The Never Ending Anger


**I love Jesus, but I cuss a little…..There is a bit of language in this entry.  I apologize if this bothers you, but please know that it is an honest recollection of this time in my life.  It wasn’t pretty, but luckily God is big enough that He could handle it**

The antidepressants kept me here.  They worked *just* enough to keep me here.  I was still exhausted, still anxious, still depressed. . .just not as much. The world went from darkest black to muted shades of gray and I found my way through another pregnancy and beautiful daughter, a job change, selling a house and buying a house.  Life went on, not exactly happy-clappy-go-lucky, but better than before.

For whatever reason, there was a pattern to how the antidepressants worked for me. I’d start on a specific dosage, and after a few weeks, or a month or two, I would feel better.  And I would stay better for a few months.  And then, slowly but surely, it would creep back in.  The exhaustion would come back first and I’d ignore it. . .I just needed a nap, or a day off, this was no big deal.

But eventually it would get worse, and worse still, and then I’d find myself with those old anxious habits, and the depression settling in.  I’d fight it for another month or so, before going back to the doctor with the old familiar chorus that my medicine wasn’t working anymore.

And he would increase the dosage.

And the merry-go-round spins another time, and the ride is always the same.

For seven years, my merry-go-round spun, and each time I got a little more disillusioned, a little angrier, a little less hopeful that This Time It Would Be Magic.

My biggest anger was toward God.  I got irrationally angry at the doctors sometimes, who could never find the perfect medication, the perfect dose, the perfect treatment. . .. but mostly I got angry towards God.

I was raised on the idea that God was all the Omnis.

Omniprescent.  Omnipotent.  Omnibenevolent.

All knowing.  All powerful.  All Good.

As my journey kept on going I began to question how God could be all of these things since he didn’t seem to be fixing me.  As a parent, I looked at my children and knew that I would do anything to keep them well, and whole, and happy.  As much as I could control what happened to them. . .if I could keep them from such misery as mine, I would do it.

I’m just a human. . .what kind of GOD wouldn’t even do the same for me?  Either He didn’t know something was wrong with me – despite my constant cries to Him – and so He wasn’t all knowing.  Or He didn’t have the ability to heal me, and so He wasn’t all powerful.

Or – and this was the worst for me to consider – He knew, and He could fix me. . .He just chose not to.  Because He wasn’t all good.

I never questioned His existence really, but I questioned everything else about Him.  In my mind, He was the contemptible deity that knew my suffering and didn’t care.  How could He create me this way?  How could He leave me this way without healing? And Why? Why? Why?

But, in the anger and disillusionment and the railing against God, I found some small measure of comfort.  I vented, I cried, I swore.

And He stayed.  He didn’t heal me, He didn’t make me magically a beautifully happy person.  But He stayed.

And He gave me people.  People that knew, people that loved me despite my failings, people that listened to my cries for help.  There weren’t a lot of people with whom I shared my secrets, but there was a small group of them that held my hand through the darkest parts of my journey and loved me through it.

I distinctly remember sitting around a table with my small group from church – my best friends who knew of my battles – during a particularly hard season.  We were discussing all manner of theology – it was one of those midnight-talk-about-all-of-life-sessions that you find yourself only having with your best friends.  And I admitted to them that while I still believed in God, I believed Him to be a jackass.  Those were my exact words.  He knew I would suffer with this for my life, it was a pointless suffering – no good could come of it – and yet He chose this life for me anyway.  And only a jackass would do that, especially to someone He claimed to love.

I don’t remember their exact response honestly, but my sweet friends did not leave me.  They did not condemn me.  They did not shame me.  They simply continued to love me.  They loved me with kindness, with prayers, and with actions.  Not only did they tell me they loved me – but they called and checked on me, offered to watch my kids, took me out for coffee. . . And looking back, I firmly believe that God gave those people to me, for just those times in my life, so that when I couldn’t see Him – I could see those that loved as He does.