Growing up with a mother who suffered from depression was my reality. To me, it felt completely normal. I believed every parent cried themselves to sleep, that all moms spent time in a psychiatric ward at least a handful of times each year, and that addiction issues were a common struggle among families. That was just how life was for me—depression was woven into the fabric of our family.
Instead of tracking time by weekends or holidays, I measured it by the cycles of her illness—those dark and light phases that dictated our lives. My normal was filled with visits to doctors, prescriptions piling up on our microwave, and attending AA or NA meetings while I colored in the corner. It consisted of a mother who often retreated to her room for hours, lost in tears, devoid of laughter and joy. It felt as though the vibrancy of life was sapped from her, leaving behind only a shadow of the person I longed to connect with.
At 14, I assumed all kids had moms who were so overwhelmed by their own anguish that they would harm themselves in moments of despair. It wasn’t until I spent time at my best friend’s house that I realized this wasn’t the case. I kept quiet about my home life. Speaking about it only highlighted the fact that depression was not just a family affair; it haunted my thoughts, too. I pretended everything was fine, burying the weight of the emotional turmoil that came with living alongside this relentless mental illness—one that I hated deeply.
I didn’t understand depression, but I wanted to. I never experienced it myself. I had been a silent observer of its chaos, but I lacked the intimate knowledge of what it felt like. I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of being unable to care for your own children, or the pain so profound that it leads someone to self-harm, or needing your child to take care of you during another hospital admission while you plead with doctors to help because you couldn’t endure another night of suicidal thoughts.
It was incomprehensible to me. I realize now that for years, I judged my mother harshly. I’m ashamed to admit that I often thought, “Why can’t she just get it together?” I was filled with anger and frustration, demanding she find a way out of her darkness. I viewed her struggles as a weakness—until the day depression claimed her life, and she took her own.
That moment shifted everything for me.
Looking back, I regret the years I spent without empathy. I was quick to judge and slow to understand. It makes me cringe to think of how I once viewed mental health struggles. I sat high on my judgmental horse, convinced that if I mocked or dismissed the pain, it would somehow lessen its impact—when in reality, I was simply minimizing their experiences.
Depression isn’t just sadness. It’s not the kind of sorrow that comes from a sad movie or a tough day. It’s not akin to feeling blue or crying because you miss a friend. It’s a deep, unyielding torment that invades the mind and soul, making even the simplest tasks feel monumental. It’s the relentless ache that permeates every aspect of life and refuses to let go, leaving those who suffer feeling paralyzed.
Imagine an old, festering wound on your arm—something that just won’t heal. It seeps through any bandage you apply. The pain can be unbearable, forcing you to lay still, while at other times, you can only move through life in a haze. That’s what depression feels like—an ever-present sore that may scab over but never truly disappears.
What I’ve come to understand about my mother and the friends I’ve lost to this battle is that they weren’t merely sad. It was never just about a gray day. I apologize if I ever urged anyone to “just smile” or pushed them to be happy. I wish I could go back and offer my mother the empathy she needed—just a little “me too” in my words and actions.
Now, I want to extend that compassion to anyone struggling with depression. To those mothers who find themselves crying at night, to the individuals who can’t muster the energy to face the day: I’m sorry for your pain. It is valid. I won’t try to fix it or diminish it. I don’t have a list of tips to make it better. Instead, I want to sit with you in silence, to scream with you at the world, and offer the comfort of understanding. You are strong, and if you ever need a reminder, I will always be here to support you.
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In summary, my journey through understanding depression has been shaped by loss and reflection. It’s a complex, often misunderstood condition that requires empathy and support. I hope to extend that understanding to others who are hurting.