Growing up with a parent battling depression was my reality. It was a familiar landscape, one that I thought everyone experienced. I believed that every mother cried themselves to sleep, spent countless hours in a psychiatric ward, or faced struggles with addiction. This was simply my life. I measured time not by the days of the week, but by the fluctuations in my mother’s mental health.
My childhood was punctuated by visits to doctors, prescriptions, and a rotating selection of medications that occupied space on our kitchen counter. I remember attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, sitting quietly while I colored, oblivious to the weight of it all. My mother often isolated herself in her bedroom, lost in tears, devoid of joy or enthusiasm, her spirit seemingly drained. I thought that every fourteen-year-old had to deal with a mother who would lash out in her pain, and it wasn’t until I spent time at my best friend’s house that I realized this wasn’t the norm.
I kept my silence, aware that discussing it only served to deepen the shadows in my mind. I often pretended that things were better than they were, never revealing the depth of the turmoil that accompanied my mother’s illness. I wanted to understand, but I never could. I was fortunate enough to have escaped the grasp of depression myself, yet I bore witness to the chaos it unleashed on my family. I couldn’t comprehend the feelings of helplessness, the urge to self-harm, or the need for my mother to rely on me during her darkest moments.
If this sounds harsh, please know it isn’t meant to be. I simply struggled to grasp the enormity of those emotions. For years, I lacked empathy for my mother and her struggles. I often found myself wondering why she couldn’t just “snap out of it.” In her most challenging moments, I would yell for her to get better, to move on, not understanding why depression clung to her like a shadow. It seemed a weakness until the day she died by suicide, and everything changed.
In retrospect, I feel ashamed of the judgments I cast. I was so full of anger that I couldn’t extend empathy to friends suffering from depression either. I had sympathy, yes, but not true empathy—a distinction that Brene Brown articulates well. Sympathy is merely feeling pity for someone’s hardship, while empathy is the ability to truly connect and share in their experience.
I shudder at the thoughts I used to entertain, thinking that if I mocked or belittled something, it would lose its power. I believed that sadness was something anyone could overcome. But depression is not just sadness. It’s an insidious form of torture that invades the mind, rendering simple tasks insurmountable. It’s not a fleeting feeling; it’s an agonizing reality that stays with you, making it difficult to perform even the most basic functions.
To illustrate, imagine a wound that refuses to heal, one that oozes and aches no matter how much you try to cover it. Some days you can move through life, albeit in a haze, while other days the pain is so overwhelming that all you can do is lie still. And yet, you rise each day, dressing and smiling, always pretending. That is the essence of depression—the lingering pain that never fully disappears.
Now, I understand that my mother and friends who suffer are not merely sad; they are grappling with something far more profound. I regret ever suggesting that they should simply “smile.” I wish I had shown more empathy. I know now that sometimes, what people need most is to be heard and understood.
To those who are struggling—whether you’re a parent crying yourself to sleep or someone finding it hard to face each day—I see you. Your pain is valid. I don’t want to offer you quick fixes or empty platitudes. Instead, I want to stand alongside you in silence, to share in your struggles without judgment. You are strong, and you can overcome this, even if you need a reminder from me now and then.
If you’re interested in learning more about fertility and home insemination, check out this excellent resource on IVF and fertility preservation from the Cleveland Clinic. Additionally, if you’re looking for practical solutions, the Impregnator at Home Insemination Kit is a reputable option worth considering. For further insights, you can read about the terms and conditions associated with home insemination on one of our other blog posts.
In summary, understanding depression is a journey that often requires personal experience or profound connection. My past misconceptions have been replaced with a commitment to empathy for those who suffer. I wish to extend that understanding to others who find themselves in similar situations.