Last month I had plans to write a lot more about my personal struggles with depression and anxiety since May is designated #mentalhealthawarenessmonth, but I never got around to writing more than a couple of Instagram posts. To be honest, sharing photos of my progeny is far more fun than opening up about an illness that still carries a lot of stigma. I also don’t ever want my kids or other loved ones to read about my mental illness battle and blame themselves in some way. My depression wasn’t anyone’s fault, including my own. Finally, I still experience feelings of shame and even embarrassment for my struggles with mental health illness, and I don’t like the idea of people who know me in real life learning about this side of me.
Yet, my desire to reach out to others, to spread awareness, to fight and help ultimately end the stigma associated with mental illness (sometimes) overrides my pride, diffidence, and vanity.
When my Instagram feed became flooded with posts about the passing of Kate Spade and her likely suicide, I felt compelled to share some more thoughts on depression. This is a long post, and I fear I’m all over the place. Bear with me. A big chunk of it is admittedly pulled from Getting Past Perfect where I candidly discussed my depression for the first time (other than writing about postpartum depression and mental health in the past more from a health journalist’s perspective).
First off, depression does not discriminate. It affects people of myriad socioeconomic statuses and ethnicities. You can’t just look at a person say, “Now she’s someone who is depressed.”
We’re not all walking around resembling a bunch of morose Wednesday Adamses or melancholy Eeyores.
Alternatively, you never know if the beautiful, rich, thin, fit, brilliant, smiling [insert seemingly positive adjective that often conjures up envy more than sympathy] person who appears to living a colorful, charmed life – think Kate Spade – might be completely broken on the inside and overwhelmed by feelings of despair.
I remember people being shocked when Robin Williams committed suicide because he was the perennially funny guy who always made people laugh. Who knew how much he was crying inside other than those the closest to him? Just recently I read that The Rock, who looks so strong and is charismatic and kind to his fans – has struggled with depression.
It doesn’t surprise me all that much that these actors have struggled with depression. I myself probably could have won an Academy Award for the many times I played the part of the bubbly blonde when on the inside I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark hole and just go away.
Likewise, I wanted to be an actress for a long time, pursued a minor in theatre, and even spent some time out in Los Angeles interning at NBC Entertainment holding close to the dream of acting for a living. Part of the appeal for me was the pretending. By playing different roles, I could step away from the person I really was – the goofy, sensitive, and creative young woman who was ashamed of her big feelings. I’m very grateful life took me in a different direction. With my body image issues and propensity toward anxiety and depression, I can’t imagine trying to be an actress, the rejection I’d undoubtedly face, the physical scrutiny, and the flippant commentary on social media that so easily robs real people of their humanity and tears them apart.
Bottom line: Depression doesn’t have a signature look.
It also doesn’t always have a trigger. Sometimes the genetic gun is loaded and an event like a breakup a career rejection, or a tragedy can pull the trigger in someone prone to depression. But sometimes there’s no trigger at all. Or the “trigger” just doesn’t seem like “enough” to make someone so desperately sad, isolated, and flat. This makes sufferers feel even worse. They not only can’t escape the despondency or even express or explain the inner angst that consumes them, but they also feels like they’re completely unworthy of a depression diagnosis.
My family suffered a tragic loss earlier this year. I cried a lot and felt very, very sad. But I didn’t fall into depression. On the other hand, several years ago when I was diagnosed with clinical depression, there was no one, big event that broke me. In fact, money concerns that had been the hallmark of my marriage early on had dissipated. I should have felt happier and less stressed. But I didn’t.
I felt a sadness that nearly crushed me on a perfectly beautiful fall day. A brilliantly blue sky provided a breathtaking backdrop for a canopy of leaves dusted in gold. I pulled my minivan into our driveway, opened the automatic doors, and handed my oldest the keys to the house. The kids filed out of the van, bouncing with an unflinching optimism that made me wince. My mood was in stark contrast with both the perfect day and my little, wide-eyed optimists.
I sat alone in silence long after my children, the loves of my life, had vanished inside the house. As I sat there, immobile and wondering what was the point of all of this—life, feeling lonely and sad despite my abundant blessings—a storm of sadness grew progressively stronger within me. I tried praying. I tried taking deep, renewing breaths. In fact, I’d been trying a lot of all of those things for awhile. I desperately attempted to envision myself in a happier, more peaceful place, but that content woman I saw in my mind was only a ghost of the person I was in that instant. That joyful, hopeful woman was dead to me. And so I began to weep, my tears a window into my broken heart.
