Anger and Hate

     Years ago I had someone come to me for pastoral care and counseling who was in a great deal of pain.  She told me that she had been the victim of a predator, someone who found her in a time and situation of crisis or trauma and, in the guise of offering care, took advantage of her.  When she finally found the strength to end the predatorial and abusive relationship, the predator sought revenge by turning others she cared about against her.  Because the predator was a charming and likeable person, no one even asked for her side of the story.  It seems people mistakenly believed that the one doing the talking must be the one telling the truth, when instead, he was doing the talking because he was trying to preemptively spread his lies before the truth could come out. She became a pariah as the people around her chose to believe the person they preferred without ever asking her side or seeking her truth in what had occurred.  She was thereby victimized twice by the predator: first by the initial relationship, and second by the damage to her other relationships. She told me that she had come to see the predator as evil, and she hated him with a white hot hate that did not seem to fade with time.  She told me she had never known hate before this event, but now it seemed to consume her and she did not know what to do.  

    She came to me seeking help.  As a pastor, couldn't I tell her how to let go of the anger?  The hate?  Couldn't I help her to figure out how to forgive so that the rage and abhorrence would no longer wrack her body and spirit in a way that seemed to poison everything in her life?  

    I passed along the tools that I had: Pray for the ones with whom you are angry the same good things you would want for yourself.  Talk to God.  Journal.  Distract from your anger by focusing on the beautiful things in this life.  Keep a gratitude journal.  Surround yourself with people who will care enough to talk to you when they have questions or are hearing gossip about you.  Choose friends who will be open with you and will believe what you say to them.  Surround yourself with people who understand about predatory relationships, the deep damage they do, the abuse they infict, and the ways they manifest. Meditate.  Exercise. Eat healthy foods. Practice self-affirmations. Reframe your experiences as growing and learning experiences. 

    I don't know if any of those tools helped her in the long run.  In the short run I believe they were inadequate.  She was truly consumed by her anger and hatred, and those feelings were damaging her to a greater degree even than the original predatorial damage.  What she had experienced as harm was real.  But the daily re-living of that damage did more to hurt her.  And while she knew this intellectually, she could not let go of that anger.  She knew she was allowing the predator to continue to victimize her through her feelings, but she could not let them go.

       As I look back, I realize that I had missed an important step with her.  I've said before that I am a firm believer that we have to go through our grief and pain to come out on the other side.  Stuffing feelings down means they usually manifest in unhelpful ways and they don't resolve.  What I had failed to name was that anger is a secondary emotion.  Hate is often a further step removed and is a tertiary emotion that follows anger.  Both ultimately mask grief and fear.  It feels more powerful to be angry or to hate, so we often move to those feelings when we don't want (or don't have the strength) to feel those more genuine but more vulnerable feelings of sadness and fear.  Until we deal, truly and honestly, with those deeper feelings, we will stay stuck in the anger.

     Personally, I don't want to be an angry or hateful person.  So I write this as a reminder to myself, as I reflect back on my parishioner's experience, that letting these feelings pass through us is essential for our own well-being and wholeness.  Not always easy, especially when you've been deeply harmed, but necessary.  When someone hurts us, it is often our own feelings that do more damage than the other person could ever do.  And while working through those feelings is not easy, it is life-giving to do so.

Mistakes, growing, learning, forgiving.

     As this New Year begins, I find myself reflecting on events in my own life from years ago.  I've been taking a webinar on forgiveness and I think that it, too, is prompting this reflection.  My biggest challenge in terms of forgiveness, as I think is the case for many people, is learning to forgive myself.  I think that these arising memories of things that happened as far back as my childhood are opportunities to step more fully into self-forgiveness as well.

