Driving through rural Alabama to a funeral recently, I saw a rare and really cool sight. A cropduster was plunging down toward a cotton field, spraying it with what I can only guess was some sort of herbicide. The deft pilot would swoop down just above the power lines, buzz the field and spray the crops, and then lift high into the air to avoid the tree line at the other end of the field. It got me to thinking. That’s what psychiatrists must feel like. They don’t fly planes to treat their patients, but they must play a precarious game with the fragile mental health of patients like me who suffer from depression. It takes just the right balance and adjustments to keep our medications right.

You can’t put a price on good mental health. I might go broke, but that’s better than the misery of full-blown depression.

Depression is an illness. It is not a sin. Some well-meaning Christians who have never experienced depression might tell us otherwise. They might tell us we’ll feel better if we just have more faith. They might even tell us that God has the power to heal our depression, so antidepressants aren’t necessary. That is a dangerous and shallow view of mental illness.

Scientists say that our thoughts control our feelings. So does that mean that our negative thoughts can actually spiral out of control into full-blown depression? Dr. David Burns says so in his book,”Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapy.” I found out about this book from my psychiatrist, who “prescribed” it to me for depression. They call it “bibliotherapy.”

The curtains are drawn, blocking the mid-day sun on what should be a normal work day. I’m lying in bed now, covers pulled tightly to my chest. The bed has become my haven. My mind races with terrible thoughts. I’m not sure I can do this. My stomach churns with anxiety, my eyes well up, but there are no tears. They won’t come.

Hi, my name is Jack, and I suffer from depression. I was first diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder about seven years ago, but I’ve been waging war on this brain disease for a long time. And it is a disease. It is not a character flaw. It is not an excuse for my shortcomings. It is not a spiritual defect. It is not a case of the occasional blues. It is real, and it is painful — physically painful. It is maddening and it can be gut wrenching. It is an illness just as diabetes is an illness. I call it a war because war is hell, and so is clinical depression.