Surviving Depression

I was 10 years old the first time I considered suicide. I was 35 the last time I considered suicide. I am now 51 and still struggle every day.

I remember the day, it was a beautiful day, bright and sunny with a light breeze. The previous fall my parents had told my brother and I that they were divorcing. Not something we were expecting and certainly not something we dealt well with. But this is not that story.

We were with my dad. We were actually at my dad's and new step-mom's house. I'm not sure what started the conversation, in fact I don't remember most of the conversation, but somewhere in the middle my dad shared that the only reason my parents ever married was because my mom had gotten pregnant. His assumption was that I already knew. My reaction allowed him to continue thinking that.

When my parents divorced I already felt responsible for my mom. Don't get me wrong, she was a great mom, but she was always a "kid." I, on the other hand, have always been an "adult." So I felt responsible to make sure everything went well, that I didn't rock the boat in any way. Now I felt responsible for the entire mess that had become their lives.

My mom had gone to work, my brother was in bed, and I was watching tv. I was stuck in this mental loop of "if I had never been born, my parents would be happy" that would not go away. It transitioned into "if I were to go away, things would be as they should be." So I set about thinking about how.

I was 10, so driving off the side of a road was out of the question. Drugs were an option, but we didn't have anything more than Tylenol in the house and all that did was make me sick. I didn't really know where to get drugs that might do some actual harm. We didn't have weapons in the house. I considered slitting my wrist, but that would be messy and I didn't want to leave a mess.

This went on for many years, it was a daily thought. What if I... Almost anything I experienced I looked at through the eyes of how it might help me put things right. Some of my friends knew I struggled with it, but no one knew to what extent. How could they? It wasn't like I talked about it.

I did, however, make it work for me. I did research projects on suicide. I understood the statistics. I talked with support groups for survivors. I asked questions. What I did not do was let people know what I was thinking.

When I was 17 a friend grew worried and went and talked with the school counselor. I was brought into the office and spent the next 6 months in therapy.

Therapy is important and it works for some people. I see kids who need someone to talk to every day and having a therapist is important to them. It is an opportunity to get things out in a safe and supported way. I fully support therapy. I, however, am not someone that experienced therapy in this way and when it was over I was so happy.

You see, I don't trust easily. I don't share things with people. I keep them to myself and work my way through it. So my 6 months of therapy was trying to find every way I could NOT to let the therapist know what was going on with me. Eventually he sat my mom down and confessed that he didn't think he could do any more for me. I never went back.

I just got better and keeping things to myself. Over time it was a non-issue. My mom thought I was "cured," my dad knew nothing about it, and my friends - well we were teenagers, we moved on.

As I said before, I was 35 the last time I thought about suicide. It was not, however, the last time I went through a bout of depression.

Depression is weird. It is different for everyone, but it also has things that make it similar. The word brings up images of someone who is sad and lonely. But not every depressed person is sad or lonely. Not every person shows the depression on their face or in their actions. Most people would not see a depressed person when they look at me.

I get up in the morning and go to work. I smile and have a relatively good time at my two jobs. I enjoy working with kids at my first. That job is my passion. I love seeing them grow and become the adults they will be. I have my bad days, just like everyone else. And, yes, some of those bad days line up with a bought of depression. But, no, not all of them run the same course. Some of the days I am my most cheerful at work, my most patient, my best are days when I am going through a cycle of depression. I've learned to work through it.

I can get through my second job much the same way. I interact with different people all the time there. I just go about my business and do the things I need to do to make it through my shift. A smile is part of the job, being courteous and kind - all parts of the job. Not many would know if I'm up or down.

I know, though. When I get home I don't want to do anything. I have no motivation. Laundry gets done because I need clothes to wear. Food gets cooked because my stomach begins to hurt. Trash is taken out because I'm tired of walking around it. But what I want to do is curl up and sleep, for days. Here's the thing, though, I get through it.

I am a person who others would say "Go to therapy" "talk to someone" "do something about it." All good ideas, but not for me. I know myself well enough to know that going to a therapist, talking to family or someone else, asking for help from my doctor would not be a workable solution for me. I have developed my coping mechanism. I keep my mouth shut and get through it. This works for me.

My point... You just never know what is going on in someone's head.