Here I Raise My Ebenezer

Ebenezer is one of my favorite words. I love it because it's weird and rare. It's fun to say, and fun to spell, and fun to see if people actually know what it means. It's not every day you hear that word thrown around, and when you do it's often in reference to a Charles Dickens character. Even in the Bible it's only used in one book. In 1 Samuel 7 the Israelites achieve victory over the Philistines. At the end of the battle Samuel takes a stone and sets it up as a monument to the victory. He called the monument Ebenezer, which means stone of help. As he placed the stone he declared, "Thus far the Lord has helped us."

I love that. Thus far the Lord has helped us.

My favorite story of an ebenezer doesn't actually include the word anywhere, but that's what it is nonetheless. The dictionary definition of the word is commemoration of divine assistance. In the book of Joshua, the tribe of Israel needs to cross the Jordan river with the ark of the covenant. In the story God cuts off the flow of water from both sides, and the people walk safely on dry land in the midst of a river that is normally overflowing. Before they leave the banks of the river, God tells the leaders of the nation to take 12 stones from out of the middle of the riverbed, from the place where their feet stood firmly against all odds. The leaders gathered the 12 stones and stacked them up into a monument. God told them, "This will be a sign among you. When your children ask in time to come, 'What do those stones mean to you?' then you shall tell them that the waters of the Jordan were cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. So these stones shall be to the people of Israel a memorial forever."

During my high school depression I discovered To Write Love On Her Arms. If you don't know about TWLOHA, you should look into it. It's a nonprofit organization built around helping people who struggle with depression, self harm, and suicide. Many who feel connected to this movement have gotten tattoos on their arms, most of which say "Love" in some form or fashion. The tattoos are meant to serve as a reminder, before you choose to harm yourself, that you are loved.

When I stopped cutting and had dealt with my anorexia, I decided that I would get a TWLOHA tattoo. I chose the Greek word for unconditional love, agape. I preferred it to the English word for love since in English you can love God, love skiing, and love tacos, and never need a different word. I knew that if I was to truly overcome my desire to harm myself, I would need to love myself the way God loves me - unconditionally. The way I love tacos just wasn't going to be enough. 

By the time my 18th birthday rolled around and I could legally get a tattoo, I had gone six months without cutting and I was closer to God than ever before. I felt rescued, finally pulled out of the mire. I wanted to honor the blessing of the peace I had finally been afforded by walking away from the experience changed. The mark on my skin was to serve as an ebenezer, a reminder for for the rest of my life of the deep waters God had carried me through, how I had survived, how pain always comes to an end, and how I could make choices moving forward that honored the life God has given me. I wanted to make a promise in permanent ink. My tattoo was my promise to myself and to God that I would never harm my own body again.

I kept that promise for 8 years, 4 months, and 2 days.

Seconds after I broke my promise I hated myself for it. I felt like an idiot with a meaningless symbol on my wrist. Actually, not a meaningless symbol, a symbol of the promise I failed to keep. My agape morphed into a black reminder of my shortcomings and how in a split second I managed to trash 8 years of sobriety. I was ashamed that I hadn't remembered what I swore I would remember forever. Somehow, in spite of all of the evidence, I had forgotten about the deep waters God had previously carried me through, how I was a survivor, and how pain eventually does come to an end. I had ignored the fact that I had committed to making different choices. Instead, almost every day for over a month I made the same destructive choice, sometimes using the hand that I wear my promise on. For a while I thought that there was no point in making a new promise. A person incabable of keeping the first surely can't keep the second. The whole point of an ebenezer, or a tattoo, is that it's FOREVER, not for eight years.

Then I remembered where I got the idea of an ebenezer in the first place - God's people.

