Deep inside, the beast comes roaring back

What is this thing that nestles silently inside me, and then, just when things are starting to look hopeful again, grabs me by the throat from deep inside and strangles every ounce of joy and pleasure, simple as those are, rare as those are, right out of me? Why is it I can't get depression under control? Why is it tied into every long-held suspicion I have that I am completely and utterly worthless, or worse, a burden on all who have he misfortune of knowing me?

And here's what I really don't get: Why am I such a disgusting coward that I can't end this bad joke of a life I never even wanted in the first place?

There is no container strong enough to hold the throbbing hatred I feel for myself right now. My God, how deliriously and fiercely I want nothing more or less than simply not to exist. NOW.

In the cool of the morning ...

It's been a pretty cool spring thus far, and beautifully so. Warms up plenty as the sun rises and gets settled, and birds emerge for feeding and frolicking. My pets are bunched up to keep warm; I can't bring myself to turn the heat on this close to May.

I envision that as part of the new world to come as Jesus Christ comes to restore and heal ultimately, ridding the world of sin and bringing to life the new creation lighted by the majesty and glory of God alone. No more night; no more separation of moment from moment, of being from being. Ultimate unity in love, peace, and total fellowship.

An average Thursday morning reminds me of this, of this glory to come which even now, in the blooming flowers, the singing birds, the sleeping pets, is whispered of here. The despair of this world is never far away, but it is on a timer: the day is coming when the Lord will come, and all will be made right, just, and good. Praise Him!

A year (or longer) of very depressing posts

I'm thankful that my depression seems managed now, thanks to the addition of Abilify to my medication regimen. It got so awful there for a while, obviously, that any relief is most welcome.

And about all those blisteringly depressing posts ... I know, one perhaps shouldn't post such things on a blog. On the other hand, I wanted to record what my battle with depression was like in hopes that it might help someone else in that fight see that he or she is not alone. Depression is so utterly isolating, such a thief of every ounce of joy and desire to live, that it takes over one's life. I wish it had been otherwise, believe you me, but it was what it was, and I am what I am.

Still, I apologize for any offense I might have given, as well as for the unremitting desperation of this blog for so many months. It was not my intention to brutalize anyone's psyche, and I certainly hope I didn't do so. I merely wanted to relate what it feels like to have a psyche brutalized by depression, day in and day out.

Now that I've come out on the other side, I can honestly say that I don't regret posting all those thoughts and feelings that came out of the battle. It was and is a genuine record of a fight that nearly led me to kill myself more than once. I am glad—relieved, joyous, comforted—that God preserved me through this fight, which was far worse than cancer and chemo, or any of the other physical ailments and misfortunes I've stumbled through in 48 years. I'm still here, a little (or a lot) worse for wear, but still on two feet, all by God's grace and mercy. It is hard for me to believe sometimes that God would care about someone as stumbling and fumbling as I am, but He does, just as He cares for all of us. It's all of His goodness and grace, and for that, I rejoice.

The ministry of life

Speaking very broadly here, but I am seeing God's handiwork in nature (both the wild and domesticated aspects) more and more. No surprise there, but the very realization of His love for us in our relationships with animals, with the natural world itself, has been much on my mind of late.

I've been reading a very enlightening book, The Spirituality of Pets, by James Taylor (not the singer, nor the carnival sideshow expert). It's full of beautiful photos of pets and such, but the text really gives a full sense of the ways animals minister to us, no matter how we conceive of the divine. I believe it is so, in much the way that Paul described nature's testimony to the reality of the living God:

For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made.
—Rom. 1:20

And I always love this display of God's hand in nature that Elijah beheld:

And behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind tore the mountains and broke in pieces the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind. And after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire.
—1 Kings 19:11b-12a

Another writer I've been introduced to, Br. Richard Rohr (a Franciscan monk, I believe), writes gracefully about the relationships between humans, animals, and all of nature. If I may borrow his meditation for today:

Question of the Day:
How is everything linked to God?

I would like to reclaim an ancient, evolving and very Franciscan metaphor to rightly name the nature of the universe, God, and the self and to direct our future thinking: the image of the Great Chain of Being. The essential and unbreakable links in the chain include

the Divine Creator,
the angelic heavenly,
the human,
the animal,
the world of plants and vegetation,
the waters upon the earth,
the planet Earth itself with its resources and minerals.

In themselves, and in their union together, they proclaim the glory of God (Psalm 104) and the inherent dignity of all things. This image became the basis for calling anything and everything sacred.

Nature is indeed a battle of tooth and claw, of predator and prey. But it is also a mirror upon the grace of God. On this rainy Sunday morning, I raise up praise from my heart to the Creator of all life.

Baby steps back to the light

The new drug in my regimen, Abilify, is going a long way toward improving my moods. It's also making me incredibly sick to my stomach on a nearly constant basis.

At my psychiatrist's behest, I've dialed back down to half the dose, taking it with the evening meal; we'll see how that goes. Not taking it this morning, for the first time since I started taking it last weekend, I feel much improved in the GI area.

