I remember the beginning. The commencement of self-worth issues. The start of my struggles with the meaning of life. The first feeling of not wanting to be on this earth anymore.
Depression (n): a mood disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration, a significant increase or decrease in appetite and time spent sleeping, feelings of dejection and hopelessness, and sometimes suicidal tendencies.
I’ve been going to church for as long as I can remember, praying to the Lord ever since I was old enough to form and speak a coherent sentence. Growing up Christian, I’ve learned the ways of God, the history and impact of His only begotten son, Jesus, and have felt Him in my presence through every given day. I praise the Lord for my constant blessings; the air that I breathe, the roof over my head, the safety and security I feel as I step outside of my house, the food and water I consume, and every other aspect of my life is bestowed upon me by the Lord.
Throughout the years, especially as I have become older and more knowledgeable of my religion, my bond with God has become stronger. I look to Him through the good times, thanking Him for my blessings, as well as the bad times, in which I search for His support.
“What happened to your arm?” my mom asked in a surprised tone, stopping dead in her tracks which caused our heated game of ping pong to come to a halt. I tried covering it, brushing off her question, making excuses as to why there were marks on my arm that were distinctly a different color than my normal complexion. I was never the one to self harm. That was my first time and I did it because I knew there was a pain growing inside of me. A pain that couldn’t be seen or identified that early on. I knew. My mom knew. That one time in eighth grade was the first and the last time I did that.
I’m being dramatic. It’s nothing. I’ll be fine… these feelings will go away.
Going into high school, I started things on a clean slate. It was a chance to make new friends, new memories, gain a new outlook on life. I cautiously wandered around the halls, as any other shy freshman would do, hoping to fit in, live life, and take things day by day. Once I got settled, those next four years were handed to me. I was an ideal student. With exceptional grades, astounding athletic abilities, musical talent, and lots of friends, I had everything going for me. I never failed to receive praise and love from friends and family, recognizing my potential in life and gleaming over how God planned things out in my favor.
As amazing as that praise felt, I needed something else to be noticed instead.
I started things on a clean slate, but nothing stays clean forever. Making my way through the crowded halls with my friends, joking around with my teammates on the basketball court, bonding with my parents over dinner and a movie, nobody noticed that I started to slip. I was blessed each day, constantly reminded of how lucky I am to be in such a position, given several reasons to be happy and excited about life, but the pain was growing again.
I can’t recall the exact moment I started having these recurring feelings, but I remember the growing intensity of the immense pain I began to experience. I felt the enthusiasm and motivation in my body start to roll down a hill on its way to rock bottom. My smile was losing its brightness, the volume of my laugh was starting to fade, my reason for existence was dimming. Nevertheless, I did my best to hide it, keeping it away from my friends and family to spare the trouble and drama I thought I’d cause. I was always known as the funny, outgoing, uplifting friend that everyone had, but no one realized that that friend was starting to dissipate. No one noticed my unusual silence, tired eyes, or lack of excitement. No one noticed, so I guess it didn’t matter.
I suffered alone in silence.
Tears stained my cheeks, leaving warm puddles on my pillow case and burning my eyes as I tried to blink. It was senior year of high school and life had never seemed so hopeless. I lay in bed for days at a time, sinking into my memory foam mattress, causing it to dip in and outline the shape of my body. I stared helplessly at the ceiling listening to the clock tick. When there wasn’t a clock, I would make up the ticking noises in my head, counting time as it slowly passed by me. A numb feeling constantly hovered over me which weighed me down into my bed and embraced me in a forceful grip that I couldn’t escape from, filling my soul with a feeling of emptiness. My mind would race with negative thoughts that would scream and cry if I tried to push them out. My body felt heavy, my heart ached, and my soul was tired.
I had built up these feelings for years, hopeful that one day they would just start to disappear as random as they had come. It was only vaguely that I mentioned these feelings to my parents during that time, not wanting to worry them or try to explain something that they couldn’t understand. I occasionally apologized to my close friends for my inconvenient mood swings and changes, but still did not find it important to bring up what I’ve been dealing with. I don’t like pity. I don’t like drama. I kept it to myself as long as I could.
Holding it in until senior year was as long as I could.
