoy naps, though now I mostly resent them). And it ain’t for nothing that experts are increasingly learning about the connection between mind and gut—stupid gallbladder. After all, you cannot separate your mind and body.

This Sunday, I’m preaching on the lectionary Gospel (Luke 13:10-17) about Jesus healing the woman, “who had been disabled by a spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and couldn’t stand up straight.” While her healing is clearly a miracle—Jesus lays hands and says the words, “Woman, you are set free from your sickness”—it is important to note, I think, that Jesus doesn’t just tell her to walk it off. Shake it off. Mind over matter, you know. Jesus provides the tools she needs to return to health. For her it was his hands and words. For me it has been different tools these past few months. For you it may be different still.

God calls us to—and offers us—healing and wholeness. And there are many tools to do so. You are not alone. You are not uniquely broken. We are, all of us—every single one of us—broken. And some seasons are more difficult than others. Sometimes we can walk through difficult seasons—walk through fires—seemingly unscathed. Other times, there are mountains we cannot cross under our own power. Mountains even the Little Engine That Could couldn’t.

But healing and wholeness lie ahead of us.

Therefore, let us lay aside our shame, our pain, our isolation, and find ways to support each other along the journey, encourage each other to find the tools and treatments which will lead us to greater healing and wholeness, and yes, the faith and strength that only God can give which can up gird us in our darkest moments.

Let us live our lives out loud.