In 1982, I set foot on the land of America for the first time. I experienced quite a few culture shocks as a child.
Americans shower in the morning.
Americans fill their shopping carts to the brim with foods in cardboard boxes.
American girls don’t have reddish, mosquito bites on their legs.
There was another shock. While the Chinese seek mostly peace, the Americans seem to have an insatiable appetite for happiness. When I took American History in 10th grade, I read about the inalienable rights in the Declaration of Independence.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with inherent and inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
I knew the meaning of “alien” because that was what it said on my green card. So for an alien to receive inalienable rights, it was quite a stretch, and I was grateful, truly. However, I couldn’t quite understand how Americans could be so brash that they would declare with a bullhorn that their purpose in life was to be happy. It sounded heathen, carnal, and outright self-centered. I was caught in between my Chinese heritage and the new-found Christian faith – both have deep-rooted beliefs in long-suffering and sacrifice. As I saw life through the lens of tradition, seeking happiness was like asking for recreational drugs. Virtuous people shouldn’t pursue happiness, I thought.
We were taught in church that it’s JOY that we needed, not happiness. Joy is deep and long-lasting while happiness is shallow and temporal. If so, why didn’t Thomas Jefferson use the term, the pursuit of JOY, instead? Wasn’t he a self-proclaimed Christian? I am sure he chose each word carefully to convey meanings that would leave no room for debates and misinterpretation.
I wasn’t sure if I was a happy child. As a kid, I didn’t smile much, if at all. Once I overheard someone say to my mom, “Your daughter looks so glum all the time.” (In Chinese, the expression used was 木纳) A few times in my young adulthood, friends would often ask me if I was mad or something.
“What? I am not mad at all! I am actually quite…happy.” I’d defend myself.
“Then obviously, you didn’t tell it to your face.”
I used to think Christians were a bunch of happy people. When I attended a church in Taipei, I saw happy faces in the greeters, ushers, worship leaders, pastors, their wives, and the youth group leaders. As glum as I was, I finally caught on with the rest of the flock. I clapped and skipped from side to side, bellowing out songs that lifted my youthful spirit. I smiled and I felt happy.
Years later, I began to see beyond the happy façade of the Christian communities. I met and witnessed believers that were troubled and unhappy. What happened to the living water that bubbled up from inside of them? They sang about it in church. It seems such an outward display of sadness would an embarrassment to the church. “How can you be sad when Jesus paid for your sin? Be grateful and cheer up! Happiness is a choice!” We were taught to often think about our heavenly home… and supposedly, it should make us revel in inexplicable joy?
Once I was surprised by something I heard on a Christian radio station. The speaker said that it’s normal for leaders that serve in churches to feel depleted and depressed after a Sunday service. Why? He explained, “After giving so much of themselves mentally, physically, and emotionally to the people, the ministers and worship leaders would have no more emotions left.” Therefore feeling blah is expected.
Wow, someone was telling the truth. Yet, I don’t want to accept that for anyone. It’s obvious that these people were overworked and burning out. This is not a church of a living God, but an institution of joyless servitude!
When my youngest was only a few months old, I experienced something strange and foreign to me. I felt very out of sorts. I felt I was trapped in a mental fog. I felt sad and wanted to tear up for no reason. I was unmotivated to do anything. I am a caffeine addict, but I couldn’t be tempted by that cup of java. I love to read, but I had no desire to pick up any books. Yet, life didn’t stop just because I felt that way. I was too ashamed to tell it to anyone. I decided that I could just act like I was normal. It turned out I was pretty good at it. I entertained, cooked, dined, shopped, and even laughed with my family and house guests. No one could tell I was feeling so numb and blah on the inside.
One thing I made myself do daily was worship. I turned on uplifting, emotionally-charged worship music and I sang. I would find some relief, however brief. Then one day at a time, I managed to function to the best of my ability. After two weeks of such living hell, I found my lost soul one morning. I didn’t know how that happened. I felt I could finally breathe. I was feeling like myself again. The dense, thick, and the oppressively dark fog lifted; all the normal, positive emotions came back to me.
The idea that someone as sanguine as I would fall into depression was very disorienting, not to mention embarrassing. Yet, I felt it was what I needed in order to understand the pain and helpless nature of the mental illness. Those that suffer from depression cannot make decisions a non-depressed person can. Their emotions are hijacked by a force that is neither spiritual nor physical – it’s both. Depression is not a spiritual problem and it’s cruel and thoughtless to say depressed people can simply pray their way out of the dark hole.
You may read the next installment here.