“I don’t want to live anymore,” I finally confessed to my dad through hot tears and a cracked voice. He sat silently at the end of my bed as I lay there with a meaningless stare directed toward the wall, tears running down my face without any force. I looked at him in desperation, catching his eye. He was quiet, heartbroken, teary-eyed, and I knew he felt guilty and useless— at this point, I was too far gone; nothing simple could help me anymore.
“We will get you the help that you need. You have so much to live for. I love you. Mom loves you. Jesus loves you. Everything is going to be okay. Promise me you’ll never end your life. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I promise.”
Time continued on. My feelings were getting worse, my mind was getting darker, and my heart was getting heavier. Nothing I did helped ease the pain I felt in my heart. After reaching out to my dad and explaining to him the true depths of my emotions, I confided in my parents a lot more, getting nothing but love and support in return. From that, I tried to push myself to make progress by informing my closest friends, going to therapy, and making changes to any outlying factors. However, no friends, family, therapists, or other remedies could drag me out of the darkness. After years of dealing with this unbearable weight on my shoulders, I secretly started to picture the possibility of the end, regardless of the promise I made to my dad. I would position myself comfortably in my bed, weighing out the pros and cons of concluding my existence. I had hope that a natural event would come along and take me, and if that never happened, I had plans and methods to do it myself. Up until I found the courage to do it, I would pass the time by feeling physical pain to release the emotional agony. Bloody knuckles, bruised skin, difficulty breathing, I would try anything to feel pain other than the one that resided inside of me.
I had to wait it out for at least another year, hoping it would get better, praying that my soul would eventually reunite with the light it once engulfed. There was a very noticeable change in my character from when I started experiencing depression. Rather than pay attention, I would sit in class or at my job and focus on my inner pain, thinking about what it would be like to “accidentally” crash my car, take a few too many pills, act on any brutal thought that popped into my head. Going home, I would isolate myself from my friends and family by locking myself in my bedroom and sleeping the rest of the day away. I experienced frequent changes to my weight as I’d either slightly grow from depressive eating, or lose more weight than I could afford after going days without consuming a real meal.
Continuing the same day-by-day routine, I struggled with my ultimate decision: life or death.
There’s a reason that I’m still here today. At my lowest, darkest times, there was a very dim light inside of me that was telling me to hold on. I didn’t realize what it was at the time, but looking back on it now, I realize it was God helping me through my struggles. As subtle as it may have been, His presence and my faith in Him made a substantial impact. I noticed it as I was driving and I wanted to quickly end it there, but my arms were locked in place, only able to steer in my designated lane. I noticed it when I went to church and it seemed as if the main message of the mass was chosen especially for me, and I noticed it when my dad and I were both forced to wipe tears from our eyes during our personal prayers. I noticed it when my dad would say grace before our meals, taking a little extra time to pray to himself after my mom and I had already said “amen.” I noticed it when, no matter how bad I didn’t want to, I woke up every day with another opportunity, and I went to bed that night unharmed. I noticed it when I was contemplating suicide day after day and I thought to myself, “I don’t know exactly what it is, but something is holding me back from going through with it.”
I stayed here on this earth for my parents, for God and Jesus, reminding myself that He died for me, so I must live for Him; I am here for a reason, and I have a purpose. I ultimately found a solution that helped me, and during this long process, my faith, heart, and trust were— and always have been— left in God’s hands. As much as the depression convinced me that my life had no meaning, that I was useless and unimportant, and that I would be better off dead, God made sure to show me my blessings a little at a time, slowly breaking through the darkness I felt for years. The Lord held me back from following through with the biggest mistake of my life.
I remember the beginning, but I also remember the end.
God healed me.
Danera Wendling, 20, is a second year student at Northern Arizona University. Being part of the top 10% of NAU and a member of honors societies such as the National Society of Collegiate Scholars (NSCS), she is set to graduate a year early in 2021. She is double majoring in English and CCJ (Criminology and Criminal Justice), with a minor in Spanish, with plans to be an intelligence analyst in the FBI. Danera is from Phoenix, Arizona, and enjoys playing the guitar, listening to music, playing sports, and spending time with friends and family.
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