Welcome to Part II of Segullah’s UP CLOSE series about depression. Part I can be found here. If you haven’t already read the series overview, please do so before proceeding.

Priscilla: I was 27 when I had my third child and first post partum depression. At least, that what I thought it was, so I read books and did what they said – eat right, exercise, meditate, play — but the depression never lifted. That was 25 years ago.

I have always been resistant to trying medication, even though depression is clearly a genetic thing in my family and my mother, sister, and daughter (that third child) all use anti-depressants. I have tried some at times and once it was a real life-saver, as it pulled me up into functional mode, but then it seemed to lose effectiveness, and rather than keep switching up drugs, I opted for a homeopathic approach. I’ve been using this for 2 years and I think it is working to keep me stable. The past 2 years have also been a period of major spiritual transition, involving much loss and grief as well as much promise of joy. It is always hard for me to separate out the factors of depresssion: which triggers are circumstantial, which  chemical? I have always been able to function and do what I’ve committed to do, but that seems to take more and more effort.

The main reason I have resisted drug therapy is because I am afraid it will stunt my spiritual gifts. Over the years, I have watched how I turn instinctively to Jesus when I’m hurting, And he always responds. So much so that now, after all these years of dealing with depression by relying on Jesus, I really do walk with him daily and live in and for his precious promises. I may be wrong and there may have been an easier path, but for me, this prize is worth the pain.  . . .  I’m not sure I’m saying this well. I’m treading on sacred ground here and finding the words is hard. But in my mind, whether it’s true or not, I believe — and have always believed — that the depression itself brings gifts of eternal worth. When I am deep in sorrow, I think of Christ, the Man of Sorrows, and I am comforted.

Abigail: I can only speak from my own experience, but this is what I’ve noticed in my own journey through depression: When I’ve been in the deep throes of clinical depression, I find it’s much more difficult for me to feel the Spirit. I think it goes along with the feelings of isolation and unworthiness that come with being depressed, but that darkness, for me, seems to keep me from feeling close to the Lord, even though I am crying out in my extremity. I pray, but it feels like my prayers make it no further than my lips. Rationally, I know He is there and that He loves me, but I feel unlovable and unworthy, and I can’t feel that love emotionally. On rare occasions I have felt the quiet whisperings of the Spirit and moments of peace during my prayers, but most of the time when I’m depressed, when my mind is racing and I feel so hopeless, I think it’s difficult for the Spirit to get through to me. I’ve noticed, however, that my answers to prayer in those desperate moments seem to come through other avenues–reading that magazine article on depression and recognizing myself in the article, for example, or being the recipient of small acts of kindness that let me know that I matter. Later, when I’m starting to feel more rational and am coming out of the depression, I can see that the Lord was always with me and was answering my prayers, but it was hard to feel that at the time. And I haven’t felt that taking antidepressants has impeded my ability to feel the Spirit–often it’s quite the opposite.

I’ve noticed that during this most recent bout of depression–which I think has been going on for the past year–I have been able to feel closer to the Lord–not in my most desperate moments, but when I am able to quiet the racing thoughts in my head and be still and ponder and pray with more focus and energy–and I’ve felt my sorrows have had a refining and purifying element to them that I hadn’t previously felt until after the depression was lifting. So I’ve actually felt that my sorrows have been consecrated for my good this time, and I’ve been able to feel the Lord’s love and comfort. But that may be because I’m taking an antidepressant now (although I think I need to increase my dosage, because I’m still depressed)–it’s as if the medication is taking the edge off, so my depression isn’t as severe, but it’s still there. And maybe that’s what is keeping me from feeling like I’m at the very depths of despair, when I can’t feel the Spirit at all.

That’s how it’s been for me, but it may be different for the rest of you.

Euodias: I feel similar to Abigail. However, I know when I was really depressed as a teen I thought that I was experiencing more personal revelation, etc. In reality, it was a symptom of the depression. I too have worried that medication will make my senses dull or curb my creativity. But that has not been my experience while on medication.

I know my sister who is bipolar has felt while in a manic episode that medication would make it so she couldn’t experience everything she was enjoying experiencing at the time; however when she is on her meds, she knows she can think much more clearly because of them.

