Self-Loathing

As I read back over these posts on depression, I begin to suspect that I'm not the most objective observer of my own life.  Rather than a fair, balanced, even-handed description of my depression, I notice places where I give a less-than-honest, unflattering depiction of my illness.  For instance, when I write that my retrospective posture is a matter of choice, I imply criticism that I have not chosen a forward-looking posture, when in actuality grieving is an almost autonomous process that is rarely a matter of personal choice.  Though I've tried to write honestly, I sense some degree of self-loathing creeping into my descriptions.

Being suicidal implies self-loathing.  Though this is not true for many people, I suspect, my depression includes a degree of self-loathing, not just in terms of "I wish I was not this way" but in terms of "It's your fault for being this way" and "You should not be depressed, why don't you fix it."  There's an accusation, you see, that this is my fault in some way, that I'm to blame not just for being depressed, but for letting depression go on for these thirty years or so, that if I were a better person I'd straighten up and fly right, I'd end the pity party and get on with living the last half of my life.

Now, on an intellectual level, I understand that self-loathing is simply one of many facets of depression, that just like depression self-loathing does not truly express who I am, my capabilities, contributions, etc.  Like depression, self-loathing is not rational, so, whereas rationally, intentionally thinking differently can relieve me of feelings of self-loathing, rationality tends to be ineffectual in combating the effects of self-loathing.  Without constant attention, the primary effect of self-loathing - self-denigration (a milder cousin to self-destruction) - creeps into many areas of my life.

For instance, I've been a minister now for sixteen years.  The first nine of these sixteen years, I was a full-time, solo pastor, which means I preached about forty-six Sundays of the year.  During my first year in the pastorate, I tried writing out my sermons, but found that I was unable to write the way I wanted to preach:  rather than writing in a warm, accessible, conversational tone, I wrote in my academic, scholastic voice, which I did not find effective in preaching.  So after that first year, I began writing just the outline to my sermons so that I could fill in the details in a conversational manner.  These outlines were hand-written on small, five by seven note pads.  Rarely did I keep an outline after I had preached it.

I remember clearly when I stopped writing even outlines:  about four months into my second pastorate, during a sermon on the Spirit's coming on the first Sunday of Advent (that would be 1999), I left both the pulpit and my outline behind and preached from memory.  On the one hand, you see, I became a much more dynamic preacher because of this move, so I don't regret it too much.  On the other hand, I no longer wrote outlines; instead, I committed my sermon outline to memory then filled in the details during preaching.  And that means that I have no copies of all those sermons, even the most recent one I preached:  like champaign glasses smashed in the fireplace after a toast (I flatter myself), my sermons were singular events, one-time experiences impermanent as a mayfly.  Though I do have some digital recordings, I find myself regretting that I have no record of all that work.

I could describe the same tendency in my scholarship, how early on in college I stopped taking notes in class, imagining myself smart enough to remember all the details.  Or how I didn't keep papers I wrote or tests I took, telling myself that these were the works of an amateur, and that I would revisit these subjects later on when I was more competent, a practice I continued, get this, through my doctoral thesis.  Same for all the hours of scholarship I accomplished in the practice of preaching, all those insights on Scripture, those particularly "Jeff" readings and interpretations, I've always denigrated in favor of some future work when I'll be truly competent.  I could die today, and Nancy and Ian and Alexa sorting through my effects would find it difficult to convince a stranger that I've actually preached for sixteen years, nine of those full-time:  there's simply no corroborating evidence, aside from personal testimonies.

Again, harking back to my initial post on depression, some would this behavior as arrogance ("He thinks he's too smart to take notes"), but I see it as self-loathing ("I'm no scholar" or "My notes are junk").  And while I am having success therapeutically countering feelings of self-loathing, I have hardly begun to counter the effects of self-loathing, the many obvious and subtle ways I undermine myself, my gifts and my ambitions (I don't sing, I don't preach, I don't lead, I don't perform, I don't do anything but sit up on the mountain and stew).  For thirty years now, I've contorted myself to place my foot on my neck and grind my face in the dirt (self-loathing, you see).  This is neither rational nor sane, and I want to stop.  Thank you for reading.