how i’m doing.

I am sitting in the stillness of a steamy South Carolina summer afternoon.  The house is napping.  Kenny is working.  David’s out to lunch with a friend.  All I can hear are the whir of the air conditioning and birdsong from outside the window.  That’s it.  And I’m here on the sofa in the peace of a living room I’ve lived in for two different seasons of my life, drinking fresh-made hot coffee and drinking in the comfort of furniture and ceiling fans and toys that are familiar.

Tomorrow it will be three weeks that we’ve been home, in the U.S.  And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to say to you about it.

I guess the best place and the hardest place to start is with honesty.  Although, it is somehow easier to be honest from across the ocean than it is back here sharing a house or a pew or a park bench with you, having to look you in the eyes and answer your questions. 

So, I have been struggling with depression for about two months. 

I very much wanted to not talk about it right now — not now, when we are home and are supposed to be celebrating.  I want to talk about it later, when it is past and life feels a little easier again.  But it is apart of my story and I want honesty to be woven through the fabric of this blog.

How am I doing?  In one sense, wonderful.  It is so, so good to be back.  I can’t say that enough.  I love my country.  I love the people.  I love the food.  I love the grocery stores and driving and the confident feeling of knowing all the social cues.  I love blending in. 

But then, underneath the goodness there is this black weight on my heart that I can’t shake.  It sneaks up on me in a moment of laughter or playing with my children or hugging a friend.  Sometimes it creeps closer than others, and sometimes, lying in bed, I feel like it will strangle me.

I feel very humbled right now.  I had dreams of coming home happy and confident in our new life.  Instead I have come home in weakness and sickness.  Many say to us, “You are doing such a great thing over there,” but they don’t know how close I am to wanting to give up.  It is not a great thing.  It is not brave.  Right now, it is saying, “Lord, don’t you know this is where I belong?  Can you please take this cup from me?”

I can try to analyze for you where the depression comes from — from this ongoing season of culture shock that we are living in, from stress, from sickness, from change.  All of that is probably true.  And it does help when I hear that it is normal.

But here is something I am learning about suffering — or at least about my suffering: the thing that seems to bring the most comfort is not people who problem-solve with me, but people who sit with me.  Who listen.  Who say, “I’m so sorry, Jules.  I’m here with you.” 

You know who you are.  It may not feel like much.  It may not feel like helping me solve my problems or helping me get my joy back.  But it eases the burden a bit.  And so, thank you.

I am scared.

I’m scared of going back under this weight.  I’m scared that this is the new, permanent me.  I’m scared of leaving my support system here — my counselor and family and church home and friends.  I’m scared of getting sick again.  I’m scared of all the decisions that need to be made when we return.

And so, since you are praying for us (and I know you are), I guess I would ask you to pray for my heart.  That I will have peace and not spend my energy trying to escape my depression, but to simply rest in my Father’s love.  That I will feel my Father’s love.  I think that is the hardest part, feeling like he is silent.

Thank you for reading and for being apart of my story too.