Here are some things about me, Susan Allena Jones, that are true:
1. I have red hair. It is, perhaps, the most definitive thing about me. People notice it, and they either express their envy or question its authenticity. (I promise it’s not from a box).
2. I love dogs. When I was in elementary school, I used to beg my mom to take me to PetSmart on Saturday mornings just so I could see (and pet) that week’s lineup of adoption-ready dogs.
3. I think better in the bathroom. I don’t know if it’s the white noise of the fan or the privacy, but if I find myself struggling through a bout of writer’s block, I just go sit in the bathroom. Trust me, it works.
4. I am an empath. I see the world through and with my emotions, and I believe it’s something that makes me a little more like Jesus. My ability to be in constant communication with my feelings allows me to more easily relate to, and pick up on, those of other people, which helps me be more compassionate and kind and warm and, most importantly, Christ-like.
5. I am living with depression.
There it is. The big and dark and ugly. People always assume that because I love Jesus there is no such thing as big… or dark… or ugly, but that I’m living in a world untouched by fear and sadness. I thought that for a long time, too. After I was saved and experienced that baby-Christian, fresh-out-of-the-baptistry kind of high, I was convinced that living life with Jesus was always going to feel that good. I was never going to have to struggle so deeply ever again, and I would never again want to die because I knew what it was to live. My depression, like the grave, had been defeated.
The problem with standing on a mountaintop like that, though, is that you can only survive the altitude for so long before it becomes hard to breathe. I stood there, looking out over the world and the sin and the hardships that I had conquered, for as long as I could— I even brought some people up to see the view with me. Then, the world sort of shifted. A harsh wind blew and I fell, actually it was more like a nosedive, off the side of the mountain. The fall was slow, at first. Tiny twinges of self-doubt here. Growing distrust of people I love there. Then, all at once, I fell faster and faster. The pain in my chest that had been absent on the summit grew fond of me again, holding me close and whispering softly to me as we tumbled down the mountainside together. And, when my body smacked against the valley floor and all of the wind was taken from me, the ache in my chest grasped me tighter.
As I looked around and saw how far I had fallen, how long the climb was back to the peak, I was so… ashamed. In this moment of my life, so deep and so lost and so incredibly sad, I felt as though God would never forgive me. My depression told me that I was dirty, that falling had made me dirty. And guilty. And unworthy. It told me that I couldn’t pray, that God wouldn’t possibly want to listen to the cries of someone so riddled by sin and shame. It whispered in my ear the words of people I loved, twisted and morphed into hurtful, mocking phrases, and screamed at me that they would be better off if I just stayed silent. Or if I was dead.
That’s the thing about depression, though. It’s a liar. It finds you at your most vulnerable, as you plummet towards rock bottom, and convinces you falling would be easier if you just gave in to the wind and let it sweep you away. It robs you of your purpose, your confidence, your comfort. It nestles itself deep enough in your chest that when you try to claw it out, you just end up ripping into your own heart.
I think it is for times like this, for people like me, that God‘s Word— His Truth— acts as a shield and sword. If I arm myself with it, it protects me even from myself. It fights my battles for me, bringing thoughts of joy and light into even the darkest places of my mind. It fends off the lies and is designed to remind me that my place is not at the foot of a mountain, but at the feet of Jesus.
So, here are more truths that God continuously reminds me of, even when I’m hardly listening:
1. I have people, a legitimate army of people, who love me and would gladly give of themselves in time or money or love or breath if I needed it. Their words, while my depression meant them for fuel in its desire for my own self-loathing, were nothing but usual, easy conversation—love wearing different clothes.
2. I don’t have to be model-skinny or IG-model-“thicc” or have perfect hair or skin or teeth. My stomach has good days and bad days. Sometimes I eat way too much and barely workout, other times you have to pry me away from my salads and time at the gym. But, contrary to what my depression would have me believe, I am not my body.
3. Jesus has me, and I have Him. There is nothing I could do that could separate us, no fall long enough that He wouldn’t catch me, no valley deep enough that He wouldn’t walk alongside me (Queue Marvin Gaye). God has not turned His face from me. He hears me, even when I don’t know what to say. He loves me, even when it’s hard for me to believe Him.
I write today, as Mental Health Awareness Month comes to a close, not from the depths of the valley or from a breeze-less summit, but from the mountainside. I know there are some climbing with me, some that have fallen back into the valley, and others that are singing with their backs pressed against the sky. Wherever you are, know that it’s okay to talk about it. It’s okay to weep or dance or yell or laugh or sit in silence. There are more people going through similar challenges than you think. You are not forgotten. He has you. And you have Him. And that’s the truth.