My crying wasn’t only entrenched in sadness; it was stemming from an intense self-loathing. I hated myself because of what I perceived as a personal defect—my inability to be happy, to not be anxious, to not be able handle a simple, blessed life of caring for my healthy, fun kids. What was wrong with me? There are people who are really suffering. Why was I so overwhelmed and sad? Why couldn’t I just get a grip? Why was I so weak, so faithless?
In that dark pocket of time, I hated myself so much that I honestly thought the family I loved so fiercely deserved much better than this flawed, screwed-up woman. “They’d be happier without a messed-up mom,” I told myself.
What’s the point? ran through my mind over and over like a crazed ticker tape.
Remembering how I felt and the irrational thoughts I had still terrifies me. That awful day was several years ago now; yet, the first time I divulged about it was in Getting Past Perfect. Until the book was published, only my husband and a few friends who were there for me one night—when the emotional floodgates unexpectedly flew open and I poured my heart out—knew about these desperate, tragic thoughts until then. I even had to call my parents and warn them and reassure them that I was a better place and that Dave (my husband) had taken very good care of me, and I’d sought medical help as well. (For the record: I am at a very healthy place right now, but I also know depression and anxiety are things I am always going to have to be on guard against.)
But it was on that day that the patina gloss that’s been my finish for so much of my life peeled away, and while my beloved children waited for me to join them inside our beautiful, safe home, I sat alone and fantasized about ending it all. Yet, something—a shred of hope inside of me—forced me to call my husband instead. He can’t always answer his phone at work, but on this day he did.
And grace took over. Even today I can feel that grace, and it brings grateful tears to my eyes. I don’t know why I received that grace, and others don’t. It makes me viscerally ache each and every time I hear of a suicide. I can’t explain others’ tragedies or why I was spared; I can only use my life and my voice to champion for those who are hurting, lonely, and lost.
“I need help,” I choked out before the wracking sobs took hold of me.
On the other line, there was no judgment, shaming, admonishment, or “Pull yourself together.” There was only unconditional love. Dave told me to go inside and sit tight, and he made phone calls and helped me to help myself.
Today, at this moment, I pray that I might be able to help anyone out there who is lonely and wrapped tightly in despair. I pray that reading these raw, difficult-to-write, and honest words might cause the tiniest of lights to flicker within you and to remind you of your worth and that admitting you’re scared, sad, angry, depressed, anxious doesn’t make you weak. It makes you strong.
Here’s what else I want other to know about depression – both those who are sick with it and those who love and know individuals who struggle with depression:
We all have bad days. Depression, anxiety, and other mental health disorders are not just bad days. Their symptoms last longer than a few days and interfere with a person’s daily life, although others might not be aware of it. I’m a busy worker bee by nature, so even when I was depressed, I still got things done and donned a bright smile for others. At home, I would cry. Or sometimes I would feel numb. Or I’d experience these flashes of anger. Some days I didn’t want to get out of bed or eat. Other days I ate mindlessly without even tasting the food. Things I had once really enjoyed were no longer fun or even something I wanted to do or thought I would ever want to do again. Something as simple as brushing my teeth felt like it took Herculean effort. I kept a smiling face on mainly because of my children. I love them so much. I didn’t want to hurt them any more than I already felt I might have wounded them since they were stuck with a “crazy” mom. Perhaps if they hadn’t been underfoot all day, I would have stayed in bed. I don’t know. What I do know is my sadness wasn’t just a phase, and it wasn’t something I could just will away.
I also know that no one should suffer hopelessly when there are a variety of successful treatment options available.
That said, treatment isn’t always so simple. I fought taking medications for a long, long time even after my husband, my physician, and a therapist felt it was necessary.
Then once I seemed to be feeling better and at a better place, I abruptly and secretly stopped taking my medications. This is very dangerous. Even if a doctor tells you it might be time to try to stop taking your meds, you have to slowly wean from them.
I’m an intelligent person. I know all this. But when you’re sick – and depression is a sickness – you’re sometimes impervious to rational thought. So even when there are treatments available, it’s not always so easy to get the help or to accept it or keep at it.
When I was suffering from postpartum depression, I was in complete denial. I also harbored guilt that I wasn’t over the moon with happiness with the birth of a new child, especially since a dear friend of mine had lost her baby in the third trimester only months before. Her arms were aching for her child. She was sad and depressed because she lost a baby. How could I even entertain the thought that I was heavyhearted when a beautiful, healthy baby with ginger hair and the brightest blue eyes was nestled in my arms?
