My Own Worst Enemy

I'm sitting on the floor in my loose white uniform, watching my hands move, playing a little xylophone. It's like I'm watching somebody else - a concert - and the music washes over me in tiny waves. My hands move, and my lungs expand, and that's all. It's nice.

The door opens and closes. I don't have to look up to know that it's me. (The other me.) I'm the only one who ever visits.

I keep playing as she approaches, standing over me. She's quiet for a while before she says, "I hear you didn't go to church today."

"Nope." My hands keep playing. "I couldn't go."

"Why not?"

"I'm sick."

"You've been sick for a long time."

"I'm worse today."

Her silence is skeptical. I know she will ask what's wrong, but I have nothing to tell her. It can't be explained.

Sighing, she sits on the floor beside me. I still don't look at her. "Jessica," she says, wearily, "have you been taking your medicine?"

"Yes!" It comes out defensive, and I hit the wrong key on the xylophone.

"Have you been eating?"

I pause, trying to regain my rhythm. ". . . yes. Some."

The concern in her voice is grating somehow. "Have you been going outside? Getting any exercise? Socializing?"

Silence as I watch my hands bounce the mallets.

She groans. "Jessica, don't you want to get better?" Her voice grows impatient, frustrated as I don't answer. "Are you listening to me? This is serious! You can't just give up!" She grabs my arm to get my attention.

I yelp in pain, wincing away and struggling to pull free. She's much stronger than I. "Jessica, look at me!" she demands, reaching over to turn my face toward her. When our eyes meet, she freezes. I am shaking.

She moves her hand, motioning gently toward my black eye, bruised and swollen. "How did this happen?" she whispers. I look away from her. Cool air touches the skin of my arm as she pulls my sleeves back to see the bruises and cuts there. I can feel her inspecting them, and my teeth clench. "Who did this to you?" she gasps, horrified.

I can't stop shaking. The music has stopped and my hands twitch uselessly in my lap. "Who did this to you?" she asks again, more forcibly.

Closing my eyes, I answer.

"You did."

A quiet moment passes.

"What?" she says.

"You did." I am shaking so I think I'll fall to pieces, but I turn to look at her. She has my face, my body, but without the scars, as if they were conveniently forgotten. "You were here last night," I tell her, "yelling and screeching at me for messing everything up, for being useless and weak and stupid. You told me I'd never be anything more than a disappointment." It feels like I'm crying, but my eyes are dry. Where are my tears when I need them? "And then you started hitting me."

My other face is backing up, half-smiling as if this is a joke. "No," she says, "you're lying. I would never do that." Her worried eyes search mine, identical shades of blue. "I'd never hurt you. I love you. I am you!"

Feeling exhausted, I push my sleeves back down over my sins. "I know," I say, softly. "But then why is there blood under your fingernails?"

Her face transforms with horror, and it is my horror, and my eyes that look down at hands with reddened tips and sore knuckles. I am the one whose memory rips through me, flashing images of violence and abuse. And when I stumble back against the wall I realize there is no one here - that I am alone in a room with a little toy xylophone - and terrified tears finally spill over my swollen eye.

There was never anyone here but me.

Understanding the Storm

I wake up in the rain.

Lying on my back in a puddle, blinking the confusion away, the familiarity of it settles over me. Ah yes, I think. Rain. It is always raining here. I don't think it was always this way, but I can't quite remember when it started. Most of the time, it doesn't matter. It's raining. I should get out of the rain.

I look around. Every morning is a little different. Sometimes there's an umbrella lying around somewhere nearby, but I don't see one today. There's a lump of something in the distance. Could that help? Unsure, it takes a while before I decide to make the effort to walk all the way over there and investigate.

It's a jacket. Not one of the really nice ones, with a waterproof hood, but a jacket all the same. I pull it up off the ground and shake the water free of it before putting it on. Nothing spectacular happens, but I know from experience that after a while the jacket will warm up. At the very least, it will keep the rain from soaking my clothes.

I look up at the rain, squinting. An infinite number of drops, falling falling falling.

Taking a steadying breath, I begin my day.



*        *        *



This is what living with depression is like for me. It's a constant rainfall, ever present in the back of my mind, regardless of what else is going on. Some days it seems like I am better protected from it - like waking up with an umbrella that keeps me completely dry - and on those days it's almost like I'm my old happy self again. Then the next day I'll wake up and be completely miserable again.