Regardless of all the pain, I am confident that God has His purposes in this, just as He does in the worst of human behavior and the most awful of cataclysms. His preserving hand has held me up, above the pit of death, in a clear demonstration of His sovereignty and His loving mercy, even to one as sin-ravaged as I am. Only God could do this. And I know He is doing so ultimately to advance His Kingdom, to glorify His own deeds in my small corner of the earth.

I'm by no means out of the woods. I'm in a high-risk cancer category (for recurrence and fatality), so I'm likely to face that battle again sooner, rather than later. And ultimately we die; God is good to preserve, but ultimately He lets death do its work (which is just one reason why I detest the health-and-wealth "gospel" that promises both if one's "faith" is strong enough; absurd, unbiblical, and dangerous is that entire movement). No matter one's health at any given point, the appointment awaits. And that's just one more reason to cry out to our Lord of salvation, to the Man of Sorrows Himself. What we suffer each day, He knows all too well; He withstood it in His own flesh. What we suffer collectively each day makes all the more urgent the need to share the good news to a dying, ravaged world.

Image © FreeFoto.com

From the hospital, a path to hope

I know I was headed to one of two places: the hospital or the morgue. It seems odd to say this now, given how intensely I've felt a desire to die for the past 9 months or so, but I can say it: I am glad it was the former.

Three days of inpatient attention and a new med added to the mix have made a big difference already. I still get the dips into sadness and negative thought pathways, but I don't stay there; my attention gets refocused by other things in my field of attention.

I thank God that, once again, He has saved my life and my sanity. For however long this phase lasts, I'll gladly take it. This is no miracle cure, I know; been down this road many times. But it is a new direction, and it's one I'm glad to take, with no small amount of relief.

Finally, a sense of hope within. And once again, I see the cross of Jesus Christ stands as the source of all the hope I have. And to that I say, hallelujah.

© FreeFoto.com

It has almost gone

So tired, so soon ...

My mental illness and my faith

I am walking in a territory that is very alien to me. I've been dealing with depression most of my life (through medication, talk therapy, group therapy, all that), but the presence of faith in my life is relatively new—since April 2000, in fact. At that time, my depression was well managed, relatively speaking; the meds I was on at that time worked well, for the most part, and my moods were bright without being frenzied.

Faith was an unexpected gift from God. It came from Him in a moment, not as a blinding light or something profound, but as a sudden, very real presence in my inner self, something I have not experienced before or since. I didn't know what it was at first; it took time to sort it all out. It was not easy. But it came together as I rediscovered the Bible, or rather, discovered it, period. I had read it cover to cover as an agnostic, but this was a totally new experience.

With the cancer diagnosis in 2008 came immunotherapy, and with immunotherapy came a bout of depression like nothing I've faced since adolescence. It's still very much with me, raging out of control (obviously) at times, driving me to utter desperation, to threadbare existence steeped in misery, sadness, grief, just a malaise of illness. I still believe in God, I still believe Jesus Christ is the Man of Sorrows, the Prince of Peace, the eternal Son; but much of the rest is very much in flux, to be honest. I can grasp at the rational guidance of the Bible, and it holds, until I'm seized again in this violent depression that keeps dragging me down further, or seemingly further, each time.

I now think about suicide several times a day, every day. It brings relief to think about killing myself, but it's also a risk, because it is very appealing to me. It's more powerful than sex at this point in my life, or any other basic human desire (as much as "human desire" applies in my twisted life, anyway). Dying has become my goal—not the process of dying, but the finality of death. Being done with it. Moving on. No longer bearing up under the onslaught of hatred and contempt that surrounds me and infuses me. I no longer know if it's coming out of me, going into me, or both; maybe I'm just a conduit.

So there's a certain fear of being destroyed, and yet a desire to be destroyed right now. None of this makes sense. Conflict abounds in every thought. There is no peace, not even for a moment; there is blessed distraction as a friend forces me to come out of my home, or as work demands pull me to the office; I deserve neither friends nor work, and yet there they are.

My father died in 1979, himself a schizophrenic with a host of other mental issues. I find myself finding my own way across his well-trod path, plagued in my own way; just no family to transmit it to, praise God. Isolation is my gift. Quarantine is my gift. That I do not affect you is my fondest wish for you, whoever you are.

The only thing I want

I think about suicide the way a teenage boy thinks about sex: constantly and eagerly. I want to be gone so bad I can almost sense it. I fantasize about nothingness, just obliteration. Just to be gone, nonexistent, as I once was.

God made me for destruction. It's just that simple: God makes many people in order to destroy them. The Bible is very clear on that. I am one of those people.

I believe that God hates me. I don't blame Him one bit. I hate me, too. But I believe God hates me even more, because He is capable of so much more. I know I belong in hell. Why wait? Why put it off? Kill me now, God. Please. I beg of You. Kill me now.

Rage, guilt, remorse ... suicide

Anger just boils inside me. Intense anger over absolutely nothing. It takes so little to provoke my rage these days, and it makes no sense that I feel rage.

I'm thinking about a gun. The .357 downstairs. Already loaded (center-fire ammo, should do the trick). And there is only one person I care to harm.

