The depression is back.
I hate it.
I hate that it creeps up on me. Never letting me know it’s coming until it’s inky black tendrils are wrapped around my soul.
When it does, suddenly I’m that girl again.
The grade 4 overweight brunette who gets made fun of at school for being smart and respectful and ugly. Funny how being smart seemed like a curse back then.
The thing that made the other kids hate me.
It made me different, and they used it to tell me that it made me not worth wanting.
Unfortunately ugly still feels like a curse.
The amount of times I’ve been told that I’m kind or generous or caring or Christ-like, but none of these things are enough for someone to choose me first.
It’s all about attraction, and whatever people find attractive - I guess I’m not it.

And so here I am - twenty years later, back to feeling like the round faced school girl with the pigtails, crying silently on the bus, looking out the window to keep my class mates from seeing.
I remember the pitying eyes of the parents waiting for their kids at the end of driveways and on street corners, sorry for me, but glad it wasn’t their kid getting off the bus with tears in their eyes.

Except I’m not 10 anymore.
I’m 31.
And when the darkness finds me again.
When it reminds me that I’m no one’s first choice. That I’m smart and kind and passionate, but none of these things are enough because I am unattractive and unwanted. The silent tears find me at my desk, or the gym, or when I’m grocery shopping.
”I’m not well,” I say, hoping they’ll assume I have the flu.
I pop in my headphones and pretend I’m listening to a really emotional podcast, or some hauntingly melancholy music.

I have become the master of hiding the pain.
Of allowing tears to stream so quietly and drying them without notice so people find themselves questioning whether I seem sad or just tired.

“Functional depression” is what my therapist calls it.

It’s been a long time since it’s been this bad.
3 years. Maybe 4.
Not that I haven’t been sad in that time.
In fact I went through some massive heart breaks, and struggled with some major anxiety.
But I always felt like there was something I can do.
That I had agency.
That if I just went back to the drawing board and came up with a better plan, I could fix my life.
If I was just kinder.
More generous.
If I volunteered more.
If I lost weight.
If I got out more.
Read more.
Tried harder.
I could change me, and if I could change me, then maybe someone would actually see me.
Maybe I would no longer be kind, but ugly.
The funny, friendzoned sidekick.
”Everything I want, but I don’t actually want you”

Maybe they could just see me.
Because if they could just actually see me, then they could choose me back.

But recently I’ve come to the end of myself.
No more drawing boards.
No more plans worth trying.
No more thoughts on how to be good enough.
Just me.

And so I feel depressed.
And the depression tells me that I am too broken to be loved.
Not whole enough to ever be wanted.
But I equally feel like I don’t have the right to be depressed.
”Come on, you can do this,” I say as I force myself out of bed in the morning.
”Just keep moving” I whisper as I park my car and have to convince myself to go through the movements of getting out.
”You got this,” deep sigh, “I’m so tired.” I admit while staring myself down in the mirror, and using the sink to brace my collapsing spine.
A deep breath and a desperate prayer to heaven when opening my office door.
Weary not in the ways sleep can fix.

And so I get coffee with friends,
And laugh loudly,
And buy flowers,
And volunteer more,
And write cards,
And remember peoples’ birthdays,
And try to let the world know that each person matters.

Because this matters, right?

Life matters, right?

I’m a Christian.
I believe deeply that every human being matters, that they are known and loved and valuable. . . .

How do I believe these things so deeply.
That we don’t earn our worth.
That we don’t have to strive to be good enough.
That I don’t need to convince the God of the Universe to be on my side, because he already chose to be there . . .

And yet today it doesn’t feel like it.
Today - at the end of all my plans.
With nothing left to try.
Nothing left to give.
Even with the deep conviction that God is with me, it feels like he has the power to set everything right, and yet he isn’t.
Why isn’t he doing anything?

The scriptures say I don’t have to be afraid because God is with me.
My mom says that being with God is our fulfilment, that his presence is enough.
It’s what we were created for. That type of deep, perfect community. That beautiful oneness. The one we spend our lives searching for in one another - it’s actually found in God.
And even here in the depths - I think that’s true.
But it’s annoying that I can’t get it by trying harder, or being better.
Relationships never seem to come that way.
They come from being chosen and trust.

How do I trust God enough to let the fact that he chose me be enough?
How do I accept his seeing me as where I find my worth?

Hard work I get . . . but knowing how to just be wanted, be chosen? That’s an experience I don’t know how to understand.

I’m out of plans.

But maybe right here in the depression. In the darkness of having no hope of fixing my life for myself. Maybe in the midst of accepting I have nothing left to chase. . . . Maybe this is exactly where God finds me. In the surrendering to the lack of control, maybe God can finally bring me life.

As Jesus once said,” You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.”

Or translated differently, “What great happiness and abundant goodness is offered to you when you feel totally dependant on God! For there is no charge to enter the realm of heaven’s kingdom.
What delight comes to you when you wait upon the Lord! For you will find what you long for.”

All right God. You’re my choice. You’re all I’ve got left.
I want you to be my stop.
Please rescue your silently weeping daughter from this bus.