I haven’t written anything for a long time. That’s mostly because I have felt unqualified
to do so. To explain, when I write, I feel as though what I write should be
edifying, encouraging, and/or helpful.
In considering the spiritual struggles of the last year, I did not feel
as though I had any right to open my laptop.
Although, by now, I could write a book on the journey thus
far, the long story short is that our daughter has been diagnosed with
depression and anxiety, but the struggle began long before the diagnosis. While it is safe to say that the last four or
five years have been a challenge, nothing compares to this last one.
There are many directions I could go in discussing the
struggles that accompany such a diagnosis; however, the current road I am
traveling is called loneliness.
Being the parent of a child with mental health issues is
very lonely. And if it is lonely for me,
I can’t imagine how lonely it must be for my 20-something daughter.
If someone is sick with a physical illness, support is often
swift and concrete. People are quick to
swoop in with encouragement and offer tangible assistance.
The same is not true when it comes to mental illness. The pain and debilitation are every bit as
real, but the reaction from others is vastly different. Where a physical
illness will compel action, mental illness repels.
The result is loneliness. . .and if one lets it take root,
bitterness.
And here’s why.
Technically, my husband and I belong to two faith
communities in the town in which we live.
For 25 years, we were/have been members of a church. Within the last two, we started attending a
neighboring church, where we felt/feel more spiritually challenged and fed.
Both my husband and I grew up in this community and have lived
here our whole lives. Likewise, we both work in this community, so we have many
personal and professional connections in both faith communities. It’s a small town; there are no secrets, and
so our daughter’s struggle (and ours with it) is no secret either.
And yet, day after day, week after week, we struggle alone,
as does she. There are no rules to this
ever-shifting game, so we do the best we can based on faith, love, and common sense.
Sometimes we hit the mark; sometimes, we miss.
I feel the weight of judgment. Perhaps it is all in my head, but that doesn’t
change how I feel. No one has overtly accused me of anything, but I feel the
accusation concerning my parenting. I
feel people withdraw – as if this struggle is contagious – that our poor
parenting choices or our daughter’s illness might infect their children or
their families.
There are many Sundays when I am in my pew, dying inside
after struggling through one of our daughter’s meltdowns, exhausted by the
struggle, bewildered by the pain. Why me? Why us? What are we doing wrong?
When will it end? Will it end? What do I do now? What should I be doing differently?
I also mourn for my daughter, who is missing out on the joy
and discovery of being 20 due to the chains and imprisonment of depression and
anxiety.
I pride myself on being a woman of strong faith – keeping my
eyes on Him – even when what is happening around me feels like a tornado spinning
out of control. I know that every hurt, struggle, and challenge is a part of His
plan. I know that if I remain
faithful my reward will be great, even if it is something as simple as a
deeper, stronger faith.
And I value this experience.
Really, I do. I appreciate the
fact that God wants more for me (as well as my daughter), and that is why is
bringing me (her, and our family) through this valley. As much as it hurts, I
would not wish it away. I am thankful
that He sees me (us) as a project worth pursuing.
And yet.
It is times like these that I really wish I had a church
family to surround me, support me and encourage me. I wish the same for my daughter. I pray that someone would move according to
God’s prompting and enter her life – hem her in, patiently befriend her, and encompass
her with unconditional love. I know that God is enough, but sometimes, I wish
that I could see the face of God through another person on this earth.
That’s what I was thinking as we were sitting in the church
parking lot this morning. We were
already to go in to church this morning, and just as we were parking, my
daughter called; a meltdown was underway. After ending the call, my husband
started the car, and we headed toward home.
As we passed car after car of eager church-goers, I wiped
the tears from eyes. I vowed to my husband that if and when we make it through
this dark forest, I will make sure that no one ever feels as lonely and
isolated as I do. I pray that God will
open my eyes and my heart so that I can see that hurting, lonely parent, so she
never feels alone and forgotten.
