“Did you pack your happy pills?” my husband, Dave, asked just before we were about to step out the door on our way to a week-long vacation.
“Yes,” I replied, smiling. “I packed them.”
My husband has surreptitiously dubbed my anti-depressant medication my “happy pills.” In the beginning, the nickname rankled me, as I hated the fact that I even needed them in the first place. But over the past 16 years, I’ve come to smile, and even joke about these tiny peach-colored pills myself. Truth be told, I am happier when I’m on my anti-depressant, because without them I’m unhappy. Actually, I’m quite sad. Depressed.
I noticed the first signs of depression after I miscarried our first biological child. Our first child, Jocelyn Zoya, is adopted from Russia. Dave and I had both wanted to adopt before even trying for a biological child. We knew that was how God wanted to create our family. We were so excited to begin the adoption process and, amazingly, it only took only 11 months (just two months longer than a normal pregnancy!).
After bringing Jocelyn home at the age of 13 months, we decided that it was time to try for our first biological child. I got pregnant right away. We were overjoyed with how God seemed to be blessing us without too many trials along the way.
Then, seven weeks into the pregnancy, I knew something was wrong because I started spotting. An ultrasound confirmed our greatest fears: the baby had died. The doctor scheduled me for a D&C. We went home to prepare—and cry!
Depression soon set in. At first, it was chalked up to post-partum depression, which can be normal after giving birth. But mine was compounded by the grieving process of losing the baby as well.
Weeks went by. Most I don’t remember. I functioned mostly on auto-pilot: taking care of Jocelyn, fixing meals, running errands, the usual day-in and day-out duties. But inside I was numb. Listless. Sad.
I did not improve. Although my body had recovered, my mental state had not. Dave was concerned and called for help. It was suggested that I go on an anti-depressant for a time. I was hesitant. The stigma attached to depression, even within the faith community, scared me more than the depression itself. I feared that if I told anyone, they would look differently at me, think of me as “less spiritual,” even tell me that I was lacking in faith.
So, I refused. And I went on suffering. Thoughts of suicide began to creep into my mind. Satan had a field day trying to convince me that I was to blame for the miscarriage, that I must have committed some sin to cause it.
DON'T WAIT UNTIL IT'S TOO LATE
By this point, my depression had definitely spiraled way beyond post-partum. My pastor’s wife continued to check in with me. Finally, she recommended that I speak with another woman in our church who also suffered from depression. I agreed. And when Sandy (not her real name) called, I was dumb-founded. An elder’s wife? On anti-depressants? I voiced my surprise.
“Yes,” she said, laughing. “Even an elder’s wife suffers and needs help.”
We talked for quite some time. She shared how she had been told by a pastor from another church and well-meaning Christian friends that if she “just had enough faith” she would be healed. So she had tried praying for more faith, but the depression persisted. Frustrated and desperate, she finally decided to seek professional medical help, and blessedly found relief.
“It’s funny,” she said. “Christians don’t want to deal with any issues from the neck up.”
I laughed. Because it’s true. Any ailment that involves the body below the neck—like diabetes, high cholesterol, or broken bones—Christians have no problem with. But the mind? Forget it. It’s too scary, too unknown, even, unspiritual.
After being reassured by Sandy, I agreed to at least consult with my OBGYN. My doctor, thankfully, was a believer. He espoused a wealth of medical knowledge and gave me a myriad of reasons for the mind’s mysterious and miraculous inner workings—and failings—coupled with Scriptural truth, even citing one biblical character who struggled with depression: King David.
The bottom line: my doctor said “clinical depression isn’t a sin. Sometimes the chemicals in our brains go haywire, much like they can in our bodies. Anti-depressants aren’t evil. They’re a blessing from God to help those who suffer, just like insulin is for a diabetic. If help is available, then take it. Why suffer needlessly?”
And, he joked, had Prozac been available in ancient times, King David probably would’ve taken it!
I agreed to try an anti-depressant, and the change was almost immediate, within a week’s time. My thinking cleared; I didn’t function in a fog. I wasn’t as listless as before. I had more interest in life again. I didn’t feel like crying all the time.
And, yes, I was happy!
Dave noticed the change too, and thus the nickname “happy pills” was born.
Fast forward six months: Dave and I conceived again and Jessica was born. Two years later, I gave birth to Daniel. I even remained on the anti-depressant during my pregnancies, although I dropped the dosage dramatically. And just to alieve anyone’s fears, both were born healthy.
Today, I still take anti-depressants. Whenever I have tried to wean off, I found myself drifting again into sadness and lethargy. So, for now, at age 52, I gladly take my medication every day. And I will likely do so until I go home to Heaven, where I will receive my “glorified body,” which will include a glorified mind as well. Woot, woot!
DISPEL YOUR FEARS
Fear is what initially kept me from going on anti-depressants, and fear has been what’s kept me from telling others over the last 16 years, including extended family members and close friends. I did not want to see the look in peoples’ eyes that bespoke judgment or pity. I did not want to deal with those who might feel the need to tip-toe around me, constantly trying to gauge my mood and ask, “You doing okay today? How’re you feeling?”
And shame. Shame has kept me in bondage, too. In years past, I was Bible study teacher and in our church’s women’s ministry. I thought—wrongly—that my depression might somehow disqualify me. So, I kept silent, too ashamed to even tell the godly women I co-ministered with.
BLESSINGS CAN BE FOUND
There have been incredible blessings from my depression. It causes me to wholly lean into and on the grace of God, possibly even more so than if I didn’t have it.
I also know that I am not alone. The great Apostle Paul understood this. He had a “weakness” for which he, too, needed the grace of God. He begged God to remove it. Three times! And God’s answer to his plea is one of the most oft-quoted verses in the Bible: “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness” (Phil. 4:13).
While Scripture is silent about what Paul’s “weakness” was, God firmly reminds us that putting His magnificent power on display in Paul’s life was far more important than healing his “weakness.” In fact, it was through Paul’s weakness that God’s power would be best displayed!
And Paul’s remarkable response? “Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor. 12:9-10, emphasis mine).
Paul’s single-minded priority and purpose was that God’s power take precedence over and above his own desire to be healed. What an amazing man!
As hard as that is for me to comprehend—somehow, someway—God’s power is perfected through my depression, and is far more important than me being healed. I truly have come to rest in God’s sovereignty in this area of my life. I have become “content” with my mental “weakness.” For His power is, indeed, perfected in my mental weakness.
And yours is too.
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If you or someone you know is having thoughts of suicide, please call or text the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988
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