Blue

Today's post is part of Blog Share, written by an anonymous blogger. Somewhere out there is an anonymous post by me. Links to all participant blogs are listed in the post below.

My mother is depressed. She was diagnosed with depression over 16 years ago and generally manages to stay on top of it with therapy and medication. I say she was diagnosed over 16 years ago because I can't remember when exactly, but I know that about 16 years ago she was suicidal.

I'm telling you this because it scares me.

My mother reminds me often that there is active and severe depression in many of my family members. We discuss the symptoms and ways that I can get help if I feel I am depressed. She tells me stories about staying in bed all day crying; about being unable to care for her children (undiagnosed post-partum depression); about feeling that she had nothing to offer the world.

I cannot pin point the time when I became aware that she was depressed, but I do vividly remember her driving to my school 16 years ago to say 'good bye'. She entered into an in-patient care treatment program. I'm not sure how long she was gone—at the time, I didn't even know where she went.

This is all coming to the forefront again because she was recently admitted to out-patient treatment for two weeks. Her version of a living hell is in-patient treatment, but she knew she needed something. I didn't know. I couldn't see it. But she knew. There is part of that that gives me comfort: she knows the signs, she's discussed this with her doctor, she knows when talk therapy and medication are not enough; but there is an entirely different part of me that just freaks out.

I freak out because I wonder if I suffer from depression. I have read up on it. I have told my husband about symptoms and signs to watch out for. I don't really think I'm depressed, but with all of the family history I can't help but wonder if I'm a ticking time bomb. I do not believe that I am depressed. I do believe that it could come on in the future.

I am certainly not trying to trivialize depression or those suffering from it. My mother leads a rather normal life—what I think of as a good life. It hurts me that sometimes she doesn't see it that way, but I know that I can't take it personally. I have to explain this to my husband and my brother time and time again—yes, she has a lot of good things happening to her and yes, she is aware of them and often pleased or excited by them, but she can't just make herself happy. I try to explain it while not fully grasping the disease. I try to explain it without minimizing the symptoms or raining on their parade. I try to explain it to them and I try to explain it to myself.

Our family is celebrating a lot right now. The joy is all around and I really hope that my mom can take care of herself so that in the near future she is capable of fully enjoying everything that her life has to offer. In the meantime, we're all here to support her.