Priscilla: Thanks, Abigail, for sharing. I think your experience is common; so many say that it’s hard to feel the Spirit when they’re deep in depression. Which is why it’s so difficult for me to figure this out for myself, because I don’t really relate to that common experience. When I am feeling good, I feel more distant from God, in a way. Certainly, I feel grateful and I love feeling productive and  I am surely of more service, as I have the energy to reach out to others more. But when it’s bad, when I’m feeling totally alone and useless, that’s when I feel God nearest. Maybe it’s because my prayers are as intense as my need. But I almost always feel him, hear him. I get a lot of questions answered during those times, a lot of direction.

I notice, too, that many of you mention guilt and shame in connection with depression. I don’t really relate to that, either. I can feel hopeless, dark, heavy, alone, useless, completely unmotivated. But I always feel loved by God. I don’t feel like I’m doing something wrong because I feel bad. Which is why it’s so frustrating to hear stuff from the pulpit like, “If you’re living the gospel, you’ll be happy.” I suppose that could lead to guilt, but it generally just makes me mad. I live the gospel. I am not a happy person. Go suck on that!

Anna: When I am mildly depressed, I tend to feel more spiritual. I think it slows me down and makes me more thoughtful and emotional, which can put me in a spiritually receptive place. When I am majorly depressed I tend to feel numb, angry, or shut down spiritually. Logically I understand that there is brain chemistry affecting those feelings, but I feel guilty for them anyway, as though I am failing to remain faithful in the face of a challenge, and if I were spiritually stronger I wouldn’t feel that way.

Lydia: Priscilla, a friend in my ward felt the same way for many years, so that when she was feeling better she would miss that intimate, moment-by-moment connection with the Lord.  She said, ultimately, that even though it took a while to get used to feeling more “on her own,” she realized that was what the Lord wanted for her–to do many things and make many decisions autonomously.  She came to feel that the Lord sent us here not only to learn to rely on Him, but also to prepare for an incredible eternity of learning to be as He is.

For myself, I have definitely felt the Lord ease my depression–sometimes through gifts of the spirit directly to my soul, but at least as often in the ways Abigail mentioned, by guiding me to resources that will lift the burden.  To me it seems like life itself offers plenty of material for struggle and sorrow.  I also can’t help thinking about the scripture, “man is that he might have joy.”

Deborah: I’ve experienced depression both ways. There have been times I’ve felt very close to God, and times I’ve felt completely cut off. There was a point in my life before I started treatment for depression that I prayed every 15 minutes or so–no exaggeration. Kneeling prayer. I had to, in order to survive. I needed to feel the spirit. As soon as I stood up, the spirit would fade and within minutes I’d be in despair again. I really did feel an amazing closeness with God, because there was such sharp contrast between the despair and his spirit. I knew that the despair wasn’t coming from him–in other words, that I wasn’t feeling that way because I was being chastised. I knew he loved me in a way I hadn’t known before.

I also felt an intense empathetic connection with people in pain, and not just people I knew and loved–strangers, movie characters, anyone. I sensed that this was true charity and therefore assumed that my deep and abiding empathy was evidence of spiritual progression.

Yet this heightened sensitivity came at a great price. I had strong desires to help others, but I was completely unable to do so because I was not functional. I felt closer to people but at the same time I was farther away from them–I couldn’t even relate to people in conversations because my line of thinking was quite maudlin and I constantly wanted to talk about sad things, painful things. I felt a certain high in doing so, which I thought was the spirit.

An intimate and trusted friend called me on this at one point. She pointed out that compassion that debilitates a person is neurotic, not divine. I was devastated. Utterly devastated. I thought I’d discovered the key to life, and she was saying I was delusional.

She was right.

I hasten to add that I truly believe our most painful experiences can bring us closer to God and others, and enable us to develop the pure love of Christ. In fact I think that’s the whole reason we experience pain in mortality. I can understand reluctance to dull one’s emotional sensitivity with antidepressant medication. Honestly, this is a very real side effect for some people, including myself. Of course, I NEEDED my emotional sensitivity to be dulled, because it was bordering on pathological. But sometimes, for some people, on some medications, feelings can be dulled past the “break even” point. In some cases that side effect (especially in combination with others) is more troublesome for the individual than the depression was, and so the logical conclusion is to discontinue that treatment. This hasn’t been the case for me. My depression is severe enough that I still come out ahead–way ahead–when I’m taking medication. (It has to be the right dose of the right medication, though. I’ve tried many, and a few have made me feel much worse–one even to the point of being suicidal.)

