"[A]s I grew older, it became harder and harder to access that expansive imaginary space that made my toys fun. [...] Horse's Big Space Adventure transformed into holding a plastic horse in the air, hoping it would somehow be enjoyable for me. Prehistoric Crazy-Bus Death Ride was just smashing a toy bus full of dinosaurs into the wall while feeling sort of bored and unfulfilled. I could no longer connect to my toys in a way that allowed me to participate in the experience.
Depression feels almost exactly like that, except about everything."
--Allie Brosh, Hyperbole and a Half
Hi, my name is Caleb, and I'm now in what I like to call a "Depressive Funk." I call it that because I hope and pray that this is a temporary situation.
It all started on Wednesday, March 15, 2017, at Good Shepard Lutheran Church, in Borger, TX. I had come to the service feeling shameful and guilty. I hadn't been attending services there for a while, due to differences in scheduling between me and the church (Seriously, what maniac wakes up at 9:00 AM?) and I had been morally falling away as a result. I didn't want this to happen, I wanted to fix this and get my life back on track. But regardless of my intent, it was clear that I was not being as good of a Christian as I could be.
So after a terribly awkward pre-service meal, I went into the service feeling pretty much as usual, ready to hear the truth of God's word. About midway through the service, though, a little voice of doubt in my head caused my stomach to drop. This voice grew and grew, until it and I were screaming back and forth so loudly I could hardly hear the sermon, having to excuse myself to the bathroom just to answer its simple question:
"Why do you believe?"
Afterwords, I asked the pastor about my crisis of faith, and he was very supportive. He essentially said that there comes a time when every man must figure out why he holds his beliefs, more than just his parents. He told me why he believed, saying that Christianity's unique component of grace seemed to hold truth.
I thanked him for his time and left, at that point having held up my family quite a while. My sister even got to sit in the front seat because I was taking so long. I don't blame them, of course, they had no idea what I was going through at that time.
I stewed over the question in my head, and eventually came to a satisfactory answer: A universe this complex demands a creator, and God as the loving and gracious Christian God echoed throughout the world. I took the experience as a strengthening of faith, and continued my life, trying to be a better man.
This satisfied me for a good week and a day, until, on Thursday, March 23, 2017, the voice came back. He and I took a midnight walk and fought, debating the nature of the universe and such things for quite a while, until finally I had layed the beast to relative rest. I'll spare you the intellectual ping-pong of our debate, but I decided to remain in my belief in Jesus, walking home repeating "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief." Our debate, however, had given birth to a cancerous idea in my head, and that idea is what would eventually become my depression:
"Nothing that humans create is really original, anyway. We're all just repeating the memes we've heard and mixing them up."
This idea, which you might recognize as totally unoriginal, would tear up anything it could lay its hands on into the ideas that made it, and told me it was all meaningless, just a bunch of junk. Just a fusion of this and that. Just exploiting this region of your mind to make that response. Just, just, just.
Now, "just" is a powerful way to ruin any bit of fun you might have. It's just an image, just a few words, just a plank of wood with four wheels on it. What "just" does is it tears any element of humanity, of soul out of a thing, and reduces it to a simple problem that a mere robot would be able to do. Here, robot, launch the ball at the pins in such a way as to make them all tumble. Here, robot, point the camera at the things and push the button. Here, robot, store away the amusing internet pictures into your hard drive and make a laughing noise. All mere tasks, all without any meaning to the robot. That's what "just" does. That's what depression, or hopefully a depressive funk, does.