Recently I had a reason to look up childhood depression.
It’s exactly as depressing and heart-breaking as you imagine. And one of the themes I found running through the posts and discussions were the stories of people who struggled with depression but didn’t have familial support. People who were told that it was a mood, or to keep a stiff upper lip, or treated as if they were somehow unclean because of their illness.
It’s a common thread in the Spoonie Community. People with rare and hard to diagnosis diseases often hear from doctors, parents, and friends that the illness is all in their head. Symptoms are dismissed as bad behavior. They’re told their pain is exaggerated, or nonexistent, that they’re only faking it for attention. As hard as it is to sympathize with this abelistic abuse, it is in some ways understandable. Rare disease are really rare, and their symptoms are often bizarre and seemingly unrelated. It’s possible to see how someone with a limited education, no medical training, and an underdeveloped sense of empathy (or a history of being used by other abusive personalities) might see the people suffering from a rare disease as liars.
Depression isn’t that rare. As a disease it’s been well documented for centuries, with cures from lavender baths, to orgasms, to arsenic recommended as a cure. The idea that people with depression were dismissed by their loved ones when they were at their most vulnerable is as appalling as it was (apparently) wide spread in previous generations.
Depression carried a stigma in the past.
Even within my own family I’ve seen relatives hide the fact that someone died from losing the fight to depression. A sibling who was buried at a teen goes unnamed as the generation ages. His name is never mentioned in public. He doesn’t appear on the family tree. In every way this young man has been erased because of the fear that hovers around depression. In some parts of the family it’s taken on an almost taboo-ish face. Speaking of depression results in censure and ostracism.
When I stepped back and looked at my own cohort of parents I had a very profound realization: we will never be those parents.
Just like we don’t need help with computers because we started using them in grade school, we’ve grown up with an open discussion of depression and mental illness. Our social networks are more than gossip chains, they’re information chains connecting me to other parents raising similarly at-risk children. When my child’s friend goes to the therapist we don’t tut-tut and exchange sideways glances; we sit the kids down at the dinner table and discuss the signs of abuse, depression, and addiction.
My generation has been called many things, most not that complimentary. Undoubtedly we will make some horrific mistakes in the future. Undoubtedly some of us will get parenting wrong. But I’m optimistic for our children. I look forward to a future where the statement, “I want to be happy but it’s like my heart has a mind of it’s own and can’t be happy.” is met with a hug and support not someone turning away and denying the truth. It’s not enough. We haven’t cured depression or taken this burden from anyone yet, but we’re moving in the right direction.
For those of you in the trenches fighting these hidden diseases: call if you need backup. Depression lies. You are not alone.
For those whose love ones are fighting: Stay strong. Reach out if you need to talk. You are not alone.
You are never, ever alone.