Kate Cronkite is a writer, speaker, and mental health advocate
living in Austin, TX since 1984.

I’ve been a high church Episcopalian, a pagan, an atheist, and a Quaker. I’ve been diagnosed with depression, ADD, trauma, and bipolar II disorder. When I am reminding myself to speak to that of God in the other, it is my Quaker spirit; when I am at peace standing in awe and wonder among the redwoods, it is my pagan heart; when I am overthinking, it is the atheist’s reason. But when it is the Episcopal season of Lent, it is my illness that is most apparent.

Some days it seems that we are all stumbling through the dark together, afraid, and exhausted. Held together by our faith, our community, or simply our anger, we struggle to adapt to a political and social reality that we couldn’t have imagined a year ago. We rely on our friends for strength and support, or we pray, or meditate, or turn our troubles over to a Higher Power. Some of us with a history of brain disorders, with less resilience, are especially susceptible to despair.

I reached my threshold a couple of weeks ago, withdrawing to my couch in flannel PJs, having fallen into a hopelessness familiar to someone who has experienced depression.

This time, the triggers were politics, a sense of doom, and fear for persecuted friends, family, and strangers. Most of all, it was anger that the promise of my country was being betrayed. I was unable to find my footing among the wreckage and my place in the solution.

I wondered how much of “curled-up-on-the-couch” was good self-care – a necessary break from intense involvement, a place to rest, regroup, and re-engage. Or is it laziness and self-indulgence? Am I deficient in civic responsibility?

It is Lent, the worst time of the year for feeling the self-blame and guilt that are symptoms of depression. I know, because for most of my life, I’ve suffered from depression that was sometimes severe and often debilitating. I’ve curled on the couch, or lain on the floors, unable to cook meals, answer the phone, or leave the house. Even the simplest decisions overwhelmed me.  Still it’s hard to realize that even now, I can’t always do as much as people around me, as much as I feel I should be able to do. Although I’m well now, depression has taken its toll .

At St. Bartholomew’s in New York, I grew up praying the General Confession:

We have left undone those things which we ought to have done;

And we have done those things which we ought not to have done;

And there is no health in us….

Lord, have mercy on us miserable sinners.

When I was diagnosed with depression, I knew why those words were so heavy on me: they were an accurate summary of how it felt to be ill.  In my black despair, there was no help, there was no health. No wonder I conflated depression, sin, and church.

My depression has been well-controlled for years now, but I never really stop looking over my shoulder wondering if it’s gaining on me, and rarely do I have an ordinary blue day without wondering if I’ve been caught. Now, unlike depression, ordinary episodes like the latest only last a few days, instead of weeks or months; they have a trigger in the real world; and I share my pain and worry with and within my community. It’s important for people to be able to recognize the distinction between real depression and a bad day.

My beliefs and values are closer to the Quaker testimonies, which arise from an effort to meet that of God in each person. Historically, Quakers have worked for civil rights and for the support, care and respect of each person including slaves, prisoners, refugees, and people with mental illnesses. But it doesn’t matter which church home you inhabit, if any. What matters is whether it inspires you toward a greater good, enfolds you in community, and fills your soul. I would add: and supports your mental health.

Many of us, of many faiths, are on the same journey. The solution, the action, and the hope may be found in a community that welcomes all comers, that embraces every individual as though it understands their secret hurt.

The pain and fear of our times may nudge me back to a faith community, a locus of taking action and working together on the challenges of our times, and seeing where the Spirit leads me. I am grateful for the iACT passport program that offers a convenient framework for that exploration.