I think about that gun all the time. Smith & Wesson Model 636. Great piece. I've enjoyed shooting it over the years. I know I would enjoy the feel of it in my hand again, pointed at my head, at long last. It's about 15 feet from here.

Oh, the lies that suicide prevention organizations try to spread. A few favorites:

Please get help right now. Even though suicide may seem like an option to deal with your pain or cope with whatever is going on that is stressful, it's actually a terrible idea.

To whom—you? Of course. You think it's a bad idea. I think it's the only way out.

You are not thinking clearly right now. Suicide is not an effective way to reduce pain or cope with issues that are stressful. 

Whether I'm thinking clearly or not has precious little to do with anything. Most people aren't "thinking clearly" most of the time. That only seems to be a problem, though, when suicide comes up. Maybe I'm thinking much more clearly than you are; that ever occur to you?

Killing yourself is not simply ending your pain or ending stress...it's ending your life.

And, by ending my life, ending my pain. End of life=end of everything in and about life, yes?

It is debatable whether ending your life will end your personal pain. However, it is not debatable that your suicide will have a negative effect on those you leave behind. Your family and friends will almost certainly suffer your loss, and the closer and more dependent they are upon you, the more deeply and permanently will be their suffering. 

But if I die of natural causes, they'll feel great, and their grief will be temporary. Huh? I'm nearly 50. It's not like I've got some as-yet-untapped potential roiling inside me. I'm done. No wife, no children. Animals, but I've made arrangements for them already. Seriously, I'm done.

Why not give yourself the chance to try some ways that we know can help to decrease pain and stress and stick around to see what that feels like? 

Because I've tried them, and they don't help. At least, not any longer. There was a time when antidepressants helped, but that time has come and gone. Maybe they do help; maybe this could even be worse than it is, save for the antidepressants. That's possible.

I guess I could "stick around and see what that feels like." Hmmmm. Probably a lot like it's all felt like up to now. And that's put me where I am right now: Thinking about my Smith & Wesson, again, thinking about the list I made recently:

• Call my friend about my animals. She knows what to expect and what to do.
• Double-check all my end-of-life legal documents to make sure they're in order. Leave them out, where they'll be obvious.
• Finish whatever needs to be done that others are expecting of me professionally. Right now, two freelance articles, both easy. Finish and e-mail 'em. Obviously, invoicing doesn't matter.
• Remember, do it outside. Don't make others clean up my mess. The rain will was away the brain matter and skull pieces, or the dirt will cover in time.

To recap: I am a white Southern male, and I hate myself for all three of those inescapable facts. I hate the dark emotions within me. I hate my sins. I hate the sins within me. I hate that I seem to have lost my faith in Jesus Christ, assuming I ever had it. I hate that I have made myself so isolated. I hate my life. I hate everyone and everything with a passion. I not only have no desire to live, but I also have an active desire to die.

PLEASE KILL ME.

Anyone. I'll provide the firearm. I cannot stand this one more minute. I cannot stand being me. I cannot stand being.

Dear God,

Let it be today. In your mercy, please allow me to die. I am no good to anyone; I am no good, period. It is all my fault; I accept that. I have no one to blame but myself, and I blame no one but myself. Which takes us back to my original point. I do not deserve the least of Your considerations; I deserve only death and hell, the eternal conscious torment of sinners (like me) that You delight in. There is no sense in putting off the inevitable; please kill me and send me to hell.

What I learned in grade school ...

I was mauled by my grandfather's dog when I was 5 years old. The most obvious effect of the attack was the extreme swelling of the right side of my head, which was badly distended from the loss of muscle mass and tissue in my cheek and around my ear. I lost a lot of blood. Years of surgery lay before me.

I remember how kids treated me, even now. I was hideous to behold; even I knew that. But they found a way to turn it into an opportunity for endless cruelty. I don't know how many times I got pushed around, shoved to the ground, smacked on the back of the head; how many times other children would react in horror and disgust at the sight of me.

All of that is neither here nor there, except that I learned a valuable lesson then: People are vicious at heart. Nothing that has happened in the intervening years, and I'm pushing 50, has changed that opinion. If anything, I've learned how cruel people really are, in the epic sweep of mass murder and cruelty on a mass scale, down to the more intimate moments of hostility and hatred that mark most of human communication.

Life is unending horror. There is no comfort, no relief. There is only an end to life. And that is all I have wanted since it finally dawned on my thick skull that an end was the only thing to be hoped for. I did not choose this life, but I can choose to end it. I pray for courage to do so.

Human delusions

Hatred. It is the grease of human interaction. Where would we be if we couldn't point a condemning finger at those who dare think differently from us? Where would we be if we couldn't rationalize exactly the same things in ourselves? We lie as easily as we breathe, and we lie to ourselves best of all.

My sin: I hate. I hate myself. I hate everyone else. I hate the sins and delusions we so willfully engage in, lying about it entirely every chance we get. I hate the assumption that I'm right and you're wrong, and vice versa. I hate smugness and indifference. I hate the ego and the id and the superego. I hate the conscience and the will. I hate the whole stinking mass of foul humanity.

I HATE YOU. I HATE ME. I hate us all.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus, and wipe it all out. But save the nonhuman creation, Lord. The blame lies solely with us.