It's kind of funny, really, how easily we trick ourselves into believing the things we want to be the truth. All of us are optimists at heart. I thought, for a few days, that Jason's accident had cured my depression. Maybe it was just because I felt really needed, or maybe it was because I was being a martyr for a real cause for once, sitting by his bedside day and night and doing everything he needed to help him feel better. People seem shocked when I tell them I stayed with him the entire three and a half days we were at the hospital, but I didn't mind, really. It was something to do, made me feel useful.
It came back though, and it came back with a vengeance, as I should have known it would. The thing with depression (and most mental disorders, but we'll stick with depression for the purposes of this post) is that it's not curable. It might go away for awhile; for some, it might go forever. But that doesn't mean you're cured. It's always there, in the back of your mind, just waiting like an awful, horrid monster for any excuse to rear it's ugly head.
The first time I became depressed, I was twelve years old and it lasted until I was nearly sixteen. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't know what was going on. I'd always been happy and confident as a child. I not only didn't care what other people thought of me, but it never even crossed my mind that I should. I lived my life as I wanted to and I was happy to do it. I had friends and my teachers liked me and I was smart and came from a good family. What more could I have possibly wanted?
For people born with a biological tendency toward mood disorders, depression may be triggered by changes in circumstances or big life events. For me, my triggering event in the 7th grade was when my counselor screwed up my schedule which resulted in my being removed from the classes and lunch I had with all my friends and putting me in classes where I knew no one. That wouldn't be traumatic to me now, but as a preteen I experienced intense feelings of loneliness and isolation for the first time in my life. Those feelings persisted and grew more intense throughout the years, especially as I gained weight where my friends didn't, and they all shared hobbies that I had no talent for. I got used to being looked over by the boys for my prettier friends and let myself get comfortable being the third wheel at parties and dances. I convinced myself no one would ever love me and told myself over and over that I didn't deserve love. That way, you see, it's easier to handle when it feels like no one does.
Of course, my perception of the world was often inaccurate. I overlooked all the talents I had that no one else did, and I didn't give enough credit to the few friends I did have who loved me for exactly who I was. I cried a lot during those years, mostly at night when I should have been sleeping. But during the day I smiled and joked and played my part, because I was ashamed of the way I felt.
That was a dark time in my life, and I'd give anything to forget it. I never wanted to go back there, and so when those old thoughts and feelings started to creep back into my mind I told myself it was nothing, that I'd get past it in a day or two. But now that day or two's dragged on for over a year and I can't say I've really improved, other than to let myself call it for what it is. I'm not just having a hard time adjusting to married life, and I'm not just stressed about school and work, and I'm not just tired from not sleeping enough. I am depressed. And that doesn't mean I'm unhappy all the time, or that every smile you see on my face is a mask. I do feel genuinely happy, quite a lot of the time. What it means, at least for me, is that my highs are not as high as they could be, and my lows are often quite lower than they should be, and I am sometimes happy in the midst of trials and despairing when everything is going perfectly. It's baffling, I know. Believe me, I know. But that is the way I experience life, and I'm doing my darndest not to be ashamed of it anymore.
It came back though, and it came back with a vengeance, as I should have known it would. The thing with depression (and most mental disorders, but we'll stick with depression for the purposes of this post) is that it's not curable. It might go away for awhile; for some, it might go forever. But that doesn't mean you're cured. It's always there, in the back of your mind, just waiting like an awful, horrid monster for any excuse to rear it's ugly head.
The first time I became depressed, I was twelve years old and it lasted until I was nearly sixteen. I didn't tell anyone because I didn't know what was going on. I'd always been happy and confident as a child. I not only didn't care what other people thought of me, but it never even crossed my mind that I should. I lived my life as I wanted to and I was happy to do it. I had friends and my teachers liked me and I was smart and came from a good family. What more could I have possibly wanted?
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| My first day of 7th grade. My mom told me that backpack would last me through college and so far it has, though it's considerably worse for the wear. |
For people born with a biological tendency toward mood disorders, depression may be triggered by changes in circumstances or big life events. For me, my triggering event in the 7th grade was when my counselor screwed up my schedule which resulted in my being removed from the classes and lunch I had with all my friends and putting me in classes where I knew no one. That wouldn't be traumatic to me now, but as a preteen I experienced intense feelings of loneliness and isolation for the first time in my life. Those feelings persisted and grew more intense throughout the years, especially as I gained weight where my friends didn't, and they all shared hobbies that I had no talent for. I got used to being looked over by the boys for my prettier friends and let myself get comfortable being the third wheel at parties and dances. I convinced myself no one would ever love me and told myself over and over that I didn't deserve love. That way, you see, it's easier to handle when it feels like no one does.
Of course, my perception of the world was often inaccurate. I overlooked all the talents I had that no one else did, and I didn't give enough credit to the few friends I did have who loved me for exactly who I was. I cried a lot during those years, mostly at night when I should have been sleeping. But during the day I smiled and joked and played my part, because I was ashamed of the way I felt.
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| A genuinely happy day |
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| And I have to include this one to show you all what a goober my mom is. Her silliness makes me smile even on tough days. |
That sounds really hard! Have you tried meds? They really make a big difference for my kids. Especially if you might be bipolar which seems to run in our family. Lithium works for them
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