Two steps forward: one woman’s journey through depression

The weather that day was unusually warm for the middle of April. The sun was shining, perfect for a spring wedding. I should have been on top of the world as I got ready for my niece’s wedding. Instead, I felt weak – very weak – physically, emotionally, mentally.

I had managed to choke down a bit of breakfast. I knew that I needed physical strength, but my stomach was in knots. After dressing, I gazed at myself in the full-length mirror. I saw a frail, emaciated image of myself.

I had lost over 25 pounds in the last months. I began to fear I was dying of some undiagnosed disease.

As the day went on, I felt worse. Each step I took was an effort. During the wedding ceremony I was sure I would pass out, causing a scene and embarrassing my family and myself. I remember silently praying that God would hold me up so I wouldn’t collapse.

I continued to go through the motions of the day, increasingly restless and every nerve in my body feeling like it was jumping. I had no appetite for the delicious food spread before us at the wedding reception, only nausea.

We left the reception early. All I wanted to do was take a sleeping pill and go to bed. As I waited for sleep to free me from my misery, I pleaded with God to let something happen that would somehow, somewhere, cause me to get the help I needed. Little did I know that my prayer would be answered the very next day.

Sinking

The next morning was Palm Sunday. I didn’t feel any better than the day before. Playing the piano for congregational worship, I could barely concentrate. As the service progressed, my mind and my body went numb. Panic and fear overwhelmed me again.

When it came time to play for the closing hymn, the organist played alone. I couldn’t get up out of my pew and walk to the piano. Instead, I lost all control of my emotions. I felt I was sinking into a dark pit and couldn’t get out. My body began shaking as I sobbed uncontrollably.

An understanding friend put her arms around me and tried to comfort me. I could not stop crying.

With his arms holding me up, my husband (who was also the pastor of our church) exited me out the side door of the church into our van. Caring friends quickly offered to take our four children home with them for the rest of the day.

Not knowing what else to do, my husband decided to take me to the hospital. There, at the emergency department, a caring triage nurse assessed me. A psychiatrist, on call that day, compassionately questioned me and then explained to me the cause of my physical and emotional symptoms. I was suffering from clinical depression – a chemical imbalance.

That explained the constant nausea, sleepless nights, anxiety, restlessness, weight loss, crying spells, lack of concentration and overwhelming feelings I’d been experiencing for several months. The dizziness, heart palpitations and anxiety of the past days were panic attacks. I wasn’t dying; I didn’t have an unknown disease.

What I did have was something very common. And the good news was, there was help and there was hope. I was admitted to the hospital’s mental health ward for a few days to rest and receive medical attention. As I settled into my room, I felt a sense of peace that was the answer to the earnest and desperate prayer I had prayed the night before.

Here I was, a 42-year-old pastor’s wife, down to 94 pounds, broken and in a mental health ward. Not exactly the image you want as a pastor’s wife. But all I really cared about was getting well and being able to feel like myself again.

First steps

Knowing, understanding and accepting what was wrong with me were the first steps in the healing process. My fears began to subside and so did my nausea. I began to be able to eat again. I was in an environment where I could get much needed rest and healing.

How did I get to this state, with my health so broken? I believe it was a combination of stress, both physical and emotional, that built up over a period of time and then snowballed until I was in such a state of anxiety that my health broke.

There are three kinds of stress: first-hand, second-hand, and self-induced. My first-hand stress was gallbladder disease, which resulted in months of medical tests and finally surgery, along with the pressures and responsibilities of a family, home, a babysitting job, and being a pastor’s wife.

My second-hand stress was from church ministry conflicts and burdens. My self-induced stress was the expectations and demands I had put on myself to be all things to all people even though I felt I was overloaded. As my anxiety increased, so did my symptoms.

The road to recovery was going to be slow. There in my hospital room I determined that I would take advantage of all the help available to me. I needed to regain my strength. My children and husband needed me. But they would survive without me for a week so I could focus on me and my need to get well.

My recovery included antidepressants and sleep medications, counselling, relaxation exercises, long walks, afternoon naps, proper nutrition, follow-ups with the doctor and letting go of my responsibilities for a while. I began to spend more time with the Lord, praying and reading His Word.

One verse, Psalm 6:2, became my prayer for many months: “Have mercy upon me, O Lord; for I am weak: O Lord, heal me, for my bones are vexed” (KJV). I desperately needed God to heal me, I was so weak. I felt God’s comfort around me and He ministered to me through His Word.

Our church family lovingly supported us through this time, and there was much prayer support from family members and friends. An awesomely supportive husband was also by my side, sharing each burden and victory as we took one day at a time together. Our kids were great. They didn’t understand at the time why I was ill, but they knew I needed extra rest and help. Depression depletes your energy and your self-esteem and you end up feeling pretty inadequate, even in the simple daily tasks of life.

Recovery from depression often means taking one step forward and then two steps back, a good day and then maybe a couple of bad days. Gradually I found that the good days became more frequent and began to outnumber the bad days. It took about one year for that to happen to me. Friends who were depression survivors assured me many times that I would feel like myself again in time.

Through the months of recovery God strengthened and refreshed me. To mention all the ways God ministered to me through opportunities, people (including other ministry wives who had suffered from depression), and a lot of TLC would fill a book.

Why share?

Why am I sharing my personal struggle and survival of clinical depression? For three reasons. I want to share a message of help, hope and praise.

It’s important for those who suffer from depression to know it’s an illness and that there is treatment. They don’t have to “suffer in silence.” They should not feel ashamed to get proper help; they should not make the mistake I did, denying I might have depression and meanwhile getting sicker.

There is hope for recovery. I know, because God brought me out of the dark pit of depression. I also want to give God praise for the comfort I have been able to share with others struggling in the same area.

I thank the Lord that today I am well, working part-time as a registered practical nurse in a retirement home, and still a pastor’s wife, mom and homemaker. Life is still busy and still stressful, but I continue to guard my health. I continue to be under a doctor’s care, taking my medication faithfully, and monitoring my involvements and the stresses in my life. Feelings of guilt that I can’t spread myself further, especially in my role as pastor’s wife, still come, but those are often unrealistic expectations I put on myself. Balance in life is so difficult to maintain, but trying to “do it all” isn’t worth losing one’s health.

Yes, the steps to recovery are like small wobbly baby steps, sometimes forward, sometimes backward, but finally, one day at a time you begin to take two steps forward.

The weather that late September day in 2004 was warm for early fall. It was the day of another family wedding, but now I was the mother of the bride. Once again I was in a daze, but this time it was because it was a beautiful dream. I was happy, well and strong. I could enjoy eating and socializing and all the other wonderful things of a wedding. Praise the Lord!

Valerie Bartley lives in St. Catharines, Ont. and is a member of Scott St. MB Church.