One of the blessings of being married to Josh is that he is so like me. We have obvious differences: he does not actively believe in any god while I have a faith that simply is, he is a vegetarian while I'm not, he usually doesn't care for movies while movies seem to be part of my stitching, he feels a deep ache and compassion for the world and its individuals while my empathy usually keeps to those closest to me, he has interest in and knows a great deal about many subjects while I am more focused and obsessive, he is relaxed while I am ambitious and irritable, he feels a deep connection to heritage while I rarely do, he constantly weeds through his possessions while I seek and store. But as he says, "Our core is the same." We share quiet and closeness, a fascination and kinship with the magical (science fiction, fantasy, myth), a treasuring of books, a tie to music and musicals and theater, a weariness in company, and an insatiable curiosity (though the objects diverge).
We also share this shadow, this depression. This may seem like a problem, and it could be. But since I met him and recognized this, I felt such relief. We don't have to explain or justify it. People who don't have the tendency really can't understand it, and that's probably wonderful. Recently, we become better at not just accepting it in ourselves and in each other but also accepting that we are still responsible for our experience. We do have to work and sometimes to fight to keep the shadow a shadow only and not a consuming or damaging (to ourselves or others) darkness. Josh wrote about this beautifully on his blog in January.
Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
I often think of Father Christmas in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, coming to the three remaining children just before the battle. I liked the way the recent movie portrayed him: magical, yes, but not the carefree, jolly Santa I usually see. He is rustic, strong, benevolent, deliberate, and weary. Even his clothes (no red suit!) show this. And he tells the children that he is giving them tools rather than toys. My mind and heart catch on this part of the story, even though swords and bows don't hold much appeal. Now, though, I'm noticing a new way to think about it.
Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
Josh and I may always need medication or therapy or both to help us, to fill in the lowest points, to keep us capable of trying. We've accepted this. And one of the greatest moments of acceptance I've ever experienced was when my mother (an extroverted woman of rock-solid faith who doesn't, to my knowledge, deal with that depression that defies circumstance and whose family experiences with mental illness may have made her recoil from or fear depression in me when I was younger) said, "You know, your stopping medication just may not be the goal." She said it in the most loving and reassuring way. I can't quite describe how light I felt when she said that. But medication is like Lucy's healing cordial. It's quick. It works. It's fairly effortless if we know when we need it. It is valuable and necessary for many people. But it's not everything.
Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
http://republika.pl/blog_xl_4362458/6298116/sz/prince-caspian.jpg
http://republika.pl/blog_xl_4362458/6298116/sz/prince-caspian.jpg
My doctor told me this when she wrote my most recent prescription. She told me I had to get exercise and sunlight every day. Fighting depression is just that: a fight. Even when it isn't a battle, it requires that I prepare and build. This reminds me of Susan's bow and Peter's sword and even Lucy's dagger. Unlike the potion, these require movement, risk, muscle, aim. I have to work to overcome the shadow. I have be active. Getting up to go for a walk, exploring a library, reading a new book or an old favorite, watching a meaningful movie, having a real conversation, keeping up with this blog, spending time with my journal...these may not seem like offensive moves. But they are. They are so especially when I am tired or overwhelmed or already slumped in the shadow or complacent in a silly feeling that the shadow is gone. I have to fight, sharpen, polish, retrieve, practice.
Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
http://www.entertainmentearth.com/images/AUTOIMAGES/DS14645lg.jpg
http://www.entertainmentearth.com/images/AUTOIMAGES/DS14645lg.jpg
And we have to protect ourselves. I checked out a translation of German short stories about crime recently. I read a couple of them, sparse and subtle but gruesome and ready to speak to some of my quietest fears. The writing was unusual. I wanted to learn from the spare style. And part of me wanted those ugly details. But I put the book down. I told Josh, "I shouldn't read this." He said he might read it, and I shook my head. "I don't think either of us should read it." This was as much to protect myself from wanting to pick it up again as from wanting to protect Josh. Maybe at another point I would be able to handle it. Recognizing and admitting that I couldn't was hard. I have to put choices, actions, and thoughts away regularly. I have to say, "No, I can't do that" or "I can't deal with that right now." I even have to take moments in a room by myself if I am around people (even those I love) for a long time. I have to be aware and be ready to defend myself even from basically harmless or even good things. I work to avoid inviting the shadow or letting it creep in. This is Peter's shield.
Image: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, Walt Disney Pictures and Walden Media, 2005.
http://www.yourprops.com/movieprops/default/yp_4f32c15737b6c8.52276806/Susan-s-Horn.jpg
http://www.yourprops.com/movieprops/default/yp_4f32c15737b6c8.52276806/Susan-s-Horn.jpg
The last tool can be the most difficult because I want to be healthy and strong and fine. I like to feel capable and independent. Sometimes it's denial, sometimes bravado, sometimes hopelessness. But asking for help is not easy. Asking can be as big as calling a doctor and admitting a problem or as seemingly small as looking Josh in the eyes and saying, "I'm feeling depressed" or "I need to spend time on the balcony." It shouldn't be difficult, especially with someone who is so often near me and who certainly understands. But it is. And I've been pushing myself to tell my mom too, whether I'm just inexplicably sad or paralyzed with anxiety about work or finding that I'm skipping meals. And recently, I also told my dad and my best friend (who actually first mentioned postpartum depression). I don't know what I expected or feared. But they both said something like "I'm so glad you're getting help." Telling and asking are Susan's horn. If I am quick and direct about the noise I make (not those "acting out" mechanisms), someone will come.
Often, it's Josh who comes to remind me about the potion, put the bow in my hands, polish the sword. He can't do the fighting and defending and calling for me, but he's next to me. We're both fighting.
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