The Israelites are notoriously bad at remembering previous cases of divine assistance. It's interesting that in the story from Joshua the leaders of Israel don't decide to commemorate God's help - God commands them to. He tells them to build a monument. He tells them what the monument means. He tells them what they are supposed to say to future generations that inquire about the strange stack of stones. God knows they are going to forget! He knows this because he knows our nature. He knows this because the Jordan river isn't the first or largest body of water He's helped this group of people cross! Almost immediately after God parts the Red Sea and millions of people cross over on dry land, the people start to feel unprovided for. It's easy for us to read the stories and say, "Israel! Are you joking?" but I think those stories exist to remind us of just how alike we are to God's people of the past. The entire history of God's people can be summed up in this: God provides, God's people celebrate and commemorate, God's people forget, God provides. Repeat for several thousands of years.

Enter me.

I was ashamed for forgetting, but it's honestly not surprising at all that I did. I'm human, just like Abraham, and Job, and Peter, who all forgot. Depression and Anxiety also have a truly remarkable way of doing a memory wipe. With these afflictions I sometimes can't remember the good from 30 seconds ago. Every single moment is a battle to remember. God has helped me through deep waters. I have survived. Pain ends.

Since I'm afflicted with the same humanity of the people of Israel, I've decided to raise another ebenezer. Sometimes you have to do that. 

I decided a long time ago that if I was ever "ok again" I would get another tattoo. I wanted a new one to represent a new promise, a new before and after. I've been waiting until I finally felt absolved of my guilt, and no longer had any desire to hurt myself. I didn't want to enter into a promise that I wasn't prepared to keep. You can't create your stack of stones until you're out of the riverbed and on the shore. 

This is my new tattoo. My new memorial. My new ebenezer. 

Though I've known I wanted a new tattoo for a while, I had no idea at all what I wanted it to be. I designed this after randomly turning to the book of Joshua several months ago. There I read the wonderful story of people in need, treacherous waters, God's providence, and a stack of stones. I decided I wanted my new tattoo to represent a stack of stones and include the words "Here by Thy great help I've come". I've always been against the idea of a tattoo on my back because I wouldn't be able to see it well, but suddenly I loved the idea. Part of the trouble with the ebenezer raised in Joshua is that the Israelites walked away from it. Far away from it. The farther they got from that moment, and from that sacred space, the more the memory faded. My ebenezer will follow RIGHT behind me. Every step I take is only one step in front of the monument I've erected. Each step is a reminder that I can walk away from this place better than I was before. Each step is a testament to exactly how far God has carried me.

Thus far the Lord has helped me.

Thus far the Lord has helped me.

Thus far the Lord has helped me.

When asked, "What does that mean to you?" I will tell of the dangerous journey made safe by a God who parts waters. This is my commemoration of divine assistance. This is my ebenezer.

---

If you are interested in reading other blog posts about my journey with mental health, you can find them here. 

The Raging Wind and Tempest

Congratulations! You're Mentally Ill

Why Is Everything So Heavy

The Greatest Commandment

Me, Too.

Me, too.

Sexual harassment. It's the conversation we're finally having ever since the recent allegations came out against Harvey Weinstein. Since all this started I've seen amazing women coming forward to tell their stories, big and small. I've witnessed conversations about the consequences of victim blaming, the prevalence and normalization of workplace harassment, and just general wishes to overthrow the patriarchy. I didn't plan to do a blog post focused on this topic, but there's an important element of this discussion that I feel is missing. Unfortunately, it's an element I can personally speak to: sexual harassment and depression.

At age 17 I had recently dropped a bunch of weight and was the skinniest I'd ever been. Eating disorders will do that to you. Being skinny was everything I always hoped it would be. I could finally borrow my friends clothes, and wear shorts without being embarrassed. I finally fit into the stereotypical idea of beauty. My hip bones jutted out. I was also finally attracting the attention of guys. Lots of attention.

I was at a work event that brought together all of the regional branches of the clothing store I worked for. I met a guy. He got my phone number. He asked me on a date. 

