I wonder

I wonder what to say that I've not already said. What new thoughts do I have to think? I think no new thoughts, only recycled ones. Over and over I say to myself, I cannot go on. Over and over I binge and make myself uncomfortable by overeating. Over and over. Nothing changes. Everything stays the same.

Is it a choice, or is it my inescapable fate to stay like this? After watching "The Book Thief" tonight, I am inspired anew to write, to describe my experience of depression for myself and for others, for others who are caught in a similar prison of darkness. To put words to the feelings of misery that both cloud my mind and strike my soul with spear-like precision.

After watching the film, I am also tempted to call the man with whom I went on a blind date some weeks ago, the man who asked so few questions. Was he so wrong for me? He knows now, I am told, that he asked too few questions, displaying hardly any true interest in me. To call him and say I thought he was interesting and would he be up for getting coffee with me - what do I have to lose but my pride? He was not boring, as so many men are. Should I do it? Tonight?

If not tonight, when?

Not tonight. Tomorrow, tomorrow after work. Tomorrow when I have been doing something productive, instead of sitting at home doing nothing.

Maybe tomorrow. What will I say? What if he is dating someone else? Am I sure I can handle another date as exhausting as the last one?

The true reason I want to call him is that I am lonely. I don't like the thought of online dating, and he is my only real, in the flesh prospect. He thought I was interesting too, and attractive, which is a miracle. Or maybe it was the red lipstick I was wearing that evening.

I wonder if I have the guts to call him.

Emptiness

What a tough day. All day I watched myself as a third party - an outsider of my own body. I sat in meetings and nodded. "Smile," I told myself. "Don't look as bored as you feel."

"It's all about Jesus," one of my coworkers said. "Jesus is what changes these guys."

Why doesn't He change me? I wondered. "Smile and nod," I told myself. On cue, my lips turned upward. I smiled, feeling empty and exhausted.

Trapped in an extrovert's world, I go through the motions of what I'm supposed to do. I feel like I was made for a different time or place. For something other than what I'm forcing myself to do.

I hate it. I hate calling people and asking them for money. I hate tracking things in spreadsheets. I hate sitting in meetings where the other person goes on and on about miraculous life change or about process after process. Another spreadsheet. Another form. Another way to track a measurable outcome.

After a while, it all gets to be the same. Another day, another dollar. How long can I go on like this? I hate what it does to me, how I feel at the end of the day.

I told myself this morning I would be able to go home after lunch if I just couldn't do it anymore. I made it through the day in four-hour increments, but I hated every second.

There's got to be something else, some other way of supporting myself that I don't hate so much. There has got to be a way to survive financially without hating my life.

And there's also the loneliness piece. I not only hate my life while I'm at this job. I feel like I'm wasting it, like I'm waiting for my life to start, waiting to meet someone I can love.

Help

I wonder how long my computer will let me type today before the mouse's trackpad goes haywire. I'm going to try to write because I feel so intensely lonely, down, discouraged, frustrated, worried, painfully anxious. I want to be normal, but I am not. I am deeply depressed and fretful about many things. I want to live a full life, but I am living half a life. I want to be healed, but healing seems so beyond hope. "Faith without hope," a writer describes in his book Washed & Waiting. That is what I have. I believe God could heal me, but I do not hope He will. Healing seems improbable - not impossible, but definitely not likely. I wish I could sleep at night. Instead I lie awake at night and wish I could feel sleepy. Eventually I fall asleep and get 4 or 5 hours of semi-rest with sleep apnea. How is that being fearfully and wonderfully made? Why did God make me this way? Oh, I wish I could die. Then my troubles would be over. I wish I didn't feel like life is "a series of random disappointments," as the author of Washed & Waiting describes. I wish I had a life partner to share in my struggles, to help me see joy, to support me. I know it's bad to view a relationship as whatever I can get out of it, but I am longing for someone to share in my sorrows. Jesus is supposed to do that for me, but He seems unreal and uncaring at worst and indifferent at best. Nothing shakes my loneliness - not a single friend or family member can take it away by their caring or concern. I am a cavern of darkness and aloneness, if aloneness is even a word. I need relief from the heavy burden of my sorrows. Something must change, or I'll go crazy. God of the universe, I know you see. Please help me. Please do something. 

