Those few short years ago, when I wrecked an important part of my body and had surgery to try to fix it, I was off work for about three months.  It’s hard to remember how long, but it felt like forever.  I was essentially immobile and in quite a bit of pain.  It was a warm, damp winter, cloudy, and every day was about 40 degrees F; I was sometimes able to get outside for a brief time during the day for some kind of variety.  Even still, I was very, very depressed.  It was–I logically know– something known as situational depression, very common. 

Wouldn’t you be depressed?

So, the pastor of the church I was attending–and active in– at the time came over, read a random Bible passage, and made some inane chitchat.  I mentioned that I felt depressed.  He said to me, and I wish I were making this up, “You know what that’s called?  A pity party.”

I don’t go to that church anymore.  I will never go  back.

You know what?  I was more than depressed.  I felt suicidal.  That wasn’t the only time that I have felt that pull, that tug, that spiraling drag down into the abyss.  I don’t talk about it.  What good would that do?  If  the trained spiritual counselor accuses you of simply feeling sorry for yourself, and all your co-workers are mandatory reporters, talking about it would just get me basically ignored, or committed to some miserable institution.  No Jack, no Marilyn, no Sheba (cats. loves. best friends) and no comforts of home.  I would completely decompensate.

In other words, FAIL.

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