Winter by Amy Grant an excerpt from Mosaic
It’s interesting that so many of the great hymn writers battled depression. In fact, remarkable artists and leaders such as Picasso, Van Gogh, and Abraham Lincoln suffered from it as well. Winston Churchill called it the “black dog.” Whenever I am in a bleak mental state, I think about these people whom I admire and realize that this condition is not unique to me.
The first time I remember feeling derailed by depression, I was nineteen, a sophomore in college. I dropped out of Furman University for the winter quarter. I didn’t know to identify the dynamic as depression. I just understood it experientially, feeling like a piece of wood.
I’ve never seen the television show Lost, but I know the story line has to do with a group of people finding themselves in an unidentified place. They have to figure out where they are and survive until they can be found. Landing in the family gene pool can be a similar drama.
Depression runs in my family. My grandmother suffered from it. Years ago, my great-uncle told my cousin, “If you’re born into our family, you have to start the day with a brisk walk.” He knew the power of endorphins, even if he didn’t know what to call them. Back in the early eighties, on a winter day in College Station, Texas, I wandered into a strip-mall pet store and found myself staring at a wall of fish tanks. The season of the black dog had me pretty well socked in, though I was still too young to understand it. I just remember watching the fish and churning on the inside, angry with them for their contentment.
Our understanding and treatment of depression has changed a lot since then. Antidepressant prescriptions are as common as birth-control pills. Except for a four-month period in 1999, I haven’t relied on them. Probably my age and the circumstances of my life have softened the downward spirals for me, but winter is still a struggle every year. Maybe subconsciously that is part of the reason I’ve made so much Christmas music—to focus on hope and joy and store up a lot of good thoughts for the dark months ahead.
The truth is, I have a great life. I’ve made a career of my childhood hobby, and a million doors have been opened to me. Still, I’m confronted with moods that just appear out of nowhere: feeling overwhelmed, feeling like what I have to offer is not enough, a deep sadness that is foreign to my usual optimism, loss of energy. In those times, it’s hard to complete my thoughts, much less my sentences.
What I’ve learned so far is that depression can be, but is not necessarily, about circumstances or about a particular event. It is physical. It is hereditary. It is cyclical. Its onset is like traveling down a road and suddenly hitting a patch of deep sand, wheels spinning and no visible forward motion.
The good news is, I’ve learned to recognize it and not be ashamed of it. I know as surely as it comes, it will go. In the meantime, here’s the talk I give myself:
~ Don’t be so hard on yourself.
~ Simplify the to-do list.
~ Be grateful for unavoidable responsibility. It makes you move.
~ Be careful what you reach for.
~ If necessary, be willing to say, “I’m having a hard time, and it’s not you.”
~ My great-uncle Dandy was right. A brisk walk helps.
~ Make contact with other people. Hear about somebody else’s day.
Because I live with these occasional extremes in myself, I look at other people differently. We never really know what is going on inside another person. It’s good reason to be gentle.
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