To be a woman

I wonder whether people see me as a woman, or if they see me as I see myself - conflicted, manly, hairy, ugly. Some days I don't think I'm that ugly; other days I feel freakishly homely.

I long to be affirmed in my femininity, to have someone tell me I'm beautiful, to know I matter as a woman, not just as a person - although I'd appreciate that too.

I find myself thinking so often about what other people think of me, probably because I don't know what to think of myself.

My computer's on the fritz, so this will be short today. I wish I could write more, but the trackpad on my mouse is going out.

Today

Today I tried on the working girl's mindset. It felt good - productive, financially stable, sociable. I watched myself as if I were not myself at all. I watched as I interacted with coworkers, sat in meetings, read countless emails, discussed the strategic plan with my boss. I watched as I cleaned out my desk and got up to go to the bathroom. I heard myself say things I now wish I hadn't said, things about having to move because my medical bills are too much for me, about working through abuse in my past. Why do I say such things? I get nervous and don't know what to say, so I spill my guts to anyone who will listen. Except when I'm on a date, and then I'm tight-lipped about myself, determined to avoid verbal missteps. Today at the gym I made a faux pas I'd like to forget. The exercise required me to reach my knee and press into the instructor's ankle as he stood watching, and I described it as "the one where I have to touch your leg" to the guy. It sounded so awkward, and I can't believe I said it. I don't know what to do with the shame, the pang of guilt at having made a mistake. "Mistakes are a part of life," I tell myself. "It's ok to make mistakes; you're human." Nothing cuts the anxiety. I can't sleep. I'm worried about work. I wonder, having made it through a day, if it's possible to be an introvert in my new role. I foresee I will need to meet with church leaders, schmooze with pastors, just like I had to schmooze with business people before I burned out. I am trying to take on writing projects, but will I be able to write, or will I will be stymied by anxiety? I want to write. I like putting words on a page and seeing a work of wordsmithing art forms as clay forms underneath a potter's fingers. Smooth and silky I wish my writing to be, even though most of the time I think my sentences are puerile, choppy, boring. But I'm going to try because I need that paycheck. I am going to try to be an introvert in an extrovert's world. I am worried about that, and I am worried about trying to pretend my depression doesn't exist. It does exist, and I have struggled so much. I struggle so much, present tense. I claw and fight to live, but the darkness gets to me. Like tonight, anxiety stabs me in the chest. This is what I'm taking medicine for, and the meds aren't doing their job. They're making me constipated, but they're not lifting my mood or numbing the anxiety. Tomorrow is coming soon, and I will be tired in the morning - if I can sleep at all. I shouldn't say that because I'm getting even more anxious thinking about how ugly I'll look tomorrow when I wake up. Just keep writing, I tell myself. Don't stop. Don't stop until the anxiety lets go of your heart, until the tears come and relief sweeps in. So I will keep writing. The more I try to be normal, the more lonely I feel - less lonely than I feel just sitting at home doing nothing, but still, a loneliness that being around people doesn't shake. I wish for a life partner, someone who cares about me, someone I can love. I tried to find someone last Saturday on a blind date. He was the most interesting person I think I've ever shared dinner with, but the conversation was all one-sided. Question after question I asked him, trying to keep the conversation going. When I stopped asking questions, waiting for him to think of a question or two, silence ensued. I looked at my food, took a sip of water, chewed my food, ate too much. Finally, I relented. So what did you think of Maine while you were there? I asked. An open-ended question and another few minutes of talking. Phew. I can eat and listen and be entertained - but I'd rather be known. I'd rather have him show interest in me, ask a follow-up question or two. Where did you go to school? he asked. I went to a small Christian college, I heard myself say. And then I told him how I'd moved back to Tacoma after graduating, then to Philadelphia, then to Mexico, and then to Salem. Hmm, he said in reply. Hmm? Is that it? Is there nothing you found curious or worthy of more information from me? Hmm. OK, back to you. Tell me about ____, I said, thinking quickly. He talked again. I went back to eating, certain that he wasn't my soulmate. I am looking for a guy who puts me at ease, who wants to know me. Is that too hard to ask? I found a guy that showed interest, but he wasn't a Christian - at least, not the type I want. He described himself as Catholic, but he didn't go to church and didn't talk about Jesus the way I'd want my boyfriend and hopefully husband to talk about Him. Though I'm far from faith-filled at this point in my life, I'm searching for someone who is overflowing with thoughtful praise of the God I long for. I am searching for someone like the guy who wasn't a Christian, but with a heart that listens to God and pursues Jesus with hope and fervor. I don't know if I'm making sense. I am trying to get myself to cry so I can sleep, and usually thinking about God brings the tears. Not tonight, I guess. I am so anxious. The burning in my throat and the weight on my chest bears down like an anvil, like a mortar and pestle grinding away. Ouch, it hurts. Maybe I can try to sleep now, but I don't think I will. I'll try, though. But I am worried - to go back to the blind date - that I wrote the guy off too soon. I found out through a mutual acquaintance that he was nervous. I guess he thought I was pretty and didn't know what to say. Should I have given the guy another chance? I am so lonely, I just want someone to think I'm wonderful. I already told him via text I didn't think we were a good fit. He thinks he blew it because he didn't ask me questions. Well, you bet you blew it, dude. You're very smart, you've traveled a lot, you think a lot - I could have liked you, but I felt like you were more interested in having a good time than in learning about me. I want to be known, and it's hard for me to talk about myself around people who make me nervous. So there. We were both nervous. I played the interested date, and you played the talker. I don't like talkers, although I fall into the pattern of making people talk because I figure they're not interested if they don't act interested, if they don't prove to me they are. I can't help it. I try to force myself to talk, but it ends up sounding so awkward, like my stupid comment at the gym tonight. OK, I'm going to try to sleep again. Stay tuned - I might be back.