It's particularly hard, I think, for the people around me. They see me happy and they think the depression is gone; and when I'm sad again they're disappointed that the depression has come back. But I don't really see it that way. To me, it's always there; it's just that sometimes it doesn't affect me as much.

And I don't know if it will always be there. I have no idea. But for now I am contented that some days I wake up with an umbrella, or a nice hooded jacket. And on all the other days, at least I have a bare-minimum jacket - the medication I've been taking for over nine months now - to keep me from freezing to death.

Because I know that people do "freeze to death" from depression. At least two people in my own life drowned in their rainstorms.

So as long as it's raining, I'm grateful for even the little jackets.

A Stupid Story

"Why should we hire you?"

I'm staring at my foot, which is tapping all by itself. I don't think it's stopped tapping for the past six months. After a moment of silence, I look up, realizing I've missed something. "Excuse me?"

The man raises an eyebrow and half-smiles. He's sitting on the other side of a large desk, and I don't think he realizes how enthroned he looks to me. I dressed up for this interview, of course; dragged myself into a pair of slacks and put on some jewelry, so maybe he's deluded into thinking I am not a homeless, starving pauper. "I said," he begins again, "why should we hire you? What's special about Jessica Grosland?"

I feel a fluttering of weak-willed wings as something inside of me tries to get up. I need to say something. What's my answer? I know I rehearsed this in the car . . . .

The thing flops down again. Too tired.

"I don't know," I say.

The two people taking notes on either side of the main interviewer stop writing. After a moment's hesitation, they glance up at me, then look to their leader for guidance. He's scrutinizing me with an odd look on his face. "What?" he asks, politely.

"I don't know," I repeat, emphatically. Being honest makes me feel a little stronger, so I sit up in my chair a bit as I continue. "I mean, the last twenty-two guys didn't, so I can't really think why you should. I'm out of answers for you here."

The man's eyes go wide. All traces of a smile are gone from his face, but I've let the leash on my mouth loose and it's off to the races. "I mean, I've always tried to be a really good employee," I say. "Responsible, dedicated - but in the last few months it seems that I have lost everything I once was and now I have nothing to offer. I'm the girl nobody wants to take to the prom. And I guess it's because my dirty secret's out!" I laugh harshly. "I'm a nutcase! Whatever it is that makes it so people can get through the day, I don't have it. I lost it, and I'm not sure it's ever coming back.

"I thought that maybe if I got back into the world, tried doing all the things I used to do, maybe I'd come back to myself and be okay again - but no! The world doesn't want me anymore! Every time I get up off the floor, I'm pushed back down again. So I have to assume that this is where I'm supposed to be. This is where I belong now - at the bottom. Watching people like you do the things that matter. Why -" Now I'm gripping my fists so tightly my nails are gouging my palms. "Why do I have to be filled with these stupid ambitions when I'm trapped in a body that can't handle them?!"

My jaw clenches as I go silent. I'm breathing heavily now, glaring at my clenched fists. The not-crying that replaced crying so long ago feels heavy in my eyes.

After a moment, I hear the man cough. "Alright," he says. "We still have a few more interviews to do today. We hope to have a decision by the end of the week."

I nod, grabbing my purse as I stand up. "I look forward to your call," I say, and I walk out the door.

Depression and the Plan of Happiness

Last November, I was asked to give a sacrament meeting talk on the topic of joy. After laughing cynically for a bit, I realized that maybe someone in the midst of a deep depression was the perfect person to give this talk, to examine joy from a new light, to turn it upside down and find the truth in the chaos. So I wrote and delivered this talk, which I am sharing with you now. Take from it what you will.

 Hi. My name is Jessica. Most of you probably don’t know me, and that’s okay. I’m pretty new to the ward, and I haven’t been very friendly since coming here. I don’t go to activities; I just come to church, sit by myself, and try not to talk to anyone. It’s nothing personal – I’m sure you’re all very nice people – but it’s actually something very personal; to me, not to you. You see, I have a mental illness. It’s called depression.

You’ve heard of depression. People in the church have started to talk about it a little more, and that’s good. But in my experience most people don’t talk about it until after it’s over, until they can say, “Sure it was hard, but now it’s all good.” Or they talk about it happening to someone else. Nobody wants to get up in front of a group of fellow Mormons and say, “I am so depressed that I lost my job and have to take medication.” I’m doing it right now, and you’re all probably really uncomfortable.

