I cannot tell you what tomorrow will look like. Whether you’ll find relief from the symptoms of a mental illness, or you’ll continue on in difficulty for the remainder of your days. I cannot tell you that it will get easier, or more difficult, or stay the same. I have so little to offer in terms of insight, as I’m very much still living with symptoms and so new to addressing them, that to tell you precisely what you ought to do would be unloving. I have at times experienced great healing, and at other times, much disappointment. I make a terrible tour guide, but I hope to be a decent travel companion.
And as someone travelling this road with you I would like to remind you that Jesus sees you and Jesus loves you.
He sees when you push through your anxiety with great difficulty so that you might maintain regular fellowship with the church, and when you’re depressed but still place your hope in His faithfulness, and when you strive to stay alive despite life’s difficulties, and when you pursue moderation in all things, and when you’re vulnerable with your friends and neighbors, and when you take time to relate with people who are experiencing what you’re experiencing, and when you lift your eyes to the heavens and say “Thank you!” when you may not have as much to be thankful for as others.
And He loves you.
He sees when you’ve succumbed to a depression bordering on faithlessness, or when you’ve been trapped in anxieties that keep you isolated from needed community, or when you’ve been tempted to take more than the recommended dose, or taken more than the recommended dose, or when you’ve numbed the pain with drugs and alcohol, or when you’ve said okay when you weren’t okay, or when you’ve shamed people for struggling with the same thing that you struggle with, or when you point your finger in the sky and say “Not fair!” though you are on the receiving end of tremendous grace and mercy.
And He loves you.
The same way he loved you yesterday, and loves you today, and will love you tomorrow.
Jesus loves us.