Jess Boctor

Tag: Healing

  • O is for Opaque and Optimism

    I found this blog entry from a few years back, it was probably one of the darkest periods of my depression I had ever gone through. Rereading the post reminded me of one of the most dangerous symptoms of depression: becoming opaque. Here is an excerpt from the post to illustrate what I mean:

    “The next struggle is to not pretend that I haven’t been crying. Most days I act like nothing has happened and plaster on the “Happy-go-lucky-my-heart-isn’t-really-broken” smile. It kills me each and every time but it is easier then dealing with reality, it is easier then telling people how I really feel and it is most definitely easier then connecting with a God who wants to heal me. Why is it easier? Because if I connect with a God who wants to heal me then I have to admit that something is wrong and it hurts so much…it just does.”

    Something which is opaque cannot been seen through, it is impenetrable to light, it does not shine. Depression makes me opaque; I build walls so people cannot see who I  really am. I don’t let the light of Christ penetrate into my life. I stop shinning. I cover myself in a thick skin, and learn to smile over the pain. I feel people often don’t believe that depression is a real struggle for me because I have become so good at learning to grin and bare it. There is danger there. 

    The danger is that there cannot be healing in solitude. The mask will eventually begin to chafe, and adds to the pain. People who genuinely care for you become thorns in your side because you wont’, you cant, share what is really going on inside. How can you explain that you would rather sleep then face the sunlight? How do you explain that getting dressed was an accomplishment today? How do you tell your husband, your parents, your friends that all you really want is to leave because you think starting over may be the only way to escape the pain?

    How do you share the darkest part of your soul?

    You can’t. There aren’t really words to explain it. Every time you try to give definition to what hurts, it shifts. It changes, and you don’t have a logical, reasonable or even plausible explanation as to why. So you hide it. You cover it up, coating yourself in fake smiles, assurances that “I’m fine”, and normal life. You die in your own creation. 

    I have learned the only way to fight is with optimism.

    Not happy simplistic, “The sun will come out tomorrow”. 

    You have to have genuine hope that someday you will be healed. Optimism which takes root and leads to action, maybe to get counseling (which I went through for year, and then returned to last spring). Optimism which lets you share with someone what you are going through. Optimism which allows you to really believe the world won’t end if you begin to peel away the layers. Optimism which allows the light of Christ to begin its healing work, which allows who you were meant to be to shine through.

    Optimism which helps you to remember you really aren’t alone.

    Continuing the adventure, 

    Jess

  • Feeling again.

    I think that overall, we as people, are very good at convincing ourselves of things we don’t need.

    There may be some basics that we really can’t overcome; like air. Maybe.

    For the most part though, I am completely astounded at human beings ability to convince ourselves that certain necessities are not necessary. That we can turn a blind eye to some essential vacancy in our lives and pretend like we are fully functioning in spite of or without it.

    For example, food. Throughout history, there are examples of people who have survived (not thrived or lived, but survived, an important distinction) on the very most basic of foods or the bare minimal. People who have learned to think about something else, to ignore the pain, to forget it is there.

    Or physical pain. We all know someone who has ignored the pain until it became unbearable. People who just continue to make their tolerance grow until they can say that it doesn’t matter and they function with it.

    The problem is, we are all lying to ourselves. As soon as food is introduced to us again, our bodies recognize the need for it and the hunger returns. When the pain reaches the point of being unbearable, we have must likely done ourselves immense harm. The strangest part is that often, we don’t realize how great the pain was until there is a relief from it. Like a drone in the background it follows us around, our hunger and pain, until we find a source of nutrition or healing.

    I was reminded of this today. Jonathan visited me at work, and if you asked anyone who knows me, they would know that I miss my big little brother every day. That I hate the fact that he lives across the country and that I wish he lived closer. They would not necessarily say that it is a huge deal or that I am overly hungry for his company.

    It seemed to be a double lesson as I sat and talked with my mom. We reminisced about my grandmother and the lessons that she taught us. We worked out truths about life and internally wished for her advice. As we talked their were certain moments where with both had to hold our upper lips stiff against the acute pain of her absence.

    You see, I really do hunger for my brother’s company but I have learned to survive without it. It is only when I have him near and I get to be with him that I realize what I have been missing. I really do live with the pain of my grandmothers absence every day, but it is only when we have moments of healing, when we talk and remember her that I am reminded how great that pain is.

    In a sense I have been living numb.

    It makes me wonder where else I am numb. What other things have I convinced myself don’t really hurt or I don’t really need? There are a few areas of my life that come to mind right away, that I need to shake and wake back up, to start working through the pins and needles.

    What areas of your life are numb?

    Continuing the adventure,  

    Jess