It's one a.m. and I feel like writing. I haven't for a while. It's as though God knew I needed a break after intense soul-searching for most of the past year. But I miss it when I do not write. It's become integral to my spiritual and emotional well-being. If I'm not going to sleep, then I need to write to my Lord. Quiet prayers. Earnest prayers. Prayers with my intellect and heartfelt prayers too painful to speak out loud. So I write.
I just want to write the words, "I'm sad." But that three-letter word seems so easily misunderstood because of its generality. It's a case of creeping depression. I'm doing what I can to help myself. Staying busy with the church is a big way to stop depression, but it's not working. I'm still grieving and there is only so much busyness one can do for the sake of fighting depression. I'm grieving Zed. I still choke up when I sit down to eat at home, expecting him to lie down near the table hoping for food to fall to the floor (on purpose). I come home to no happy doggo wagging his tail furiously in excitement. And if my thoughts drift back to my final goodbye, my heart hurts and the tears come.
Then there is the unrelenting grief of losing my dear friend, Lauren. I miss her daily. We texted daily for over a decade or longer. Makes me think of my mother's dear friend who lived in the house behind us. Every morning, my mom would walk over to Golda's house and they'd have coffee and talk. My mother's heart was broken when she lost Golda. She felt she had no friends left. They were all dying of old age. I still have friends, very, very dear ones, but none can replace Lauren. So I grieve and there is no time limit on grief. Nor can the waves of grief that wash over me at times be controlled. Grief has its own life and power.
Recently I had to find another psychiatrist. Another source of grief. The one I had seen for several years left her practice. She was wonderful. I had one other about eight years ago that was equally compassionate and genuinely caring. But he died in a mountain climbing accident. I still grieve him. He was the only psychiatrist who would actually hug me. That may not sound like much, but that human touch was very healing.
This new one is supposed to be very good. He has put me back on an antidepressant. A very low dose to begin with. Antidepressants and bipolar are tricky together. He seems nice enough but is one of those who spend five to fifteen minutes with patients and then sets up an appointment for two months out. This is typical of modern psychiatry. The two doctors who didn't rush me were rare. So I can only hope the antidepressant helps ease some of my "sadness." I don't want to fall into the trap of a downward cycle.
And I need the medication to help stabilize me for all the changes that are occurring in my life right now. I know God is there with me every step of the way. And I know he understands my tendency toward melancholy. But my current grief along with the declining health of a loved one, and the changed schedule of a very dear friend means seeing her less and not even being able to chat via texting much. It is a different level of grief. The losses add up.
David wrote so many of his psalms while on the run from his enemies. He loved God and believed he would live through God's intervention. He'd lament deeply. But somehow always came back to the goodness of God his Rock and Redeemer. He trusted him to unravel the ropes of bondage that kept him tied down. He called upon his name, expecting to be answered. In his crying and sorrows, David would always cast his mind back to God's actions in the past and hope would rise up in his heart. And in his faithfulness, God would answer and deliver him.
So my Lord, my Rock, and my Redeemer, please make haste to come to me and deliver me from grief. Show me what I must do, where I should go, and how to worship you with all that is within me. For you have done great things for your people and will do so again. With expectant eyes, I will watch and wait.
