Post by mel on Apr 26, 2013 12:17:02 GMT -5
I guess I've always been depressed. I can't remember a time that I didn't wish I could be different than I was. I always wanted to be happy, vivacious, popular, etc. but the face I showed the world never quite reflected what I wanted. I suppose I came off as happy and bubbly at times and I fooled a lot of people into thinking that I WAS that person, but inside I was a withering flower, always unsure if I "did it right" ("it" being life) or if I was good enough to even be on this earth. It seemed that everyone else had it together--they chose the right clothes, the right hairstyle, the right everything to present to the world and they seemed to exude a confidence I didn't have--that I would never have.
So how do you get to be 43 years-old and STILL suffer from crippling nerves? I don't know, but I am living proof that depression has been a part of my life ever since I can remember. Even as a small child, I can remember thinking that I wasn't good enough to be on this earth. I was always screwing up--I didn't have that magical "something" to make things go my way and every failure was just further proof that I was destined to be second best. I couldn't think of one nice thing about myself without feeling guilty that I was somehow lying to myself and everyone else and I was going to be found out eventually. The truth lay in my mind and I tried not to show it too much on the outside because even then I knew there was something wrong with the way my mind worked.
I suppose the nicest thing I can say about myself is that I am generous enough to pass it along to others. I'd love to help others who deal with this--now that I know there are others. I was nice enough to pass it along to my children--each of them suffers a varying form of depression. Something else to feel guilty about, I guess. I feel the worst guilt about my firstborn, who seems to have inherited a scorching case of bipolar, the likes that have rarely been seen. I feel as if I passed along my shame of not "doing it right" to him. He is a complex person--someone who can exude supreme confidence while simultaneously withering inside, wondering if he's a "good" person. He, as am I, is on a cocktail of meds, hoping that the perfect combination will be found and will "cure" the bipolar; hoping (as am I for myself) that he'll "get it right" and maintain an even keel for a substantial amount of time--enough time to erase the damage that has been done by this illness and the shame that invariably accompanies that damage.
My daughter and younger son seem to do well with an antidepressant and enjoy their lives. I hold no claim to how they feel. They may well feel like they are shit, for all I know, but this enjoyment is what they exude to the world and I take it at face value because to do otherwise would be to admit to another selfish choice of perpetuating my depression.
I could tell hundreds of stories of how my depression has limited my life, how I've allowed it to take over and ruin good things and sustain the bad things as if "bad" is the norm and "good" is the exception. I could tell of my search for sanity and always coming up empty. Even today I feel guilty that I am writing on my son's depression forum--that he even HAS a depression forum, but with age comes wisdom (for lack of a better platitude) and I know that I can't feel guilty forever, that the guilt limits me from healing. I am lucky enough to still believe I can heal. I know I can't erase the damage, but I can somehow move through this life wishing only to be me. Erasing the stigma of depression can help with that.
So how do you get to be 43 years-old and STILL suffer from crippling nerves? I don't know, but I am living proof that depression has been a part of my life ever since I can remember. Even as a small child, I can remember thinking that I wasn't good enough to be on this earth. I was always screwing up--I didn't have that magical "something" to make things go my way and every failure was just further proof that I was destined to be second best. I couldn't think of one nice thing about myself without feeling guilty that I was somehow lying to myself and everyone else and I was going to be found out eventually. The truth lay in my mind and I tried not to show it too much on the outside because even then I knew there was something wrong with the way my mind worked.
I suppose the nicest thing I can say about myself is that I am generous enough to pass it along to others. I'd love to help others who deal with this--now that I know there are others. I was nice enough to pass it along to my children--each of them suffers a varying form of depression. Something else to feel guilty about, I guess. I feel the worst guilt about my firstborn, who seems to have inherited a scorching case of bipolar, the likes that have rarely been seen. I feel as if I passed along my shame of not "doing it right" to him. He is a complex person--someone who can exude supreme confidence while simultaneously withering inside, wondering if he's a "good" person. He, as am I, is on a cocktail of meds, hoping that the perfect combination will be found and will "cure" the bipolar; hoping (as am I for myself) that he'll "get it right" and maintain an even keel for a substantial amount of time--enough time to erase the damage that has been done by this illness and the shame that invariably accompanies that damage.
My daughter and younger son seem to do well with an antidepressant and enjoy their lives. I hold no claim to how they feel. They may well feel like they are shit, for all I know, but this enjoyment is what they exude to the world and I take it at face value because to do otherwise would be to admit to another selfish choice of perpetuating my depression.
I could tell hundreds of stories of how my depression has limited my life, how I've allowed it to take over and ruin good things and sustain the bad things as if "bad" is the norm and "good" is the exception. I could tell of my search for sanity and always coming up empty. Even today I feel guilty that I am writing on my son's depression forum--that he even HAS a depression forum, but with age comes wisdom (for lack of a better platitude) and I know that I can't feel guilty forever, that the guilt limits me from healing. I am lucky enough to still believe I can heal. I know I can't erase the damage, but I can somehow move through this life wishing only to be me. Erasing the stigma of depression can help with that.
