When I tried to share glimpses of the darkness, well-meaning Christians said things they didn’t understand. I knew that if I didn’t smile and act okay, I would lose my people…and even God. It wasn’t just the questions, but the story I believed underneath them: God doesn’t want this mess and neither does anyone else. God, are you there? Why can’t I be different? Why won’t you fix me? I know you can. Still, the worst part was the way secret questions carved out my insides. I’d grown accustomed to smiling, saying I was just tired, doing my best to show up for my commitments while my chest burned and my body felt like lead. I couldn’t remember a time before depression’s waves rolled through me. There’s an excruciating physicality to mental illness that’s rarely acknowledged. Most days, it seemed nobody, not even God, can break through. The fog formed a dense wall, hedging me into isolation. It was exhausting: wrestling to be whole, never shaking the bone-deep loneliness. The familiar fog of depression had rolled in and I was weary of the struggle. The sky was bleak with charcoal clouds seemed to mirror my soul. I sat at a stoplight, trembling with anxiety’s rattle and hum.
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