Thoughts on Depression and Suicide: Sometimes You Just Want To Go Home

There was a lot of press after the suicide of Rick Warren’s son – some supportive, some reprehensibly critical, some just web filler. I’ve been hesitant to add more noise, except that I’ve had a history with depression. Perhaps my story will encourage you that you are not alone.

I cannot pretend to know the depth of pain that Matthew Warren endured. But I have a bit of an idea. When I was 27 years old, I felt like Elijah in 1 Kings 19, despairing under that broom tree. “Enough of this, God! Take my life.” I’d spent seven years trying to overcome my own personal stew of family dysfunction, addictive behavior and the thousand natural shocks that the artistic temperament is heir to. During that time I worked on healing my eating disorder, I saw a therapist, prayed a lot, memorized Bible verses, and attended every Christian healing seminar that came along. Whenever they had a prayer team after church, I went up, cried, fell over, and got back up. It was the nineties: the golden age of self-help.

But the summer of my 28th year I could not get back up. If you’ve ever felt that kind of despair, you know what I mean. It doesn’t matter that people love you or God loves you; you know that. Your hope is built on nothing less than Jesus; you know that. Sometimes the burden of grief is so big, you cannot get out from underneath it – not even if your dad is a pastor or Jesus is your Lord. You just want to go Home.

*Photo by Knoll Nicolai, Creative Commons

It was also the golden age of health insurance, so I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital. Well, it wasn’t a psych ward; it was a Christian in-patient therapy program. And it wasn’t some lockdown; it was at a beautiful house in an affluent Orange County suburb. The neighbors had horses.

There were about four other clients there at the time. We did individual and group therapy. We had family visits. We took walks and made puff-paint T-shirts. They rented movies for us, like The Dream Team and Die Hard. I think they drew the line at One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I spent almost two months there. The only reason I left was that my high school was having its tenth reunion, and I wanted to go without a chaperone in a lab coat.

They said it would be like getting a year’s worth of therapy in a couple of months. I say it was like making the decision to live. Because I came out wanting to live. That was new.

• • •

I can name a few things that aided that shift.

1. My Christian therapist and psychiatrist both insisted I go on anti-depressants. “You’re a flower in a vase with a hole at the bottom. All the counseling, therapy, prayer, is water you’re pouring into the vase. It doesn’t matter how much you dump into it; it’s escaping through the hole.” The antidepressant was the plug; not the water or the vase, just the plug. I resisted: maybe I hadn’t tried hard enough or believed enough. But I had to look at the facts. I’d fought an eating disorder since I was 18, and depression ran on both sides of my family. I reluctantly agreed and went on meds for a good stretch of time. Instead of waking up five floors below the basement and fighting my way to the surface, I woke up on the ground floor. I could use my energy on living. The drugs weren’t a substitute for doing the work. Otherwise I’d just wake up on the ground floor and see the same view. I had to change that view.

2. I committed to a regular 12-step meeting, got a sponsor, and worked through my personal inventory. Not only did I release a huge burden of resentment and guilt, I found a community of people who shared similar issues. When I slacked off, my addictive personality found alcohol. Whaddya know. I had to add AA to my list of things to do in order to stay sane. The upside is, those meetings helped me in a way that church couldn’t. No one understands you like a fellow traveler.

3. I remembered what I wanted to do with my life, with my faith and with my art. And I went after it. I took huge risks. After six weeks in a psych program, nothing scared me – not even a standup comedy club.

4. I accepted I might deal with depression all my life. I accepted I was an addict. I accepted I might have to take meds all my life. But it was better than feeling like Elijah all my life.

There were many times that I have felt like Elijah since then, despairing under that broom tree. I went through a horrendous breakup ten years ago. It literally felt like someone was ripping out my intestines. So I went back to a therapist. I went to a 12-step meeting every day. It didn’t stop me crying; I just cried in front of other people. My sponsor told me to be of service, call a newcomer, and “pray for midnight.” After all, if tomorrow is a new day, then tomorrow starts at midnight. Pray for it.

If I’d gone through any of those losses at age 27, they’d have felt like life-ending losses. The only thing I have over my 27-year-old self is time. Time and experience reminds me that this too, shall pass – the unutterable sorrow and the incomprehensible joy – shall pass. It isn’t until we are united with God in Heaven that the tears will be wiped away from all faces.

• • •

Do you or someone close to you struggle with depression? Consider short- or long-term medication. There’s nothing in the Bible prohibiting meds. If there were, we’d have a lot of diabetics in comas. Find a counselor or group that specializes in your issue. Take the Myers Briggs and Enneagram tests to identify your personality type. It’s a huge relief to see yourself described in a book and know there are millions of people just like you. You have gifts no other personality type can offer. You have weaknesses no other personality type can understand. Are you prone to depression? So were the prophets. They saw things other people didn’t see; they wrote it down and got a lot of great poetry out of it. (They also got chased around by evil kings, but that’s another story.) Learn to maximize your strength and mitigate its weakness. Get exercise and eight hours of sleep. And pray for midnight.

Now depression – even severe depression – is not the same as mental illness. Mental illness is complex and requires professional help. The Mayo Clinic cites several factors contributing to mental illness: inherited traits, environmental exposures, negative life experiences, and simple brain chemistry. The Warrens did everything they could for their son: doctors, counselors, medications, prayer and love. And still, it wasn’t enough. I don’t have an answer, except that we live East of Eden.

But if you’ve been touched by depression or a suicide, love the people it’s affected. You have no idea what burden they’ve carried on behalf of the sufferer. Love the person who’s died: you have no idea what grief they bore or just how exhausted they’d become. God did promise he’d wipe every tear from every face. Until then, we’ve got to cry our own tears and wipe them from the faces of those around us.

I remember a woman I knew in one of my 12-step meetings. She was full of energy and deeply empathic. She welcomed newcomers. She was always thrilled to see me, even after I’d played hooky for a couple weeks or months or an entire year. When I moved back to Los Angeles and returned to that meeting, I found out she had taken her own life. All I could see was an image of her sitting in a wooden chair at 7am, and how much joy she brought to the room. I thought of how much compassion and grace God must have for her. She must have gotten so tired, lain down by the broom tree and said, “Enough.” Sometimes, you just want to go Home.

Thoughts on Depression and Suicide: Sometimes You Just Want To Go Home is a post from: Storyline Blog