I’ve never been overly disturbed with the death of a loved one. No, it’s not because of religion. It’s because of the finality of it all. I find that quite reassuring for some reason. It’s the not-knowing that kills me.
My husband called to see if I was cutting because of the loss of our child. It seemed an easy connection for him to make. She gets depressed. She cuts. Well, I haven’t been. But his asking makes me ask myself, why not? What should make this any less depressing than the demons I battled this year. Than the loss I suffered that seems so insignificant next to this. Shouldn’t it be even more depressing? Am I not depressed enough? Am I still in denial? Shouldn’t I be losing it even a little more?
My faith is really all that has taken the hit. I snapped at my niece who tried to comfort me with “We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.” I cringe when someone wants to pray with me. Do they think I haven’t prayed? Do they think that prayer would have or will change things? I mean, mine didn’t change anything. Why keep praying then? It all seems quite futile.
And maybe that’s where my depression takes hold of me. In my faith or lack thereof. If I wasn’t worried about rocking his boat, I’d tell him straight out that he was right. Faith is childish and I need to let it go. But then again, maybe this is my childish attempt to force God’s hand to action.