   Today I found myself reflecting on my first call.  When I was in seminary, and frankly my years as a young adult before going to seminary, I felt pretty clear that my primary call into ministry was primarily "prophetic".  What I mean by that is that I knew that while ministers are called to "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable" that my call was very much on the "afflict the comfortable" end of things.  I regularly stood up against injustices, taking concrete actions to confront oppressive government behaviors, to organize rallies and non-violent protests, to preach and speak and organize on behalf of the "least of these" - those who are often overseen, neglected, abused, oppressed and worse.  I didn't care who I angered by these actions - seeing their anger, if anything, as a sign that I was on the right track.  After all, we know that Jesus angered people enough with his standing up against the legalists and the hypocrites that they killed him.  I felt if people were angry that I was standing up for the poor and oppressed, then I must be doing something right.  At my ordination, the friend I had invited to preach spoke about this.  He said that I rattled cages, but that this was the gift, this was the call that I clearly had been given: to confront the oppressor, to challenge the apathetic into truly learning to love those others would disregard.

    But then I went to my first church call.  I went in roaring and pushing for the church to take strong stands on justice issues.  And instead of being able to make those changes, I found that I got the ire and suspicions up from those who saw me as an inexperienced upstart who didn't really understand my position or my place.  Instead of making the changes I knew I was called to make, I was disregarded and discounted more and more.  My voice, which had carried weight and value in college, at seminary, and even during my internship, was pushed aside.  I was effectively limited in voice as well as in action.  I was an associate pastor, so people weren't leaving the church, but they were closing off the work I could do, tightening the reigns on my options, and closing doors to relationships.  I left that position after only a year.  And while much of my leaving had to do with a difficult senior pastor who simply did not "play well with women," I'm certain that my decision to leave was exacerbated by my own sense of not doing well in that call.

    Fortunately, I didn't leave without learning and growing.  I learned that relationships must be built, trust must be gained, people must know that you love them, and not just because you've said it but because you've shown it, before they will be able to hear things that challenge their thinking, that encourage them to look at things differently, that then call them to different actions.  I learned that pushing too hard leads only to anger and separation, not growth in others.  I learned that listening first is extremely important.  I also learned that first impressions are sometimes the only impressions you will be allowed to give.  And that once we have alienated someone, rebuilding those relationships can be extremely hard to do.  While apologies are important, the "other" may not always accept them, so being thoughtful from the start is important.

    When we talk about "repentance" in the church, we are talking about taking another path, choosing a different way to go, to walk; turning from one direction to another.  And we take this seriously.  But my experience tells me that most of the time while we can see our own growth, and we can celebrate the steps we've made to become different people, more loving people, more faithful people, people who are more whole, we don't always trust or see that others are also growing.  Part of our failure to forgive other people is an inability to see or accept that the other may have genuinely changed, grown and moved from wherever it was that caused them to do damage to us or to someone else that we care about.  When it comes to self-forgiveness, I think that I struggle with actions that may have hurt or upset others in part because I believe that THEY don't understand that I, too, have changed, moved, grown, "repented", chosen a different path, seen where I've erred and strived to do better.  My fear that they can't see that in me, and that they can't forgive me in part encourages me to not forgive myself.  It shouldn't be that way.  I can't control what others see, feel or think.  And I should not allow what others judge in me to determine my own behaviors or the ways in which I view myself.  But this is easier said than done...

    I'm still learning.  I'm still growing.  I'm still making mistakes.  And there are people who cannot or will not forgive me.  There are people who will not accept that I change and grow, too.  There are people who will choose judgment and rejection over an open-heart when it comes to relationships with me.  When you are in a leadership position, it sometimes is easier for people to simply write you off then work through the hard and painful process of reconciliation.  I understand this.  I don't like it, but I understand it.  So today my goals are two fold: first, I will work more on self-forgiveness.  I find that self-forgiveness leads more deeply into a change in behavior than any intense self-judgment can possibly do, anyway.  So I do this for the "others" in my life as well, so that I may have the grace and compassion to truly grow in my actions, to be more loving, to be more aware, to listen more deeply.  My second goal is to remember how it feels when others box me into "that's just the way she is" kind of thinking and to be more open about the possibilities that others are growing too. These are my goals for this day.  I invite you into deeper self-forgiveness as well. And I encourage you to remember that just as you are growing and changing, others are too.  Perhaps we can be better at giving all people the benefit of the doubt: both ourselves and others.  

