They own a gun. A loaded gun. They keep it accessible. Even in their absence.

I could never own a gun. I would kill myself during spells of depression. I am certain of it. I had my chance this week. The thought, occasionally preoccupied my mind. Yet, my desire to die was abated by reason, compassion and sanity.

Grace.

My Aunt’s biopsy was positive for cancer today. The last bout our family had with cancer was with Black Hazel, my grandmother. She was diagnosed in the last stages of the disease. For years doctors told us, it was acute rheumatoid arthritis. After $10,000 shots, acupuncture and any other remedy plausible, we all found ourselves transitioning from the hospital to hospice.

Knowing wasn’t power, it was futility.

Black Hazel was more an ideal than she was my grandmother. Her daughters never embodied her fortitude, elegance and wit. She was beautiful, bourgeois. She did more work than her housekeeper and was rewarded after decades of servitude — with a shopping allowance.

My grandfather was the frugal businessman and politician but my grandmother was an inventor. If his profit was her venture capital, our family would be vacationing from the proceeds of infomercial success.

Her death, for me, was the burial of an era. Yet, I digress.

Now, my Aunt, her eldest born will be tried. The severity of which, I am uncertain. It will change our fragile family dynamic. I am worried. Hopefully, we “caught it,” and surgery, treatment and a renewed lease on life will follow. Hopefully.

—

A woman, puts checks in my hand. The memos read, “Pray for my healing.” My faith flutters. I have to use the topical concordance to pray the Word. I struggle to accept the comfort in knowing that we will be healed “on this side of heaven, or the other.” I’ll need to write those “healing” scriptures on index cards, stuff them in my travel bible and be the family minister — hoping, praying that God will heal; trusting in his timeline, learning and articulating life’s lessons along the way.

I need to zone in on my combination of factors. I am hoping that I can change my anxiety patterns if I take out time every day to calm my muscles down, have peace of mind and breathe deeply. It wouldn’t be real. The circumstances of my life, my poor decisions and cyclical failure don’t warrant peace of mind — but if I can allow myself 20 minutes each day to reset and relax, I might be able to address some of these issues.

I have begun to read a couple of blogs by ministers who live with depression (Beautiful Mind | Real Live Preacher). I recommend them both. The author of Real Live Preacher ceased blogging this year, but he has an extensive archive and I intend on reading his posts in retrospect. Today, this resonated with me:

Depression has made things messy for me, and it has made me much more forgiving and gentle when I meet people who are emotionally out of control.

Some of my closest relationships, have both positively and negatively evidenced the fruit of “messiness.” It seems to have been both a coping mechanism and a set up for emotional devastation. Either way, I appreciate the inherent compassion, produced.

I also connected with the following statement. I found it to be an uncomfortable articulation of my mode of operation:

I proudly labeled myself as a cerebral person. I spent a lot of time thinking and talking and arguing and reasoning. Not so much time feeling things. I thought I was in control of all that silly, emotional stuff. I felt numb, mostly. And I assumed that you weren’t feeling things unless you, well, FELT them.

Oh, you feel things. Here’s a shocker. No one feels things in more dangerous ways than the person who thinks he feels nothing. That’s the guy you have to watch out for.

I can identify one definite node of departure from the aforementioned: I have never thought I was emotionally in control. The “numbness” however, rings true. There are times though, that I yearn to FEEL.

I have developed a list of cathartics, routes to release, that span the gamut from religious experience to physically detrimental decisions. Anything to escape the anguish of being incapable of flipping off the ‘internalized stoic’ switch; anything to express, to connect, to cry, to negate “nothing.” I cycle through my list and end up in moral conundrums with actual consequences.

I need a healthier way to deal.
A healthier way to feel. Teach me how to feel; how to feel and respond.

Maybe she was a trophy wife after all.

I have been where you are. I understand how it feels. I see myself in you. I’ve awaken angry at God for not answering my prayer to allow me to die in my sleep.

I appreciated her transparency and subsequent encouragement. I walked away thinking, “Wow, I didn’t even think to pray to die, what kind of minister am I?”

Such a good idea.

Depression, is real. Some say, it is a simple matter of faith. God is greater. Others say, consult a professional. — God is free. Depression is expensive. Therefore, I am broke. Saving for my first professional visit. I just hope my life doesn’t continue to exude failure in the meantime.

I put a cheap espresso maker on my family Holiday wish list and was gifted an older model of the Mr. Coffee machine you see on the left. Being a barista beast has taken some time and research, but I have arrived. I prefer no latte (3 shots of espresso (Starbucks’ Sumatra) + 1 shot of frothed cream) better than my own!

The savor of success and savings! Joy. Be your own Barista peeps! It pays off