Recently I have had the opportunity to hear some presentations on clinical depression. There was a lot of helpful information given, and some not so helpful. The presentations were from a purely clinical perspective, with no "Christian" influence.
One aspect of depression that was discussed was the anxiety that often accompanies it. For some people, their levels of anxiety can keep them from sleeping at night, and make their daytime hours miserable. I can be a worrier, and I know what it is like to lay awake mulling over problems and "what if's". Silly waste of time. But we all do it, at one time or another.
Anyway, the solution that was presented to this distracting "worrying" that we can all succumb to was to make a "Worry List." You were to keep a list of all the things that were causing you distress or apprehension. Then once a day, for a time that you had set aside for that purpose, you were to worry over the items on the list. Kind of like getting it out of your system. Supposedly this would somehow take care of the problem, and you could carry on, worry free, with your day and your night.
I had to smile to myself as the presenter explained the details of this strategy against angst. "How bizarre," I said to myself. "Instead of a prayer list, I am to make a list of things to worry about." Of course the scripture that came to mind right away was Philippians 4:6:
"Be anxious for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and supplication, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus."
In hindsight, I should have stood up and offered that verse as an alternate method to combat anxiety. I did, however, question why prayer hadn't been mentioned. The presentor quickly agreed that prayer was indeed another way to relieve one's anxiety. "Especially," I interjected, " if the one praying knows that there actually is Someone listening that can take care of the problem for them." (I hate it when I read all those stats about how "prayer" is good for stress. Apparantly it doesn't matter who or what you pray to. Could be a tree or your long dead granny. Just so long as you "put out there" what is on your mind. Sad, really, when there is a God Who will hear our prayers if we would but acknowledge Him for Who He really is.)
I tried to imagine how effective it would be for me to make a Worry List, and then ruminate over all the potential catastrophes that I might list there. Most likely I would drive myself to further anxiety. Or perhaps I would realize how silly it was to worry about those things and just tear the list up. Either way, I am glad that we know a God Who invites us to cast all of our cares upon Him, because He cares for us.
I don't know what it is like to have the type of anxiety that some people suffer with, even to the point of having panic attacks. For that I am thankful. Those conditions can be very debilitating and difficult. When those nasty "what ifs" creep up on me (I call them the 'nay saying gnats'), I sometimes start to dwell on them. The best thing to do in that case is to bring it to my Father. And not just in a perfunctionary way. When I am truly burdened, I pray back to God Who He says He is in His Word. Not that I need to remind Him, but I do need to remind myself. Those things that I worry about tend to shrink in size as I list all of His attributes, and the promises He has made to be our high tower, rock of refuge, defender and shepherd. I think this little verse makes a beautiful promise, and one that we need to remember in those times of anxiety:
"Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on Thee: because he trusteth in Thee." (Isaiah 26:3)
Sometimes we are faced with real dilemmas, and life or death situations. It is not sinful to be afraid. That is a natural response. It's at those times especially that we realize our weakness, our inability to control many of life's outcomes. And it is at those times that our Father in Heaven proves His love and faithfulness, in bringing us peace in the midst of fear, because we know and trust Him.
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5 comments:
Hi Maureen,
You are learning a lot!
I would like to challenge you to combine your techniques and the presenter's ideas and come up with something that works for the christian.
For instance, go ahead and write out that worry list, then lay your hands on it and give it all to the Lord!
Keep learning, it helps. And always remember that no matter what you learn, no matter how much some of those depressive characteristics are ones that you have, you are still unique, and you will have to navigate your own journey through the maze of 'helps' out there for this illness. Keep up the good work, I am on your side!
Wendy
Hi Wendy. Good suggestion! I have had similar thoughts myself. It seems a lot of the strategies out there are helpful to a point; they just haven't factored in an all powerful, omniscient, loving God that we can know and trust through Jesus Christ. Instead, they rely on human wisdom, "imaginary" helpers, or self sufficiency. What a difference it makes when you do know Him as your Father.
Maureen,
Beautiful. Amen! Indeed, we really are to take our worries (fears) to Father and ask Him, through Christ to soothe us. I have done similar tasks you mentioned the presenter offered. But truly, taking my fears to Papa, in communication/prayer with him, engaging in that inner dialog, THAT'S where He does His work, His Truth, His soothing, transforming, healing and showing me what I need to know, hear or see.
Blessings,
~Amy :)
Somewhere years ago -- I can't remember the specifics -- John Piper pointed out something in Acts 20:19 that I had never noticed before. Paul explains how he served the Lord: ". . . serving the Lord . . . with tears . . . ."
"Serving the Lord with tears." Amazing.
The life in Christ, though wonderful, sometimes becomes tearful as well. But the Lord Jesus receives every tear as service to himself. Let that realization become a divine kiss on every tear-stained cheek.