A ramble on crisis, strength, and children.

           Recently, my kids and I were watching one of the many science fiction movies in which a father must choose between going out to save the world or staying at home to care for and raise his kids.  As always in these movies (because there wouldn't be a story if he chose otherwise), the father opts to sacrifice his time with his children in order to save the world, leaving them for years and sometimes life-times, to fulfill his mission.  And we all nod and agree that, of course, that is the right choice.  We don't give it a second thought.  And we see the man as the hero the story makes him out to be.  After all, he gave up so much for the sake of the world.
          So did the kids.  And they had no say about it, no choice about it.  There are victims in these stories, victims whose fates we don't see or acknowledge because, after all, the fate of the world is so much more important than a couple kids.  Right?
          Everytime I see one of these movies I find myself angry.  Why was it that it was only that person, that man, who could save the world?  And why was the cost the kids?  And why do we fail to see that or to care about the kids, except as losses to the hero?  Despite what these movies show us of strong and happy children growing up confident in the knowledge that their dads are heroes and that the kids themselves are loved and just have this little inconvenience, this tiny self-sacrifice that also puts them in the categories of heroes for giving up their dads in exchange for the salvation of the entire world; despite what the movies show us, the reality of kids growing up without a parent is very different.
        Here are just a few of the statistics:  taken from The Fatherless Generation
         

• 63% of youth suicides are from fatherless homes (US Dept. Of Health/Census) – 5 times the average.

• 90% of all homeless and runaway children are from fatherless homes – 32 times the average.

• 85% of all children who show behavior disorders come from fatherless homes – 20 times the average.  (Center for Disease Control)

• 80% of rapists with anger problems come from fatherless homes –14 times the average.  (Justice & Behavior, Vol 14, p. 403-26)

• 71% of all high school dropouts come from fatherless homes – 9 times the average.  (National Principals Association Report)
• 
  
• 75% of all adolescent patients in chemical abuse centers come from fatherless homes – 10 times the average.

• 70% of youths in state-operated institutions come from fatherless homes – 9 times the average.  (U.S. Dept. of Justice, Sept. 1988)

• 85% of all youths in prison come from fatherless homes – 20 times the average.  (Fulton Co. Georgia, Texas Dept. of Correction)

       These are just a few of the many statistics based on many studies that show what happens when kids grow up without their fathers, for whatever reason.  While the heroes may have saved the world in one way, what harm have they passed on to the world through creating homes with fatherless children?  What radiating damage was caused by this choice?  

       As I watched this movie with my kids, I made a comment that I felt the choice the dad made was wrong.  I was surprised that my kids all disagreed with me.  They said they felt the dad had made the right choice.  I argued with them that it wasn't fair to the kids.  "Maybe, " was the response.  "But the kids will be stronger because of it."  Really? That's not what the studies show.  They don't show stronger kids, they show broken kids, damaged kids, kids ready to inflict the same pain on the world that the world inflicted on them. "Are you stronger?" I asked my kids who have lived without their father for the last 5 1/2 years.  

      "Yes,"  they all answered, "we are."

       No, they aren't.  That is a myth we tell ourselves so that we can feel better about the fate life has handed us.  That is the story we proclaim to make the tragedies of this life acceptable.  But as the mother who lives with the victims of their particular tragedies, as the one who cares for them and watches them every day, I can tell you about the wounds they carry in great detail.  Since I don't want to betray their confidences or tell their stories, I will name the one that is most obvious: the fortresses my children have built around themselves, thick and strong, are what they identify as personal strength.  But I see those walls for what they are: they are walls made of fear, they are a way to hide from the world, they represent a commitment to refuse to allow others into their inner sanctums so they will not be hurt again.  Those walls do not represent strength, they represent brokenness and fear.  And that truth is painful for all of us, every single day.

