Don't Explain My Depression Away

My emotions are aching.

I know I recently talked about how I’ve been coping with depression. I’ve talked about how I noticed the first signs of it. Heck I’ve even admitted that I wanted to take my own life, and the life of my husband and son. And I still feel that the people who do not live with depression still refuse to try to understand.

It is true that I am not Depression itself. It is something that I battle with. I honestly don’t know when it will go away, or even if it ever will. There are days I hate taking a pill that has the capability to take me out of my dark and dreary mind and put everything back into a healthy perspective.

But for someone to but a blanket statement saying I’m not depressed, saying that the demons I face, the anxiety I experience are but passing moments- makes me feel that they don’t understand the gravity of the Hell that I go through.

There is sadness in this world. There is grieving.  And if you feel those emotions, they are real. They are important to you because they show the pain you feel. And true those times are still temporary. But moving on from those feelings is a personal process that happens in their own time. To tell them that they aren’t depressed is belittling their time of grief and pain no matter how temporary the pain might be.

This is one of the reasons why people don’t talk about their depression, because of people who belittle and philosophize away the reality of their Hell. Only the uneducated try to explain away depression. Until they feel it or attempt to understand, they will never know that the pain we feel is real even if they can’t see the cause.

So here I am, talking about my depression anyway because I want to bridge the gap of understanding.

My post partum depression didn’t come because I didn’t feel an overwhelming love for my son the first time I saw him. It didn’t come because I didn’t exercise enough, eat enough, or pray enough. It didn’t come because I committed some sin that I haven’t repented of. It didn’t come because I wanted to be like everyone else and be “depressed” too. It didn’t come because I struggle with the responsibilities of being a mom.

No.

I struggle with it because there’s a history of it in my family and other factors that have nothing to do with my worth as a person or my actions.

I knew it was a possibility, but I thought it wouldn’t happen to me until after I had several children. But lucky me, I got it with number one. My pregnancy was rough and awful. Labor was hard because I felt so tired and alone and I just wanted to get him out so I could finally get some sleep.

For the longest time during the months I wasn’t on medication and at the mercy of the demons of my mind, I believed that I would only get any real sleep if I was dead.

Television, games, even my favorite hobbies all felt like filler- just something to do while I waited for my son to finally take a nap, or wait for my husband to get home. There was no joy in them. I even thought about taking everything in my storage room and just throwing it away. Books, pictures, letters, gifts from grandparent’s who have passed on, craft supplies- just throw it all away because it wasn’t important anymore.

I didn’t eat. Partly because I simply forgot, and partly because I didn’t see a reason to eat because I just started feeling like a waste of space.

I was terrified of school work because I was behind and I didn’t want to be the new mom failure.

I didn’t feel human anymore. I was just a slave to my son’s needs. His were more important because he couldn’t fend for himself. He was my responsibility because I chose to get pregnant, chose to have him, and now for the rest of my life I would have to face those consequences.

I was terrified that my husband was going to leave me when he realized how terrible of a mother I felt I was and the awful reality of being a parent. Honestly, I wouldn’t have blamed him. I begged him not to leave me almost every day.

I wished for the ground to swallow me up so I didn’t have to face the human world when I no longer felt human. I wanted to run away and leave everything behind because there was a chance I could have found happiness again. I wanted to drive off a cliff and take my husband and son with me so nobody would have to take over my “responsibility” anymore.

I felt like that for 3 months.

Now that I’m medicated and in therapy,I still want to run away, but not nearly as often. I still struggle with eating and sleeping.I still go into fight or flight response when my son is inconsolable and I just want the screaming to stop. I still have days where I just can’t handle people or crowds because my anxiety is still very real and I worry about what they think about me and my job as a mom.

But I can think more clearly and take time to work through my feelings instead of being consumed by them.

This is my reality. It’s not pretty or poetic but I’ll share it anyway. Because today I felt like a friend was explaining away other people’s depression. Rather than hash and bash that they are terrible, I wanted to educate. Maybe my story helps, and maybe it doesn’t. Either way my Hell is real and understanding that is all that matters.