Yours

As I read Leslie Vernick's The Emotionally Destructive Relationship, I keep imagining what I'd like to say to you. So I'm going to say it.

You abused me. Maybe I should put it in present tense because of your most recent episode. You abuse me. You are abusive.

Let that settle for a moment. You are abusive. You have hurt me, mocked me, and ridiculed me, and I won't tolerate your abusive behavior anymore.

You are no longer allowed to treat me however you feel like treating me. You are no longer allowed to abuse me. If you do, I will leave your presence, whether that means packing my bags and leaving your house or asking you to leave mine.

Your apologies hold no weight in the face of repeated offenses. As your mouth drops open in shock at what I'm telling you, let the gravity of my words ground you. You are abusive.

You may have had a hold on me when I was dependent on you to take care of me, but now I am free. I don't have to listen to you go on and on, and I certainly don't have to take your abuse. No more.

"I just can't do anything right with you," you say. "I know you don't like it when I cry" - as if it's my fault that your tears and over-the-top emotions bother me. Nope. Your dysfunction is your own damn fault. I am not responsible for it.

Though I am working on becoming stronger so that your childishness doesn't affect me as much,  your behavior is yours to claim. Not mine.

Also, please don't share with me about your relationship with God. I feel so uncomfortable hearing you talk about Him because your version of Him is not the one I want. I shudder just thinking about what it's like to hear you speak of your spiritual journey. I wish I could figure out what exactly irritates me - although, irritate is not the right word.

I suppose it's because I so intensely want to come to peace about my spirituality and can't seem to find the secret to being happy I'm a Christian. I envy people who follow other religions because at least they don't have to think theirs is the only right way to live.

When I hear you talk about God, I get confused even more. Yours is the voice I wish to drown out, your misquotes of Scripture and failure to tell me God loves me. Yours is the voice that's often loudest in my head, and when you tell me with tears that you had an experience with God, I want to run away.

From the same mouth that belittles me comes assertions about the one Being who loves me perfectly - assertions that may be fine for you, but that are made with projections onto me. "You're so angry with God," you say.