It’s a weird trade-off. I feel less empathy for others when I’m emotionally stable, but I’m much more able to actually be of service to them. Compassion doesn’t do anybody any good if it reduces you to a sobbing heap on the bed for long stretches of time. I even struggled as a parent because I was tuned in to my children’s normal emotional bumps and bruises so keenly–I was constantly doing damage control because it hurt me so much when they hurt (and I assumed it hurt them that much as well). So I know we’re all much better off with medicated Deborah.

I realize now that mood disorders can really skew one’s spiritual antennae, in either direction. Depression can block you from feeling the spirit even when it’s surrounding you, and it can also make you think you’re feeling the spirit when really you’re not, as well as enable you to feel the legitimate spirit more strongly. I’ve had to create a different list of ways to know I’m in tune with the spirit, because my old list was based on indicators that can be counterfeited by mental and emotional illness.

Priscilla: Deborah, beautifully said. It is a complex issue, and one I continually work to be clear about. I wouldn’t say I’ve ever become so dysfunctional that I couldn’t serve, even in ways that are clearly beneficial for others, even if I am not really feeling it. The tricky thing for me is distinguishing between emotional sensitivity and spiritual sensitivity. Depression does not actually affect my spirit, which abides in total light and joy because I know God. But I suffer emotionally. Because we “feel” with both our emotions and our spirits, it can be confusing.

My worst bout of depression occurred about 2 years ago. It was one of the times I turned to medication for relief. In the midst of it, I felt totally cocooned (that was the word I used even at the time), like I was wrapped up in God, waiting and transforming. It lasted 6 months and I could tell immediately when it was over. But during that cocoon stage, I received the most incredible revelations, knowledge that totally put my whole life in perspective. I could see my future and my past all woven together in one divine whole. It included specifics that I can’t do anything about right now, but that explain the deep longing I have lived with for so long. That is my current conumdrum, to live in my present reality– for I am exactly where I belong–with joy and commitment, while I scream, “Bring on that fantastic future you promised!” You can see I have some lessons in patience to learn. You notice, too, that in this case, drug therapy was part of the experience.

Emotion and spirit are not the same thing, and that is not always clear to us. Emotions are biologically based, chemically driven. Spirit is eternal, outside of the physical realm, though it is certainly affected by our physical reality. And that’s the challenge with depression, to keep our emotional life stable so that our spirits can see Truth.

Anna: Priscilla, I loved when you said “I live the gospel. And I am not a happy person.” I wish we could mass produce a bunch of buttons with that saying on it and all wear them to church one day–like scout Sunday, but for depressed people. I don’t say that to discount the joy found in the gospel. I’ve lived both in and out of the church, and I know this is the better path, even when it is challenging. But it does seem to me that as a culture we are afraid of hard feelings. We try to mask them in ourselves or judge them in others, as though the Savior needed us to prove His existence by never feeling said or lonely or frustrated. And that is such a destructive path, because without being honest about what is happening with ourselves we can’t fully turn to the Savior. We can’t heal. And without letting others be honest we can’t really serve them.

Lydia: So true, Anna. Thanks for reminding us.

Deborah: Perfectly said, Anna and Priscilla. I want to stand up on my chair and applaud.

Priscilla: What a great image, Anna! Maybe we could have a fundraiser as well to help pay for our therapy. I’m getting ready to go to church now. Can I have a button?