Later when I suffered from my most severe depressive episode to date (the one I describe above) and actually contemplated ending it all because I truly believed the people I loved would be better without Mrs. Crazy in their lives, I remember feeling so weighted down that even making a phone call to get help felt like it would take far too much effort. Thankfully, I am blessed with a wise, loving husband who took charge. But not everyone is so lucky. That’s why I beg of anyone reading this to offer the same compassion to a friend who is suffering from depression that you would for someone who was diagnosed with cancer. Be there for them. Ask them how they are. Call even if they don’t pick up the phone. Text. Write letters. Show up with a meal. Love them. Pray for them. What we all need from each other more than judgment is compassion. Compassion doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll understand what someone is going through; it just means you love them in spite of it and are there for them. Jennifer Fulwiler had a beautiful, powerful, and important Instagram post in the wake of Kate Spade’s death that urged people to reach out to others, to ask that friend how she’s really doing, and to be prepared to be surprised by the answer. We live in a culture where it’s so easy to share smiley face emoticons and to never really have a clear window into a person’s broken heart. It’s so important to still meet friends face-to-face and to give them permission to strip off their mask and to authentically share their burdens.
However, even if you do shower a sufferer with compassion and love them well, realize it’s not your job to “fix” them. Medications don’t work for everyone. Sometimes a person has to try several medications before they find one that helps. The first medications I took made me almost numb. I’m a passionate person; I still wanted to feel. Fortunately, I found a medication that works for me for now. Medications can, however, lose their effectiveness over time. A compassionate healthcare provider well-versed in mood disorders is essential to help you navigate your treatment.
Other types treatments may not be effective either. This can be terribly frustrating and heartbreaking.
And I can’t even begin to imagine the pain for those who have lost loved ones to suicide, the “what-ifs” that might endlessly churn in the survivors’ minds, and the devastating why that likely never goes away – why we couldn’t save them?
Never give up on your loved ones, but know that you might have to give them up to God. Depression is sadly often a chronic illness. This doesn’t mean a sufferer will always be chained to unshakable despair. The sadness, lethargy, despair, and anguish can come and go, but the beast never completely sleeps in some people. It’s always on the margins waiting to pounce. This is why we all must be nets of compassion, ready to catch those who are vulnerable and who may fall.
Aside from medical treatment, there will people who will tell you – whether you’re the one with mental illness or someone trying to minister to someone struggling – that diet, exercise, meditation, natural hormones or other herbs, and/or prayer can cure depression. All of these people mean well but when I was severely depressed, I could not run away from my mood disorder despite logging in 40ish miles a week. I could not worship myself out of sadness. No amount of Zen and gluten-free, wholesome foods were going to make me whole again. There was no magical bullet for me.
But let me tell you the good news: There was hope for me. There’s always hope for anyone in the clutches of a mood disorder and those who love them. Hope isn’t just a glittery unicorn we may find ourselves desperately chasing. It’s a real virtue born from Jesus’ Resurrection and one we can cultivate throughout our lives.
Hope is the theological virtue by which we rely not on our own strength, but on the help of the grace of the Holy Spirit. “‘Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful…’ The virtue of hope responds to the aspiration to happiness which God has placed in the heart of every man; it takes up the hopes that inspire men’s activities and purifies them so as to order them to the Kingdom of heaven; it keeps man from discouragement; it sustains him during times of abandonment; it opens up his heart in expectation of eternal beatitude. Buoyed up by hope, he is preserved from selfishness and led to the happiness that flows from charity” (CCC 1817-1818).
Just being a human being in this broken world – even if you’re a fashion visionary who appears to have it all – requires a hopeful heart. It requires the hope that there is light at the end of the darkness, that there is a point to all this—if simply to love the best we know how and to trust that God’s grace will fill in the cavernous gaps.
But another warning here, if you’re reading this and feeling hopeless, don’t think you’re deeply flawed in some nonredeemable way. If you’re waiting for something that just feels too big to pass—and I’m not talking about an in utero baby, a stuck kidney stone, or a constipated toddler’s bowel movement…if there’s something sucking every ounce of happiness out of you despite your “efforts” to make things or yourself better, or if you’re really hurting and unable to climb out of a dark pit, seek help. Now. Don’t be ashamed. This doesn’t mean something is wrong with you or that you’re not a super mom or person. You just may need some help to feel super again.
Seeking help is not a sign of weakness. Sometimes the best thing you can do for your family is to take care of yourself. Others may not understand or may even minimize your suffering. So be it. You’re not here to please them.
One of the most beautiful and hopeful Bible passages for me is when Jesus yells, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46).
Why are we so afraid of doing the same—admitting our own feelings of fear and abandonment? If I’d stopped trying so hard to bury my feelings of despair and to pretend life was peachy and I was happy when clinical depression took hold of me and just cried out sooner than I did, things would not have been so difficult for so long.
You have to want to accept love, grace, and help more than you want to appear like you have it all together.
