When I talk about my struggles with depression and anxiety, it feels like I’m being whiny.
Afterall, I have a good life. A fantastic wife. A stable job. Nothing particularly traumatic has happened to me.
I mean, you could understand if someone who has faced genocide or abuse or familial loss had these problems. But me?
Everything in my life is perfect, but I get really anxious and some days the noonday demons are overpowering sounds kind of…bitchy.
And yet, the struggle is real. It’s deep in my marrow. There’s a heaviness in me that I can’t shake.
And I’m starting to learn that’s ok. That somehow it makes sense.
Because some ghosts aren’t birthed out of stories. They don’t come into our souls through hardship or wounds.
Some do, but not all. Some just exist, and they haunt whoever is close by, regardless of race or upbringing or status.
And brain chemistry doesn’t discriminate, either. When it’s out of whack it will mess you up, no matter who you are.
And I think understanding this is what keeps us moving forward. The hardest days are when we feel like we shouldn’t have anxiety, that we should be happier, that it’s not ok for us to be like this, that it doesn’t make sense for us to have anxiety.
But is ok. And it does make sense.
Maybe in a perfect world it wouldn’t be ok. Maybe in a perfect world we should only feel light and grounded and true.
But we are in this world. This flawed and hurting world that is slowly being redeemed but isn’t quite all the way there yet.
And in this world it’s ok. In this world it makes sense.
Because some ghosts just haunt. Some brains just don’t function quite right.
So we slowly and patiently start de-haunting. We exercise and eat right and pray and go to counselors and take pills and do whatever else we need.
And maybe we even talk about our problems with other people.
Not to be whiny, but to be honest. To fill the air with the “me too”s that someone might need to keep breathing.