Abigail: I wonder how different things might be if I weren’t LDS. I think that in many ways my faith has helped me. Having a knowledge of the plan of salvation and a belief in a joyful hereafter, a knowledge of the Atonement, a testimony of prayer–all of these have helped me through bouts of depression. I really don’t know where I would be without prayer. I can’t imagine it. And knowing that the Savior suffered all things and has felt my actual pain–that has been a tremendous comfort, especially when I’ve felt so isolated and lonely and alone in my depression. Although, as I mentioned before, it’s hard for me to “know” those things on an emotional level when I am very depressed, having that knowledge intellectually, knowing it on some deep level underneath the swirling irrationality of depression, has given me something to cling to, even when I’m not feeling it–a tiny life preserver in a dark and tumultuous sea. And I think that because having depression has forced me to rely on the Lord more, I’ve grown spiritually, developed more compassion and humility; having my faith has helped me, in retrospect, view my suffering through a spiritual lens and see a higher purpose, or end result, to my struggles. It helps frame those difficult moments with meaning.

But, in some ways our culture has made it more difficult. Before I really understood the doctrine of the Atonement (and it’s still a work in progress), my belief that I needed to be perfect to qualify for blessings in this life and exaltation in the life to come only added to my struggle with perfectionism, which fed into my depression. And I really shouldn’t be using the past tense here, because it’s an ongoing struggle. I think I understand the Atonement much better now–I know I don’t have to be perfect, but on some level, I still feel the need to strive for perfection, and I feel very discouraged by my imperfections and weaknesses.

As Priscilla and Anna have said, our culture’s assertion that if you live the gospel, you’ll be happy, can be discouraging. What do you do when you’re living the principles of the gospel and striving to keep all the commandments and you still feel deeply unhappy? You think something is very wrong with you, that you must be doing it wrong, and that makes you more depressed. It adds more guilt to your already guilt-prone psyche. It’s painful to pick up the Ensign and read about happy families, happy mothers, happy people, people who have received answers to prayers, people who are doing and accomplishing amazing things when you can’t even muster up the energy to do the dishes. I have a hard time reading the Ensign when I’m depressed. I know that we still need to teach the ideal, but I think that makes a lot of us reluctant to share the real struggles in our lives, so we often suffer in silence, thinking that we are the only ones who don’t have our act together.

Lydia: This is such a complex topic.  Often, I’m too tired to even think to ask for the Lord’s help.  I haven’t struggled with feeling worthwhile.  I’ve know ever since I was a little girl–not just from Primary lessons, but deep inside myself and then later through personal experience–I have a Heavenly Father who loves me and knows me personally.  The depression has never attacked that, for which I am so grateful.  I have never felt unloved or unworthy of love.

For me, as I mentioned before, the depression makes me feel like everything is too hard, that it is literally impossible for me to keep up (and it’s usually true!).  I feel heavy and discouraged, but I don’t think to ask the Lord for help.

I believe in the Savior’s atonement.  I feel the Spirit when I read Alma 7, telling me that the atonement covers not just sin but all forms of grief and sickness and suffering.  I’ve testified of this in lessons and talks.  Somehow, though, I still don’t feel like I know how to apply it.  I don’t feel it for myself, personally.  I do feel His love and help, often.  But I would like to have a deep testimony that he really did take on my personal sufferings, so that, for me personally–and not just in a larger, more generic sense, He knows how to succor me in my infirmities.  I would like to know exactly what it means to lay my burdens at His feet, to take His yoke and receive His rest.

I think that’s what it comes down to–I don’t know how to ask for or receive rest.  It’s terrible, really, since I’m tired all the time.

Euodias: It is hard for me to determine how my own belief system has affected how I have interpreted my own depression. Being a part of the church culture has made it much more difficult. On the other hand, being a member of the church and having been taught about God and Jesus, a plan and their love for me, has helped me immensely. And having the basic commandments that come from my faith, like the Word of Wisdom and Law of Chastity, have kept me from self-medicating in ways that would lead to much bigger problems. I’m so grateful, and feel so incredibly lucky not have to fight that battle because I’ve been taught those principles. I feel for those that haven’t been so lucky and sought out solace elsewhere.

We are taught that “men are that they might have joy.” It is the reason for our existence. You wonder, and other people wonder, what is wrong with you if you don’t find joy in your life. We are inundated with talks from pulpits in ward houses, stake centers and the tabernacle to look on the bright side, have gratitude, cheer up, be positive. Earlier in our marriage my husband said, “Why don’t you just snap out of it?” He didn’t understand, and felt like the gospel should provide the framework for perfect happiness in this life and the next. He seems to understand better now, but I still feel his disapproval, or think I do. It is hard for me to know what is real and what is me projecting, and how to interpret my relationships when I struggling with depression.  It has been my experience that his attitude is pretty typical amongst people in and out of the church. I have some friends who are unaware of my depression. Over dinner they told the story of a family member whose wife had severe depression–they were annoyed with her and didn’t understand why she just didn’t get her butt out of bed. It was painful to listen to.

