Fr. Anthony Keefe

I have a shocking confession to make: I am a congenital depressive. I am a little hazy about the exact medical details, but as far as I can understand it, I was born with a low level of the chemical Serotonin, which leaves me liable to occasional plunges into the depths of black depression. Looking back, I now recognise that I have suffered these attacks at least since the age of 15. But my condition wasn't diagnosed until my mid-40's. That was when, by the grace of God, I met Sister Eileen. Sr Eileen is a member of the congregation of Our Lady of the Apostles, but she is also Dr Healey a consultant psychiatrist. It came as a shock when she mentioned her medical status. And when on my second visit she said, "I want you to go to your GP and ask him to refer you to me” I thought, “Not on your nelly, I’m not mad, I am not going to be referred to any psychiatrist."

Silly, isn't it? But psychological illness carries that sort of stigma. We may bravely admit to any number of physical complaints but the very thought of mental illness sends us into denial. Yet a high proportion of the population - I don't know the exact percentage, suffers from some kind of mental illness at one time or another. In my own case, my resolve (which delayed my treatment) lasted a couple of weeks, at the end of which I was so close to despair that I would have done anything to be rid of this burden of agony which filled my every waking moment with indescribable horror.

The experience of depression differs from one person to another. In my own case, there is weight on my mind and my limbs, which feels almost physical. To remain in one place is unbearable, yet movement is also agony. I crave company but when other people are around I long to crawl into a comer and hide. Above all, I wish with every fibre of my being for non-existence. The depressive knows precisely why Job, in the Old Testament, cursed the day of his birth. When I was at my worst, just three considerations keep me from committing suicide. Firstly there was the distress, which this would cause my parents, both now gone to their eternal reward. Secondly, concern about the potential for scandal in a priest killing himself. Thirdly, the conviction, to which I clung by my fingertips, that somewhere in the heart of darkness, was God. Even here He had some purpose for me.

Eventually, with medical help (which I most certainly needed) I emerged from the depths though the journey was long and painstaking. For a third time in a dozen years I had to leave the situation in which I had been working and make the gradual return to full-time ministry in a new posting. I hope and pray that I never plunge in the depths of depression again, yet I can honestly say that I do not regret having been through it. I think that it has made me a better person, a better Christian, a better priest. It has given me a much deeper understanding of, and compassion for others who suffer. It has increased my ability to offer them love and support. Most importantly, in its small and messy way, it has given me a share in the suffering of Christ, a suffering, which is always redemptive. In difficult times I am constantly encouraged by the words of St. Paul to the Colossians: "I rejoice now in my sufferings on your behalf, and I make up in my own flesh what is still to be undergone in the sufferings of Christ for the sake of His body, which is the Church" (Col 1:24).

So why have I written all this down? Why have I bared my soul in this way? I hope that it may encourage others who suffer from depression or other psychological afflictions, to whom I say "You are not peculiar; there is nothing to be ashamed of in depression; and you are not alone. There is medical help available, which can make a huge difference to your life. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the suffering Christ is with you in your darkness, and He will bring good even out of the depths of your pain." “Mary, comforter of the afflicted, pray for us and for all who suffer in mind, body, or spirit.