I’ve spent recent days slipping in and out of consciousness.
Unlike the weeks immediately following chemo, periods marked by a debilitating, flu-like malaise, I feel nothing now, just overwhelming fatigue.
The weather this spring has been the most pleasant I can recall. Warm winds have sent trees, shrubs and flowers into early and heavy blooms.
I’ve enjoyed none of it. I shiver and wrap myself in blankets to ward off the cold.
But the reach of my troubles extend much further and deeper than fatigue. It conspires with a darkness all too familiar.
Depression has been a constant in my life. I’ve fought it in battles big and small since childhood. I remember my mother's horror when she found the existential writings of an 8-year-old who questioned whether life had any meaning.
An accounting of the damage that my depression has caused, especially to those who I profess to love, is a cold and ugly calculus.
If only I could sleep through this, wake up and emerge someone who is not me. But the dark, heavy curtains of depression have descended, crushing my spirit and turning my world into a dark, pitiless place devoid of hope.
I pray, but the words have no meaning; they're incomprehensible static as I cry in silence on the dark side of my spiritual moon.
The bounty of grace that once sustained and nourished my soul is now an empty larder. But how can that be true? God must surely weep for me. Is that not our ultimate promise?
Perhaps it's patience I require. I must wait for God's tears to provide me comfort. I must wait for another spring's warmth to soothe my despairing soul.