While a young teen, I received my patriarchal blessing. It mentioned depression, and the Lord being able to lift it from me. I hadn’t experienced severe depression in my life at the time, so I hardly noticed that phrase. I don’t believe it was God’s plan for me to suffer with depression, but I know he knew I would. When I was younger I believed that I could simply ask for a priesthood blessing and my depression would just melt away. I now realize a blessing is helpful, and helps me receive direction on how to get the treatment I need and have the courage to do so.  My blessing also mentions that I have an optimistic outlook and positive attitude. Depression and optimism seemed diametrically opposed–but I see how it’s true in my life. Even if I am depressed now, I know I can pull out of it, eventually–or even if I’m depressed, I know deep down that everything will be ok. I feel Heavenly Father loves me and gives me this optimistic hope.

When I have felt suicidal, the idea that we live after death in the state we live on earth has kept me from more serious contemplations of suicide. I figure if I was depressed on earth, I would feel exactly the same after I died–and there was no way to truly escape, no way to simply not exist. In Mormonism mind /body duality is conceived differently than in some religious traditions. The spirit is so much a part of us. Sometimes I think we view the functions of our mind as inseparable from the functions of our spirit–as if the biological grey matter sitting on our shoulders embodies the thoughts and feelings of the spirit. If something is wrong, it’s our spirit that is sick. We don’t see that just as the pancreas sometimes does not produce insulin, sometimes brain chemistry is interrupted, upsetting normal thought patterns.

Sometimes our interpretation of the scriptures is problematic when treating mental illness. The way Jesus casts out devils is carried over to people with mental illness now, interpreted as being a spiritual affliction that prayer, fasting, and reading scriptures should cure. When I was a teen, the first course of action when I was suicidal was to take me to a friend my parents deemed very spiritual to have me exorcised. Even some 20 years later when my sister had a manic episode, my father first tried to cast devils out her before stating matter of factly, “I don’t think there’s anything there,” and taking her to the hospital to receive much needed care. It made my sister feel badly about herself. She says, “I thought Dad hated me. He thought I was bad, just full of devils.”

Several years ago our stake started the church’s 12 step program. It was billed as a program to help anyone with any habit or sin–not just addiction.  I felt so much guilt about my anxiety disorder and depression that I attended a couple of  the meetings and got the books. I was sure I could pull myself out of this terrible “habit” I had created for myself. I didn’t find any solace in the meeting, and realized I was really out of place and didn’t belong there. I had no addictions. I know they meant well, but that was just nonsense.

One night after reading the book about substance abuse, something I had never struggled with, I got on my knees and sobbed and prayed. I felt the most overwhelming love from my Heavenly Father, and very distinct feelings of “It’s not your fault. It’s ok. You don’t have to change. You won’t change. I love you, and it‘s ok.”  The depression and anxiety I was experiencing and what I do experience in my life is the natural consequence of a mix of events beyond my control and a biological predispositions.

Sometimes we are so caught up in being our best, in trying to change for the better, we fail to experience humanity in all its fullness. We fail to see our own humanness, and that is one of the biggest gifts we get to experience in this life–our own humanness and all of our weakness, smallness, and imperfections. What a blessing it was to Moses when he realized that men are from the dust of the earth, something he says “he never had supposed,” so small and insignificant in so many ways–yet the glory of God’s creation.

The biggest pressure I feel now is from others who think I should try and overcome every ounce of depression and anxiety I experience. It won’t happen. I think it’s the consequence of being human–and that’s a good thing. But I understand now that God doesn’t expect me to change it. That doesn’t mean not treat it, or take care of myself, but really, there is no cure.

