"The real me is something bad, something that has to be controlled with
drugs," said the teen.
My heart sank to hear these words
from the teenager I was speaking with. In previous conversations, he and
his family had shared with me his years of struggle with depression which
resulted in behavior ranging from extreme anxiety and to anger and rage.
For his parents, finding the right medication after a long roller coaster of
emotional pain was a godsend. Their family had at times nearly fallen
apart as they wrestled with what to do about their son. Yet, for the son,
medication was a source of shame, a sign that he couldn't control himself and
an abiding sense that deep down he was a monster.
As I wondered what to say to this
anguished teen, one of those Holy Spirit moments occurred and the words just
came out of my mouth. "You are not your depression,” I said to him.
“That's just chemicals your brain has produced in the wrong amount. The
medication gets rid of that interference, so the real you can come out."
I went on to tell him about my own
battles with depression. I had experienced episodes where everything
seemed so bad and nothing seemed worth living for, but despite how
"real" that view of the universe felt, it was all the chemicals
talking-either too little or too much of various combinations in the
brain. For me, medication was a gift from God which let the real me
inside be revealed.
Sometimes theologians speak of the
"true self," "inner light," or "divine spark"
inside of us to describe that piece of us made in the image of God. That
"real" self, as opposed to the false selves we show the world or
mistakenly believe are legitimate, is our identity given by God. To be
human is to have trouble discovering that "true self," but some of us
have an additional complication in our search for who we really are, because we
struggle with mental illness of one degree or another. That warped view
of reality which is filtered through depression or another type of mental
illness sure seems real enough, but God works though medication, therapy and
relationships to help us discern who we really are and how good the world can
be.
As our conversation ended, my
teenage friend seemed to perk up with hope, "You mean I'm really not a bad
person? The real me isn't
something bad?" I nodded and said, "Yeah, that's just the
chemicals; that's not the real you." He smiled tentatively, as if he
was daring to believe, maybe for the first time, in his own worth.
