Saturday, February 22, 2014
One year since I conquered depression. It's crazy having made it this far.
I remember so vividly lying in my bed, unable to move because I was so sick. My face hurt because I'd been crying so much, I hadn't had anything to eat or drink in over 24 hours, and I was sore in my stomach from how much I'd thrown up. I curled up in the fetal position and sang worship songs under my breath for hours, not because I wanted to - believe me, I had no desire to worship - but because I was making one last ditch effort to try to do what Papa asked of me.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard a familiar set of footsteps walk downstairs, down the hall, to my bedroom in the basement. The door was pushed open and the light from the hallway spilled into my room revealing the silhouette of the man who had been shoving his way into my life over the past week in spite of all my attempts to cut him out of it. That man worked hand-in-hand with my Designer to pull me out of the grave I had been digging myself for seventeen years. The light from the hallway was more than a metaphor.
To this day I can't tell you how I let things get as bad as they did. It all happened so suddenly it seemed, beginning on a Monday and being conquered on a Thursday. By all the rules of logic, I should not be here right now. I could be long gone, people could be writing extensive Facebook posts about how they miss me and how I had "such an impact." But. But, Papa had a different plan, and I praise Him everyday for it.
So yesterday I jumped into my car and drove north for an hour and a half, singing Queen's greatest hits with my CD player and turning the volume up when I hit Denver rush hour traffic only 10 exits away from where I needed to be. I met up with that same man - the one who had been present a year ago - in a teeny-tiny Thai restaurant on Colfax and Logan where he bought me a celebratory dinner and we got to talk to the adorable restaurant owner who moved to the States from Bangkok seven years ago. Then we drove home and listened to Prince of Spain and talked about friendships and stress relievers and society's standards for beauty and roadtripping to Chicago. I dropped him off at home and showered and went to bed exhausted but very happy, with my heart and my stomach both very full.
I look at the two different nights separated by 364 sunrises and I realize that almost nothing is the same as it was. A year ago I was angry and depressed and self-loathing, falling asleep every night to the sound of my own sobbing and wondering how much longer I was willing to do that. Now I'm alive and optimistic and free, taking every day as a stride and stoked to see what's around the bend. I'm eating now, I'm writing more, I actually talk to people about my problems. Everything has changed. And I am so glad that it has.
If there's one thing I've learned over this past year, it's that I can't do life without Him. I wasn't built to do life any other way than with my writer's hand enveloped in His scarred one. That's why everything falls apart when I try to. My heart becomes overwhelmed when I think about the lengths He went to to retrieve this one black sheep who was trying so hard to run away, straight into the wolf's mouth. He never stopped trying to talk to me, He never stopped chasing me, He never stopped loving me. And I don't understand that.
I don't think I ever will. But I'm okay with that. If He was small enough for us to understand, He wouldn't be big enough for us to worship. I owe Him everything. And that's why in all of my confused, emotionally and physically scarred mess, I devote my life to chasing Him. I find myself in the most beautiful places when I do that.
I raise my glass to the One who will never let me go.
Happy one year, Papa. This next one is for you.