This week I found myself at the event Uncovered with Nichole Mischke. Nichole’s passion and belief is that we must tell our stories of shame in order to live our fullest life and that our stories will help set others free. That night we heard three stories—stories of alcoholism, opioid addiction, and sexual abuse. As I sat listening in on these stories of destruction and healing, I realized that I have kept the most shameful parts of my depression stories tucked safely away. As I unravel my story through this blog and on my Instagram, hoping my boldness will help someone else, I have truly kept it all hidden besides to those few who were walking my divorce story in real time. I don’t want to hide it anymore because my
biggest secret hinges on a very common thread being spoken over young people with depression every day.
I was raised in a Christian Conservative home. One where depression was a sign of unbelief, not of chemical imbalance. So many nights were spent sitting on a couch across from my mother telling her how sad I was and her refrain was always “you have nothing to be sad about”.
You have nothing to be sad about. When a child or young adult heard they have nothing to be sad about that take that sadness and they bury it. They turn it into something else. Something more acceptable. I learned that my sadness was more accepted when it became anger. Think about your friends sitting around the table during a divorce or break up, a job loss, a death, a sexual assault. Think about that awkwardness of sitting in that moment with someone. Do you find it easier to console them? To let them cry on your shoulder without giving them a single answer to why the universe is unfair? Or is it easier to mock the other person? To swear and seek revenge? In our society, it seems to me gossip and anger are much more accepted than the tears and uncertainty of cruel situations. I learned quickly that I could have tantrums and I could let rage explode and both friends and family had an easier time wrapping their head around it.
Four weeks after my sweet boy was born it was clear I was not okay. I wasn’t showering or sleeping or surviving. I had begged God for a baby for the six years I had tried to get pregnant. I had spent that time falling in love with other people’s children and working in Early Education. I had no reason to be struggling. I had no reason to be sad. I had moments I could feel the depths of my postpartum depression and begged Jim to institutionalize me. I didn’t have the strength to do the research in what that looked for. Mostly, I had moments of deep pride. “You have nothing to be sad about.” Newly married, a new city, a new baby. I leaned back on my rage. I hated Porter. I couldn’t mother him the way I imagined and so I took it out on him, not physically ever but I decided he was a boy I just couldn’t love and whom I resented. I hated Jim. Every thought of suicide I had in the three years we waiting out our eventual demise I equated to his inadequacy as a father. He became what I called the “fun uncle”. The man who just swept in to save the day while I fell apart. Each time he flew away on an airplane for a work trip I told him I hope his plane crashed since he was useless anyways when really all I wanted to tell him was I needed him home. The cruelty I spoke to Jim, both emasculating him and alienating him, when all I needed was to love him and for him to love me so I could get help still stands as unforgivable in both our minds. “You have nothing to be sad about.” I couldn’t admit my weakness because it was something I didn’t deserve to own.
This year has come in as a gift. Following my suicide attempt my therapist told me to be depressed, speak my truth. I tend to want everyone to be comfortable and so I skip over anything that could be awkward. She told me it is up to other people how they receive what you have to say. What I heard time and time again while I told people “I’m done and tying up loose ends. I don’t want saved” was “we don’t know what to do”, “we’re here”, “we’ve never dealt with this but let’s figure it out together”. Slowly, my rage has unraveled into speaking my sadness when it is present. Slowly, my anxiety has caught itself before an insult towards the person inducing it. It’s not perfect but I’m growing.
Remove “you have no reason to be sad” from your thoughts and vocabulary. I would even challenge you to step up when someone tells you they’re depressed and they have no reason to be. That, my friend, is your red flag calling you to help.
