The Stigma of Mental Illness by Sharon Espeseth

Sh-h-h. Don't tell anyone, but I've slipped into depression mode again. This time I made it nine years without a recognizable dip in my serotonin. Yeah! But how did I let my old nemesis sneak up on me again--after all this time? Why didn't I acknowledge depression sooner so I could fend it off? And what do I do about it now that I have admitted to its presence?

I don't talk about my inclination toward depression with everyone. Confessing that one has depression, or mental illness of any kind is humbling. Notice: I didn't say humiliating. Mental illness bears a stigma that suggests the person with mental illness has failed or done something wrong, or that they are faulty, not good enough. For a Christian, there can be other concerns: Will people question my faith? Will they question God's love for me or his power to heal my illness?

With all the possible implications, why am I speaking about my depression in a blog that anyone can read? By sharing my first-hand experience, I may shed light on what depression is or isn't. Depression, for one thing, is not the end of life as one knows it. But a person really does need to make some changes to one's life in order to return to mental wellness.

Although it's impossible to tell my entire story in a blog-sized post, I can tell you a few of the character traits that led me into depression. Perfectionism. A strong work ethic. Overcommitment. Stubbornness. Compassion. Worry. Insecurity. Add a full platter of life's roles and circumstances to the mix and I was in trouble. This can happen to anyone.

I tried counselling, but I didn't get far, because I didn't have the time to reflect, pray, and do other actions or inactions that would help my mental healing. I just kept plodding along with teaching a new grade and being at the helm of an overwhelming class, helping on the farm, raising three teenagers, caring for my aging parents--one with physical disabilities and the other with Alzheimers, their eventual passing, gardening, canning, and early morning writing.

If this seems similar to your circumstances in any way, read on. . .

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Realizing I was in serious trouble, I started seeing a counsellor in Edmonton, who quickly understood my personality and the problems I was facing in the classroom. I was blessed in that this man had a background in education and the Christian faith. Putting pretensions aside, I laid my chalk on the chalk ledge and we got to work.

About two months later, I crashed and crumpled.

My psychologist and family doctor consulted and agreed that I needed a week off, then two weeks, and finally the rest of the year. This was February. Dr. R., my psychologist, confessed to me later that they had gradually extended my disability leave. Both doctors were concerned that if they had told me I'd be off work for the rest of the year, I might have pulled myself together and gone back to work. Knowing that could do me permanent harm, they protected me from my own stubborn ways. This was the best plan for my students as well.

With six and a half months off, including summer vacation, I could begin the healing process. My body and mind needed time to rest, reflect and pray. I read my Bible and other good material, but I couldn't hold my focus

for more than minutes at a time. My immediate and extended families were wonderful. Dr. R. coached me on how to look after myself, and that didn't mean shutting myself off at home. Friends came for coffee or took me for a walk. God walked with me too. Often he lifted me over the ruts and rough parts.

One thing that causes depression, I have learned, is this: stress over a long time can cause a chemical imbalance in the brain. That's why I still need to take a maintenance dose of an anti-depressant.

That's Part One of my story.

And why am I telling you this? First, I am following the prompt for May. I am filling my post "with the breathings of my heart." To be continued.

Seasons of Our Faith Journey by Sharon Espeseth

During the nineties, while teaching full time, farming with my husband and family, raising three teens, and gardening big time, I got the writing bug full force. Having a few things published and gaining recognition as a writer, I was motivated and determined to write.

I'd get up at 4:00 a.m. with my husband. I'd prepare his fresh coffee and lunch, while he got ready. At 4:30 on the nose, I'd kiss him out the door and head for my office. If no sows were farrowing, I'd get in two hours of writing and submissions done before I woke the kids to do chores while I made breakfast and got myself ready for school.

In the mid-nineties, we moved my parents to a nursing home more than two hours away. Mom's health problems were physical; Dad's diagnosis was Alzheimer's. Loving my parents and my own family as I did, I sometimes felt like a squished tomato sandwich. In the midst of this, I moved to a Grade Five class where I had new curriculum and, unknown to me at the time, one of the most challenging classes of my career.  This was definitely not the season to write, but I did manage to have some stories published even then.

One day my husband asked in a kindly voice, "Why don't you wait until you retire before you write?" That was absolutely what I didn't want to hear. For one thing, retirement seemed a long ways off and I wanted to write now. Pouting, I suspect, I headed right back to the computer. 

By December that year, even I realized I needed help. Visiting a psychologist, I learned how seriously my invincible attitude and my work/life imbalance was affecting me. Diagnosed with clinical depression, I needed meds and time off work. I needed to gear down in all aspects of my life, except for my faith life. That one I figured out on my own.

Although I had believed in God all my life, I needed to get in closer touch with the God who loved me enough to send his Son to die for me. I read scripture and other inspiring and introspective material. I poured out my heart in my journal, often praying as I wrote. I spent time with my family and close friends and tried to ease up on myself in many aspects of my life. 

As for that year to write, it still hasn't come for me. Even in retirement, life gets busy. If you've read my last couple InScribe blogs, you may remember that my husband and I have sold our bigger, dream home and moved to a rental property. It's a long story, but the last several months have been extremely busy. Sometimes we think we rented more work.

Did my husband and I make a mistake with this move? Possibly. But we are here and we are doing the best we can with the circumstances. Leslie Williams in Night Wrestling talks about how we may think we have made a wrong choice. Then she explains, ". . . Because of God's redemption on the cross, there are no ultimate 'wrong' choices. God redeems all our blunders, all our stupidity. The crucial

Church visited in Mexico on our pilgrimage

choice is choosing God over not choosing God."

I had hoped that downsizing and living in smaller quarters might give me more time to write. So far, this theory isn't working. We'll see. In the meantime, I choose to trust God that we are where we are supposed to be for now. This will be a year of faith.

Prayer: Dear Lord I pray that all of us as writers who are Christian will look to you for inspiration and guidance in our writing and our time management. Be our guide in balancing the responsibilities each of us have in our lives. Even though few of us have that year off to write, help us to write what you would have us write, when you would have us write. Bless our lives, our families, and our writing, Lord, that we may honour and glorify your name. Amen

Photo by Marion Lalonde