Growing up with a parent suffering from depression was something I regarded as commonplace. It may sound strange, but it was the only reality I knew. I assumed that every parent cried themselves to sleep, that all mothers experienced frequent hospital stays due to mental health crises, and that addiction issues were a universal concern among families. This was my version of normal, shaped by the constant presence of depression in our lives.
Time in our household was not marked by the days of the week or special occasions, but rather by the fluctuations between my mother’s dark episodes and her rare moments of light. I became accustomed to the sight of medication bottles lining our kitchen and attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings while I colored quietly in a corner. My reality included a mother who often isolated herself, spending hours in her room, engulfed in sadness, devoid of joy and affection. It seemed as though the vibrancy of life had been violently stripped away, leaving only a shadow of the person I once knew.
At fourteen, I thought it was typical for mothers to harm themselves in the depths of their despair. It wasn’t until I visited a friend’s home that I realized my experiences were far from universal. So, I kept silent. Speaking out only emphasized the extent to which depression had consumed our household and invaded my thoughts. I often pretended that everything was fine, unwilling to confront the harsh realities of living with a mental illness that I loathed, convinced it wouldn’t affect me personally.
Please forgive me; I didn’t grasp the true nature of depression. I yearned to understand it, but I was untouched by its grip. Although I observed its chaotic effects firsthand, I had never felt its suffocating weight myself. I couldn’t comprehend the inability to care for one’s children, the impulse to self-harm as a desperate relief, or the need for a child to support a parent through another hospitalization.
If this perspective seems harsh, please know that it is not intended to be. I genuinely find it challenging to understand those feelings and experiences, and perhaps I never will. However, I have delved deeply into the impacts of this illness. For much of my life, I lacked empathy for my mother and her struggles. I often wondered why she couldn’t simply overcome her challenges. In her darkest moments, I would yell at her to get her life in order, questioning why depression seemed to haunt her relentlessly. To me, it appeared to be a weakness—until her depression ultimately led to her suicide. That moment changed everything.
I regret the years I spent judging her and others suffering from similar issues. I apologize for my lack of empathy—it is one of the most damaging things to withhold from someone in pain. Perhaps my anger towards her made it difficult for me to empathize with friends battling depression as an adult. While I could offer sympathy, true empathy was often out of reach. As Brené Brown aptly explains, sympathy is merely pity for someone else’s struggles, while empathy is the shared understanding, the “me too” moment.
Reflecting on my previous mindset makes me cringe. I thought that if I dismissed or mocked their pain, it would lose significance. But depression is not just sadness. It is not the emotional response to a poignant film or a heart-wrenching song. It is not the fleeting sorrow we experience during difficult moments. It is an unrelenting torment that can’t be easily shaken off.
Imagine a wound that never fully heals, an open sore that continues to weep despite your best efforts to care for it. This is akin to the experience of depression. It lingers in the background, constantly present, even on good days. You may find the strength to go about your daily life, but the pain is always there, throbbing beneath the surface.
What I have come to understand about my mother and others grappling with this illness is that they are not merely sad. It is not just a cloudy day that will pass. I regret ever suggesting that someone could simply “smile” through their struggles. Looking back, I realize my mother needed my empathy, my understanding.
To those battling the burden of depression, to the mothers who find themselves weeping at night and the individuals who struggle to rise each morning: I am sorry. Your pain is yours alone. I won’t attempt to minimize it, offer quick fixes, or instruct you to simply cheer up. Instead, I want to stand with you in your silence, to acknowledge your struggle without trying to change it. You are strong, and if you need a reminder, I will always be here to support you.
In summary, understanding depression requires empathy and awareness. It is crucial to recognize that those who suffer are not just experiencing sadness; they are enduring a profound struggle that deserves compassion and support.
Keyphrase: Understanding depression through loss
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