Recently I took my 5th grade son on a tour of his new school, which happens to be my old high school. I hadn’t been there in years, and I winced at the possibility of flashbacks. Fortunately it was so altered I barely recognized it. I breathed an inward sigh of relief and thanks. Those teen years were some of the worst in my life. By the time I finished high school (crawled out, barely breathing, just survived), I had been diagnosed with ADHD and depression.
Small wonder. For years I had been verbally bullied, same kids since elementary school, no way to hide or escape. I internalized the pain, remembered every insult, relived every incident nightly. My heart was battered mute. And those last few years I went from a good student to just barely making it. Why? Where in the world had my talent gone? Why were the simplest homework assignments major struggles and timed tests nightmares? The final straw came in the form of an AP English class — something I should’ve reveled in, eaten up, breezed through. But I was floundering. I had no social life, and it looked like I would just squeak through my senior year. Small wonder the doctor prescribed Zoloft.
For five years I floated along, experiencing neither joy nor deep sorrow. A few laughs, a few tears, nothing serious. Took my vitamins, sat in front of a special “Happy Light” designed to mimic natural sunlight. I went through life in a slightly numbed state until my marriage. It was a new year of hope; God had been warming my heart, and I had a good man who really loved me. It seemed like a good time to try weaning off Zoloft, to take the risk of experiencing emotions again.
Slowly, so slowly and gently, I learned how loved I am. Each passing year has brought new depth to my relationship with my husband, an opening of old wounds so that truth could be applied, the revelation of my identity and worth as a person. Healing. Eleven beautiful years of healing.
Do you know what I realized? My heart was sick, and Zoloft only treated the symptoms. Vitamins and Happy Lights couldn’t repair the damage. I needed to be told that I have worth and value in God’s eyes, that I could find my identity in him. I needed to be loved on, held, told how beautiful I am, told that those horrible words spoken to me were lies and I shouldn’t let them take root in me. I needed the men in my life to stand up for me and protect me, the women to share their love and affection and what it means to be a woman. All that beautiful medicine has been applied in liberal doses over the past decade, and I am no longer depressed. “Hope deferred makes the heart sick; but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life” (Proverbs 13:12).
I have to wonder how many of us are suffering physical symptoms of sick hearts? What might be cured if our doctors would look beyond our bodies to our hearts and minds?