POEM: "Buried Alive"

On Prozac, valleys, and new songs.

Last weekend marked two years since I last popped a Prozac pill into my mouth and swallowed it. I know—this is a strange “anniversary” to celebrate. And to be honest, I hesitated even to bring it up.

For anyone who writes autobiographically—whether in essays, memoir, poetry, novels, or even songs—you know there is risk involved. In putting your own story out there, you are putting it at risk of criticism, disbelief, or (perhaps worse) disinterest. You are giving people who do not know you the chance to see intimate moments of your life and being. You are giving them the opportunity to make assumptions.

Of course, as I assume most of us believe, the benefits outweigh the risks. I often have to remind myself of what I hope for: that another person might see themselves in my story, might be encouraged by my story, might increase in compassion by knowing my story, might recognize the goodness of the Lord through my story (the most worthwhile possibility, by far).

The story of why and how I went off antidepressants is a story for another day. It is long. It is painful. And it is beautiful, too.

For now, I simply want to mark the occasion—even if only for myself—by reminding myself of where I’ve been. Sometimes when you think about the valleys you’ve been redeemed from while you’re basking in the marvelous light of high ground again, it’s easy to forget how harrowing those valleys were. You forget just how afraid you were. How unattainable hope often felt.

I don’t want to forget my valleys.

I cannot experience the fullness of God’s faithfulness to me if I forget my valleys.

The following poem is an ode to a Psalm I have closely identified with since I was a teenager. The muck and mire of Psalm 40 have always seemed like the perfect description for my experiences with depression. But even more—how I praise the Lord for the new song he has put in my mouth!

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Thank you for reading my poem, “Buried Alive.” I have provided the image below in an effort to preserve appropriate line breaks and spacing across both computer screens and mobile devices. Scroll down if you prefer to read the Plain Text Version.

BURIED ALIVE

Ode to Psalm 40

Summer begets fall
begets winter begets 
belief that change will
always come—begets  
hope of feet unstuck:
heaved from pit, dug
from mire’s sucking
grasp. Grime beneath
your nails, mud caked 
between your fingers—
you excavate my body.
When convinced tides
are ever-rising, you
turn my gaze to see
the moon, bloom air
into my lungs so I can
sing a new song.

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