I’m depressed. And probably have been for years.
That was really hard to admit to myself, much less to my loved ones. With the stigma surrounding mental illness, it seemed less embarrassing to look for a diagnosis of ADD or hypothyroidism than to talk about the white elephant in my head.
Sure, depression seems natural as my best friend and my mom are dealing with illnesses that will eventually take their lives. But this depression has been flying under the radar longer than that. The last time I can remember it not lurking around the corner was five years ago. In fact, I’m fairly confident that I can pinpoint the minute depression entered my life.
September 27, 2008 was a Saturday. TB and I had closed on our new house on August 15, but it wasn’t until late September that we were actually able to settle. It was early afternoon and TB and I had been arranging our office. Still in pajamas, I remember I was sorting books for the shelves and wondering why – if I was going to get rid of a few of them anyway – I didn’t go through them before moving.
My phone was on top of the microwave in the kitchen. My brother called twice. My mom had a stroke. It was the kind of news about my mom that I had been terrified of hearing since I was old enough to understand that cigarettes kill. I used to cry myself to sleep in worrying about her dying in high school. And in college. And after. I didn’t study abroad in college because I didn’t want to be that far away from her if something happened. I spent three hours teaching her how to first, use a computer, and then to send an email before I went to Australia in 2006 because I had to know she was alive every day.
It’s been 1,774 days since that horrible day in 2008. I would like to dissipate this cloud now.
The next three months I’ll spend trying to holistically rid myself of this depression through yoga, talk therapy, St. John’s Wort, massage, and exercise. If that doesn’t work, I have committed to seeing a psychiatrist about antidepressants.
I will also acknowledge that it is in part the stigma that is keeping me away from the doctor. I also own that I am being a giant hypocrite in telling my mom, “you would take medicine for diabetes wouldn’t you? Mental illness is just like that. You can’t control this illness anymore than someone with diabetes can control their pancreas.”
In some regards, my mom is far stronger than I. Oddly enough, that makes me really happy to realize.
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