He told me we were going to eat dinner and watch a movie. I thought he meant we would eat dinner at a restaurant and watch a movie in a theatre. We'd been driving for almost an hour when I finally asked where we were headed. He said we were going to his house. This struck me as cheap, but not sinister. Inconvenient, but not problematic. During our time in the car I found out that he wasn't 19, like I thought, but 21. This struck me as confusing, but not alarming. We arrived at his house, which was a trailer off a gravel country road in the middle of nowhere. This struck me as unimpressive, but not dangerous. To the pure all things are pure.

We went inside. He turned on the tv. The movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith was playing. He didn't even kiss me before putting his hand up my skirt. No one had ever had their hand up my skirt. I told him I didn't want to. He told me he would change my mind. I told him that was unlikely. He laughed and put his hand under my shirt. Then under my bra. No one had ever had their hand under my bra. I told him no. I moved his hands. I feigned interest in Mr. and Mrs. Smith. My unwillingness to participate in what he was doing did not deter him. I asked if we could grab dinner somewhere, but he wasn't hungry. I said I wanted to go home, but he didn't want to leave yet. I left to use the bathroom. I checked my cell phone. I had no service. I waited as long as was plausible and then went back out.

The rest of the evening was a balancing act. Be agreeable enough that he doesn't get angry. Agreeable enough that he doesn't decide to hurt you, or feel the need to hold you down. Be disagreeable enough that you leave this place without all of your "firsts" crossed off the list, only most. He touched me everywhere. I never touched him back. I always moved his hands. I never said yes. Eventually I just stopped saying anything. That. Is. Not. The. Same. Thing. 

He took me home. We didn't speak. He texted me later to ask when I wanted to "hook up again". I said never. He called me a bitch.

That same night I gently broached the subject with someone I trusted. I didn't give vivid detail, but a general impression of how the evening had gone. Her response: That's just how boys are. You shouldn't let them do things like that.

I found someone at church who I thought could advise me. His response: Why were you in that situation in the first place? Why were you wearing such a short skirt? Why didn't you stop him?

I told a friend at school. Her response: My boyfriend touches me like that all the time. What's the big deal? You're such a prude. 

Eventually I just stopped saying anything.

I started cutting again. I'd been clean for six months. I'd started medication. I was doing fine. Suddenly I became reclusive, angry, ashamed, and more depressed than before. I felt guilty for allowing something to happen to me that made me feel so dirty and look so naive. I was angry with myself for not seeing all of the warning signs before it was too late to change my circumstances. I was embarrassed for being so upset over something that no one else in my life seemed to think was that big of a deal. I thought God hated me for being a slut. I knew the guy hated me for not being cooperative. I was disheartened, believing that the only two options I had moving forward were to let guys touch me whether I enjoyed it or not, or be single and alone forever no matter how hard I worked to make my hip bones jut out. I felt like I deserved what happened. I had wanted to be skinny. I had wanted guys to like me. I had wanted attention. I asked for this. This was the first time I punished myself with cutting for something that someone else did. 

Over the course of the year between losing weight and leaving for college I experienced behavior from men that was absolutely abhorrent. I received filthy texts and instant messages that described in detail what men wanted to do to me, or what they wished I would do to them. These came from boys at school, boys in the youth group, and even from a man at church in his late twenties. I was propositioned in grocery stores and learned not to turn my head when men started talking to me. I was hugged abnormally often and learned how to wiggle out of a hug that's lasted too long with a man who's hands wandered. I felt disgusting, used, unsafe, and wholly responsible. I hated myself for being whatever I was being that made men act this way toward me. 

I eventually decided to protect myself by gaining back some of the weight. I wanted to blend into my surroundings and go back to being the girl no one noticed because she wasn't attractive enough. I protected myself from the outside world with a layer of fat. I stopped wearing make up and started wearing sweat pants. I needed to be plain. Frumpy. Unharassable. It worked. Then I hated myself for being unremarkable, unattractive, unable to keep the weight off. 

