Chapter 67, Theology [November 2005]

John occasionally falls into a deep depression, whereupon teachers, counselors, and psychologists are quick to render a diagnosis.  "Depression can mask itself in so many ways.  Treat the depression, and the other symptoms will abate."  But they're wrong.  John's depression is situational, not clinical.  He isn't depressed because of an intrinsic chemical imbalance, he's depressed because he couldn't control his actions that day, and now he's in trouble, and he has hurt the ones he loves.  Hey, that would depress the crap out of anyone!  Sometimes I think these psychologists don't have a clue.

On his worst days, when the chemicals are finally leaving his system, and he reflects upon his actions and their consequences, he sometimes talks about suicide.  He has done so almost since he came to our house at age 6.  But the next day he has a positive attitude, and is ready to play with friends or enjoy a family outing.  I have never, never, seen a child with more resilience.  Naturally we watch him closely while he has his dark thoughts.  My brother committed suicide when I was a teen-ager, so I am certainly aware of the issues and the ramifications, but I also know John's feelings are a natural response to a truly rotten day in a long line of rotten days, and if we can string a few good days together he'll feel better again.  He doesn't need an antidepressant, and it wouldn't help in any case.  He needs me to solve his underlying problem, and soon!

One day, after a bad episode at school and another one at home, John offered his analysis of death.  "Death is peaceful, like closing your eyes, like when you go to sleep.  There aren't any angels, or devils.  There is no God.  It's all a myth.  It's just peaceful."

I have been careful to hide my atheism from my children, because I don't think young kids can handle mortality, any more than you would tell a 2 year old there is no Santa Clause.  So he didn't get these thoughts from me.  In fact, he and his sisters go to church on Sunday morning, and group on Sunday evening, when they want to, and when John's condition makes it possible.  I have allowed others to tell him all about God, and angels, and heaven, without revealing my feelings on the subject.  Yet somehow he has figured it out, a good ten years before I did.  Why?

1. He's smart, and he knows I don't force him to go to church the way other parents do.  It is not a priority for me.  If I believed, it would surely be a priority - it would have to be a priority.  Perhaps he has figured this out at a subconscious level.  And if I don't believe, why should he?

2. I selected a church that is not absolute in its thinking.  If you want to believe in God in some other way, you aren't necessarily going to hell.  That is quite different from the way I was raised.  My emotional straight jacket was much tighter, bound with the fetters of fear.  It is easier to wiggle out of a "wimpy" religion.

3. Unlike most Americans, John's life has been crap for 13 years.  It's hard to place this along side a just and merciful God.

4. Finally, John was probably neglected, to some degree, as an infant.  There is good reason to believe that a healthy parent/infant experience <primes the individual> for an Abrahamic religion later in life.

None of this has much to do with his disorder or our ongoing attempts to treat it, but I thought it was interesting.