What is worse than living with depression? It’s trying to explain your depression to someone who truly doesn’t understand what it means. That has got to be the worst thing, right? Again, no. What is worse than explaining depression is having a daughter that experiences the same thing as you do and worse. As I was growing up, I had bits and pieces of rays of happiness, but they were overshadowed by dark clouds of sadness. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to be wrapped up in the warmth of love. I didn’t feel as if I belonged anywhere or to anyone. I ran away at the first chance I got. I searched for belonging. Each place that I went, I wanted to belong to something or someone. I can see the same longing in my daughter. I see her seeking friends and relationships that have meaning and fulfill her. This is happening when she is only 13. I feel pain for her because I know how relationships turn out. They are never stable and people are selfish. She is going to get hurt.
I feel that have done a great disservice to her by moving her around so much. I haven’t allowed her to develop that root system that feeds the heart and soul. Maybe if we would have stayed in one place, she would have developed those friends that she needs. She is so sad. She is so sad all the time. She has some coping skills and therapy is helping her, but there are days when children and life are so cruel that it brings her to the point of questioning her life and how it will ever get better. Today, a young boy told her to go make the world a better place and kill herself. What kind of response does that elicit from a girl who is already on the brink of not wanting to exist anymore?
Talking about depression may give a little relief, but explaining depression is more frustrating than anything. I know what it feels like because I struggle with it every day of my life. I understand what my daughter is battling, but that isn’t good enough. It’s not okay to just say, “I understand.” Depression eats at your happiness and desire. Depression whispers to you that you are not good enough. You are ugly and no one wants to be around you. Depression makes you want to dig a hole and hide inside because it would be less painful than having to be around everyone that hates you. Suicide seems like a light in a cloud of black ink spit. It’s the soft, warm embrace of your mother after a nightmare. Depression makes you want to crawl away and rid the world of the ugliness that is you, and suicide tells you how you can accomplish that. How do I explain that I know how she feels, but she has to fight it? How do I tell her that I fight for her…she has to fight for me?
I can’t help her cope because my coping skills are ridiculous for a child. I wanna teach her to love herself and her body. I want to teach her to run and sing and dance, but how do I get up off the floor to do the same for me?
“Hold on baby. I’ll hold on too.”