“So I put aside the masquerade
and admit that I am not okay.”
– Nichole Nordeman, Even Then
I cannot even begin to express my disdain for contemporary Christian music (Hint: what the hell is “Christian music” anyway?). There is this overwhelming sense of a need for self-loathing and self-deprecation all the while pretending like everything will be fine, because: Jesus. After spending a week immersed in the land of contemporary worship music (more on that in another post), I was reminded of why I tend to avoid it at all cost. But Nichole Nordeman continues to have a special place in my heart, perhaps because her music was the gateway into understanding that asking the hard questions was not only safe but welcome. And those lyrics, well, they still hit home even now. Especially now.
What’s it like to move to a new place where you know virtually no one when you have chronic, high-functioning, guilt-driven depression? Not okay.
What’s it like to feel you were unjustly forced out of your previous life because a group of people decided that your beliefs are wrong? Not okay.
What’s it like to leave behind a church family that restored your faith in humanity and gave you hope for the future? Not okay.
What’s it like to give up on a one time opportunity to pursue a doctoral degree and finally move back to your childhood home? Not okay.
What’s it like to have every damn person ask you how the transition is going and whether you’re feeling settled, to which you respond, “It’s going okay,” because you don’t feel like giving them the sob story of the heartache that you feel? Not okay.
Not okay, not okay, not okay. Some days nothing feels okay.
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It’s August. Which means my family and I have survived a full month and change in the state of Missouri (aka, Misery). I cheated a bit and got to spend 3 glorious days back home in the Chicago burbs. They say home is where the heart is. Whoever they are. If this is true, then my home is scattered across the country. I’ve left part of my heart behind in all of the places that I’ve called home. Not only in the physical location, the schools, the places of refuge, the restaurants (c’mon now, those are important), but in the people to whom we’ve said our goodbyes. And you start to wonder how much of your heart is still left to give to the next place you call “home.”
We knew this wasn’t going to be easy, but it’s more like THIS IS NOT EASY. And – *shocker* – I don’t want to be here.
Aside from the new house, everything seems worse. Pay cut, shitty health insurance, inability to see a therapist as often as I’d like (or need) due to said shitty insurance, creepy bugs, lack of diversity, hot as hell, tension in my marriage, taking a job I don’t really want but have to take, waiting another six months for school to start again, knowing no one, surrounded by the kind of religious culture that sends me into traumatic distress, and it’s Missouri/Kansas. It’s not okay, so please don’t tell me that it is.
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We have this instinctual need to reassure people when they are upset or in distress. How many times have we told others, “It’s going to be okay.”? Of course, it’s not without good intention. Unless you’re a 4 (*wink, wink*), it’s natural to want to make the pain and sadness go away. We want to hope and believe that there is something better around the corner. And you know what? Most of the time there is. Things probably will improve for us here and we probably will find ways to make this home, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t a total clusterfuck right now.
It’s taken me so long to be okay with admitting when things are not okay because I’ve always been afraid of the responses that I’ll get. This may not be true for everyone, but maybe the right response is not really an auditory one. I don’t need you to tell me that things will get better or that everything happens for a reason. No, I need you to acknowledge that my pain is real and justified. I don’t need you to distract me with a drink or a good time; I need you to be willing to sit with me in the heartache, to be with me, and if you’re daring enough, to hold some of that burden, too. At the end of the day, I just need the presence (even if it’s digital) of others.
But I also need to be willing to tell the truth. To put aside the masquerade. So, this is me, doing that.
I admit, I am not okay.
Thank you thank you thank you. I appreciate the raw honesty, especially as someone who also struggles with chronic, high-functioning depression. Some seasons in life just suck. I *am* praying you and David have people around you, virtually or otherwise, who will just sit with you in the yuckiness.