       I love our stories, our cultural myths, that say that we grow from trauma, that we grow and become better, stronger people because of the crises we've experienced.  But the truth is that I believe that growth and improvement in reaction to large traumas is rare, an exception that comes with a great deal of commitment, courage and intentional choice to bring good out of pain.  I see those people who grow and become better folk through their traumas, especially the huge ones, as the exception to the rule rather than the norm.  I've been blessed to know some of those people who have taken their traumas and allowed them to make them better people.  But I also know far too many people who have become bitter, or entrenched in their one-dimensional belief systems, or become fearful and angry because of what they have gone through. And even those people who have grown through their traumas still carry scars, still carry trigger points.  I don't know anyone who has gone through a substantial crisis who walks without a limp, who is not damaged in some way. When it comes to children, these traumas are especially difficult to work through.  The very fabric of who each child is becomes changed, becomes resewn, rewoven into a different tapestry.

       My kids are not who they would have been had they not gone through their experiences.  Kids in war torn countries, kids living with poverty, kids growing up in abusive homes or in terrible situations will never be who they would have been otherwise.  No amount of counseling or education or family support can give them back the childhoods that they have lost, or can take away that limp that defines them. These defining childhood stories change way too many kids for the worst, taking away from them a sense of hope or joy or possibility.  That breaks my heart.  

       And while I have always valued the stories of growth and change and strengthening, I wonder what we miss by repeating these stories to ourselves.  Wouldn't it be better to acknowledge the truth that these childhood traumas are severely damaging and that rather than believing good comes out of them, it would be better to work hard to limit those traumas in the first place?

       Life is hard, and we won't be able to stop all trauma.  But perhaps facing the true damage is a better choice than living in a denial bubble that says we are strengthened through the crisis, especially when it comes to our children.  Perhaps this has to start with the stories we tell.  Perhaps the next story I see about a father leaving to save the world will focus instead on the children left behind; on their story.  Or perhaps the next story will focus on the choice the parent (male or female) makes between saving the world and being with his/her kids.  Perhaps in the next story, the parent will choose to stay with the kids and to find someone without small children who can save the world in their place.  And maybe that next person will do a better job anyway.  And the parent who chooses to stay behind will be a hero to the kids for choosing the kids, for choosing to love and care for and raise them.  That is a story I would love to hear.

What is Strength?