It’s difficult, I suppose, for people who are emotionally and mentally healthy to comprehend the thoughts and mind patterns of those who struggle to keep clarity or sanity. I, for one, have no concept of what a “normal mind” functions like, or even if there is such a thing. I also assume, with no particular evidence to back me up, that the minds of those who suffer any one of the various emotional or mental problems function differently - that one would not recognize the cognitive patterns of the other. A counselor once shook her head, looked down and described me as a having a chaotic psyche. I thanked her profusely, and she looked shocked when she realized I was serious.
In an effort to communicate what thoughts are like while in a deep depressive episode, I recently, while in such a state, sat at my computer and typed what came to mind. Even for me, just a few weeks later, the thoughts are like those that might belong to someone else - someone far more dysfunctional than I. Prompted a little, but not sure why, by what Joyce wrote in a comment I decided to post it here. If it helps someone understand, then let it be a blessing. If it causes someone pain, please chalk it up as the ramblings of one worse off than you.
I so want you to understand where I am but know you cannot. I want you to know what can’t even be known unless it’s known first hand. I want you to hold me and want me, but I don’t want to be me anymore – and, so, I am afraid of wanting to be wanted. I am so ashamed of being afraid of being shamed, that I shame myself. I am a self-fulfilling prophecy – a cosmic practical joke played on me by myself. I want you to know where I am, but I am terrified of you hating me if you knew. This is the best I can do at making the irrational understandable – explaining my tenuous hold on sanity written in moments of lucidity. I don’t know if it will make sense – actually, I’m pretty sure it won’t. I live in such doubt right now that I have been in a tug of war about writing this for almost an hour.
I don’t want to die, but I wonder what it feels likes to want to live. I know I should know, after all I am sure I have felt that way before. But I forget. Maybe it’s just been too long. Maybe crying out to God to take me overwhelmed that tiny little spark of life. Maybe I just blew it out. Why, God? Why can’t I just fade away – disappear in some totally unobtrusive way? I don’t want to hurt anyone, not even myself, but I do – over and over again I cause pain. I don’t want to feel pain either, but the deafening dull pain in my chest is my constant companion. I just want to be numb – anesthetized – comatose. I’m not picky, just so damn tired.
Sometimes it comes quickly; other times it takes forever. Come it does, though, eventually. It steals into my heart making it ache incessantly, reminding me of how I have felt so many times for so damn long. It comes relentlessly, sucking the life out of my limbs, absconding with my initiative, killing my creativity, smothering my identity – all the while making my mind a constant, confused, raucous noise of despair. I am useless. I know better when I can think it through, but I am useless anyway. Useless to stop it; useless to fend it off; useless against the shame that rears on its hind legs and kicks me when I’m down; useless at being me.
The bottomless pit only varies in its darkness, not its depth. Otherwise, it would be an oxymoron. Sometimes it’s just a hanging, foreboding, and nebulous grey like an Ohio winter. Sometimes, like now, its pitch black and thick like treacle – a faceless, formless, suffocating mass that I can neither touch nor escape. It envelopes my mind leaving holes where once thoughts ran free. I know I still think, it’s just that there’s no memory of it, no outcome and no point to it. Minutes, hours, days – they just ooze by as a blubbery, gelatinous sludge – agonizingly slow and yet astonishingly fast. Time becomes immeasurable, the seconds ticking off in some somber death march and the hours getting gobbled up like they have no substance. Forever lasts but a moment and an instant is like eternity.
So, I stare. I stare at screens of information flowing by as I search for something – anything on which to be able to focus and keep out the noise. Of course, it just adds to the clamor. I stare at my own life dribbling along like a week of rain, wishing for something extreme to get my attention – but not really. I could care less whether it’s a heat wave or a thunder storm, just something other than no thing – even though I cling to the comforting discomfort of nothing. The nothingness is all that persists. I am an expert on nothingness. I know everything there is to know about it. It’s insidious and pervasive like a stalking cat, ready to overwhelm all things in its path. It’s what I see when I stare at myself from the vantage of my place in the pit – an amorphous blob indistinct from the turbid bile that is trying to digest me. Nothing eats no thing, yet here I am.
The ache in my solar plexus spreads throughout; fingers of throbbing malaise ripping out the pages of my life day by day – the life I should be living but which evaporates as I watch from a distance. I want to engage, but I quake at the thought of having nothing to give. I want to be held, but am afraid of it. I want to withdraw, but can’t face the loneliness. I want to approach love, even while I walk backwards away from feeling anything. My head, stomach and heart are indistinct in their endless misery, and hate each other with no passion whatsoever. I want to tell you how much I need you, but I wince at every invisible word that cannot leave my mouth. I want to be loved by you, but I am terrified that there is nothing left to love. My biggest fear is being nothing, and I feel as if I am almost there.
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