The Why

Have you ever been around a little kid who asks "why?" to everything you say? They ask a question, you give an answer, and they ask why. You give an answer to the why, and they ask again. You answer again, and they just keep asking. Usually, the only thing that's going to stop this train is you saying either "Because I said so" or "I don't know."

I feel like that little kid lately. My depression has been really bad the last couple of weeks, and I keep asking why. Why now? Why so bad? Why can't I make myself feel better?

And, perhaps selfishly, Why me?

Several positive things have happened in my life lately, things that any outsider looking in would think, uh, why is she so down? Professionally, I finished up a clinical internship with high marks and good recommendations, I get a little break from school in between internships, and last month I had an essay published in the book Kissing in the Chapel, Praying in the Frat House: Wrestling with Faith and College. Personally, I spent a wonderful Christmas vacation on Anna Maria Island and then on a cruise, I have a job that I absolutely love working for people who are kind and understanding and whose son is a natural antidepressant, and I just found a massage therapy office that charges me 20 bucks for a one hour appointment.

But I'm sad. So many great things happening to me, so many things going right for me, and depression seems to poison all of it. I try my hardest to keep it from invading, setting up camp, and taking over, but it's always there. Ready. Waiting. Biding.

It seems to be worse than usual lately, so much so that I saw my therapist two days in a row, which I'd never done before. I don't know why I've been feeling worse. And believe me, I've asked. On Thursday morning, I was watching Tyler run around and shake the maracas I'd got him from Mexico. He ran over to me and climbed up on the couch next to me. He snuggled close, then looked up at me and smiled his goonie toddler grin. I started to cry, which scared both of us, I think. Usually Tyler's smile and giggles make me smile too. I was so down that I couldn't bring myself to smile. So I cried instead. Tyler put his hand on my cheek, and then put his fingers underneath my glasses and into my eye. It was the best and worst thing ever.

I tell you all of this not in an attempt to inspire pity in you, but in an attempt to inspire strength in myself. I think many of you would agree that it is easier to write than to talk out loud. Writing helps me prove to myself that this is real, that my feelings right now are real, that my life is real.  It provides me with marker stones to look back on, to see where I've been. To remind me that it's real and worth fighting for.

God's answer to my whys is not "I don't know," because I trust that He does know what He's doing. Instead, it's "Because I said so." But it's not the "because I said so" of an exasperated parent or babysitter. It's the answer of a Father who has a plan, has a good reason, and can see what's coming.

I have to trust that something is coming.