It's made me think about how on February 22nd, 2010, I almost died. But I didn't. And, miraculously, my body has had scarce a problem since.
My mind, however, did not come away unscarred.
I think of December of that year, during Christmas break. One day, it was just there: a lethargy that came over me; a lowered spirit; a tendency to sadness or apathy. I didn't know what it was, or why I felt that way. One day it was just there.
Things got worse. At night, after I'd gone to school, seen my friends, and talked to my family, it would leap and then press upon me with a force I could not stand with only my fifteen-year-old self as a shield. Thoughts ran ruts deep into my brain; they would play on repeat without the slightest goading. You should have died. No one would have cared if you had died. No one needs you. You should have died.
I was blessed that I never got to the point where I made an attempt on my own life. But no matter what I accomplished or what I did right, I could not stop feeling shame, regret, and hopelessness. It was consuming. It was a constant shadow. It was hard. It was hard for me.
Anxiety and "mild depression," a psychologist called it.
~ ~ ~
I've been thinking about "mild."
Those of us who are "mild" feel no less broken than those who are "severe." And there is, like Elder Holland said, hope for all of us.
I never gave up on prayer. I prayed to God every day, even through the years when I didn't feel worthy to, and I didn't feel like it worked. And finally, when I got medical treatment--finally, I could see how I had been blessed. I could see that the medical treatment was a blessing. I could see that God was there all along.
And even when it's still hard, I know, I know, there is hope.
