"Why Me?"?

As I reflect on these posts and, through the process of writing, on my thoughts and feelings regarding depression, I find that I don't ask, "Why me?"  Oh, my posts hold plenty of self-pity, don't get me wrong, even though my self-pity may not leap off the screen:  writing sympathetically rather than accusatorially about my illness implies a degree of self-pity, and that's a good thing.  Initially evaluated "Why me?" sounds like a self-pitying question:  "I hurt, so what did I do to deserve this?"  "Why am I the one in pain, and not all these smiling, happy people around me?" And though the question, rightfully so, does hold a healthy and necessary sympathy for oneself, it holds much more.

To whom is "Why me?" addressed?  Secondarily evaluated, "Why me?" sounds as if it is addressed to one's conversation partners, in this instance, from me to you, the readers of this blog.  Or when we get down and honest with our loved ones and allow ourselves to be fully vulnerable (something I rarely do), we ask them, "Why me," because we've run out of answers or our own answers do not satisfy, or we need corroboration of our answers from a second, interested party.  But whatever answers we get from our conversation partners, they will be deemed insufficient unless they address the real interlocutor, that One bigger than us all, whether that One is God or the Universe or Life itself.

Ultimately, "Why me" asks of the determining One the reasons for my suffering and, I might add, the reasons why other people do not suffer as I do.  Further, it implies that my suffering is unjust in comparison with people worse than I am who apparently, even though they're scoundrels, don't suffer at all.  "Why me," thus, is a question of justice and righteousness, a question demanding an answer from a God we consider just and righteous, or from a Life that has promised us that if we live right, work hard and play fair, we will succeed.  And in this sense, "Why me" includes a positive self-evaluation:  I don't deserve to suffer like this, I've done nothing to warrant this suffering, so why am I suffering?  So "Why me" is, finally, an unjustly suffering sufferer's demand for justice from some greater entity that purports to be fair.

It's tempting to give Vonnegut's absurdist, nihilistic but zen-like Tralfamadorian answer, "Why you, why me, why anyone?  The moment is structured so."  But I find his answer's attempt to bypass authority or intentionality fails in the notion of "structure."  And, actually, discussing Vonnegut at this point would do more, in my mind, to establish my literary hipness (though I'm actually poorly-read) than to get at an honest self-evaluation.  It's avoidance of tough issues, nothing more.  So forget this paragraph, if you will.

I do not ask "Why me" for a couple of reasons.  First, and perhaps foremost, I do not believe God creates each one of us intentionally.  Unlike Scripture's poetry, I do not believe God knit me together in my mother's womb, nor do I believe I am wondrously made (though I do wonder at the marvelous intricacy and uniqueness of each one of us).  I do not believe God made me a depressive, I do not believe that Life or the Universe conspired to create me as I am, I do not find any intention in my being depressed.  Rather, I think my depression is simply the way I am, resulting from a combination of genetic heritage and life experience, both of which are the result of this messy, disordered life we live rather than any intentionality whatsoever.  I'm a depressive because I turned out this way, that's it.

But that's superficial.  Actually, if I'm being really honest with myself, and this is getting down to the gritty, I suspect that I don't ask "Why me" because deep down I do think I deserve this.  Ironically, my thinking I deserve this is not due to a low self-image:  I have a high self-image, or at least hold extremely high expectations of myself.  I think I'm brilliant, competent, extremely talented, more so than most everyone I know.  I think I'm one of a kind, extremely rare, capable of excellence in diverse fields.  But I have screwed up in my life, sometimes royally.  I have hurt (so I imagine) everyone I love at one time or another, I have elevated myself over those with greater needs (even this blogging is, to me, a form of self-elevation).  I have squandered all these talents and capabilities, I have accomplished nothing with so much that I've been given, so "Why not me" is a more apt, a more just and righteous question.  If I were not depressed, then something would be dreadfully wrong with the world.

Lest you, dear reader, find this too disturbing, please know I do not stop with such a negative self-evaluation.  Though I come off as the pharisee who prays, "Thank you God that I'm not like that publican over there," I'm actually more like the publican:  though I cannot raise my eyes to heaven, I do pray, "Have mercy on me, a sinner."  Embracing forgiveness, though . . . that's the subject of another post.  Thank you for reading.