on hope

On the outside, it was a pretty good day. I got to spend time with Jessie, went to a bonfire with Nate and Amos and Blake, grabbed food at the Hoff and then went and saw a movie. But on the inside, depression consumed me. It struck right when Sarah and I were at the Hoff; I can remember the moment it happened: one second smiling and laughing, and the next fighting off tears. My brain is seriously screwed up. The rest of the night has been spent in ebbs and flows. Smiling at times and, again, fighting off the pain. I sat in the car as Sarah drove to the movie, and I stared out the window and felt tears in my eyes and felt weak and ashamed and afraid and hopeless all at the same time. I told Jessie, "I just want this to end. I pray and pray that it will end, but it won't." I'm tired of being miserable and depressed all of the time. I'm tired of having to put on a smile to convince everyone I'm okay, because I don't want others to know what I am going through; when I confide in people, those relationships generally take a turn for the worse: my friends begin to view themselves as Counselors, and I become a Patient. Friendships shatter over this, so maybe it's best to keep it under wraps and suffer silently, at least until it becomes too much to bear? It sucks, but I can bear it. For four years, day in and day out, I have endured. Sure, there have been good times. Even great times. But the pall of depression hangs over every good moment like some dark and foreboding cloud; and even in the greatest times it has been there, at the very least on the fringes, fingering its way in. And as if the depression weren't enough, I get depressed over the depression, and questions without answers rage through my mind:

"Why cling to hope when this misery shows no sign of ending?"
"How can I be a good husband in my suffering?"
"How can I be a good father amidst my suffering?"
"What girl--fully knowing the intricate details of my suffering--would be with me? Love me? Marry me?"
"What if the greatest act of love you can muster is to never fall in love, thus sparing someone the burden of knowing you fully and having to comfort you amidst your pain?"

These are ridiculous thoughts. I KNOW I will be a good husband. I KNOW I will be a good father. And I KNOW that there is some girl out there who will love me for all my weaknesses. And above all, I cling to hope. Even when hope seems like an illusion, I clutch it. Even when hope is like barbed wire--the tighter you hold on, the more it hurts--I embrace it. Maybe hope is just a drug, something self-induced to keep us somewhat numb from reality? Or maybe hope is an echo of something that can be, should be, will be. Maybe hope is God speaking into my heart: "Be strong. Be a man. I will help you." I don't know. When the depression strikes the hardest, hope seems like the most ridiculous and awful thing in the world. But in my quieter and saner moments, I know that it is hope that keeps me going, hope that keeps me alive, hope that keeps me looking forward instead of backwards. It is hope in a better life, hope in a life where I will love and be loved, hope in a life where all will not be underscored by misery; it is this hope that drives me forward, it is this hope that propels me headfirst into the unknown, and ultimately it is this hope that brings me to my knees.