And I think the reason that we all try to distance ourselves from depression – whether by talking about it in the third person or talking about it in the past tense – is that for some reason, depression feels like a sin. We get this idea in our heads that since joy is a fruit of the gospel, then if we aren’t joyful we must be doing something wrong. And if anyone finds out that we’re not joyful, they’re going to assume something’s wrong. So we run into these stretches of despair in our lives, but we’re too scared to talk about them to each other because we’re worried that our sorrow must be evidence of sin. So we don’t get help, and we don’t get better. We just hide.

I know because it’s what I’ve been doing for months.

But I’m sick of hiding. I’m tired of being quiet. Today I want to stand and speak up for every person who has a testimony of the Plan of Happiness and is still unhappy. I want to testify that while sorrow certainly can come as a result of sin, sorrow itself is not a sin.

Depression is not a sin.

Surprising as it may seem, depression is not actually the topic I was assigned to speak on. I was asked to speak to you about joy – and before someone drags me away from the mic I want to assure you that I am going to be speaking about joy. But when they gave me this topic, I knew that I could do one of two things: either I could paint you a pretty picture and hide behind it; or I could tell the truth about my life and bear my particular testimony of joy – which, though unorthodox, is firm. I know that joy is real because I have felt it. I have felt the Spirit testify of it. And I know that joy is real because I have felt the absence of it. “There must needs be opposition in all things” (2 Nephi 2:11,15).

Speaking of opposition in all things: college. I graduated from BYU about a year and a half ago, with a degree in English teaching. After a year of working as a substitute teacher (among other things), I was finally offered a full-time teaching position at a high school up north this past July. It was an alternative high school, so the class sizes were much smaller because many of the students I was going to be teaching were in some state of crisis – poverty, homelessness, drug abuse, criminal activity, etc. While that might sound scary to some of you, to me it was a golden opportunity and an answer to prayer. All I’ve ever wanted was to be the sort of person who makes a difference in people’s lives. I got into teaching to inspire, to find kids who thought they were incapable and show them that they could do great things. These kids, who had been beaten down by society and circumstance, were perfect for me. My heart was turned toward them. I wanted to help. It was in that spirit that I packed up all of my earthly possessions and moved to a strange land in August.

And let me tell you: it was amazing. I found myself working with skilled professionals who cared about their community and each other. I was given a group of students who were rambunctious and wild, but also hilarious and sweet and earnest. And they needed me. They needed my light and my love and my support. Never in my life have I had the chance to do so much good.

But something happened.

I honestly can’t tell you what it was. I have spent countless hours trying to figure out what it was, but I still have no idea. All I know is that the very first weekend after I started teaching, I collapsed into a crying mess on the floor of my apartment. I cried and I cried, great heaving sobs that were rough-edged like screams, and I didn’t know what I was crying about.

That happened three days in a row. When Monday came, I went back to school and kept teaching. Of course I did. I loved teaching – and I loved my students even more. Besides, I knew that the first year of teaching was going to be hard. I just needed to muscle through it.

After a few days, though, I stopped being able to eat. My stomach hardened into a red-hot core of iron, and nausea became my regular state of being – along with the nightly sob-fests. Every morning, I woke up with the urge to vomit. Brushing my teeth was like Russian roulette, and one morning I actually did throw up because of it. But I still went to work. I didn’t miss a day.

I wanted so badly to make it through this – whatever “this” was. I reached out for help in every way I knew how – I got help from other teachers to try to relieve the stress; I got advice from my mom on how to change my diet and exercise to stabilize my mood; I got a priesthood blessing from my new bishop.

But I didn’t get any better.

Strangely enough, despite the tears I was filled with hope. This is it, I thought. This is one of those moments when you’re pushed to your utter limits so that God can take over and you’ll see His power. This is just the misery before the miracle. I had seen the story play out in the scriptures many times. I had faith that the same thing could work for me, that it was promised to me as long as I was faithful.

I was already going to church every week, so I strove to amplify my worship. I poured out my spirit in prayer. I fasted – which wasn’t hard, as I was barely eating anyway. I read the scriptures and general conference talks, watched Mormon Messages, paid tithes and fast offerings, and repented. I did everything I could think of – including and culminating in a visit to the temple.

