Confessions

“The medicine will never fix you. Some people never change.”

I tossed the pill into my mouth, chugged some water, and went about my business. Those words reverberated in my head.

Just a week before, I was verbally rummaging through my anxiety about antidepressants with her. This wasn’t something I was taking lightly. I remember what she said that day. “If the medicine is what you think will help you get better, I support you.” I guess that’s what makes her statement a week later so jarring. I never spoke to her again after that, but her words have been speaking to me for 8 years.

I know now what she said wasn’t true. A small part of me knew it then. But I’d be remiss to say that I couldn’t shake the question: what if she was right?

A Spiritual Failure?

I had been taught that Jesus was the answer to everything. Naturally, antidepressants felt like a failure. I had never really (knowingly) struggled with depression or anxiety, but was convinced that medicine wasn’t a real option. It wasn’t as though somebody outright came out and said: “Antidepressants are sinful”. The idea was hard-baked into my theology. If you were a good enough Christian, you wouldn’t need the medicine to begin with.

It isn’t as prominent as it used to be, but the idea that Christian’s should only ever be happy still exists. The idea comes from passages in the Bible like, “Rejoice in the Lord always…” (Philippians 4:4, emphasis added) or “Do not be anxious for anything” (Philippians 4:6). These are powerful verses, but they’re often misapplied to mean we should never be sad or consistently struggling. The existence of these things in your life means you’re not living the right way.

Every pill reminded me of what she said. Every refill was an indictment of my faith, or lack thereof. Unfortunately, the medicine didn’t even seem to be working. No matter how many pills I took, or counseling sessions I went to, those damning voices never quit. The sorrow in the pit of my chest bored deeper and deeper. The lows got lower. The spiraling never ended.

Her words were like a thief in the attic. They’d steadily creep through my mind at night, poking into places they didn’t belong. I desperately wanted her to be wrong, but nothing was proving that.

A Walking Contradiction

It was laughable, then, that I continued taking communion. If you’re not familiar, communion is the practice of remembering Jesus’ death on the cross and his resurrection. In it, we take a cracker that represents the broken body of Jesus, and we eat it. We then take a cup of grape juice, or wine depending on your denomination, and drink it. This symbolizes the blood of Jesus shed for our sins. All of it declares our desperate need for Jesus to save us, and his power to do so. More so, it’s a ceremony of praise and gratitude that he did save us.

The juxtaposition of Effexor and the communion elements sharing space in my stomach was striking. It was like I couldn’t take one with the other. I was declaring Jesus’ power one moment, but depending on a drug the next. I felt like I was a walking contradiction.

Contrary to what I believed, though, I don’t think it ever bothered Jesus once.

A Perspective Change

I’ve come to realize that my friend was half right. The medicine would never fix me. It was never meant to. It couldn’t do the hard work of changing beliefs, habits, or thought processes. Only me and Jesus could do that.

On the flip side, the medicine wasn’t demonic. It wasn’t ungodly. It didn’t represent a lack of faith. If anything, it was one of the greatest steps of faith I took for myself to find healing. Talking with my doctor was a sign of strength in admitting I wasn’t ok, and I needed help.

My perspective changed when those voices quit talking at me. What once was a choir of shame and condemnation turned to a steady whisper of love and mercy.

Those antidepressants, over time and with the right medical guidance, quieted the raging storm. In that quietness, I finally heard the loving voice of my Savior. He had never left me. He wasn’t mad at me for taking medicine. He wasn’t ignoring me on account of my failures. He had been there all along. In all my fears of my prescription making me unreachable, Jesus was doing the opposite. He was using them to find me.

He can use it to find you too.

You’re Not Unreachable

There’s nothing wrong with being on antidepressants. You’re not more broken than anyone else. You’re not lesser than. Jesus doesn’t see you, your prescriptions, and choose to walk toward someone else with “more faith”. Whether you’re on them, or off of them, your value as a human being never fluctuates.

Christian culture has a way of creating dichotomies where Jesus never did. It’s frustrating. It’s human. That’s why I want to tell you something important. There doesn’t need to be a separation between the medical and the spiritual.

No one ever bats an eye when you tell them you’re taking a prescription for a bum knee or a bad heart. Why do we flinch when the term antidepressant gets involved?

It’s silly. Take it from someone who has lived on both sides of the track. You’re still loved despite what pill sits on your shelf. You’re not abnormal. Communion and antidepressants can co-exist. Jesus still loves you. He still wants you.

Lastly, you’re not alone. Keep taking the steps you need to take in order to make it another day. This big, beautiful, broken world needs you in it. Jesus wants you in it, and he’ll use whatever he can to keep you in it. On the flip side, evil will do everything it can to convince you to remove yourself from it.

So, can you love Jesus and take antidepressants? Yes. The better question is this: Can you be loved by Jesus and take antidepressants?

Yes.

You are loved.

You are valued.

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

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