Darkness Visible

No light; but rather darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all, but torture without end
Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed
With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed.

from Paradise Lost by John Milton

Depression had rushed in and sunk it's teeth into the softest part of me.  It wouldn't let me go.  I had to keep it a secret.  If word got out the "enemy" would use it against me.  Operation Plan B was formed.  I created a secret mission to find a doctor and get help with the depression.    First, I had to save up the money.  Each Sister was allowed between $20 and $30 dollars a month.  That money was to buy clothing, material to make clothing, personal supplies, like shampoo or toothpaste, and to pay for any trips to a restaurant or the movies.  Even though we had our room and board covered, we were on a pretty tight budget.   

Some of the supplies were available for purchase at the convent itself.  They were held in a small store room.  The shampoo and toothpaste were from the current era but the pantyhose, girdles and giant granny panties were not.  All the sisters in Formation knew we were supposed to pay for anything we took.  We also soon learned where the key was hidden.  Each and every one of us stole what we needed.  Clever enough to use an elaborate and very adaptive ethics, we viewed the surplus in the storeroom as community property.  As members of that community, we believed we had a right to take what we needed and not pay for it twice.  Despite our justification of our actions, we tended to hit the store room in small clusters.  One was always on the lookout for "Sister Trouble" whoever she might be.  There were always a handful of Sister Troubles roaming around.

It took a while to save up for an office visit.  Choosing a doctor located across town to avoid being easily spotted by any stray nuns, I made an appointment.   Covering my reason for needing to check out a car with some plausible excuse, I set off.  The doctor was young, female and very pregnant.  She wasn't Catholic but that didn't matter to me.  In fact, I preferred it.    Rationally, explaining that I was depressed, I attributed my depression to a personal history with the "black dog" and to career and lifestyle struggles.  I was eager to feel better so that I could make more objective decisions about my life and not "knee jerk" reactions.  Antidepressants had worked before and I was confident that they would work again.  She wrote out a prescription and insisted I come back for a follow-up appointment.  I quickly agreed.  No one knew outside of my two close friends.  They hated that it had come to this.  What was happening was crazy making.  I also knew that I had a natural tendency to interpret the world in a less than positive light.  Depression had bitten me before.   Churchill's "black dog" growled through clenched teeth.  It held me in his jaw and wouldn't let go.

Depression in this situation was probably a very sane response for a person in my position.  I'd watched my innocence die.   My trust in religious authority crashed and burned.  I'd entered the convent motivated by a desire for redemption.  In saving others, in sacrificing myself, I wanted to be redeemed.  Most importantly, I wanted to feel that redemption.

Life wasn't simple.  It wasn't the way I wanted it to be.  I wanted neat and tidy answers.  I wanted to know the right answer so I could crawl into it and wear it like a protective armor.  Underneath it all, the world terrified me.  I wanted to feel safe.  Fleeing an unjust and random world, I'd landed in one more unjust and random.  Facing the fact that I had no where to hide presented a great challenge.  To accept being trapped with my fear and anger no matter where I turned, opened the door to depression and I embraced it.  Depression was a filthy,wet dog, that felt familiar and presented an odd comfort.  The kind of comfort that only the familiar can.  Darkness surrounded me.  I clung to it like the rank nasty dog that it was.

During the difficult times, I've often had a mental image in my head.  In my mind, I am falling down a bottomless black well.  I am alone.  There is nothing to grasp.  The fall has no end.  I fall through "regions of sorrow."  Each one is worse than the last.  Past and present had collided.  I lay broken in their intersection.  I'd fought against the criticism, the cruelty, the mind games, the politics.  As hard as I tried not to be effected by it all, I was broken.  The child-like belief that doing the right thing would produce good results was destroyed.  Life didn't always play that way.  Shattered, defenseless, I struggled to carry on.  I was afraid of what life would bring next.  I was afraid to stay and I was terrified to leave.