I’ve been stuck in a rut for a while. A rut. A slump. A funk. Burnout… whatever Christians call depression when they don’t want to admit they’re depressed. For some reason, many Christians don’t actually like to admit they’re not bubbling over with joy. Is this true in your world or just mine? Maybe it’s a Pentecostal thing. I think to myself, “Hey, I’m supposed to be filled with the Holy Spirit… and a fruit of the Spirit is joy… God actually commands us to rejoice…. Great, I’m definitely not the picture of joy today… not only am I paralyzed by melancholy but I’m disobeying too!” It’s a self-bashing inner-conversation which definitely doesn’t help matters.

Self condemnation rarely does help. And yet, somehow depression breeds self condemnation… It births these little lies we tell ourselves which, when believed, grow into unbearable monsters with incredibly strong grips. Their strangle hold makes it hard to breathe. They hold us down–sitting heavily on our chests–weighing down our hearts. They cover our eyes, making the truth almost impossible to see.

Little lies. Actually, I hate lies of any size. One good way to see the fire in my eyes is to accuse me of dishonesty. Goodness, that upsets me! So does lying to me. Seriously, don’t do it. I hate lies–spoken and unspoken. And yet, I lie to myself. I do. When the fog of depression steals my breath and clouds my vision, I lie. I tell myself I’m incapable, unlovable, unacceptable, unintelligent, worthless. I might not pick such harsh words—I try to be a bit more subtle—but that’s the message I tell myself. Even more ridiculous than these lies is the fact that I believe them. I do. I know I believe them because I act like I do. I pull the covers over my head and sleep the day away. I stumble through the day wasting precious moments that should be spent with my children and accomplishing absolutely nothing.

Nothing. That’s what I feel like after listening to so many lies… and that makes them even more believable.

Depression. It’s a murky, inviting quicksand. Yes, I said inviting. That might surprise you. It might not. It might sound familiar. I know I’m not the only Christian who fights for joy. Authors wouldn’t have written so many books about it if I were the only one. Preachers wouldn’t have preached so many sermons… David wouldn’t have written so many psalms.

I’ve dealt with depression for as long as I remember. And yet… the word rarely shows up in my 1,855 blog posts. Maybe that’s because I don’t talk about it. But there it is. Depression. It’s kind of a depressing word isn’t it? But naming it publicly somehow makes it a less daunting foe. Hiding never helps. Neither does pretending.

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That’s the end of this post. I have no pretty ribbon to wrap up all of these difficult words. There is no bow on top that says, “Yeh, I used to have a hard time with that but now, Praise God, I don’t.” I’m doing better lately, I’m fighting harder and smarter against the quicksand and finding it more revolting than inviting… but it is still a fight.

P.S. I didn’t write this to garner sympathy or support… actually I’m just hoping someone out there will realize they’re not alone. I’ll write more on this topic later.