There are so many, many books that discuss the question of why on earth bad things happen to good people (or its converse: why do good things happen to bad people?), and normally, I don't think I'd even attempt to tackle this one. I don't consider myself nearly qualified to try and answer a question that so many have wrestled with for so many years, but for my own sake, I'm going to take a stab at working through my own thoughts about it.
When I was seventeen years old, I went to Costa Rica with a church group. It was my second time in the country, and I was absolutely ecstatic to be there. I couldn't wait for hugs from my Costa Rican friends, sand between my toes, and the chubby cheeks of the kids at the bible camp we would be helping with. After a red eye flight into San Jose, I was starting to fade, both physically and emotionally. I felt strange, and I thought that if I could only get some sleep, I'd be back to my chipper self in the morning. That's not what happened.
Instead of feeling better, I felt worse. Bizarre thoughts kept running through my mind, I became scared of friends, and early in the morning, when I would wake up and lie in my sleeping bag staring up at the concrete ceiling of the classroom I slept in, panic would overtake me. I didn't know what was going on; the only explanation for the strange horror I was living was some sort of possession, but even that didn't make sense to me. I prayed, I cried, I curled up into balls on the floor, and I begged G-d to get rid of whatever it was that was going on with me. He didn't. I'd gone from confident, headstrong teenager to a hopeless, shaking huddle of a person in a matter of days. I felt a part of some strange, evil reality that no one else could see or feel. I no longer believed in any sort of god.
Fast forward two weeks. My pastor's wife was sitting next to me on the beach while I tried to suppress my despairing thoughts, clear my head. She asked that dreaded question, the one that everyone had been asking everyone else all week:
"What's G-d been doing in your life this trip, Emily?"
"I don't know. I don't think I believe in him."
Allison was silent. After a moment, she asked me what I meant, I think.
"I feel weird. I wake up every morning, and I just lie there and cry. I think there's something wrong with me."
It was like a flash that I still remember when Allison sat bolt upright, looked me full in the face, and demanded to know what medications I was taking. I told her that I'd been prescribed an anti-malaria pill for the trip, and she nearly jumped at me as she blurted out, "Stop, don't take it anymore!" I heeded her advice immediately, and we left for home a couple of days later. Of those days following our return, I don't remember a lot, but I certainly remember the year after.
The psychosis subsided, but it left in its place a houseguest: depression. Sometime that following August, I ended up in the emergency room, afraid that I was a threat to my own safety. The doctors told me that I'd had an adverse reaction to the anti-malaria medicines and that my mind had learned the patterns of depression; they prescribed me an antidepressant. It worked for awhile, but everything seemed to turn grey and lifeless. I felt numb going through each day. Over the course of that next year, they would change my medication three more times, finally landing on a prescription that clicked with my body chemistry. I am on that medication to this day.
I still struggle with depression. It doesn't rear its ugly head every single day, nor do I feel like each minute is an agony, but there is definitely a shadow that follows. I don't know how many times I have asked G-d, "Why? Why did this happen to me?" I have begged Him to change things, but four years later, my depression has not been conquered. I'd always thought I was an okay person; why, then, was this happening to me?
Here's my answer:
I am 21 years old now. I am converting to Judaism, and I can honestly say that my faith, though tested, was ultimately intensely strengthened during these last four years of struggle. It's almost as if pain is some sort of megaphone, getting my attention. When I hit that hard, rockbottom, I am forced to look up. I don't believe that without my depression I would be where I am today, and I can honestly say in my heart of hearts that, although it's been difficult, I am thankful that I was entrusted with this burden. It has opened my heart to others dealing with mental illness; it has made me more compassionate; it has made a better listener; most of all, it has caused me to learn to trust my G-d, even when I can't see what He is doing.
That, I think, is why bad things happen to good people.
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