You don’t know depression? I do. I know it well.
Depression is attempting suicide for the first time at fifteen. Forever, you’ll remember the way the sun felt on your skin, a poetic irony, as you lurched to that overpass. The tears fell hard, continuously, and still no one understood the mania, or the urgency you felt to get to that concrete railing, and just fall. Make it all go away, you said. Make it all go away, so you could just rest.
Depression is finding yourself locked in a sterile room with a stranger who calls himself a psychiatrist. The same one that your parents called a quack as you waited in the blue hospital gown that only lent to the nakedness you felt. It’s answering questions like, “How often do you feel like this?” or ” Do you have a plan?” or ” Rate your sadness on a scale of 1-10.” It’s crying while those florescent lights shine on you both, humming, only dulling the loud voice in your head that says, “What is wrong with you? You are just a fucking piece of worthless shit.”
It’s being admitted to the hospital, and hearing your own father say over the phone, “We’ll just leave her here. It’ll scare this so called depression out of her. It’s just a phase.” Two days later, it’s feeling triumphant because you managed to convince everyone you were just fine. Not because you were okay with them thinking you faked it. You just didn’t want to deal with the shame you felt for feeling so ostensibly broken. You didn’t want to be the crazy one, and you believe, maybe, you just aren’t trying hard enough to be happy. You’ll try harder this time.
Read more of this piece, Depression Is, at Danielle's blog, Another Version of Mother.
Danielle rants blogs about everything and anything at Another Version of Mother. If she's not talking about her kids, she's tackling mental health, feminist issues, and discussing her experienc as a birth mother in adoption .