Lydia: I don’t know how much of this is me, and how much is LDS culture in me, but one of the worst things I do is nag myself about everything I’m not getting done–not just spiritual stuff, but housework, shopping, laundry, Segullah work, church callings.  I constantly have a little voice in my head telling me how much I’m not keeping up with.  I live with this voice all the time, depressed or not, but of course when I’m depressed I have less energy to get things done so I nag myself more, creating a nasty cycle.

For example, today I paid the bills, exercised, gave my oldest daughter a piano lesson, organized stuff for homeschool, took the kids to the library, and emailed about a dozen essay contest authors.  But my mind focused on how tired I am and the things I didn’t do–make sure the younger kids showered today, get my girls tights that fit, read my scriptures, hang out with my kids, do something just for fun, laundry.  And it focused on how tired I am and how hard it will be to keep up with future stuff–taking the youth early tomorrow morning to help at the developmental center, fitting in homeschool next week with chiropractic visits and exercise and visiting teaching and Segullah lunch (yay!) and the mountains of laundry I didn’t do today.

I think this is mainly me, but our culture of doing–serving, perfecting ourselves–probably contributes.  It’s not just LDS, it’s American too.  Being productive means being busy.  You aren’t supposed to say “no” to something unless you have a direct conflict or an illness.  You’re not supposed to say “no” because you’re too tired, need some time to yourself, or need unscheduled (or less scheduled) days.

Of course, the doing culture has also served me many times, especially this year, with people sharing money and food, helping me cook and clean, bringing anonymous Christmas gifts, praying for me and with me.  All that love and support has truly buoyed me up, and I know other people (and their families) sacrificed to make it happen.  It wouldn’t have happened without our doing culture.

When I lived in Berkeley, a close friend who was Lutheran lost her two-week-old infant.  It was her LDS friends, and other LDS women who didn’t even know her, who brought meals and surrounded her with care while she grieved.  This service was of such great value to her that she wrote her own pastor a letter urging fellow Lutherans to follow our example.

Priscilla: For me, in a nutshell, the gospel helps and the church hurts. I get a lot of strength and solace from knowing and living the principles of the gospel, particularly the Atonement of Christ. Prayer is a godsend and a literal lifesaver. I feel known and deeply loved and treasured by God. I go directly to God with my depression issues and though it is not always immediately easier, I never feel alone because of that connection with Diety.

The church, on the other hand, offers little. Though now that I put that in print, I wonder. I have friends at church that I can talk to about this, who share the depression journey, who understand and sometimes offer insight and suggestions. I am in the temple every week because it is the best place to rest in the Lord. That wouldn’t happen without the church. So there are things that are part of church that do indeed help me. But the general culture of the church is not supportive. Too many demands, too much posturing of perfection, too much pretense. Too much law and not enough spirit. My experience of church activity generally feels shallow and unfulfilling, UNLESS I focus on how I can serve and bless others. I learn nothing at church, though I do love to gather with the saints in worship. I love the saints. I love the church. But I’m beyond the point of it being a support to me; I am now a supporter of the church, so to speak. And maybe that’s actually a good thing, even in regards to depression. It gets me out of myself, gets me reaching out. Depression feeds my compassion, IF I target it that way. And church provides plenty of opportunity to practice compassion.

Euodias: You said it perfectly, Priscilla.

Abigail: For me, it isn’t as simple as “the gospel helps and the church hurts.” Because in many ways the church–the organization–helps me with depression as well as the gospel that we teach. I do often feel buoyed up by belonging to a community of believers. I often receive solace and spiritual nourishment and enlightenment from attending my Sunday meetings–and I continue to learn, as well. I love going to the temple and reading the scriptures. I love listening to General Conference. For the most part, I enjoy serving in the church and the growth and compassion I receive because of it. There are so many aspects of the church that help me, so I really couldn’t say that the church hurts–quite the contrary. Certain aspects of church culture can be problematic, yes, but overall I feel deeply grateful for the church.

