I suffer from depression — the bone-weary “it was hard enough to wake up and turn over, how can I actually get up and get dressed?” kind. The kind that has me praying, “Dear God, could you please fix it so I don’t have to wake up tomorrow?” I could describe what it feels like — what I write in my journal as I weep words onto the paper. But I’d rather describe my experience.
In my deepest depression, which happened in 2005, I took a knife. I locked myself in my bathroom and started cutting my wrist. I was ready. I’d studied how to cut to make sure you bled to death. I wanted to be dead.
That’s a horrible sentence to write.
I wanted to be dead. And I would have been — except that my husband, my best friend, my pastor and my therapist all knew that’s what I was feeling. And so we met together that morning, Good Friday 2005. That conversation ended with my acknowledgment that I needed to be in the hospital.
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