I tried to go to the temple three times before I finally got in. (One temple was closed for renovations, another for some holiday.) When I was finally able to walk through those doors into the quiet and beautiful house of the Lord, I breathed a sigh of relief. And then I waited to feel better.

It didn’t happen. I changed into white clothes, walked quietly through the halls, and participated in the ordinances. But not only was my mind still full of frenzied despair, but something that had never happened before in the temple happened now: I could not feel the Spirit.

Now I was starting to panic. That I could be consumed by darkness – with poison running through my veins and raking claws ravaging my mind – in my own home, I could tolerate. But that I could stand in a place dedicated to the holiness of the Lord, a place I knew was filled with the Spirit, and still feel nothing but a hungry void – what could it mean? What was wrong with me?

I broke down. Right in the middle of a hallway, with temple attendants rushing past and whispering about me in concerned voices. I huddled in a mass of despair and wept bitterly. I quoted this scripture like a mantra, “‘Draw near unto me, and I will draw near unto you.’ ‘Draw near unto me, and I will draw near unto you.’” Then I cast my agony toward heaven and cried, “Where are you? You PROMISED you’d be here!”

It was one of the worst days of my entire life.

To hasten my story to its conclusion, I drove back home that day. I was a wreck after my harrowing experience in the temple, and so I drove to my parents’ house and cried myself to sleep in my mom’s bed. During the next few days I went to the InstaCare, then to the E.R. I saw five different doctors, was given shots, and received a bunch of prescriptions, along with the diagnosis: situational depression and anxiety. After counseling with a therapist, my parents, and God, it was decided that I should quit my job and move back home.

And that’s what I’ve been doing the past few months. I had to go to the school and pack up my things, saying premature goodbyes to people I’d already woven into my heart, losing so many people so quickly. I had to pay $2,000 to get out of the lease agreement I’d signed for my apartment, and then try to pack up and transport an entire apartment’s worth of furniture and belongings into a tiny bedroom in my parents’ basement. And I had to face the fact that – at least by traditional standards – I had failed. My years of hard work and dedication had amounted to nothing. I hadn’t even made it a full month as a teacher.

So, if I wasn’t adequately depressed before, I am now.

Why am I telling you this? Why am I rambling about my personal crisis when I’m supposed to be talking about joy? Because all of my life I believed joy was very simple: that if I was righteous and obedient and sought the will of God, I would be happy. And now I know that that’s not exactly true. And because depression affects at least 1 in 8 adults, and is the leading cause of disability worldwide, that means I’m not the only one in this room who could benefit from learning a little more about how joy really works.

You all know the scripture: “Adam fell that men might be, and men are that they might have joy” (Nephi 2:25). What you may not have noticed before is that there is no timeline given in that scripture. It doesn’t say, “Men are that they might have joy all day every day,” or “Men are that they might have joy once they’re married,” or “once they graduate,” or even “once they’re righteous enough.”

In fact, in D&C 101:36, it says “in this world your joy is not full, but in me [Christ] your joy is full.” You may remember the parable of the talents, in which God says to those who have been obedient, “Thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy Lord” (Matthew 25:23), which sounds like a reference to the celestial kingdom. These scriptures suggest that the joy promised to the obedient is not a mortal joy – it is something we will receive after we have been resurrected. Another familiar scripture tells us that, “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5), referring, again, to the morning of the First Resurrection.

Does that mean that we can never be joyful in this life? Of course not. There are dozens of scriptures that speak of joy in mortality – most of them happen to be scriptures about missionary work and the saving of souls. As we just celebrated last week, every creature on earth has countless blessings to be grateful for, and probably most of us will have opportunities to feel joy in mortality. But we are guaranteed to face trials, and some of those trials will shake our very souls. When this happens, and we cannot find joy, that is NOT a flaw in the Plan of Happiness. It is a part of the Plan of Happiness.

For at the center of the Plan of Happiness is the Atonement of our Savior, Jesus Christ. He bled from every pore, suffered for every sinner, and then was forced not only to endure the pain and humiliation of crucifixion but also the gut-wrenching loneliness of having the Spirit withdraw from Him. This was sorrow beyond sorrow, depression beyond anything mortal man could bear. And it was all an essential part of the Plan.

Lately my thoughts have been drawn to the prayers our Savior uttered whilst He was suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane. The scriptures tell us that “He fell on His face, and prayed” – a line that means much more to me now that I know firsthand what it is to fall on my face in prayer. He prayed, “‘O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” How often have we said that prayer, begged for release from our suffering? Then of course He adds, in humility, “Nevertheless, not as I will but as Thou wilt” (Matthew 26:39).

