I feel like a shell – hollow, like an Easter egg. Such utter emptiness is welcome, because otherwise what fills me is pain, torment, and anger. Sometimes, when the depression invades, hollowness is a gift. I have always written from my heart and my heart is crying out right now. Tonight, though, truth and light are only a glimmer in its depths. Tonight, the darkness rears its head.

Have you ever known anyone with some form of depression? If you said, “No,” you’re wrong. There are so many of us who “compensate well” that you might only learn of their suffering on the day their suicide is splashed across the news. I’m not being accusative – I mask my emptiness well enough that only a handful of people would notice it. I smile, I make jokes. I’m the one to blame. And it makes it so hard. In my current darkness, I don’t leave the house much. I make excuses, cancel plans. And then I wonder, Why don’t they ask what’s wrong? Why don’t they notice? Why don’t they care?

Nights used to be hardest, but now it’s dawn I dread. Jobless, alone, the daylight drags, especially when the clouds hover low. Evening means microwaving dinner, some mindless TV, and then the sleeping meds. Most of the time, I drag out those nights to 10 or 11 hours of sleep. The less time awake, the better. Still, it’s not rock bottom, because I haven’t lost interest in everything. I do my Bible study most days, and it’s only when the pain of being alive is at its worst that I don’t practice flute. But what do you do when you can’t escape the agony of being yourself?

Lately, I have spent a lot of time pacing the house. I’ll stop somewhere and try to think of something to do… the pacing resumes when the emptiness swells in my chest like a balloon. Sometimes, I think I walk the house in a sad attempt to escape. Restless. How is it that I can be so uselessly idle and yet utterly without rest? See how the hollowness is sometimes my only relief? But I’m lying to you. There is more, it’s not all pain and quaking emptiness and I am always thankful for sunny days. It’s just… when that creeping darkness settles like a fog inside my head, I can’t see. All I can do is feel, and all I can feel is pain. If you saw me, though, you’d never know.

How do you fight an illness that steals truth? How does a Christian hold to their hope when their own mind bears false witness? Whoever knows the answer, please let me know. Let all of us know. In the meantime, I hear my voice from a year ago echoing in the grayness within my mind: I study Scripture so that, if my depression ever returns, I will at least be armed. My depressed brain mocks, How can you be so naïve? His Word, though, his Word is here. It is next to me on my desk, and it is written on all four chambers of my heart.

Does this ease the pain? Sometimes. Does it fill the emptiness? Not always. But it is real. By the grace of God, his Word is a concrete thing that I can see, hear, and touch. It is my armor. But how, my brain sneers, can someone so weak and useless swing a sword? The emptiness in my chest aches and the tears are beginning again. Still, the Word is more than my armor – he is my Champion, as well.

Still, I cannot see past the relief of being able to go to bed in a few hours. I still crawl under the weight of my mistakes and failings. And I still look to tomorrow, knowing in my head that things will only get worse. Restless fears stalk my thoughts, and a chasm of blackness beckons. The Word, the Word, written on my heart. I can’t see him fight for me, because I’ve fallen to the ground, and I have no desire to rise. He fights, nonetheless. How do I know? I guess that’s the mystery of a Christian’s hope – even the hopeless may have it.

*Note: this entry is a cry, but not a cry for help. If you’re the type who might worry about such things, I’m safe. And thanks.