I have been thinking a lot about my depression lately. The weather, the anniversaries, the gloom all bring me to a place of reflection. Right now, I am so blessed to be in a good place. I am medicated, functioning, and feel good. I have daily struggles that I know I will deal with for the rest of my life, but I am happy to say that I have found a certain amount of peace. I get up in the morning with little struggle. I function all day without a nap. I trust people, I see a future, I see hope, and I am able to build a plan to work to get us there. I get overwhelmed and anxious, I get sad and down, but we make it through without much incident. It isn't lasting. I am a functioning parent and adult, I am in a healthy relationship, and I have a career and true friends. Life is good.
I have never been shy about talking about my disease. Maybe that is because I have had a lot of years to deal with it. Maybe it is because unlike some people, I can say without a doubt that mine is a chemical imbalance. Maybe, because of this, it makes it less personal and more physiological. I don't know. But other than some whispers around school in 10th grade, my depression has pretty much been out loud, present and acknowledged, and open for conversation. Pretty Much.
I was getting my medicine out of the cabinet and must have muttered, "Need to take my medicine..."
Pooks was standing there. It's not that I have ever hidden my medicine from her, but I don't know that I have ever mentioned having to take medicine every day. She asked, "Do you have a headache?"
I paused. Her and I have been having a lot of grown up conversations lately. Things in her life are changing, things in her body are changing, and we have a lot of talks about life. I want to be the one thing that remains constant. But even though we have been having these big girl talks, when She asked me why I needed to take medicine if I didn't feel sick or have a headache, I hesitated. It's not that I am ashamed that I take medication to control my condition. I got over that a long time ago. And more than anything, I want her to know that it's okay that I do. But how do you explain depression to a 9 year old?
I am grateful, so grateful, that I have to explain it, and it's not something that I am a living example of every day. And I am grateful beyond that, that even though she is highly sensitive and emotional, depression isn't a part of her own identity. But how do you put into words to your 9 year old something that other adults don't even understand?
I had never considered the fact that one day I would have to explain this to her. And I never considered the fact that I would feel like a bad mom for having to do so. Or be at a loss for words. But I did. And I was. So...I told her that sometimes mommy's brain had a hard time remembering to see the good around her and had a hard time seeing the bright side of things. That there were chemicals in my brain that didn't work the right way, and the medicine helped them work. That the medicine ultimately kept me from being sad a lot of the time. She responded by climbing in my lap, hugging me tightly, and kissing my face gently. It was horrifying and liberating all at the same time.
Was that the right thing to say? I don't know. But you can't tell your child that you used to lay in bed and cry and not be able to function. You can't tell her that you still have trouble organizing your thoughts and dealing with your feelings. You can't tell her that if you don't take this pill, that you are so overwhelmed with life that you shut down completely because don't have your own coping skills. You don't want her to know that some days it takes every ounce of energy you have to get up out of the bed to brush your teeth. You don't ever, ever, ever want her to think that tucking her in feels like work, or that she is one of the only reasons you are able to keep it together. You don't ever want to burden her with your disease.
I have had a few weeks to think about my explanation. The other day on Facebook, there was a survey to ask your child their opinions about you, and one of the questions was, "What makes me (mommy) happy?". I was relieved when Pook's first response was, "Me!"...and my heart dropped when her second response was, "And your medicine".
Ouch. Wasn't expecting that one to sting. I tried to explain that wasn't entirely true. The medicine didn't make me happy. The people in my life do. The medicine just helps my brain be able to make sense of it. But did she get it? I don't know.
I hope that sometime in these next few months, years, that I can articulate to her what I know is somewhere in my heart. That depression, is a malfunction of the body, just as much as high blood pressure and high cholesterol. I hope I can help her to understand that there is no shame in needing medicine to help your body operate properly. That a pill doesn't magically make you happy. I hope that I can find a way to let her know that depression doesn't make you weak- it makes you stronger. It makes you have to fight harder. It makes life more complicated, but no less beautiful. I pray she is an advocate- that she continues to use her natural empathy and compassion to help the little people. I pray more than anything, that I have to explain it better one day, because she doesn't know how it feels.
Breaking the stigma of mental health issues starts at home. It starts early. It starts with love and openness. It means hard conversations, it means unconditional love, it means speaking up. It means telling my 9 year old that sometimes people- even mommies- need help. And that is ok. It doesn't mean you're any less of a friend, of a person, of a mom. It means allowing myself to admit that to her. It means admitting it to myself over and over again every day.
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