I don't tell this story to garner any sort of sympathy over what happened. My story is mild compared to some. I have healed. I tell this story to remind men and women who don't think sexual harassment is "that big of a deal" that the consequences of sexual harassment on a person's mind are destructive, long-lasting, and sometimes life-changing. I tell this story to try and show people who aren't angry about sexual harassment why they should be. I tell this story to try and remind us all that the "little things" add up. Every look, every text, every boob-graze, every cat call, every crude joke, every "honey", every time a victim is blamed for an offender's actions, adds up to being made to feel less than human. Being made to feel less than human DOES AFFECT someone's mental state. It often leads to depression. Sometimes to self harm. Sometimes to suicide. 

If you think women are up in arms about being whistled at, you've misunderstood. We're up in arms about what the whistling means, where it comes from, what it implies, and how it makes us feel. We hate the whistling and the boob-grazing because of how it whittles away at us over time, every day making us feel less human, less valuable, and demanding that WE be smaller in order to prevent behavior from others. 

Well, I am human. I am valuable. I will not make myself small. 

The Greatest Commandment

The story starts with the Sadducees. They were eager to find a reason to condemn Jesus, so they approached him and tried to trick him into saying something blasphemous or heretical. They asked him questions about the law that they thought would stump him. None of them did. A man, seeing that Jesus had a perfect answer to all of their tricky questions, decided to pose one of his own. He asked Jesus, "Out of all the commandments, which one is the most important?" His response is one of the most commonly known passages of scripture. 

The most important one is this... Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this: Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.

The Sadducees were troubled by the answer. Honestly, so am I.

The choice of words is so specific. Jesus doesn't simply command me to love my neighbor in general, or to love my neighbor as God loves them. Instead he says to love my neighbor as I love myself.

And that's going to be a problem.

To love my neighbor as I love myself would be to hate her first thing in the morning and think about killing her at night. It would come with criticism of her body, her skin, her hair, her mind, and her sense of humor. It would be hold her to standards of perfection in all aspects of life and physically punish her when she fell short. My words to her would be mean. You're a terrible wife, a terrible friend, a weak person, unloved and unworthy. I would spend time in conversation telling her how much I dislike her, and convincing her that others felt the same way. In short, to love my neighbor as myself just sounds like really terrible news for my neighbor. 

I've never particularly liked myself. Actually, for good portion of my life I have ardently hated myself. I always knew that the situation wasn't ideal, but it never struck me as a problem as far as loving my neighbor is concerned. What does it matter if I treat myself terribly as long as I don't treat others terribly? Hating myself only affects me, so I'm not hurting anyone. I would never treat anyone but me this poorly. 

Well, yes and no. 

It's true, in many ways I would never treat others as poorly as I treat myself. I would never walk up to one of my friends and say, "Those ten extra pounds make you look disgusting. You should be ashamed. I bet your husband wants nothing to do with you anymore." I would never accuse a dinner companion of being mentally inadequate for calculating the tip incorrectly. I can't fathom running a razor blade over another person - even someone who I REALLY don't like. I especially can't fathom doing that because of something as inconsequential as forgetting to pick up something from the grocery store, or eating ice cream. I just couldn't. I'm not a complete monster.

However, I have noticed the way I interact with myself impacting the way I interact with others. During my Great Depression I hated myself with all of my energy all of the time, and everything in my life passed through that filter. I felt disgusting and burdensome. I didn't believe that my life was meaningful or worth protecting. In turn, I didn't think my marriage - a partnership that is fifty percent me - was meaningful or worth protecting either. You can imagine how that went. The more I said hateful things to myself, the easier it became to say hateful things to others. When I could see that my words or actions were hurting someone I cared about I was relatively unaffected. I would think to myself, I have no intention of being here tomorrow, so what I say to this person today isn't going to matter. I won't have to clean up this mess, I'll be long gone.