So what if I am? Leave me alone and let me go to Him on my own terms, not yours. That's right, your behavior is yours; my spirituality is mine - my turf, my emotional space, my territory. It does not belong to you, just like your emotions don't belong to me.

I don't know why I struggle so much to separate from you, but I think it has something to do with the abuse. Enmeshment, co-dependence, triangulation - they all go together, don't they?

I wish you weren't my mother, but you're the one I've got; and you're also the one in my head. Slowly and painstakingly I'm removing your voice from my psyche, one thread at a time. Oh, I pray so hard to the God of the universe, not your God, but mine, that He will heal me from the wounds you have inflicted.

I pray and weep because of the abuse. It's not my fault; it's yours. Despite your troubled childhood, despite your unfulfilled longings, the abuse is yours. It rests on your shoulders. Not mine.

Take it - you deal with it. I know you're not strong enough to handle it, but it's not mine anymore. I don't cause you to abuse me. I show respect and kindness of spirit. I try to please you. You are the one to blame and always have been.

I am not willing anymore to say that I provoked you to disrespect my humanity with your humiliating gestures and words. They're yours. Take them back. Here, I've stuffed them in a suitcase for you. I could hardly close the zipper, it's so full of the crap with which you burdened me.

Yours. Not mine. 

Please

I wonder where you are. When I'm desperate, you don't seem to show up. When death seems the only happy alternative to my circumstances, you look on and do nothing. Your Word says you care, but I don't feel it or see it. Nothing dispels the gloom I feel or the torpor that hinders me from taking care of myself.

The fact that this moment is a tolerable one doesn't do much for my faith because last night was so miserable. I don't understand why you let me languish in the pit of years-long depression, why you don't answer my prayers and the prayers of others. We pray that you will heal, but no healing comes.

What more do I have to learn or discover? What more do I need to do or think or feel before you lift your heavy hand? One word from you could silence the enemy. One look of pity could lift the malaise, the weight upon my heart that makes the tears flow so freely.

God of the universe, I give you myself. I give you anything else I can think of - even though everything belongs to you already. I have no bargaining power, nothing I can use to sway you to relent.

I appeal, then, to your mercy. Please, give me the strength to work. Please do a miracle and let me wake up with hope and energy. Please use whatever means necessary to lessen the depression. I ask you for the ability to support myself so that I don't have to go on disability again. I ask you for the determination I currently lack, the gumption to push through morning after morning of fighting to get up and get to work. I plead with you for twelve months of working. Please.

Escape

Today I could hardly get out of bed. I'd set my alarm for 6:30 so I could practice getting up for work, and I finally got up at 9:30 with a fight.

Oh no, another day, I thought. Only two more mornings before it's the real thing. How can I do it? I can't. I just can't.

Then the memory of last night's binge resurfaced. Five nectarines, two or three apples, and about half a cup of raw almonds, just after eating a large salad at a restaurant.

Shoot. Yesterday was a gain-weight day. Better make this one a lose-weight day.

But after meeting up with a friend for a few hours, I ate half a block of Parmesan cheese after my spinach salad and spaghetti sauce.

What is it that makes me binge? Why do I turn to food to cope with the unknowns of life? I wish I wouldn't.

I suppose that for me, binging is like hand-washing for those who struggle with OCD. The repetitive motions of hand-to-mouth and chewing provide subtle comfort in the face of loneliness and uncertainty. The pleasure of tasting something sweet numbs the pain of desperation, and for a very few brief moments, I have purpose. Purpose to make myself feel better, to forget whatever troubles me. To ransack my fridge and titillate my tastebuds. To eat all of what I enjoy, anything that distracts me from reality.

Calories matter not when I'm in such a state. Keeping my figure means nothing. All that matters is to feel less, to focus on one thing instead of the many worries and emotions that barrage my mind and heart. Sometimes I'm even tempted with junk food - ice cream, cookies, candy, pizza, hamburgers. I felt the urge to go to the grocery store last night, but thankfully I didn't. I was already in bed, I think, and it would have been too much trouble to go out on a food rampage.