      I am coming to see that we need to change our entire approach to understanding and responding to one another's struggles.  We need to understand emotional pain, mental illness, and emotional sensitivity from a very different perspective.  The journey to make this change in our thinking is very slow.  We mostly still see those who struggle with chronic emotional pain as weak, rather than as the incredibly strong people they are, carrying daily burdens of pain and facing each day with courage.  We also still think that what people who are sensitive and easily injured by bullies need to do is just "develop a thicker skin".  Both of these are seriously problematic.  Both of these ways of seeing the world function within a very individualistic, non-feeling model that says that the problems we have are our own, that emotions are to be distrusted and squelched when possible, and that when someone is a victim and someone is a perpetrator, that it is the victim who needs to adjust and change. This world-view supports the idea that we should be in our heads rather than our hearts; it places our hearts and our feelings in a subservient position to our thinking; it elevates an ideal of cold independent distance over a world view that says we are interdependent and that our feelings have their own wisdom, one that should be attended to.  If we want a gentler, kinder, more caring world, that has to start by listening to the wisdom of our feelings; it must recognize that we are created to be in community, and that means understanding that we all need one another (and not just people, but all of creation) to be whole and healthy.
      I've written before that people who live with and function with the chronic pain of mental illness (depression, bipolar, etc) are some of the strongest people I know.  This continues to be reinforced for me as I talk with more and more folk who go through each day carrying the emotional (and physical because the emotional pain is also physically oppressive) burdens they carry simply because they have to: for their kids, for their families, for their God, for whatever reason they choose to move forward each day.
    Unfortunately, it has also been reinforced for me that most people still believe that those who struggle with mental illness are somehow weak.  Part of this belief stems from the misguided thinking that says that if someone asks for help, or calls for support, that they are weak. We should be able to walk this path alone, on our own, without the care or support of others, apparently.  Again, this emphasizes an individualistic model in which people who reach out and need each other are not strong enough to walk alone. It fails to recognize that we all need each other, sometimes more and sometimes less, to help us walk this journey called life.
     Another example: I read a recent article that said that when people have been hurt or affected by cruelty of others they are often told to "buck up", to "get over it", to "develop a thicker skin."  This author was saying that actually, going through the pain, discussing it, and working it out is a much healthier model.  Talking about the things that affect us, that hurt us, sharing and working it through with other people is a better way of healing ourselves and others.  Do we really aim to become people who are without sensitivity?  Without empathy?  Without the ability to care and be affected by and touched by the thoughts, feelings and actions of those around us?  Do we really think that we should permit and tacitly condone meanness because it toughens us and that the issue when people are being treated cruelly is with the one being victimized rather than the one perpetrating the act?  With our children, we have advanced in this area more quickly than with adults. We are coming to see that bullying is a problem and that children need to be taught to share their experiences of unkindness so that all of us can grow and all of us can work harder to find the bullies, confront the mean behavior and change it so that those kids do not grow up to be villains.  But we often still say to adults who are being treated with unkindness, "you need to get a tougher exterior."  Actually, tougher exteriors are not a good goal unless we hope for an insensitive world of tough but unfeeling people.
      I strongly resonated with the author's words on this. Just as I believe it is not about developing a tougher skin, but about working through the pain when someone is unkind, I also believe that when people ask for help because they are suffering emotionally, that this too needs to be recognized not as weakness, but as strength.  It takes courage and trust to ask for help.  It takes self-awareness to know when one is carrying burdens that are too much to bear on one's own.  It takes wisdom to discern who will be helpful to the one struggling and who can be relied on to stand by us in times of trial.
      These are two examples of ways in which our thinking around all of this needs to change.  We have to let go of the belief that we walk this planet as individuals separate and independent from each other.  In reality we need each other at every step of the way.  It is not just a trade model that causes interaction, but a deep seated human need for community.  We have been created as relational, interdependent beings.
       Strength for me is the ability to recognize our needs, to be able to be honest about our feelings, and to risk a community of friends to support one another in our daily struggles.  Strength for me is the ability to walk forward every day when things are at their worse for whatever reason, simply because we have to.  Strength is claiming the wisdom of our feelings and our sensitivities for identifying when something needs to change.
      We won't be able to change the thinking of the world around feelings, independence and strength overnight.  But if we can start with ourselves and our own communities, teaching one another to respect and honor feelings, standing with each other in our relationships, recognizing the strength it takes to ask for help and to walk the journeys, then we have made a step forward. Because again, everything we do affects one another.  The change therefore that starts with the thinking of one person can affect us all for the better.