I began to hate people for being what I interpreted as superior to me. I hated people for earning more money than me, being thinner than me, having a better job than me, and for having a normal brain that wasn't riddled with demons. I belittled the accomplishments of acquaintances and scoffed at the happiness I saw others experiencing. I simultaneously began to hate people for being just like me. I began to think the things about them that I constantly thought about myself. I hated people for being depressed and anxious. We all have bad days. You could handle this if you weren't so weak minded. I hated people for struggling with self control. You know the right choice, why don't you just DO it? I hated people for talking about their problems. No one wants to hear about your feelings. Suck it up and deal. I was perfectly summed up in this line from a movie, "I hate myself, but I'm better than everyone."

The more I dehumanized and stripped myself of value, the easier it was to dehumanize and strip others of their value. The less respect, care, and mercy I gave myself, the less respect, care, and mercy I gave others. It caused problems. 

So, how do you love your neighbor when you hate yourself? As it turns out - not very well.

This makes me think about the specific choice of words in Jesus' response to the Sadducees. I think either of the examples I mentioned earlier would have been a perfectly acceptable way of phrasing this commandment. Love God with everything you have. Also, love your neighbor. Period. Or, even better, love your neighbor as God loves them - or as God loves you. Why not just say that?

I like to believe that Jesus said things a certain way for a reason. To me his words here sound like both a commandment and an explanation. I'm commanded to love my neighbor as myself, with the understanding that I have value and deserve respect. Therefore, so does my neighbor. I also think he's telling us that there will inevitably be a correlation between our relationship with ourselves and our relationships with others. Jesus knew our human limitations and understood that we wouldn't be very good at manifesting unconditional love for others if we couldn't even master tolerating ourselves. He says, "love your neighbor as yourself" not because it's the best way we can, but because it's the only way we can. And if that's true, we ought to be very mindful about loving ourselves.

Sorry - this is not the part where I give you all the answers about how to love yourself, repair your broken self esteem, and become a confidence factory. I spent most of the last year believing I wasn't worth keeping alive, so I definitely don't have this one all figured out. However, I am more determined than ever to work on my relationship with myself. Not only because it will be healthy and beneficial to me, but because I now believe that loving myself is an essential part of properly loving my neighbor. Loving my neighbor is the second half of what we call The Greatest Commandment, so this seems worth mastering.

I'm making progress. I'm working on being forgiving and offering myself a fraction of the grace that Christ has already given me. I'm trying to be merciful and value myself even when I don't "deserve" it. I think this process will be difficult, because I'm confident that no one dislikes me quite as much as I do. I'm definitely my own worst enemy, and sometimes I don't even think I'm worth the hassle of figuring this all out. Then I hear more words from Jesus in the back of my mind.

You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

To quote Kahlil Gibran: “God said 'Love Your Enemy,' so I obeyed him and loved myself.”

Why Is Everything So Heavy

I'm going to tell you ONE MORE story about church camp. I promise, after this I'm tapped out. I really did not intend for this to become a running theme, but what I have to say reminded me of this so strongly that I can't ignore it. If you haven't read those other stories, you can find them here and here.

I was 9 years old, so church camp was mostly about being away from home with my best friend, playing MASH, and eating junk food at canteen. On the last full day of camp we were all asked to participate in this spiritual activity - one that didn't resonate with me until just now. We were each given a big burlap sack and told to fill it with rocks. A very good use of resources, in my opinion. This camp was in West Texas, so if there's one thing we had in abundance - it was rocks.

These rocks were meant to represent the burdens of our sins. If it's a small burden, pick up a small rock. If it's a big, heavy burden, choose a rock accordingly. If you wanted to write the name of the sin on the rock, you were encouraged to do that. Then, you had to carry your bag of rocks on your back. All day.