When we’re faced with defiant children, when we’re suffering from the blues or full-blown depression, when we feel alone and unsupported and lonely in our lives, when we feel hopeless, when we lose a loved one to sickness, or an accident, remember this: Like Jesus, there will be moments as a mother when you find yourself in a passion. Here you are in a position of powerlessness that you did not choose but in which God asks you to be faithful. He wants your trust more than your control.
Now, some of your “passions” may seem small in comparison to what others are grappling with, but be careful not to compare crosses. If something is tough for you, then it’s tough. My dear friend Cathy Adamkiewicz, author of Broken and Blessed: A Life Story, lost her daughter Celeste when she was only four months old. Once I was apologizing to her for complaining about toothpick-like crosses such as sleep deprivation when she had endured so much, but her response surprised me. She said, “People assume that Celeste’s death is the biggest cross I’ve ever had. I’m not so sure that’s the case. Sometimes it’s the tiny crosses that we must endure repeatedly that are the hardest to pick up and carry.”
She went on to explain that despite how terribly difficult it was to lose a child, the redemptive part of the suffering was much more transparent. There were throngs of people supporting, praying, and encouraging her entire family, and she said God’s love and presence in her life was palpable. But when we’re dealing with those daily toothpick crosses, we can often feel so much more alone and like God is distant.
So whatever your cross is and however small you may think it is, don’t deny it. Pick it up. Embrace it. But don’t think that you’re pathetically weak just because it’s heavy and it hurts you.
Believe there will be pain in life. Accepting suffering – not as a sign of weakness but as a sign of your humanity – is the first step in giving it redemptive power. You don’t have to apologize for bleeding. Jesus didn’t. God doesn’t ask that of you, and neither should anyone else.
Another beautifully humble act Jesus did aside from crying out in the garden that we too often skim over is this: He accepted help. Jesus fell physically. You’re going to fall, too. But when you do, that’s when Simon of Cyrenes and Veronicas will step forward to help you. And it’s our job to accept their help. It’s also our job to reach out to others with compassion, not judgment, when they are suffering.
I was extremely embarrassed when I broke down and cried in front of a circle of women while I was still dealing with the aftershocks of my serious depressive episode. A few of the woman present were merely close acquaintances, and I remember later apologizing and trying to laugh off my breakdown like I wasn’t mental or anything. But each of these women provided support and refused to see me as anything but a hurting woman who needed their prayers and love. Two of the women in the room that day have become some of my closest friends. They know about that sad, dark, and scary time, and I’m no longer embarrassed but grateful that they can help me keep healthy and set appropriate boundaries with others who may not be as generous, understanding, or kind with my sickness.
Just this morning I went on a run with two friends who were there for me and they told me they’d always be the ones to hold me accountable for taking my medication rather than judging me or assuming I shouldn’t need “happy pills.” My closest and real friends see my willingness to be honest and vulnerable as a strength rather than a weakness. Similarly, when Jesus allowed the disciples to wash his feet, it further revealed his humility and servanthood. When we open ourselves to the ministry of others and God’s graces, we’re doing the same.
If no other truth penetrates your heart from this epic-long blog post, let this one sink deep: Whether you’re a born optimist or not, easygoing or more type A, an extrovert, introvert, or somewhere in between, there will be a time or lots of times when you rightfully feel that there is simply nothing left to give. You are depleted and drained. If a crisis arose, you do not know from where you would possibly squeeze out one more ounce of energy. You desperately want to believe God is there and that he is willing and ready to help. You cry out,
“O God, you are my God— it is you I seek!
For you my body yearns; for you my soul thirsts,
In a land parched, lifeless, and without water” (Psalm 63:2).
Yet, your prayers dissipate into the air. But here’s what you must do: Get up (or PLEASE ask others to help you if you can’t do it on your own), and ready yourself for come what may. Not because you feel strong or feel replenished; but because you know (hope!) God is there whether you feel him or not. God is present even if when you feel your strength is absent.
And so you step out in faith—not because you feel he has given you what you need now but because you know he will . . . eventually.
There is hope. There is always, always hope, and this life is always worth living.
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Seeking help for a mental health sickness is the first courageous step toward healing. A “stronger” character or faith will not make a mental illness go away. Listed below are a few resources that might offer help and hope.
- National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255
- Better Help: Online therapy offered so you don’t have to worry about running into someone you know, although you should never feel shame for seeking help!
- Talk Space: Another reputably online therapy service
- Find a Catholic Therapist
- Postpartum Support International: 1-800-944-4773
- PPDMoms: 1-800-PPD-MOMS
- National Alliance on Mental Illness
Brava. So well said and so important today and every day. Thank you for sharing your heart (again) :)
Thank you so much for your kind words and support.