But it is His second prayer that is more significant to me. After waiting for an answer from the Lord, and apparently not receiving one, Jesus prayed again – perhaps with a new understanding. “O my Father,” He said, “if this cup may not pass away from me, except I drink it, thy will be done” (Matthew 26:42). Except I drink it. There were two ways the cup could pass from the Savior: either God could take it away, or Christ could drink it, let it course through His system, and then be done with it.

You know what happened, of course. Christ drank the bitter cup. And as it coursed through His system it changed Him, transforming Him into the Savior of the world. He rose again on the third day, and because of that He will return to the earth one day to reign as its King. His destiny is glorious. Yet even He had to journey through sorrow to reach His promised joy.

Why should we be any different? We who are disciples of Christ, followers of Christ? A new favorite scripture of mine reads, “Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you: But rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ’s sufferings; that, when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy” (1 Peter 4:12-13).

See, I told you this talk was about joy.

If we will follow in the footsteps of the Savior, tribulation is as certain as exaltation. However, I do not mean to suggest that we ought to surrender to sorrow and expect to be miserable all our lives. We need only look at our living prophets to see that optimism and happiness are available even in this life. So what does it mean if we can’t find joy? What should we do?

First, we should repent. Repentance is a gift to all mankind, an opportunity to grow closer to the Savior and feel the Spirit’s influence more fully in our lives. Examine your life to see if something you are doing might be causing static in your line of communication with God. If you can think of nothing, turn to Him in earnest prayer. Any attempt to move closer to God is an act of repentance, and you will be blessed for it.

Another thing we should do is strive to discover what it is that is keeping us from feeling joy. If it is a sin, repentance will help to remove that obstacle. However, there are other obstacles you may not have considered. Sometimes God will withhold joy from you as a sort of “stupor of thought” (D&C 9:9) when He wants to communicate that a situation is not right. Maybe you’re in the wrong job, or with the wrong people, or simply on a path that is less desirable than the one He has in mind for you. Again, if you turn to Him in prayer, He may inspire you to make a change. Trust in the answers you receive from Him.

But perhaps the obstacle keeping you from joy is depression. The scriptures warn us that both physical and mental illness can damage our ability to receive joy. In D&C 93, it reads, “For man is spirit. The elements [speaking of the body] are eternal, and spirit and element, inseparably connected, receive a fulness of joy; And when separated, man cannot receive a fulness of joy” (D&C 93:33-34). Once we came to earth, we became two-part beings: half spirit, half physical. Both parts are important, “inseparably connected.” If our physical bodies or minds aren’t working properly, our spirits will be affected. That’s why it’s so important to recognize depression and other mental illnesses for what they are – illnesses, not sins – and to seek out medical as well as spiritual treatment. (Since becoming sick, I haven’t felt better than after I’d spoken to the bishop as well as my therapist. His office is as much a place of healing as any hospital.)

If you ever find yourself in such a place as I, if – for whatever reason – you feel as though joy is out of reach and unattainable, I urge you to hold fast to your faith. Rely on the Atonement, either to heal you of sin or to soothe your broken heart. Seek help through priesthood blessings and medical treatment. Trust in the promise of joy to come, for I know it will come. And find hope in the example of the Savior, whose ultimate trial was the thing that helped Him become everything He ever wanted to be.

Psalm 126 says, “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him” (Psalm 126:5-6). We don’t always know what precious seed we are sowing when we go through trials, but the Lord knows. Wait on the Lord. Trust in His gospel. Keep the faith, and one day you will harvest the fruit of all your labors and all your tears.

And the fruit of the gospel is joy.

I testify of these things in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

 

Thirteen Things I'm Really Good At

Sleeping in beyond what is considered humanly possible

Coming up with unexpected conversation topics

Dancing enthusiastically (though not well)

Having imaginary love affairs with fictional characters

Pretending to be blind

Avoiding males who might take an interest in me

Using my nose to turn on light switches

Mixing Nesquik strawberry milk

Being a Rhett and Link fan*

Playing solitaire while simultaneously binge-watching Netflix

Jury rigging**

Knowing trivial information, such as: the average human head has 100,000 hairs

Forgetting where I parked my car


*Rhett and Link fans are officially called Mythical Beasts. I am one (Pegacentaurus).