I think, too, that because of my own reticence to open up, I often deprive myself of the understanding and comfort that others at church would give me if I only shed my “I have it all together” mask. While I was struggling with depression, I served as the Relief Society secretary, and one of my good friends was the Relief Society president. Yet I never told her that I was depressed at the time. Part of that was due to my own pride: I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t competent. Part of it was due to the shame I felt over being depressed in the first place. I also knew she was carrying heavy burdens in her calling and I didn’t want to add to them. And of course I’m sure my martyr complex (exacerbated by depression) came into play, as well. So we sat in presidency meetings every week (and it was all I could do to make it to the meetings, usually exhausted from crying the night before), discussing the needs of the sisters in the ward, while I felt like my own heart was breaking. I could have confided in these women and received support, but I kept my pain and my “weakness” to myself. I know other women who are able to be more open about their struggles, and they seem to feel more supported, less lonely. I think if we were all a little more open, we could more effectively bear one another’s burdens–which of course is one of the reasons why we have an organized church in the first place.

Priscilla: You’re right, Abigail, it isn’t that simple. I really do love the church and the structure itself offers so much to us that we would not otherwise have. I love the feeling of belonging to the kingdom of God, sharing the journey with other people, even though, like you, I rarely share the hardest bits of my journey with others. And that may indeed be a fault, a point of pride we cannot afford. Just this week, my bishop called me in because he “heard from a little bird” (I had talked to a friend, the YW President, about how the depression was affecting my ability to fulfill a calling) that I was depressed. I told him right away, “I am not going to talk to you about depression. It’s a chronic condition and I have occasional flare-ups, much like MS (which his wife has.) You don’t need to worry about me.”  We did need to discuss the calling (and that’s a cool story, actually) but I wasn’t feeling the need at all to discuss depression, even though I appreciated his concern. I’m not judging myself — just telling the tale.

There are, however, some aspects of LDS culture, that are very difficult for me, most particularly the sexist attitudes of so many, men and women both. The gospel is so completely and gloriously female-affirming and it breaks my heart to see how many policies of the church undermine, or at the very least, underplay that vital principle. My personal experience leads me to conclude that it is actually the women of the church who are more backward in this regard. As a group (not our group) they won’t stand up and claim their power in the priesthood. I don’t mean that in any radical way; I’m not suggesting structural changes. I’m suggesting that as women, we hold ourselves far too small. And that’s depressing.

Anna: I think it’s interesting to ask why the church hurts. Here we have a whole body of people trying to reach out and serve. It’s a great place to be if you have, say, a broken leg and need some temporary help with housework. So why is depression different? To me it relates to the nature of depression. Depression brings with it thought distortions. When I am in a normal frame of mind I can more easily say, “I need help around the house until my leg heals. If one of the ten sisters who comes to help me is a little judgemental about something while she’s here, I know it is her issue, not mine.” When I’m depressed I tend to zoom in on that one and to be devastated by whatever it is she says. I even worry about it before she says it. For example, when I was a depressed teenager I can remember sitting in the bathroom stall a school crying, wishing desperately that someone would notice that I needed help. And yet I left that stall and went on to do my darndest to make sure no one guessed I was depressed. Why? Because I didn’t think I could handle direct rejection or judgement in that frame of mind, and I risked those if I opened up. In retrospect I can say, what the heck was that about? You were making things worse. But still I do a version of this as an adult. I walk into Relief Society–a room full of women looking to serve–and pretend I don’t need anything. And then I feel sad that my act succeeded and they didn’t read my mind. It makes no sense, because at the core it isn’t really about them. It’s about the mental and emotional place I’m in. Being surrounded by this community that is everything I need and everything I fear at the same time just highlights it.

Lydia: Anna, this is a powerful insight–to recognize that we, ourselves, are part of the problem.  When I think about it this way, I realize that if I do have the courage to admit that I’m depressed and need help, people almost always respond supportively.

Abigail: Anna, you said it so well. I do think that because of the thought distortions that come with depression, we tend to isolate ourselves and feel too ashamed to ask for help. I’ve noticed that when I’m feeling more emotionally healthy I can tell others that I’ve had bouts of depression, but when I’m in it, I don’t want others to know I’m struggling. That explains how I could sit in RS presidency meetings, pretending I was fine and doing my best to appear functional, while inwardly I felt like I was falling apart.

***

We welcome your questions, insights, perspectives, and experiences regarding depression and spirituality. Part III of this series, Feeling Better, will be posted a week from today.

Related posts:

  1. UP CLOSE: Depression Roundtable Series Overview
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  3. UP CLOSE for March: Depression Roundtable


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