Today, after my cheese binge, I promised my friend I'll text her when next I feel tempted to overeat and when the suicidal thoughts descend on me like a thick, gray cloud as they did last night. As I lay in bed I imagined what I'd do to myself and dreamed of how wonderful it would be if I weren't around, if I could be freed from having to be me. I know I'm loved by people, but the desire not to struggle anymore is almost too much these days. I don't want to try. I don't want to live. I just want to escape.

Aching

Someday I'd like to work in a flower shop. I love the way flower shops smell, and I'd like to learn how to make arrangements. Flowers bring such joy to people, and fresh cut stems connote life, growth, and hope. The trinkets in flower shops are also a kind of smile-inducing art. Delicate and quirky, they offer whimsy, appealing to the impulsive purchaser's sense of sentimental fun. 

I'd also like to volunteer at the library. Just looking at books makes me want to read and learn, and I imagine that handling hundreds of volumes would give me such pleasure. Feeling the rough and smooth of book bindings on my fingers, smelling the must and dust of decades-old pages, I imagine perusing the stacks would provide a balm for my seeker's heart.

Traveling and writing sounds delightful too, maybe a road trip across the country or backpacking through Europe. I picture sun-filled days in a car, rolling down the window and feeling the wind between my fingers as the miles of farmland pass. Winding roads, stomach-dropping hills, country gas stations and static on the radio between metropolises would all be part of the adventure.

In between my travels, I'd like to take a ballet class. I'd like to learn good posture, graceful walking, lilting movements. Precision and artistry combined.

Hiking mountains and taking in breathtaking views will always be part of my quest, I think. I love smelling the sweet scent of pine needles baking in the sun, feeling the soft thud of my feet against a dirt path, straining to climb a steep trail, seeing a break in the trees as I near the summit.

If only I could find a way to support myself and have time do these things. If only someone would pay for my adventures. Instead, I am about to submit myself to the daily grind once again. The hours of negativity and worry will start to take their toll. In a month or less, I will be exhausted. How can I make the pace sustainable? How can I nurture my artist soul that yearns for room to breathe amidst barrages of stress and pretense?

Where do I belong? Reality says nowhere. My heart aches for a different way of life.

Retrospective

It's not your fault. You can't control the way your mom responds to you - or doesn't respond. You feel ashamed of her and how different she is from the other moms. It's natural to want a mom who loves you unconditionally, no matter what you look like, no matter how well you do in school. You yearn for acceptance, you ache for empathy mingled with reassurance. You crave love, and you wish your happy, childlike trust wasn't met with such disgust. You were made for the love you wish for. It's not your fault that you don't receive it.

When your mom expresses rage, it's not your fault. You don't deserve such anger. You're a child. You don't know how to externalize your feelings in an adult way. How could you know? You're young and inexperienced. It's the responsibility of your primary caretaker to teach you how to handle your emotions, and she can't. She's scared and hurting too and can only see you as an extension of herself.

It's OK to feel hate toward your mom. You feel squashed by her and put down, not nurtured or understood. She never tells you it's going to be all right, but that's not because all's going to end badly. She can't think beyond her own circumstances to extend comfort to you, a frightened child. She is caged by her own emotions and has only projection and laceration as her tools. She knows how to cut down, and she knows what she feels. She doesn't feel what you feel or celebrate your individuality on a consistent basis. She's on-again, off-again.

You can bury the idea of her as an ideal parent. She's not. She can't be. She's crazy, and she's a crazy-maker, asserting that her ideas are the only good ones, while manipulatively telling you that you think hers aren't good enough. She twists things to fit in her worldview, and she misuses her skewed perspective of God to shame you into thinking that she's right. She'll tell you the story about the children who mocked Elisha and were eaten by bears. She'll make you feel bad by reminding you that she should have a millstone hung around her neck for causing a little one - you - to stumble. It's all about her.

It's not about you, and it's not your fault. It's her fault. She is to blame. Let yourself be free from the guilt of cultivating thinking patterns and coping mechanisms that stem from her dysfunctional ways. You can't help it; you're just trying to survive as any young human does.

