Perfect in our imperfection

I find myself thinking of those whose hearts are aching; who are pierced with a longing that raises its pain at every breath and who feel the only way to stop the agony is to stop breathing.
It is a hushed conversation. We readily discuss the horrors of cancer and its treatment that ravages the body. I have regular discussion with my daughter on how she manages the wretched diabetes and the byproducts of her daily care.
We ask for specifics about diseases and injuries that are visible to our eye. But meaningful conversation rarely digs into the mystery of mental illness.
Things are better, for sure. We have witnessed the raised bar of awareness but still we lose the battle–losing our grip on those who are falling, who can’t hold on one more day, one more hour, waiting for the light; waiting for the ease from depression.
I’m thinking today of a childhood friend and galloping along the River Road on our ponies, Earl up ahead, Wayne in the middle, and me barely keeping up. His light was so bright, his soul so gentle, his smile so easy and yet . . . here we are.
I know this happens, has happened, will happen again. Most of us suffer moments of despair we fear may devour us; that we mask with laughter or hide away. But to suffer from the cruelty of depression day after day is something else entirely.
With it comes the voice that shouts in our ear of our worthlessness, of our imperfection. And yet, how do we raise our hand for help when shame keeps our arms at our side and our pain unspoken. We lower our eyes and fear judgment when we turn to anti-depressants.
Perhaps Christmas makes it more difficult to cope. The expectation that we all should be happy at this time of year; that we must be more perfect this season than any other and if we aren’t displaying such Christmas spirit then, of course, something is dreadfully wrong with us and that voice in our ear is surely right.
If we could learn to wait for the answer when we ask how are you of someone. If it would be okay to truly look at someone and invite him or her to share. Or is it all too hard, this human condition, where we race by one another not really certain where we’re going but in a hurry to get there.
Life comes with grief. We know it comes to us all in some form or other, sometimes several times over a life. But we are meant to hold our hand out to each other, to gather each other in embrace, to assure that none of us are ever alone.
We all belong, we are all part of the same family, and we need each other as we walk the road.
It is my hope that we give each other permission to be human, to be perfect in our imperfection, to just be.
wendistewart@live.ca