Again, I was 9, so I was not particularly burdened by the weight of sin. Instead, I collected rocks that I thought were pretty. I found some really cool ones, too! I happily put them in my bag, excited about my new treasures, blissfully missing the point entirely.

At the very end of the day the entire camp went for a hike donning their burlap sacks, some of which were bursting at the seams with heavy, sharp, unattractive rocks. I remember one of the counselors walking in front of me had so many rocks that his bag ripped, and his sin burdens started tumbling out. He had to carry several of them by hand the rest of the way. Then, just as we were getting properly worn out, we entered a clearing that had a cross planted in the middle. The entire camp circled up around the cross, where we had a devotional. At the end we were told, when we felt ready, to dump out our sins at the foot of the cross. We didn't have to carry them anymore.

My very first thought was, "Do I HAVE to?". I liked the rocks I'd picked out. I'd made plans. I had a rock collection to add them to when I got home. I had no desire to just dump them back out on the West Texas ground.

All of the other people in the circle eventually approached the cross, dumped out their bags, and left behind their heavy burdens. They looked relieved as they walked away, one by one, making their way back to camp. I was just scared someone would catch me keeping my rocks. I never put them down. 

That was 9 year old me. Unfortunately, 27 year old me isn't much different. During my Great Depression I made so many poor, sinful, destructive choices. I would like to say that there were so many that I can't keep track of them all, but that's not true. There were so many that I can't stop recalling them. The second I manage to clear my mind of one, another appears in the spotlight to take it's place.

I've spent almost a year collecting rocks - heavy, pointy, dirty, ugly, burdensome rocks that I picked up in the wasteland of Depression and Anxiety. Now I walk around with a bag of rocks on my back, a few bags in each hand, a couple tied to my ankle, and one hanging around my neck. They make it impossible for me to stand up straight, be productive, move forward, or lift my head.

The solution seems obvious: I should put them down. I was told as early as 9 about the invitation of the cross. It's a place to dump your heavy sins, leave them behind you for good, and walk away unburdened and clean. I believe that. Don't I?

In the last couple of weeks I have latched onto two songs that feel like they were written about me, straight from my heart. I think it's no coincidence that both songs are entitled "Heavy". That's how I feel right now. I feel heavy. These words reflect so accurately what I'm experiencing that I believe God sent them to me to provide me with some sort of guidance.

Are you feeling sad cause you did a bad thing?
Leave what's heavy
What's heavy behind

Are you feeling fearful brother?
Are you feeling fearful sister?
Only way to lose that fearful feeling
Replace it with love that's healing

Heavy - Birdtalker

I'm holding on
Why is everything so heavy?
Holding on
To so much more than I can carry
I keep dragging around what's bringing me down
If I just let go, I'd be set free

Heavy - Linkin Park

Perhaps to the unburdened, these words don't mean much. To me these words feel tangible and alive with meaning. I think it speaks to the importance and truth of these words that one of the people who contributed to the lyrics, Chester Bennington, has since committed suicide. People aren't built to walk through life so burdened. It's unsustainable. Eventually the weight we drag behind us causes us to stop entirely, rendering us simply unable to keep going.

Let's go back to the cross.

I grew up hearing about the power of the cross and the forgiveness of sins. I can quote Romans 8:1, 1 John 1:9, and Psalm 103:12. I believe Jesus when he invites the weary and heavy laden to come to him. And still I'm dawdling around the perimeter of the cross, dragging around more weight than I can reasonably carry, wishing to be set free but refusing to let go.

This brings me back to the church camp story. The camp speaker didn't just point us to the middle of the circle and expect that to be that. He told us when we were ready, we could approach the cross and unburden ourselves. It's strange, but no one approached immediately. Many of the older campers and adults who seemed to have the fullest bags stood around for a long time before they moved. It actually took quite a while for the process to be over and for everyone to walk away. I remember I got bored waiting. Why would someone who's been carrying around a bag of rocks NOT be ready to put it down at the first opportunity?

