Where's My Help?

It might not look the way I think it should

The first time I admitted myself to a psychiatric hospital, I was terrified. I knew I wasn’t safe with my thoughts and that I needed to be there, but I had no idea what it would really be like. The first night, I didn’t have any of my belongings because security had to go through each item and they were short-staffed, so I slept in the clothes I had arrived in and used a toothbrush and toothpaste they gave me. I curled up in the bed, facing the wall, and let the tears fall. I didn’t know what to pray beyond, “God, help me. I need to know you are with me.” And even though nothing changed in that moment, the peace that washed over me was almost palpable. I will never forget it. Even though I didn’t understand all that was happening to me and even though I wished it were all different, the knowledge that God heard and answered my prayer carried me through the days ahead.

*****

It’s now many years later (more than 6, to be precise), and I have found myself praying versions of the same prayer. But for months, I didn’t sense God’s help. I didn’t even know if he heard me. Doubt clouded my vision, and it was hard to see how God could be good in the midst of all the pain. It was hard to believe that the pain would end. So I stopped praying that God would take away the depression. It was clear to me that was not going to happen. My husband and my friends assured me that the depression would get better because it had gotten better before, but I didn’t believe them. With unbelief heavy on my heart and hope hard to find, is it any wonder my thoughts often visit dark, unspeakable places?

*****

It’s again time for therapy, and again I found myself crying, bunching up tissue in my hands, the words spilling out and spilling over. I was trying to process something that had recently happened, and my counselor listened with compassion and then encouraged me to think about how God is helping in the situation. Instead of nodding in agreement and launching into a list of all the ways I could see that, I glared at him and asked angrily, “But where IS my help? I don’t see it. It’s not here!” I talked about the months I have been praying for relief. I listed off how hard I have been working to do all of the things that will help: therapy, prayer, Bible reading, church, etc., etc. I didn’t say it like this, but what I meant in the moment was, “I’m doing all the work, and God is doing NOTHING!”

Aren’t I a delight? (Don’t answer that.)

In response to my ranting, my counselor asked, “What if God is helping you, but just not in the way you want? What if he’s giving you what you need, even if it’s not what you think you need? Can you allow for that possibility?”

Even though I wanted to respond with a “no” with my arms crossed in anger, I paused and reflected over the days prior to this particular appointment, and I saw it, plain as day. Help.

• The fact that my friend answered my phone call in the middle of a Monday when I sat in the parking lot at work, crying in my car.

• The way that same friend knew to text my husband while we talked, so he could leave work and meet me at home.

• The fact that Stephen had the flexibility to leave in the middle of a workday (not that he would have stayed even if he hadn’t had flexibility, but still…).

• The fact that my boss knew in her gut something was wrong when I left that day and called and asked me about it.

• The fact that I was able to take 2 days off work with no notice.

Help. Help everywhere I turn.

Not long after that session, I went to my church’s Wednesday night prayer meeting. We read Scripture together, sing together, and then pray for needs in our city, our state, our country, and around the world. There’s always a portion of the service that focuses on the needs of church members (who’s in the hospital or fighting illness or having surgery, etc.). I had been wanting to ask for prayer for months but held back. I didn’t want to be seen as seeking attention, and truthfully, I was embarrassed. I don’t have a broken arm; I have a broken brain, and I don’t know how to fix it. But that Wednesday night as the assistant pastor took requests, I found my hand going up and then I heard myself saying, “I’d like to ask for prayer for myself. I’ve been struggling with depression and need hope. I’m normally not comfortable sharing this in this setting, but I honestly need all the prayers I can get.”

I was crying before I even finished talking, but then there’s help:

• The senior pastor, who happens to be sitting at my table, prayed over me, and those sitting close to me surrounded me while he prayed.

• I don’t remember everything my pastor prayed, but I remember the way I felt: seen, heard, loved, and cared for. I remember the hands reaching out in love to touch my back, my shoulders, my arms.

• When my pastor finished, mine were not the only eyes filled with tears. Women came from all corners of the room to hug me, to tell me I’m not alone, to thank me for sharing.

• My friends stared into my tear-filled eyes with tear-filled eyes of their own and told me how much they love me. Their hugs are medicine. Their belief that things will get better is like a shot of faith injected into my heart.

Help. Help everywhere I turn.

For a couple of months I have been talking with my mental healthcare provider about different medication options. I haven’t tried every antidepressant out there, but over the years I’ve definitely tried enough that I feel as though I deserve some sort of punch card that I can turn in for monetary benefits (but I’d settle for perhaps maybe feeling better?). It seems like we’ve been reduced to playing side effect roulette: would you prefer nausea or weight gain? Sleeplessness or incapacitating drowsiness? Slightly better mood combined with decidedly worse digestive issues? Such a fun game!

Then she told me about a medication with promise, one she’s seen have dramatic results for some of her patients. There are drawbacks of course: it’s a drug I administer to myself, but I must do so within a clinical setting so I can be monitored for 2 hours afterward due to the risk of certain side effects. I also can’t drive after the treatment, which means I need to find someone to not only pick me up from my house and drive me to the clinic, but to also take me back home. The treatments will lessen after a while but are twice a week for the first month, which also means a lot of time off work. I resisted this treatment until I reached a point of desperation: how could things be any worse than they are right now? What did I have to lose? And if I don’t like it, I can stop it easily. After a lot of thought and prayer, last week I decided to pursue this option. I didn’t know how it would play out, but I knew I needed to try.

*****

This past Sunday my Life Group was meeting, and our teacher asked for prayer requests. I listened through several, diligently writing them down because I email them to our class each week, and then before I could regret it, I explained my situation. There’s a new medication to try. I’m scared it won’t work (after all, I’ve been here before, and they haven’t worked). It’s complicated, and I won’t be able to drive myself home. I asked if they will pray for me to have hope.

And then there’s help:

• At the end of class, I was immediately surrounded. One woman asked if she could take me to and from an appointment. Another one said she could too.

• This beautiful circle of beautiful women offered encouragement and assured me that this is not a problem.

• One of them told me with joking seriousness, “We’re moms; we’re used to scheduling transportation. This is nothing!” Tears pooled in my eyes again, and I whispered my thanks.

• Before I left, my dear friend looked me in the eyes and said, “You need to hear this. It will work.” I willed myself to believe she is right.

• In the hallway, after I told another friend of my anxieties about the treatment and all the time and trouble involved, she said plainly, “You’re worth all of it.”

• Yesterday, less than a week after deciding to pursue this particular medication route, the clinic called to schedule my first two treatments for next week.

• Within minutes of texting 5 friends from that beautiful circle, I had rides for next Tuesday and Thursday both covered (and backups for the backup drivers!).

Help. Help everywhere I turn.

I don’t know what next week holds. I don’t know what any day holds, for that matter. I can spend this week feeling anxious and negative and guilty about how I’m inconveniencing other people (and I confess I have done that), or I can be hopeful and positive and grateful that I have such a circle of support around me. I’ll get by with a little help from my friends.

My help doesn’t look like I wish it did. I want immediate, lasting relief. I want to be the one helping people, not the one always needing help. Yet the Lord in his goodness and kindness has instead seen fit to pour out on me heaping measures of love and grace to sustain me when I want to give up. He may not remove this trial, but he will undoubtedly see me through it. He gives me daily manna in the form of his Word and his people. He gives me hope and help. I only have to look for it.

Photo by Rosie Sun on Unsplash

I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.

Psalm 121:1-2 (ESV)