Where’s the shame?

Maybe one day I’ll get used to all the ins and outs of making this blog look cool. So far, I have to rely on Donnie for everything because I am THAT pathetically technologically challenged. But, look! My dear darling hubby came through for me again and posted (in moments, mind you) the picture I struggled to post for, oh, half an hour or so last night. You ladies can keep your football jocks and stud muffins…I’ll take my sweet computer geek over them any day!

I do some of my best thinking while washing dishes. (Or rather, while loading the dishwasher. I don’t hand-wash dishes unless…well…not ever, really! If I can figure out a way to shove it into the machine, in it goes!)

Due to certain things that have transpired over the past week, tonight I was wondering why, in this age of readily available psychological help–and really good medications!– that anyone would choose misery over healing.

They say that misery loves company. I don’t know about that. I can think of more than one miserable person at the moment, and for the most part, these people are hermits. Their isolation feeds their misery, and their negativity and complaints ooze forth like putrid, dark green mucus dripping infection over those unfortunate enough to stumble into their virulent path.

I just don’t get it. Where is the shame in seeking treatment? I have gone to counseling and taken antidepressants when I’ve needed it, and I am not ashamed to say so. To be on the other side, and see the difference, to see how the fog of depression can be lifted and suddenly the birds are chirping and the skies are blue again…man, how can you choose misery? I mean, how?

I guess if you’ve never seen the blue skies, if you’ve never noticed the birds’ song, if you’ve never allowed yourself to enjoy life, then maybe you honestly don’t know that things can be better?

I’m just trying to figure this out. How does a person continually deny that a problem exists when every other person they know eventually ends up vanishing because they just can’t bear to be around them any longer? How can a parent, responsible for innocent children, just keep screwing things up for these little people who have no choice in the matter?

I want to be sympathetic. I want to be compassionate. I want to spread, as my wonderful pastor and teacher, Paul says, grace and peace wherever I go. And yet the very depth of my being, the part of me that bristles at injustice and wants to fight for the underdog, it becomes so angry I cannot see.

Too bad we can’t hog-tie the miserable people we know, drag them to an inpatient center, and force-feed them antidepressants until they can see the fog begin to lift. And then, maybe then, if they had a taste of that loveliness, they would want to pursue healing for themselves.

Alas, we all come with that wonderful, terrible gift called a free will. It’s just so hard to watch someone exercise that free will to make themselves and everyone around them miserable. And then when they drag innocent children along for the ride…it’s just inexcusable to stubbornly refuse help when it is so easy to get.