Being Brave, a personal reflection

     All of us have life lessons.  I've said this before.  I don't know what your life lessons are but I see my own.  One is that I am called to not judge others.  Everytime I err on this, everytime I have a judgment, something happens that forces me to see and do differently, to overcome it.  Every time. Some of the judgments I've had I find truly shaming now, so it is hard for me to share them with you, but I'll give you one example: I used to judge people who were caught in situations in which they had no idea what their spouses were up to. "How could they be so blind?" I thought. For example, we hear stories of women whose husbands are married to more than one spouse.  The women are unaware that there is another 'wife' out there, mostly because their husbands work involves travel so they just trust and assume when their husband is away that he is on business.  I used to judge that.  Until I found myself in that situation of being completely unaware of things my husband had been doing.  I learned.  Again.  I can't judge others.  I think other people have the same opportunity to learn this lesson, but some choose not to.  Too many people condemn something harshly only to be caught in the act of doing it themselves.  They had a choice at some point: learn not to judge, to have compassion for that which was hard for them to accept in themselves; or move into a fierce and violent denial that not only injured themselves but injured others too. Not all of us learn our lessons. And, as I said, I think we each have different lessons to learn.
       One of my other life lessons, another one that I think others share, too, is the call to be brave.  I read somewhere that being brave does not mean to be without fear.  Being brave, rather, is acting in the face of our fear.  And the truth is we all have different fears, so what it means to be brave will be different for each person. But for me, today and everyday, this is a lesson that is hard and not easy. Because the thing that I fear most (and I realize this may sound shallow to some of you, but it is my fear) is not being liked.  Of course there are people who don't like me.  There are even people whom I believe hate me.  The most evil person I know (and yes, I use that word in this case) is someone who preys on the weaknesses of others. He's done this with others in different ways, found the weaknesses in others and used them to destroy the other. In my case, he saw me coming a mile away and worked hard to discredit me, to make sure I was "not liked" by those under his influence.  I was powerless in the face of his charm and charisma to stop it because he forced those who wanted to be in that shiny light of his to choose between us. He used lies (like another charismatic leader we all know) but because he had this pull, this charismatic attraction, it was easy to believe his lies and harder for those blinded by his light to see truth. You would think that because I survived that, that I could have gotten past my fear of being disliked.  Add to that living through a public scandal and humiliation and experiencing cruelty beyond belief from neighbors and community members and again, you would think that I would have gotten over my fear.  But in fact, those situations only intensified my fear.  Yes, I survived both of those situations, but I did not come away unscathed.  I am all too aware of the damage that other people's dislike can do, especially when it intensifies into hatred and has a goal of the destruction of another attached to it.
        But it is in the face of this fear that I am called to be brave.  I have a prophetic calling: a call to speak out against injustice and unkindness and cruelty.  That looks like standing up for those who are poor, those who are oppressed, those who are silenced and threatened and put down.  I do this, but in a small way.  I say things in sermons and on Facebook and other places, but I limit my audience: not posting much to all of my "friends" (I often leave out the ones who wouldn't agree with what I have to say on certain issues), and I post even less to "public".  I don't want the hate coming my way.  I've been there, done that, am DONE with it.  I use the excuses in my own mind (one I discredit all the time when others use it), "I'm not going to change anybody with something I say on FB" for example. But again, I know that's a BS excuse.  Jesus, my model for what we are called to do and be in the world, does not ever refrain from speaking truth because he believes he won't convince someone else. He speaks truth, knowing he will be killed for it and choosing to do it anyway.
        I hear the call to be brave.  To speak the voice of love towards the loveless, to stand beside and up for those who would be treated badly.  I hear it, I follow it, but I am struggling to follow it in the fuller way I feel God calling me to do.
       I write this in public for two reasons.
       First, I am hoping for support in trying to face my fear.  I am hoping for your encouragement and your strength to enable me to push on when I am scared.  We cannot get support until we let others know where it is needed.  So I am putting out there that this is my fear and my need.
      Second, I am hoping that my sharing this with you will allow you, too, to think about both your life lessons and all of our calls to be brave.  I am hoping that it will motivate you to also be brave, and to be honest with yourselves about what your life lessons might be and how you might learn them with grace, openness, love and trust.  That is my hope, that is my wish for you.
      Peace to you all as we face this day's lessons.

