Depression
The darkness that I now call depression has washed over me in waves since the sixth grade. I remember that year clearly. I transitioned from elementary school to middle school, and was immediately noticed for my more awkward mannerisms. Rumors raced around the school that I was a lesbian. My classmates made signs professing my sexuality and held them up in classes when the teachers weren’t looking. People laughed at me behind my back. They laughed to my face. Eventually, my friends became targets of this bullying. They distanced themselves from me in an attempt to save themselves. I was all alone. I ate lunch by myself. I stood on the playground with no one to talk to. Sadness and self-loathing led to depression and hopelessness. The school counselor was called in to address the situation. She held a meeting with me in front of all of my peers and demanded that the bullying stop. As you might imagine, this emboldened the aggressors, who did not let up until I moved to a new school for the 7th grade.
Moving to a new school was supposed to be a fresh start for me. I looked forward to finding friends and dreamed of being popular. What this Osh Kosh B’Gosh pink overall wearing girl didn’t realize was that appearances mattered. Although I felt comfortable in my clothing, I was quickly picked out and ridiculed by my Guess® jeans wearing counterparts. Kids stopped me on the way to class and unbuttoned my top button. They threw food on me in the lunchroom and somehow I received detention for their behavior. On the last day of 8th grade, a large group of students cornered me near the gymnasium and poured a two liter bottle of perfume over my head. After three years of not fitting in, I believed in no uncertain terms that there was something terribly wrong with me that could not be fixed. I felt undeserving of friendship. The periods of darkness increased in frequency, surrounding me like a shadow at dusk.
My earliest memories of what I would consider to be clinical depression started in the ninth grade. By this point, I had lost hope in my ability to be accepted by my peers. My family life was unstable, as my dad had begun making career plans to move us five times in three years. I could not face the possibility of more bullying and rejection. I began feeling hopeless and overwhelmed. I finally had a few friends to count on, and my dad’s decision meant the end of those relationships. I didn’t sleep. I starved myself. I thought seriously about ending my life.
At school, I sat in class with my head on my desk. My teachers took pity on me and gave me D’s instead of outright failing me. I was dropped from my honors classes; one more failure. One day in history class, when I had my head resting on the desk, a girl who had bullied me touched my shoulder and apologized for how she had treated me. “I thought you had it all,” she said. “I didn’t know.”
In geometry class, I sat in the back of the classroom and lit matches. It was a cry for help that did not go unnoticed. The school counselor called me into her office. I was not allowed to return to school until I saw a therapist to be evaluated for my depression.
The therapist that my mom found for me was a nice lady. I liked her and I wanted to talk to her about what was happening to me, but my mom stayed in the room with us for nearly every session, explaining our family situation and talking about me. I did not feel like I could make myself heard. I understood my mom’s concern for my well-being and her need to explain our family dynamics. At that moment in time though, I needed the privacy to speak what was on my heart. It just didn’t seem to be working out.
After a few months, I announced that I would not be going back to see my therapist. The therapist was very understanding and although she tried to talk me into staying, she supported my decision. My therapist gave me her card and told me to call her anytime. I kept her card in my jacket pocket and periodically took it out and looked at it. It gave me the feeling that I wasn’t alone. One day, a friend of mine borrowed my jacket. She pulled the card out of my pocket and started laughing. I made a joke about the card, and threw it away in front of her. Later, I went back to look for the card, but it was gone.
Periods of depression rolled in and out of my life during high school. Although we did not move five times in 3 years, we did move twice. Each new place meant adjusting to a new school, making new friends, and joining new activities. My life was torn down and rebuilt over and again. I went to two middle schools and three high schools. By the time I graduated from high school, I had no interest in my peers. I was often irritable and depressed. I received an above average score on the SAT, but I needed a higher score to get into the colleges that I was interested in. I couldn’t concentrate and my body felt heavy and tired. The morning of my SAT retake, I drove to school to take the test. I never checked in. Instead, I sat in my car and cried about what a failure my life had become.
Eventually, I met my husband and became a mother. The dark days grew darker and longer, and the suffering was immense. I could not sleep or take care of myself or my children when they were young. I isolated myself from my peers and cried alone. Some nights I drank to excess to take away the pain. Obsessions of harming my children tortured me day and night. I was afraid to be alone and my husband was working 80 to 100 hours a week. I was scared to get help out of a fear of having my children taken from me.
These periods of depression increased in frequency through the years. I tried to hide them from my children, to keep them from being affected in any way, but I wasn’t successful.
When I was depressed, I did not socialize with my peers and I felt isolated and alone. I experienced profound grief and hopelessness about my future and I did not know how to make it better. Basic skills of daily living, like showering, brushing my teeth, or fixing my hair became difficult.
I tried antidepressants and therapy again, but nothing really helped. I blamed myself for not being a good enough patient or for not trying harder. I filled out worksheets, came up with alternative thoughts, and created new narratives with little relief. Each therapist that I saw had a different approach that they were sure was going to help. I tried to trust in the process, but in time I recognized that something was broken and that it might not be able to be fixed.
