
One of my colleagues at the University of Montana did a presentation last summer about what it is like to live with and love someone with depression.
It was an incredibly moving and affecting presentation. Afterward, I told her that I related to her story deeply. I offered her my Al-anon mantra: "I didn't cause it, I can't cure it, I can't control it."
But I'm at a point right now, especially after the past three very difficult days of walking besides Joe's deepening depression, where I'm starting to second guess whether I believe that anymore. Unless you are heartless, it's darn near impossible not to take on at least some of the burden when the person next to you is carrying a bag of boulders. It's difficult to believe you are not, in some part, responsible for the weight.
I try to hold on to the idea that it is important to allow Joe his own experience, to keep ego and my desire to "fix" his sorrow in check. That is, as my Al-anon sponsor reminds me, to stay the heck out of his business. His burden is not mine to carry. My job is only to love. I wan to scream at my sponsor "THAT'S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY!"
I don't, of course, because I know it's not easy for him to say. He's had to sit back and allow a deeply beloved to find his own solutions knowing that is the only way solutions stick. You can't will or advice or direct someone out of depression any easier than you can get out of depression. The bottoms we are hit are with purpose -- they are the only way sometimes to see the way up and out.
Still, on the toughest days, today being one of them, I begin to wonder if I am not, in fact, the cause of Joe's darkness and paralysis. I wonder not just whether I should continue on this Camino alone, but whether, in the bigger picture, if I am the one holding him back from happiness. That is, whether he would be better off without me. It sounds like the same thing, but it's not. In times of strife I've certainly pondered whether I'd be better off without Joe. But, it has never occurred to me that he might be better off without me. How much ego is that?
I wanted this walk to be journey into myself, an invitation to listen inwardly and honestly. I don't know what Joe is hearing. I don't know if he can hear anything the road has to tell him in his current daze.
But the Road keeps calling out to me, every day.
"Keep walking," it says. "Keep listening."
It assures me that more will be revealed. That all will be well.
I need only walk, carry my own backpack, and do my best to support the pilgrim beside me without shouldering his bag and without feeling guilty that I cannot.
So much easier said than done.
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