I think I'm afraid that if I approach the cross in an attempt to leave what's heavy behind, I'll be falling for some trick. Sorry, there's a three bag limit. The rest you'll have to take with you when you go. And these two here aren't eligible for drop off. Which of these would you like around your neck for the rest of your life? I'm terrified that if I stop dragging around what's bringing me down, the circle of people around me will close in and stone me to death with the ammunition at my feet.

Thankfully, I believe that Christ is patient with us. He'll calmly wait at the foot of the cross and watch the broken pace back and forth trying to make the choice to step forward. He'll listen to the same confession for the thousandth time, even though any more than once is redundant. He'll extend his hand over and over again, offering to take our bags. Right now I'm just not ready - but I have faith that I will be.

Congratulations! You're Mentally Ill!

Last week I started telling you the story of my battle with anxiety and depression. If you want to read that story, you can click the link to read it here. As mentioned in last week's post, at age 16 I was given a prescription of prayer and church camp by a particularly ill-equipped Christian counselor in an attempt to cure me of my depression. Eager to obey "doctor's orders" I registered for two church camps back to back. Last week was the story of Church Camp One. This week's story begins at Church Camp Two. 

I had never before attended Church Camp Two, and didn't have any idea what to expect. On the first night there was an introductory assembly to explain the rules, meet the staff, and so on. At the end the camp director raised his booming voice and asked everyone, “NOW... WHAT'S OUR MOST IMPORTANT RULE HERE AT CAMP?”. Hundreds of cheerful teenage voices yelled back at him in unison, “BE HAPPY!”.

Welp, THAT'S not good.

I immediately and unintentionally made the most disgusted expression my face can make. I looked around as if I'd woken up from a nap to find out I had accidentally been inducted into a happiness cult that I wanted no part of. Before it occurred to me to keep my mouth shut, I blurted out with MUCH distain, "I can't DO that."

The girl next to me started laughing, thinking I was making some kind of snarky joke. To be fair, about half of what I say does fall into that category. This time I wasn’t kidding at all. I had unwittingly walked into a trap where I was incapable of being what they expected me to be. I didn't know WHY I was so incapable of being happy, only that I was.

Looking back, I think this story is hilarious. I see it in my mind in cartoon form. I picture all of those campers with wide, crazy eyes shouting, "BE HAPPY!" with one girl in the middle not participating. She's dressed all in black with hair hanging over one eye, wearing a Grumpy Cat expression with a thought bubble above her head that reads, "I hate everyone." It's funny now. In that moment I felt trapped, helpless, and desperately isolated - and I was stuck there for a week.

I'll admit, I didn't try very hard to glean much from Church Camp Two. Church Camp One certainly didn't cure me, and this place was even less likely to. I survived it, I went home, and I started seeing a different therapist.

I left the first session with my new therapist with a prescription for Lexipro, and a diagnosis: Depression.

I had known that I was depressed, but I had never understood that I had depression.

When my latest season of extreme depression hit me in November it came on stronger than ever before, and it brought with it an abundance of anxiety. This season of extreme depression (November - May) will heretofore be referred to as my Great Depression.

I had experienced anxiety before my Great Depression, and had even experienced several anxiety attacks. However, those attacks had always been a reaction to some kind of legitimate real-life stressor. I had them after my boyfriend of 2 years broke up with me. I had them when I was one week out from graduating college and didn't have a place to live. I had them when I was about to get married.

This time the depression and anxiety came out of NOWHERE. I felt like I was going insane. I knew there was no legitimate reason to be hyperventilating in a corner, but I couldn't stop hyperventilating in the corner. I would often feel like two separate people. One version of me was scream-crying in my bedroom with a razor blade held to my leg, while the other version of me beat against soundproof glass yelling, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THERE IS NOTHING WRONG! WHY ARE YOU ACTING THIS WAY? STOP!". In those moments I honestly felt possessed by something other than myself. I knew there was a tiny, tiny part of me that was healthy and rational. She tried to subdue the other half, but she kept getting pushed out of the way. She kept getting beaten up. She kept losing. I became angry with her for not being able to make the other half of me cooperate by sheer force of will.