**Wikipedia - "Jury rigging refers to makeshift repairs or temporary contrivances, made with only the tools and materials that happen to be on hand, originally a nautical term."

What Happened Next - The Job Hunt

(*Disclaimer: This is not a complaining, please-give-me-sympathy post. This is an I'm-learning-something-about-depression-and-I-think-I'll-share-it-because-I-bet-most-people-don't-recognize-it post. I will be speaking in the first person just because this is MY experience, and I don't claim to have universal knowledge of what everyone is going through*)

The best description I've heard of depression is that it's like being in an abusive relationship with yourself. That rings true to me. I starve myself, hurt myself, and mercilessly berate myself - though, as always, some days are better than others. The most constant abuse I inflict/suffer is simply telling myself that I am worthless. I'm a big loser who's never going to do anything of substance with my life.

(Now, before you start consoling me, let me say: I know I'm not actually worthless. Cognitively, I understand that. But the logic and my understanding matter very little when my depression is strong. The brain will never convince the heart.)

So imagine how difficult it is, while I'm feeling completely worthless, to try to sell myself as a prospective employee. They ask, "Why should I hire you?" And my depression responds, "I don't know. I'm really not all that great. You probably shouldn't."

I try not to say that out loud during interviews.

But let me just take a moment and try to explain how very difficult it is to look for a job while I'm in this depression:

1. I have to LOOK for job openings. This requires energy - as well as enough optimism to hope that it's even remotely possible that I will get a job. If I am locked into such a dark place that I cannot imagine anyone ever hiring me again, it's impossible to go through the effort of job searching.
2. Applying for a job requires some hoop-jumping. Again, this take energy, a scarce commodity some days. Depression makes me very prone to seeing things as pointless; that means that it's difficult to convince myself that it's worth filling out basically the same application for the 14th time when the other 13 times haven't amounted to anything. It's hard not to check out and give up.
3. Interviews mean leaving the house and talking to strangers. If left to my own devices, I often won't leave my bedroom until after noon. I rarely change out of my pajamas unless I have to, and leaving the house is something reserved for emergencies and going to church. So getting up, getting dressed, driving somewhere new, talking to people - it's a lot to ask.
4. I have to answer tricky questions. My most recent job is the job I quit because of my depression. I get asked a lot of questions about why I left, why I was there for so short a period of time, etc. I always answer that I had a medical emergency that required me to move home - which is 100% true, but it feels like a lie. Knowing that I'm hiding my depression makes me feel a little guilty. Talking about my last job brings a whole wave of pain and shame that I'm not prepared to deal with.
5. I have to pretend. A LOT. I constantly worry that someone's going to find out about my depression (I had to hide my blog from web searches in fear that prospective employers will find my depression posts and turn me away immediately). But also, I have to pretend that I like myself and believe I would be a good employee. This used to be true, of course; but when my depression is really bad, I have nothing but disdain for myself. Still, though, I pretend. I pretend I am not broken, but that I am perfectly well and confident in my ability to do absolutely anything that comes my way. It's exhausting.
6. Rejection. Obviously, rejection can be devastating for anyone, regardless of their mental health. But when I'm already half-convinced that I'll never be happy again, getting a rejection letter is scalding. Debilitating, in fact. Further proof that I was stupid to think I had anything of value to offer the world. If the rejections start piling on (and they have), it seems more and more certain that I will never amount to anything. Hopelessness is very real, and it can be deadly.
7. Moving Forward. I was excited during my first week of job applications. I got two interviews really quickly, and they seemed to go well. But I didn't get the job. I kept applying, waiting to hear back from people, answering emails and phone calls. I got more interviews. I got more rejections. Each time, I want to give up. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up. And I usually do sleep for a long time after a rejection. But then I get up. And I apply again, even though it feels like I'm raking my arms with gravel and glass. Because I have to get out of this hole, this darkness I've been trapped in for so long. And even though I keep falling back to the bottom, scraping and bruising and breaking, I have to keep trying to climb out. I just have to.

I know a lot of good people who have gone unemployed for far too long. I know a lot of people who searched and searched and found nothing - people with families depending on them. I don't have that worry. And I don't believe I deserve any better than they. I'm willing to wait - and try to learn patience in suffering - if that's what God requires of me.

But still, I pray to find a job soon.