I Didn’t Grasp Depression Until I Lost My Mom to It

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Growing up with a parent battling depression felt oddly routine—if that makes any sense. I didn’t know any other way to live. I believed that every parent wept themselves to sleep, that every mother had a mental health crisis at least a few times a year, and that addiction issues were just part of the package. That was simply my reality. Depression was our family’s norm.

Time wasn’t measured in days or holidays; it was delineated by the light and dark phases of her illness. My everyday life included visits to doctors, a revolving door of medications on the lazy Susan perched on our microwave, and those AA and NA meetings where I would color quietly. My normal was a mother who spent countless hours isolated, crying in her room. Laughter was a rarity, excitement was almost non-existent, and physical affection was like a faint memory. It was as if life’s joy had been violently stripped away, leaving behind only a shadow of a person who could manage to prepare meals and drive me places.

At 14, I thought every kid had a mother who’d harmed herself during her darkest moments. A visit to my best friend’s house opened my eyes to the reality that this wasn’t the case. I kept quiet; discussing it only made the weight of our home life more palpable. I pretended everything was fine, never revealing the intensity of the turmoil stemming from this mental illness—an illness I loathed and believed wouldn’t affect me.

So, forgive me. I didn’t truly understand depression. I wanted to, but it seemed to have skipped over me in the genetic lottery. I’ve witnessed its chaos firsthand, but I’ve never personally felt its grasp. I can’t fathom the feeling of being unable to care for your children, the urge to harm yourself because the pain is unbearable, or needing your child to help you through another intake at the psych ward while you plead with doctors to admit you because you can’t endure another night of suicide watch.

It’s hard for me to wrap my head around. If this sounds judgmental, that’s not my intent. I genuinely can’t grasp those emotions. I’ve done my research on this illness, but for many years, I lacked empathy for my mother and her struggles. Why couldn’t she just get a grip? During her hardest days, I often shouted for her to pull herself together and move on. I saw her condition as a weakness… until her depression took her life, and she died by suicide. Then everything changed.

It’s embarrassing to admit that I judged harshly—like a courtroom judge with a gavel. I apologize for my lack of empathy, which is perhaps the worst thing you can withhold from someone in distress. Maybe my own anger clouded my ability to empathize with friends facing their own battles with depression. While I had sympathy, I lacked true understanding. As Brené Brown puts it, sympathy is feeling pity for someone else’s struggles, while empathy is the “me too” moment—putting yourself in their shoes.

I cringe when I think of my past thoughts, how I sat high on my moral horse. I figured that if I twisted the narrative or mocked it, the “it” lost its significance—therefore, they were just sad, and sadness could be shaken off.

But depression isn’t just sadness. It’s not a heart-wrenching movie that prompts tears or a cathartic cry. It’s not sipping wine while listening to Adele on a dreary day. It’s not the melancholy we feel during our monthly cycles or when we miss a dear friend.

It’s pure torture. I don’t use that term lightly. It attacks the mind in ways that those who haven’t experienced it can’t even begin to understand, yet we expect individuals to snap out of it and perform daily tasks as if they have control over this relentless pain. It seeps into your very being and keeps you from getting out of bed, from tending to your crying child, or even from showering.

Picture an old wound on your arm or leg—one that’s still raw. It oozes through any bandage you place on it. At times, the pain is unbearable, forcing you to lie still, while other moments allow you to move but only through a fog of discomfort. That pain is always there, yet you push on. You attempt to wake up, dress, and smile, but you’re mostly pretending. That’s what depression feels like: a wound that may scab over but never truly heals.

Here’s what I now know about my mother and my friends who are suffering: they aren’t just sad. It’s not merely a dreary day. I regret ever thinking that. I’m sorry if I urged you to “just smile.” I wish I hadn’t pushed my mother so hard. As a child, I didn’t understand, but as an adult, I realize she could have used some empathy, some “me too” in my words and actions.

While I couldn’t provide it back then, I can now. To my friends who are battling through pain, to the mothers crying themselves to sleep, to those struggling to face the day: I apologize. Your suffering is valid. I won’t try to fix or minimize it. I won’t offer you ten tips on how to be happy, nor will I tell you to toughen up. I want to sit with you in silence, scream at the world alongside you, and comfort you as you cry. We both know you’re strong. We both know you can push through this. And if you ever need reminding, I’ll always be here for you.

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Summary:

Growing up with a parent suffering from depression can create a distorted view of reality. The author reflects on their childhood experiences, grappling with the lack of understanding and empathy for their mother’s struggles. After her mother’s tragic passing, the author realizes the depth of depression and its painful effects. They express a newfound commitment to support those who suffer from mental health issues, acknowledging their previous judgments and aiming to provide the empathy they once withheld.