By Erika Rachelle Anderson
I vividly remember what it feels like. The constant heaviness. The tasks that piled up because it was all I could do to feed, clothe, and try to nurture my children.
The lack of joy.
The constant overwhelm.
The dread.
I retreated into a social isolation to hide my brokenness; a canopy of death hung over my soul.
Depression.
There is no denying that what I was experiencing was real.
This depression could be neither a sole spiritual reality that could be prayed away nor a longitudinal neurochemical limp needing lifetime medication.
There had to be a middle ground.
I knew Jesus. Though I was unsure why He wouldn’t speak my freedom into existence, I knew He could proclaim a word, and the suffocating gloom would dissipate.
It is frustrating to be friends with Freedom yet find no relief from depression.
I knew Psalms to be a book grief, yet I found it to be trite.
I didn’t fully understand the power of the Psalms until my depression got so bad that it became my guide and my handbook. The only way I could get through a day was to sit with that book every morning before work and every night before sleep.