The strength of those dealing with chronic depression

       I just saw a post on Facebook about a pastor who has committed suicide.  I didn't know the man personally and I don't know if his struggle was a long term struggle with depression or if something had happened that led to this decision.  But I know that depression is much more common than we acknowledge, as is other mental illness.  More, the stigma around mental illnesses is so great that it is difficult for people, especially people in high profile and leadership positions, to share their struggles with it.  They fear the judgments, they fear being discounted, they fear being misunderstood.  And the reality is that all three of those are likely to happen to people who struggle with depression.  But again, the particular misconception I want to focus on today has to do with the belief that those who struggle with depression are somehow weak.
        Let me be very clear: I think that people who struggle with mental illness are often some of the strongest people I have ever met.
       Imagine a life in which you struggle daily with chronic pain.  By chronic pain, I mean the kind that makes it difficult to walk, difficult to get up, difficult to breathe.  It weighs on you, is present in every cell of your body.  There is no cure, no help for it.  And you don't just struggle with this once in awhile, but every day, every hour, every minute.  Now imagine that accompanying that pain is a constant voice following you around telling you you are no good, that you are worthless, that you are wrong about everything. Still, with that pain, and with this loud voice (that voice of depression) in your ear, you are expected to "be normal", "snap out of it", "be positive", to work, care for others, especially your children and your family.  You are expected to put a smile on your face, to be positive and upbeat, to interact in a meaningful way with those around you.  You are expected to behave as if nothing is wrong and to have ears to hear the pain and struggles of others, while that voice continually tells you you are unlovable and not worth the air you breathe, while the chronic pain eats at your cells and your mind.
       That is a glimpse of what it can be like for people suffering from chronic depression.  Every day that they get up, every day that they go to work, feed their kids, interact with others, offer a smile or an ear - every day that they do this, they are acting with an amazing strength, the kind of strength that people with chronic depression often show every single day.  It is not a sign of weakness that some commit suicide.  It is a sign of unimagined strength that more don't.
       I have done quite a bit of pastoral care and counseling for people with depression.  But there is one person's story I want to share in particular who is a very dear friend who struggles deeply with depression.  It is incurable in her case, and not really even treatable, so she struggles.  The fact that those around her knows she struggles with depression but have always seen it as a sign of weakness has only increased her sense of pain, isolation and alienation. My friend went through a huge family crisis, very different from my own, but of a similar magnitude.  And those around her kept saying how strong she seemed, how amazing she was that she kept going.  But her private response to me?  "If I could get up every day with the kind of pain that I feel with the depression, then getting up every day during a crisis like this was not the challenge that many imagined it to be.  It was just one more place of pain, like all the others, that had to be lived through, walked through, survived.  I had to do it for my family.  There wasn't a choice.  People do what they have to do when they love their kids."  Yes, she is a woman of amazing strength.  But not just because of what she has survived, but because of how she lives every single day of her life.
        Because the truth is that sometimes people can't do what is best for their families.  And again, I don't see that as weakness. Sometimes that voice inside tells those with depression that the kids and family would be better off without them. Sometimes, no matter how much we think they should know better, they can become convinced by the voices of depression, by the strength of their own pain, by the chronic struggle every day that suicide is the only option, that the world really would be better off without them and/or that they simply cannot continue another moment with that kind of pain.  When that happens we lose someone to suicide or addiction or in some other way.  It is tragic.
      But that tragedy would much more easily be avoided if people were not so judgmental about depression, if they realized it is not something someone can "snap out of", and it is not a choice that a person makes, if they realized the strength that it takes for folk with depression to live each day, and if they honored the experiences of those people for what they really are.
       I will say again what I said at the beginning of this post.  Many of the strongest people I know are those who live with depression and who carry on.  They are among us, often hidden, often unseen.  And they live, despite what our culture says, despite the misunderstandings and despite the battle they have to wage each and every day within themselves.  If we want to be part of preventing more suicides like the pastor I read about this morning, we have to start by educating ourselves about the disease depression. We have to find compassion and understanding.  And we have to understand that it is strength not weakness that enables people to walk through their lives despite the depression.