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Spirituality

on being Christian with depression

My faith isn’t strong enough.

That’s why there’s a constant gnawing in my chest like the need to yawn,

like I’m craving something as necessary as air.

That’s why my body is 300 pounds of bricks caked in mud, 

left out in the sun for far too long.

That’s why my heart has shriveled too small 

to care about anything at all.  

 

My faith isn’t strong enough.  

My eyes don’t see the beauty the Lord hath created.

To my eyes, beauty is the sight of my hand on the off-switch of my lamp and the welcoming indent of my mattress.  

The Lord may have set a lamp unto my feet but I wear a blindfold as thick as canvas.

So I can’t see the lillies of the field and their refusal to worry,

but I’d imagine they’re tired of standing straight as soldiers under the sun’s beating fury.

My faith isn’t strong enough.  

Because while I profess the Lord is my strength and my fortress, I rely on pills prescribed by flesh and blood,

and the blood spewing from my wrists snarls and taints what He calls His

Beloved.  

 

My faith must not be strong enough

to trust God has a plan for me while I lie awake, eyes bloodshot and teary,

weary from worry.

To believe the future He has for me 

while purple splotches in the mirror stare back hopelessly.

Oh the irony.

To claim Jesus died in my place

yet have the audacity to slap Him in the face.

And want to leave.

 

“Oh ye of little faith,” 

I need someone to say,

“Here is the way.”

But no one can teach what can’t be taught, and only learned.  

I’ve been burned

enough times by the world 

to know there will be worry that makes my stomach churn,

and pain I can’t discern,

and despair that makes me yearn

to be somewhere else.

 

And I know.  

I know my faith isn’t strong enough.

And that’s why when I’m told to trust 

I come undone.

And that’s why I’m done.

Done trying to fake my faith.

To put on a brave face.

To keep up with a pace in a race that isn’t even mine.

My faith isn’t strong enough.

And that’s ok.

That’s why there’s grace.

And someday,

I know I’ll be able to look back and say

“My faith was made stronger through my confession of pain.”

If you like this article, check out: https://www.harnessmagazine.com/my-hill-my-valley-my-depression/

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by catsally

Hi! My name is Cat, and I am a 21 year old college swimmer studying Social Work who is passionate about all things mental health, musicals, poetry, and water!


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