Growing up with a parent struggling with depression was my version of normal. I didn’t recognize it as anything out of the ordinary. I assumed that every parent shed tears at night, that mothers often found themselves in psychiatric wards multiple times a year, and that addiction issues were just part of the fabric of family life. For me, this was the reality: a household shadowed by depression.
My childhood was punctuated by trips to doctors, a rotating array of medications that cluttered our kitchen counter, and the constant presence of Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous meetings that I attended while coloring silently. My mother often retreated to her room for hours, enveloped in solitude and sorrow, devoid of laughter or enthusiasm for life. It felt like her spirit had been drained, leaving behind a mere shadow of the vibrant person I knew.
At fourteen, I believed that mothers cutting their skin in moments of despair was simply part of life. That belief shattered when I visited a friend’s home and experienced a glimpse of a different reality. I quickly learned to keep my struggles to myself, burying the truth of our situation deep within. I pretended everything was fine, even as I watched depression cast its dark shadow over my family and my mind. I didn’t understand it, but I wanted to. Somehow, it seemed that the weight of this illness would never touch me.
I’ve never battled depression myself, although I’ve been a witness to its chaos. I can’t fathom the feelings of helplessness that accompany it. I’ve never grappled with the inability to care for a child, or the urge to self-harm when the pain becomes unbearable, or the disheartening experience of requiring my child to play the role of caregiver during another psych ward admission. Those emotions are beyond my comprehension, and I’m not being critical; it’s simply a reality I can’t grasp.
For many years, I lacked empathy for my mother and her struggles. I often thought, “Why can’t she just get it together?” In her darkest moments, I would yell at her to snap out of it. I saw her suffering as a weakness, that was until she took her own life. That moment was a turning point for me.
I feel embarrassed about my past judgments. Admitting that I was devoid of empathy is difficult, and I now recognize it as the worst thing I could have withheld from someone in pain. Perhaps my own frustrations blinded me to the struggles of friends dealing with depression. I offered sympathy but not true empathy, a crucial distinction that I’ve come to understand thanks to thinkers like Brené Brown. Sympathy is mere pity; empathy is putting yourself in someone else’s shoes.
I cringe at my past thoughts, reflecting on how I sat high on my judgmental horse. I twisted and mocked the concept of depression to diminish its significance, believing that sadness was a choice. But depression is not sadness. It’s not a dramatic movie scene or a moment of tears during a breakup. It’s a relentless torment that invades the mind and soul, making even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable. Imagine a festering wound that never fully heals — that’s what depression feels like.
What I’ve learned about my mother and friends battling this illness is profound: they aren’t simply sad. I regret ever thinking otherwise and for pushing anyone to “just smile.” I wish I could turn back time and offer my mother the empathy she needed.
To those who are struggling with depression, those mothers who cry themselves to sleep, and anyone finding it hard to face each day: I’m sorry. Your pain is your own, and I won’t try to fix it or minimize it. I won’t offer empty platitudes or suggest quick fixes. Instead, I want to be there in silence, to scream with you at the world, and to provide comfort as you grieve. You are incredibly strong, and if you need me to remind you of that, I’m here for you.
For more insights on understanding and coping with depression, check out one of our other blog posts. And if you’re considering the journey of parenthood through insemination, you can find quality resources at Make a Mom and Progyny for valuable information and support on your path.
Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s journey growing up with a parent who struggled with depression, leading to a profound understanding of the illness after the tragic loss of their mother. It emphasizes the difference between sympathy and empathy while urging readers to recognize and validate the struggles of those affected by depression.
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