Gutted: a Eulogy

“There is no passion to be found playing small — in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.” — Nelson Mandela

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to write a eulogy for myself.

My coworkers and I are in the middle of a leadership-based training program, and our homework for the last session was to write a eulogy for ourselves. The point was, of course, to figure out what kind of person we want to have become by the time our days on Earth are through.

Naturally, I balked. Not because I’m ornery (though I am), or because it was an emotionally draining task (though it was), but because asking a depressive person to write a eulogy for themselves is not unlike asking a recovering cocaine addict to sit still in a room full of blow.

What I did instead was write a letter to myself and to my loved ones about the changes I would make today in order to become the person I want to be by the time I have reached the proverbial end of the road.

And it made me think.

A lot.

It made me think more deeply about what I can do, practically, today. Right now. To become better, stronger, more independent, more reliable, and more stable. Both for myself and for my loved ones.

Recently, I’ve been struggling a lot with seasonal depression, on top of my already depressive tendencies, and it has officially taken its toll on me, as well as those I hold dear. Again. See, what depression does (especially seasonal depression, I think), is it makes you reflect on the past. It makes you dwell on that which you cannot change. Things you have no control over anymore (and things you never had control over in the first place).

It makes you introspective. It creeps inside your self-confidence, your self-esteem, your self-worth, and it picks each one apart, piece by piece. Sometimes you don’t notice it until you step on one of the pieces, cut your foot, and suddenly you’re bleeding and you realize you need a band-aid.

But a band-aid is a short term fix. What you really need to do is pick up the pieces so you don’t get hurt again.

As is my pattern and cycle of behavior, I knew the truth of this, but it took a slap-in-the-face wake-up call in order for me to take the bull by the horns, process it, and decide what to do about it. Sure, I have moments of epiphany between these major events, and I know what needs to happen, but I do nothing about it because I think the realization is enough.

But the realization isn’t enough. Simply writing the eulogy isn’t enough.

It never is.

Because every time, I end up right back where I started.

It’s a broken cycle.

Lasting change begins with a daily decision, especially for folks suffering from depression. It’s why I’ve named this blog “Choosing Joy” — because change is a choice. And as someone recently pointed out to me, again, we’ve only got this one life we’ve been given. We are stewards of time that is not our own. It’s up to us to use it well.

When it comes to making big decisions, I’ve always used the same set of questions. They go like this:

“If I don’t do _____ today, will I regret not doing it when tomorrow comes?”
“If I don’t do _____ today, will I regret not doing it a year from now?”
“If I don’t do _____ today, will I regret it ten years from now?”

They’re fine questions. The problem with them, though, is that they are regrets-based (i.e. negative), not change-based (i.e. positive). Simply put, they are rooted in unhappiness.

And the eulogy made me ask myself about change.

I’m tired of the cycle. I’m tired of myself. I’m tired of the hurt, of the brokenness. For me, this is it.

What is it I want to have done, not ten years down the road, or a year from now, or even tomorrow, but what can I do today?

Who can I become — today?

“To my parents, thank you for everything you’ve done and continue to do for me. I don’t say thank you enough, and for that, I am sorry. I am sorry about a lot. From here on out, I will be honest and authentic; I will try my best to be considerate and kind. I will listen. I will try harder. I will try not to disappoint you ever again. You taught me how to pray. You taught me how to read. I want you to know that you are loved.

To my love, I’ve been a pain. I know. You have been patient in my brokenness. From here on out, I will be open and unafraid to communicate. I will be real. I will be kind and considerate and you will know you are loved. I will not be perfect, but I will try my best to be, though I know you don’t ask for it. And one day, I will appreciate that you don’t ask for perfection. I will do the same. I’m sorry I haven’t done that for you recently. But I will heal. I will choose to heal and be better.”

I’m done with the short term band-aid fixes. I need to pick up the pieces.

I wrote these letters (and another one, not pictured, to my siblings) the Friday before Thanksgiving.

And yet again, the realization was not enough. Because this past Sunday, the cycle began again.

I failed.

Hard.

Wake-up call.

On Monday, I picked myself up. Therapy was one of the pieces I’d let fall. So I called my therapist, spilled my guts, and told her how much I’m struggling. I have a tendency to hold back and pretend that things aren’t as bad as they are — a behavior I learned while masking depression — but when I heard her voice, I let it out. I admitted that it was time for her to take away the crutches, that I wanted her to challenge me to walk without them.

To walk without blaming others. To walk without vices. To walk on my own two legs and take responsibility for my journey. To not settle for brokenness, but strive for health and stability.

She said, “Well, we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Heavily, I said, “I know.”

And for me, saying those two words was the first step. Admitting there are things about myself that I know need to change, is one of the single most difficult things for me to do. But I did. Because I want to be better. For me, and for the people I love.

We set up a weekly routine to get me back into the process of healing.

Because that’s what change is: a process.

Like exercise.

People don’t get in shape by running once.

Change is daily exercise. It’s a journey. And journeys begin with a single step.

They begin with the steps we take today.

The choices we make.

Today.