Growing up with a parent who struggled with depression was my norm. I didn’t realize it was unusual. I assumed every mother cried themselves to sleep, and that it was common for parents to find themselves in psychiatric wards multiple times a year. Addiction issues? That was just part of life. Depression was woven into the fabric of my family.
Time was not measured in days or holidays but rather in the cycles of my mother’s illness—dark days followed by brief moments of light. My reality consisted of frequent doctor visits, prescriptions lined up on our kitchen counter, and sitting through AA and NA meetings while coloring quietly. I was accustomed to seeing my mother isolated in her room, consumed by tears, devoid of laughter or warmth, as if the joy had been violently stripped away, leaving only a shadow of the person who once cooked meals and drove me to school.
At 14, I believed that all kids had mothers who, in their darkest moments, inflicted harm upon themselves. It wasn’t until I visited a friend’s home that I realized this wasn’t the case. I kept silent, feeling that voicing my experience would only amplify the burden of depression that loomed over me. I often pretended that everything was fine, hiding the severity of the abuse that accompanied this mental illness, which I loathed and thought could never affect me.
So, please forgive my ignorance. I genuinely didn’t understand depression. I wanted to, but it seemed to skip over me genetically. While I witnessed the chaos it brought to our lives, I never fully felt its grasp. I couldn’t fathom the inability to care for one’s children or the desperation that leads someone to self-harm, nor could I comprehend needing my own child to navigate the complexities of a psych ward admission. It was all beyond my understanding.
If my words sound critical, that’s not my intention. I simply can’t grasp those emotions. Despite my lack of personal experience with depression, I spent years feeling little empathy for my mother and her struggles. I often questioned why she couldn’t just “snap out of it,” and during her darkest times, I would scream at her to pull herself together. To me, her suffering appeared like a weakness… until the day she took her own life.
That moment changed everything for me. I am embarrassed to admit that I judged her harshly, and I regret not showing her the empathy she needed. In my anger, I found it hard to extend understanding even to friends facing similar battles. Though I felt sympathy for their situations, I failed to truly empathize. Brene Brown defines sympathy as the pity we feel for others’ struggles, while empathy represents the “me too” connection that allows us to step into someone else’s shoes.
I reflect on the arrogance that once clouded my judgment. I thought if I could twist or mock someone’s sadness, it would diminish its weight; after all, anyone could simply choose to stop feeling sad. But depression isn’t sadness. It transcends mere emotions; it’s a relentless torment that those of us untouched cannot fully comprehend. It infiltrates the mind and soul, crippling the ability to perform everyday tasks, to care for children, or even to find the energy to get out of bed.
Imagine a persistent wound—one that has long since healed yet continues to ooze and cause pain. Sometimes, the agony is unbearable, while at other times, you can move but remain trapped in a fog of discomfort. Depression is that wound; it may scab over, but it always remains—an ever-present reminder of suffering.
What I now understand about my mother and those fighting similar battles is this: they are not simply sad. It’s not just a gloomy day. I apologize for ever suggesting that someone could just “smile” through it. I wish I had been more supportive of my mother; she needed empathy, a shared understanding of her pain.
To those who are struggling—mothers who cry themselves to sleep, individuals who wrestle with waking up each morning—I want to extend my sincerest apologies. Your pain is valid, and I won’t attempt to fix it or diminish it. I won’t offer superficial advice or tell you to toughen up. Instead, I want to sit with you in silence, to scream against the injustices of this world alongside you, and to comfort you as you weep. You are strong, and I will always be here to remind you of that.
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In summary, my journey has taught me that empathy is crucial for understanding the complexities of depression. It is not merely sadness; it’s an ongoing struggle that deserves acknowledgment and support.