Can Depression Be Beautiful?

The flowers are beautiful, but they have lost their vitality. They are dried up and, by all accounts, dead. The candle looks lovely and ready to be lit for a romantic evening, but a closer look would reveal that the wick has burned through all the usable wax and no flame can be lit. Rain is falling softly on these representative elements.

This is my artistic representation of depression (since I can't paint). A still life. A life with remnants of past potential and energy. A life with no life in it.

Can this picture be redeemed? It can be infused with a new light source, but it can never capture a living bouquet or a soft flame. That would require an entirely new subject in front of the lens.

I have clinical depression. My grade has been assessed at the high end of "moderate". While I'm far from hopeless, I see my life as this photograph. I think there is something beautiful in my depression, because it has made me extremely sensitive to my emotions, my body, and beauty in the world.

But it has stripped me of the beauty I used to see in my potential for relationship and love. Depression has defined my self-image. Not only have I had to steadily convince myself that my alopecia is a gift and that I am a beautiful bald woman, I also battle thoughts on an hourly basis that tell me I am unlovable. I am an expert detective when it comes to gathering evidence that I have destroyed the relationships that are most central to my life--namely, with my husband and my kids.

I have glimpses of myself as a fun, generous, gracious, lovely person. But I take those images and tear at them with my nails in fits of guilt and shame.

 

Even the most beautiful moments, while recognized, are distorted as reminders of what I can't attain or enjoy. I hurt with the beauty I see around me as I abide within my melancholy. And the hardest part is figuring out how much of that is my disease and how much is a choice to remain in an identity that is known to me. Even looking at these pictures, I sense their sadness while also being awed at their loveliness.

Depression has kept me still. I try to move forward, but these dry wells and spent resources have preserved me under glass. Lovely, marred, unchanging.

The only hope I can see is to keep these photographs for their part on my story but open myself to new water, new filters, new light, and new resources. I know that comes from God. That is my unapologetic belief. But God's artistry is a mystery to me.