Ready to Suffer and Ready to Hope


I think people are afraid. Of me. Of the things I’m willing to say. It may seem–especially from my first post–that I’m drowning. But I’m not. Not yet. Depression hasn’t overtaken me; it’s just looming.

It’s like I’m standing on a beach watching a giant wave come toward me. I can see it coming. I can try to outrun it, but it’s a big wave.

It seems kind of romantic–facing the ocean, feeling the mist, preparing to face the wave. Existential suffering can be tragically beautiful. But I’m not just reading Neitzsche and questioning myself. I’m not facing  enlightenment. I’m facing a threat of darkness. It isn’t romantic; it’s frightening. And I take it seriously. It’s one thing to wish you didn’t live in this world. It’s another to plan your way out. That’s what deep, settled depression threatens to do to me.

In my first blog, I asked how could I face this again. There is no easy answer to that question, but that doesn’t mean I have to be frozen in fear. I have to be brave. I choose to hope. Hope that I can fight this off, hope that I will survive if it takes over, hope that I will be further refined by my suffering, hope that God will take care of me.

There is a song I keep coming back to over the last few months. It’s called “Shake it Out” by Florence + the Machine. As someone looking at the threat of more depression but choosing to fight, it really speaks to me. If you have a minute, give the video a watch at this link:

Just like the song says, I choose to be ready to suffer and ready to hope. I’m facing the wave, I see it. I might as well get ready for it to hit me, in case I can’t outrun it. But I am also ready to believe I can survive whatever hits me. I don’t believe that all the time. There are days, even weeks, where I don’t believe I can survive. Last Friday was one of those days. But when I can, I choose to hope. In even the tiniest moment of light I choose to hope.


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