It's not your fault.

Ugly

I binged last night. Meaty spaghetti sauce, raw almonds, and two green apples comprised my second dinner at 10:30, just before bed. I had spent a wonderful evening with my brother and sister-in-law and their three precious kids, and when I got home, I ate with a ferocity I wish I could forget. I didn't make myself sick this time, but the healthy groceries I bought with such measured attention are now dwindling. 

I wish I wouldn't do it. I wish I wouldn't give in to the feelings of loneliness and emptiness and the looming question of whether I'll ever have a happy family like my brother's. I wish I would acknowledge the pain of coming home to an empty apartment, comforting myself as the books on self-compassion suggest:

"I'm sorry you're feeling lonely, dear," I could say. "It's OK to feel lonely after seeing and feeling such a peaceful family environment. It's even normal, given your background, to feel envious of the tender mothering your niece and nephews receive. It's understandable that you would crave it for yourself, and that when you get home, being by yourself feels too much to handle. You will get through this. You can make choices that you will be proud of tomorrow."

I know I can do it, and I hope I will. I hope I won't have another day like today, when I woke up and remembered with disgust how in a fleeting search for emotional comfort I'd wasted my efforts to stay at 120 pounds. Granted, my workout yesterday included a steep 5-mile hike, but I'm fairly certain the binge is a setback in my endless quest for the perfect body.

"I don't have to be perfect," I keep telling myself. But I still want to be. "I don't have to have flat abs to be loved." But I still want them. I want to be special, to be beautiful, because I think that being beautiful will get me closer to being loved.

And then there's the line I've repeated to myself since anorexia took a firm hold in my mind at 13: "If I can't be pretty, I'll at least be smart and skinny." How can I get rid of that one, when it's still what I think? I still think I'm ugly, still feel just as insecure as I did in middle school. I quake inside at the thought of what others think of me, even though I tell myself over and over it doesn't matter what they think. I stare at myself in the mirror hoping to see a prettier face than the one I have.

I look at myself and envy everyone else for being more beautiful than I am. What does self-compassion say in response? "You are uniquely beautiful"? That seems fake, smacking of a positive band-aid for the wound of ugliness God has dealt me.

"I'm sorry you feel ugly" is about all I can think of. "It's hard to feel ugly and alone and wonder if you will ever be attractive to anyone. I'm sorry you're scared of being lonely the rest of your life. What could you do to feel less ugly?"

Still not good enough. I'm not tapping into the depths of my skewed thinking as I want to. God of the universe, I ask for healing. I turn to you because I am confounded by my deep-seated belief that looks are everything, that being ugly or beautiful or just mediocre is the linchpin of happiness. I've asked you for healing many times before, so I don't trust you to deliver; but I have no choice but to turn to you. Please answer and help me.

Decision

I need to decide whether to go back to work on Monday of next week or Monday of the following week. Once I go back, life will be different. There won't be time to watch random YouTube videos about self-compassion or make my dinner in the afternoon so that my dishes are cleaned before 5:00. There won't be luxurious weekday hikes, and sleeping in will be out of the question. Life won't stop.

Life will pick back up at breakneck speed, and getting to work will be the most difficult thing I do all day. When each workday is over, I'll have to force myself to go the gym, even though I'll be tired and hungry. After my workout is done, I'll come home and have to put all my things away. Then I'll make myself some food, scrounge up the energy to make a lunch for the following day, coach myself to take a shower, and talk myself into going to bed, hopefully falling asleep without too much anxiety keeping me from good rest. Then it will be the word I dread most: Repeat.

It's the rat race I exited a few months ago. I had to leave because my depression got too bad, and I couldn't function anymore. How will this time be different? How can it be different? I do have medication on my side, which wasn't the case before. Now, at least, my anxiety is numbed, which allows me to breathe deeply and long. I feel I can face the pressures of work because my feelings are deadened. I have chosen to give myself the gift of truncated emotions because, I reason, my background set me up to languish underneath their heaviness.

