Today, The Preacher stopped me dead cold in my tracks when he said, “Be grateful for your depression.”.
I’m not talking about the quagmire of grief I’ve been
drowning in all year; I’m talking about weight I’ve carried since I accepted
the lie that I was an only child unloved by her Mother.
There are gifts hidden at the core of our trials and most of
us – myself included – understandably miss them as our vision is clouded by the
mess.
Reflecting on everything during this Year of Loss, of course
I only see what’s missing. Every time I reach
for what was, I grab air. Every time I try
to steady myself, the rug slips out from under me. I hear a lot of silence when I long for
words. I continue to stare at the closed
doors, willing them to open.
What in the hell do I have to be grateful about over a
decades-long condition that almost took me out (more than once) through a long
series of self-destructive choices?
And don’t get me started on the interpersonal problems.
At the end of service, The Preacher brought a woman up who
spoke of how grateful she was for the depression that kept her in bed, unable
to reach two guns in a closet ten feet away.
L I G H T B U L
B
Her depression saved her life.
There IS always Always ALWAYS something to be grateful for,
even in the midst of the most emotionally traumatizing, grossest, ugliest situation.
So I’m grateful.
I’m grateful for all of the things I hate.
I’m grateful for all of the things I hate about myself.
I’m grateful for all of the circumstances and situations
that won’t change, no matter how much time I spend on my knees.
I’m grateful for all of the things I blame for finding
myself at this time of life NOWHERE I ever, ever thought I would be.
I’m grateful for all of the things that’ve broken my heart.
And I’m grateful for the silence.
