Stuff I Talk About

by Christina Ledbetter

Food and Furniture: A Depression Story

One of depression’s lies goes like this: The way you feel now? That’s forever.  

Which is why, two years ago, amongst other things (formal dresses, lingerie, nail polish, a stripy beach tote) I got rid of my lasagna pan.  

Lasagna? Not for me. Not anymore, I decided, casting it into the donation pile with all the other items I deemed no longer necessary for my future of gloom. The funny part is, I totally didn’t feel like I was being dramatic. I legitimately assumed that I would never be happy enough FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE to cook a pan of lasagna.

Well dear readers, I’ll give you a spoiler alert: Though He was in absolutely no hurry, the Lord did, in fact, heal me from my depression.

Which is why I purchased a fancy new lasagna baking dish WITH A LID so I can not only cook lasagna, but carry it to neighbors’ houses and eat in the company of friends (yet another activity I never thought I’d do again).  

Speaking of company, I bought a new sofa.

See, while I thought my days of consuming cheese and pasta were behind me, I also assumed having a home filled with friends was something that would only exist in memory. So when Benson and I left Houston a couple years ago and moved into our wee cottage on this small plot of land, we arranged our living room with only two chairs. 

Months and months went by. Many nights I’d tense up like a knot in my chair, cloaked under my weighted blanket. I clocked a ton of hours of therapy. A year passed. I changed meds a dozen times, sometimes so keyed up under the influence of an ill-fitting pill that I sprinted the driveway under the light of the moon wondering if neighbors could hear my pants in the night. A year and a half. From my single seat I clung to the Word like a drowning person gasps for breath.

But eventually, my brain changed, and I started envisioning a living room filled with friends.  

We started slowly, propping guests on folding bar stools. I liked the way it felt to have my home filled again. I began searching for more seating. And I found it.  

Y’all, it’s gorgeous. It’s tiny and leather and squishy and makes me feel a little bit rich. Not loaded rich, but a little rich. Like just the right amount of rich.  

My fat lard of a cat, Funzer has already drooled on it, but I’m still in love with it and now just keep a blanket draped across the center where all his girth and spittle naturally land.  

I love it so much I want to provide tours: Here is my sofa and let me tell you how depressed I was and how I thought I’d never have friends over again. Then I’d make people sit on it and I’d be like, “Do you feel it? Do you feel that support? Solid wood frame!” Then I’d slap the armrest.  

It’s possible that you’re reading this and you’re depressed. First of all I am so sorry. I know how terrible it is.

But second of all, hold fast to the Lord . . . and keep your lasagna pan.  

Categories: This and That

5 replies

  1. Sadly, I threw out my lasagna pan for the same reason as you. I have not found the desire to replace it but am so hopeful I will one day feel what you are feeling now. By the way, your sofa is gorgeous!

  2. Me in reverse. I never got rid of anything. I basically thought that this would be the only lasagna pan that I would ever, ever be able to have. If I get rid of it – even though it has been noodleless for years – I would never be able to have another.

  3. GOD IS SOOOO GOOOD!!!! I love your sofa. Can’t wait to sit on it soon. You are such an encouragement for others. Keep those stories coming. You are so talented my sweet niece. Love you

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