Then my current therapist (who is awesome) told me that I have Major Depressive Disorder and a severe version of Generalized Anxiety Disorder - and I've never felt so relieved.

Suddenly I understood that there was a real reason why I felt this way. I wasn't depressed. I have Depression. I wasn't anxious. I have Anxiety. That distinction matters. During my Great Depression when asked why I wanted to end my life the only answer I had was, "I don't know. I just do." I didn't have a "reason" for feeling so bad, but I also couldn't make it stop.

If you've been diagnosed and are struggling with the realization that you officially have a bonafide mental illness - I get it, it's difficult to hear that you're one of those people. You're mentally ill. Ugh, it sounds so icky. It comes with visions of straight jackets and people chattering to themselves facing the wall. 

My personal opinion, which I'll assume you're interested in since you are reading my blog, is that this is GREAT news! Now you have a name for what is happening to you! Now you can narrow down your search for solutions and make a battle plan. Now you can call this thing what it is and try to regain control. Congratulations! You're mentally ill!

Knowing something's name gives you power over it. We see this in scripture when Jesus, in order to cast out a demon, asks for it's name. We see this in literature like The Kingkiller Chronicles, in which someone can command the wind if they know it's name. We see this when parents are upset with their children and they summon the child using their FULL name.

Now I have a name for what is happening to me. Calling these things by their names has helped me immensely in gaining control over them. Now, when I feel like two separate versions of myself, I don't feel crazy. I feel comforted.

I know who I am. I'm Stephanie. The monkey on my back trying to convince me to cut myself again is Depression, and I have no problem beating Depression back with medication. I'll throw punches at Depression all day. The voice in my head that insists that everyone I love will leave me is Anxiety, and I have no qualms about getting in Anxiety's face and telling it to back off me. I interrupt it. I tell it to shut up. I don't owe Depression and Anxiety my attention. We are not friends.

Most days (now that I have the help of medicine on my side) I look at Depression and Anxiety and say, "I see you over there. I know who you are and what you're trying to do, and I'm ignoring you." On harder days I can't tell the difference between Stephanie and the others, so I enlist the help of my friends to determine what's real. They'll tell me, sometimes over and over again, that's not you, that's Anxiety, you don't have to listen to it. Then there are days when I really need back up. On a particularly bad day just last week I called out to God, "They're here and they won't leave me alone! Command them to leave!". Now, when Depression and Anxiety come creeping up behind me I recognize what is happening, I call it by it's name, and I fight it as best I can using the tools at my disposal. Sometimes I'm a champion in that fight, other times the two overpower me. That's going to happen, and I try not to be upset with myself about it. We can't win every fight.

If your diagnosis scares you, that makes perfect sense. Try, however, to reframe it. Remember that understanding your enemy makes you better suited to destroy it, and that knowing how strong your enemy is can help you spot where it is weak. Remember that knowing your enemy's name gives you the power to try and command it. Don't be afraid to use those ugly words to describe what's happening to you. You have Major Depressive Disorder? Call it what it is. Summon it like a petulant child and tell it to sit in the corner. Don't use a euphemism because your enemy's name is scary and found in psychology text books.

Many people hesitate to see a therapist because they are afraid to be told that they do in fact have a mental illness. For about six months too long I refused to take medication, insisting that my Great Depression wasn't a disorder, but just an uncommonly long string of very bad days. When we are afraid or ashamed of what is happening to us, we are less likely to seek proper help.

Don't be afraid of the name. Recognize it for what it is - something other than you - something to be fought, tamed, defeated, and silenced. To quote Albus Dumbledore, "Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

And you don't deserve to be afraid.