So what's it to be, this Monday or next? I can't decide. I want one more week to hike and explore, but do I have the financial luxury of such? Maybe I could ease myself into the work schedule without actually being at work. One more week of leave would allow me that. One more week, and I'll be ready. Maybe Wednesday of next week then? A few days isn't going to make much difference monetarily, but it might emotionally. I want time to go for one or two more hikes before rejoining the rat racers, and I want to try to get to church this weekend.

No matter what day I start working again, I still wonder what I'll do with the rest of my life. I wonder if I'll always be working a desk job, which I'd so hoped to get away from. I suppose I could keep the Alaska Airlines interview in Seattle, but the timing is all wrong. I'm not ready to move to another state, to live on pittance, to work odd hours and feel sleepy all the time.

God of the universe, please show me what I should do - next week or the week after?

Elusive

Who am I? I find myself searching for a grand purpose. I want to be a writer, but I don't write anything of consequence. I want to find a life partner, but I don't socialize. I want to have a six-pack, but I don't work out all that much. I feel lonely, but I don't reach out.

Where do I belong? I've withdrawn from social obligations because they were too taxing. I have a few close friends but rarely see them. I spend most of my time by myself. Lately, I've started watching Hallmark movies again, hours at a time. Escaping into a fairy tale numbs the pain of being alone, at least momentarily.

I spent the morning with a friend from college and was bored most of the time we were together. I felt my inward sadness weighing me down, keeping me from laughter and fun. I miss my outgoing self, the one who used to take such joy in people. I long for time by myself when I am with others but crave attention from those who understand and care.

What is the secret I am missing? Christians would say it's Jesus. Buddhists might say that I've grown too attached to worldly things, that I need to live more in the present moment.

I would love to know how Jesus is the answer to my problems. I would love to find the hidden element of happiness that seems so elusive in my life. If I busy myself doing nice things for other people, I fail to take care of myself. If I take care of myself, I feel empty and alone.

I wish I could find a way to like myself, to be content with who I am. As it is, life is overall a big disappointment. At the end of the day, I'm alone. I dislike myself; I disgust myself. I hate what I look like, I hate my selfish, retiring ways. I feel listless and bored, too lazy to go downstairs to my car and retrieve the book I forgot to bring up.

I fear social interaction. On days like today when I feel ugly as hell, I don't want to be seen. Going to the gym seems too much to ask. Am I really ready to re-enter the workforce? Am I really ready to face the eyes of countless people who judge me for being so ugly? Of course I know that's not what their intent is, but I am so judgmental of myself.

Friends sometimes tell me that I am beautiful, but I think they're just being nice. How could anyone think that a pimpled, hairy frump girl like me is beautiful? So I'm stuck in my adolescent body, except now I have more facial hair than some men. Too much estrogen, the lab results said.

What is wrong with me? I have so much to be grateful for, but all I want is affirmation. I want to be told over and over that I'm good enough so that I don't have to work at believing it. I want other people to build me up so that I don't have to think about what's really inside me.

How can I learn to like myself? I suppose that is my quest: how to cultivate love and gratefulness for myself, the kind of unwavering love that accepts imperfections and foibles. How does one learn to like oneself? I am flummoxed

I have a sneaking suspicion that if only I could unlock the secret of self-acceptance I could find peace with my spirituality too - peace with the God who made me and allowed painful things in my history, peace with the God who allows so much suffering in the world.

Where is self-acceptance? I search for it on YouTube, in books, in the Bible, in prayer. I search with longing for happiness, for a sense of well-being, a feeling of thriving, no matter what I'm doing or what I look like.

God of the universe, please answer and help me. Thank you for hearing me.

Blah

There are no words to describe the misery I feel today. Binge eating, feeling like an ugly man, missing church, feeling unlovable and lonely. I hardly spoke to anyone all day, and on the hike I went on I felt irritable toward everyone I saw.

Is this edginess a side effect of my new anxiety medicine, or is it just me being alone all the time?I am truly flummoxed. If only I could figure the faith thing out - everything else would make sense.

Diary of a depressed person.