My dad hid his depression. I won’t hide mine
A lot of these posts seem to glover over the burden that depression is. To everyone, not just the sufferer. I say that as someone who suffers from severe depression, and cares for someone who I honestly believe is dead when I don&#x27;t hear from them for a week. It&#x27;s not a glamorous thing (That we all agree on). It is a horrible disease, with no completely effective cure. It can strike multiple times, and has a mortality rate in the double digits. People should not feel the need to keep quiet. But people should be aware of that difficulty in dealing with depressed people. I am not saying they&#x27;ve done anything wrong. Dementia is horrible care-givers. The person is so frustrating, but it&#x27;s not their fault.<p>Depression is an uncomfortable companion for me. I&#x27;ve suffered with it for a long time. I was first diagnosed when I was 20, but the consensus (from my obviously fallible memory) is that it began between 12-14. I still have memories of sitting in my room, singing a song about how no-one loves me, when I was 10. I am &quot;only&quot; 28 now. I remember feeling confused. I knew mum and dad loved me; but why did I feel like no-one did? It took me a long time, to overcome that disconnect. It&#x27;s maddening. To know, intellectually, that something is true, but your mind screams at you that it&#x27;s not.<p>My mum was diagnosed as being depressed at the age of 25. Was an alcoholic since the age of 17. She still has it. For her, there is no end in site. She&#x27;s had ECT several years ago. It helped, mildly, with the depression. She was never the same after, and had severe memory problems for a year.<p>She has cut herself hundreds of times. She is ashamed of it, and doesn&#x27;t go outside. She does it because she just wants some expression of how bad she feels on the inside. A release, an outlet. She takes 5-6 different anti-depressants, and anti-anxiety medications. She has tried to kill herself 3 times. Each time I&#x27;ve saved her life. The first two, she had cut her wrists open. The last time, she overdosed on her medication with rum. The last time was the time she almost succeeded.<p>I haven&#x27;t heard from her in two weeks. Which worries me, because it is Easter, and she hasn&#x27;t answered all day. No-one else in my family looks out for her. She did a lot of shit wrong, as a mother, and as a partner. But I know she is struggling. I&#x27;d check up on her physically, but she moved into new government housing, and didn&#x27;t give me the address, because she was upset that I called an ambulance the last three times she cut herself, and didn&#x27;t want &quot;the drama of dealing with it again&quot;. I tell her things will get better, but I honestly don&#x27;t believe they will. I want them too. I hope they do. I try to help as much as I can. But it&#x27;s hard to see things getting much better.<p>It scares me, because I don&#x27;t want that future. My marriage failed at 24. Three friends, my parents, and my sister. Those are the only people I&#x27;ve ever told. Way after the fact. To this day, they all believe I became depressed after the marriage. It makes sense after all.<p>The truth is, that I was depressed before I met my then-wife. I used to cry myself to sleep a lot. I used to feel angry a lot. Tired a lot. But for me, it was &quot;just life&quot;. I just thought that&#x27;s how things were. It wasn&#x27;t until I saw the pain it inflicted on my partner that I sought help. There&#x27;s a lot of reasons I am this way, supposedly. Rough upbringing. Bullying, social isolation, broken marriage of my parents, etc.<p>My partner found it extremely hard to deal with my need for approval, for reassurance, to be told I was loved. I eventually got help. She was hostile at first; she thought the psychologist would blame her. Three months of therapy, and things got a bit better.<p>After the relationship began to break down, my depression and anxiety went absolutely nuclear. Not just sad little moments at home, or a tear here and there. I would be at work, and start crying, and need to run the toilet to hide. I would have &quot;episodes&quot;. I would just lie on the floor, curled up, sobbing. Sometimes, if the emotional pain was too much, it was this kind of horrible combination of screaming, and sobbing.<p>I normally have a pretty good memory of my internal monologue. When I have those episodes, there isn&#x27;t any sense of self. I &quot;remember&quot; my wife kneeling there, holding me, and moving her mouth, with a strange look on her face. I still don&#x27;t know why I was in so much emotional pain that I screamed, and screamed, and screamed.<p>I managed to get in check, with some anti-depressants, and psychology appointments three times a week. I think I was worse. I was so numb. Nothing was real. Work. Home. Sleep. Cry. Argue. Like some kind of strange, opaque opaque film, representing my life.<p>That&#x27;s when I decided I would kill myself. I still loved my wife dearly, but I knew we wouldn&#x27;t work. I knew she wouldn&#x27;t leave me while I was in such a bad way. I acted like I was normal, and told her I just didn&#x27;t love her anymore. I told her we needed some space. I promised myself I&#x27;d do it when she was far enough removed that she would feel no guilt. I told myself I&#x27;d keep the therapy up, but that was always there. Like a goal.<p>I actually lost 50kg, from exercising. I was running 10-15km an evening on weeknights, and 25km every Saturday. I was going to the gym four nights a week. My diet was better, the house was less of a mess. I was more in touch with my feelings.