April 6, 2018 at 1:53 p.m.
PERSPECTIVE
Trusting God while living with depression
Trusting God while living with depression
In childhood, I "got" God through bedtime prayers, the Bible and tales about saints. My grandfathers taught me prayers like "Angel of God, my guardian dear," and Psalm 118: "This is the day the Lord has made." They both knew song lyrics like Nat King Cole's, "Smile, though your heart is breaking."
Yet somehow, as a joyful Catholic daughter, I found my way to anxiety and depression.
Counselors eventually helped me face and describe the hidden emotions and patterns that kept me stuck. But it was God's guidance through songs, stories, silence, dance and the art of listening that truly healed me.
My father died in 1964. Mom told us, "His car veered off the road in the fog and hit a tree. We'll stay home a few days; then we'll go on living."
We each got jobs to make Dad proud. "Marni, you could be eighth-grade valedictorian," I was told.
My brave mother returned to teaching, but cried at night alone. Years later, in therapy, I recalled the story of "The Little Red Hen," who is refused help when she asks. "Then I'll do it myself!" she cackles. I admired her independence but, perhaps unconsciously, felt her hurt and shame. I'm still learning to ask for help.
In my senior year of high school, I was a straight-A math student, but my brain froze during a final. I told no one. My teacher later offered, "It's OK! Here's a library pass," helping me hide my confusion and tears.
In college, I read of psychologist Jean Piaget's marveling at his children's play and Carl Rogers' deep listening to clients. But, when I started teaching, my mother asked critically, "You aren't having children write of their private lives in journals, are you?"
Unable to speak my truth, I said, "Not me, Mom."
Teaching with compassion was hard! My learning came from bad mistakes. I was ashamed of failure. Finally, I tried therapy. "What's the hardest thing you've ever had to face?" my therapist asked.
"My dad's sudden death; I was 13," I said.
The therapist pulled out an empty chair: "Let's invite him to join us. What do you want to say?"
I hid my face.
"It will be hard work," he said gently, "but let's start."
During one session, I remembered being shaken when I was a child and told, "Stop that crying!" I'd never thrown another tantrum, but fear had settled in my soul.
On the 32nd anniversary of Dad's death, unemployed, I couldn't focus. I shook my fist at heaven: "Leave me alone! I've grieved enough!"
To quiet myself, I randomly opened a book to a poem by Alice Walker that begins, "How I miss my father." God had spoken. With my laptop, I spoke to Him for an hour, writing, but mostly crying. I hung up a poem I'd written, smiled and headed to a dance class.
Turning to see if I had enough space to dance, my dad's image grinned at me. The moment I felt afraid, he disappeared. I could not doubt or dismiss this gift.
"The Cow-tail Switch," a West-African tale, tells of a hunter who disappears. When his sons locate his spear, shield and bones, they pray, and together bring him back to life. The man's youngest, unborn when his father died, asked, "Where is our father?" Because the man was spoken of, he was remembered, and lived again.
Today, after years of therapy, I've faced and forgiven many dark times. I've reimagined scenes and created new dialogues. I've learned to befriend the girl who hid shame and sorrow, and the adults who unwittingly taught her to do so.
Now, I tell a story to schoolchildren, parents and teachers titled, "Practicing Not Talking." They laugh and cry with the little girl in the tale; at five, nine and 13 years, my young narrator speaks words I never dared say. My mother, too, responds in ways never taught to her.
My internal work of facing any sorrow, fear or shame is now more like "letting go and letting God" heal me.[[In-content Ad]]
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